The Visible and the Invisible: On Seventeenth-Century Dutch Painting 9783110423013, 9783110426908

Table of contents :
Contents
Preface
Part I: Visible becomes Invisible Gender Construction in Rembrandt’s Works
1 On Female Representation or On the disappearance of male protagonists from the field of representation
An alternative to traditional patterns of femininity? — Bathsheba
Reversals — Woman in Bed
Discourses on femininity
Dangerous gazes — Susanna
Fatal looks and a laughing nymph — Diana and her Nymphs Bathing, with Actaeon and Callisto
Where have all the men gone?
On the discourse of rape — Lucretia
Sources and their re-interpretations
Lucretia fever
Social practice
Rembrandt — An entirely different Lucretia?
Radical positions
Querelle des Femmes
2 On Male Representation or On the disappearance of female protagonists from the field of representation
Differences
The impossible reversal I — women as ‘rapists’ or Potiphar’s Wife
The impossible reversal II — erotic images of men for a female gaze?
Self-Images — Self-Portraits
De Staalmeesters or Public representation is male
Historical summary
The group portrait
De Staalmeesters
3 Asymmetry. Gender Relations in the Field of Sexuality
Danaë or How the male sex partner was made invisible
Pornography?
One objection and three possible answers — Rembrandt’s erotic graphic works
4 Summary
Part I: Plates 1 – 8
Part II: Invisible becomes Visible Painting, not Mimesis
1 Mirror, Mirror on the Wall … Woman before the Mirror by Frans van Mieris
2 The Picture within the Picture or Conveying the world through media Woman Holding a Balance by Vermeer
The Final Judgment as the norm?
The balance
A Catholic work of art?
Aesthetic staging
New views on Vermeer
Contemporary discourses — Spinoza
The Final Judgment as an outdated image
3 Farewell to Lessing’s Laocoon: Leaving behind a Methodological Dispute Gabriel Metsu’s A Woman Reading a Letter
(Love)Letters
Metsu’s A Woman Reading a Letter
Language and images — a methodological dispute among art historians
The dichotomy of language and image
Farewell, Laocoon …
4 The Gender of Letters
5 Affect / Emotion / Imagination
Affects: Dirck Hals
Emotion: Rembrandt
Affect awareness (Affekt-Wissen)
Interiorization: Vermeer
Imagination: Hoogstraten
Coda
Part II: Plates 9 –14
Literature
Illustrations
Image credits
Publisher’s note

Citation preview

The Visible and the Invisible

Edition Angewandte Book Series of the University of Applied Arts Vienna Edited by Gerald Bast, Rector

Daniela Hammer-Tugendhat



The Visible and Invisible the On Seventeenth-Century Dutch Painting

Translated from German by Margarethe Clausen

Daniela Hammer-Tugendhat, Vienna, Austria Translation from German language edition: Das Sichtbare und das Unsichtbare by Daniela Hammer-Tugendhat © Böhlau Verlag Köln Weimar Wien 2009 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data A CIP catalog record for this book has been applied for at the Library of Congress. Bibliographic information published by the German National Library The German National Library lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available on the Internet at http://dnb.dnb.de. This work is subject to copyright. All rights are reserved, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, re-use of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in other ways, and storage in databases. For any kind of use, permission of the copyright owner must be obtained. © 2015 Walter de Gruyter GmbH, Berlin / Munich / Boston Translation from German into English: Margarethe Clausen, Berlin, Germany Chapter II/5 by Karen Williams, Rennes-le Château, France Coverimage: Samuel van Hoogstraten, The Slippers 1658 – 60, Paris, Louvre akg-images / Erich Lessing Image page 5: Rembrandt, A Woman in Bed c. 1645 – 49; Edinburgh, National Gallery of Scotland Photograph: Antonia Reeve Layout: Martina Gaigg, Vienna, Austria Printing: Holzhausen Druck GmbH, Wolkersdorf, Austria Printed on acid-free paper produced from chlorine-free pulp. TCF ∞ Printed in Austria ISSN 1866-248X ISBN 978-3-11-042690-8 e-ISBN (PDF) 978-3-11-042301-3 e-ISBN (EPUB) 978-3-11-042304-4 www.degruyter.com



Contents

Preface

9

Part I Visible becomes Invisible

Gender Construction in Rembrandt’s Works

13

1 On Female Representation or On the disappearance of male protagonists from the field of representation

15

An alternative to traditional patterns of femininity? — Bathsheba Reversals — Woman in Bed Discourses on femininity Dangerous gazes — Susanna Fatal looks and a laughing nymph — Diana and her Nymphs Bathing, with Actaeon and Callisto Where have all the men gone? On the discourse of rape — Lucretia Sources and their re-interpretations Lucretia fever Social practice Rembrandt — An entirely different Lucretia? Radical positions Querelle des Femmes

51 54 56 58 63 71 75 89 91

2 On Male Representation or On the disappearance of female protagonists from the field of representation

99

15 28 38 42

Differences The impossible reversal I — women as ‘rapists’ or Potiphar’s Wife The impossible reversal II — erotic images of men for a female gaze? Self-Images  — Self-Portraits De Staalmeesters or Public representation is male Historical summary The group portrait De Staalmeesters

102 102 106 107 118 119  121 124



135

3 Asymmetry. Gender Relations in the Field of Sexuality

Danaë or How the male sex partner was made invisible Pornography? One objection and three possible answers — Rembrandt’s erotic graphic works

136 145 149



157

4 Summary



Part II Invisible becomes Visible

Painting, not Mimesis

173

1 Mirror, Mirror on the Wall  … Woman before the Mirror by Frans van Mieris

175

2 The Picture within the Picture or Conveying the world through media Woman Holding a Balance by Vermeer

193



194 196 199 200 204 214 217

The Final Judgment as the norm? The balance A Catholic work of art? Aesthetic staging New views on Vermeer Contemporary discourses — Spinoza The Final Judgment as an outdated image

3 Farewell to Lessing’s Laocoon: Leaving behind a Methodological Dispute Gabriel Metsu’s A Woman Reading a Letter

219



219 225 232 235 248

(Love)Letters Metsu’s  A Woman Reading a Letter Language and images — a methodological dispute among art historians The dichotomy of language and image Farewell, Laocoon …



4 The Gender of Letters

251



5 Affect / Emotion / Imagination

259



Affects: Dirck Hals Emotion: Rembrandt Affect awareness (Affekt-Wissen) Interiorization: Vermeer Imagination: Hoogstraten Coda

Publisher’s note: 4 Plates 1 – 8: 163 – 171 Plates 9 – 14: 301 – 307 Literature: 309 Illustrations: 330 Image credits: 336

262 263 272 279 285 293

Preface The Visible and the Invisible presents a new look at some of the most complex and fundamental issues in the cultural field. How have paintings helped shape our imagi­ na­tion and the idea of modern subjectivity? What role has painting played in forming the discourse on emotion and the representation of gender relations? The Visible and the Invisible stresses the relevance of visual media for the understanding of our world and offers a new understanding of how paintings and written discourse relate. These ideas are exemplified in the analysis of select works by masters of 17 th century Dutch painting, including Rembrandt, Vermeer, Metsu, Ter Borch and Hoogstraten. The Visible and the Invisible comprises two parts. Part I focuses on constructions of masculinity and femininity in Rembrandt’s work, while Part II questions the specific qualities of painting as a medium and subsequent methodological issues. Both parts are joined in their examination of the relationship between the visible and the invisible. This leads to the investigation of the medium of painting’s semiotic qualities and how they relate to social practices and visible reality. Art has the ability to make the invisible visible. It also has the power to render certain things, people, views or ideas invisible, to omit them from the field of represen­ tation and thus delete them from our consciousness. Dutch painting has been viewed, and to some extent is still viewed, as a paradigm of art aimed at creating a mimetic depiction of natural or social reality and describing optical phenomena. My endeavor to examine the meaning of invisibility in what is believed to be the epitome of naturalistic painting is thus of particularly high significance. Art history generally focuses its investigations on what is at hand: it analyzes what is visible. Of course images are examined in regard to metaphors, to their symbolical meaning and thus their references to invisible things. We are used to asking how some­ thing is depicted. What we are not used to, is asking what is not part of the represen­ tation. However, investigating the invisible can shed light on the fundamental structures of our concept of reality (Vorstellungswelt). We are not consciously aware of these struc­ tures because they are invisible, yet they are firmly planted in our minds. This book exemplarily discusses the issue by examining how gender is constructed in Rembrandt’s oeuvre. I chose Rembrandt because he created an alternative, positively connoted image of women — even according to some of the most radical feminist positions. Thus the task at hand is to question the boundaries, or historic possibilities, within our culture. Female and male protagonists are excluded from the field of representation in specific

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situations, even though their presence is required by the respective subject’s motif. Exclusions of this kind lead to an asymmetry, which has played a major role in construc­ ting gender differences. Since the other never appears in the image, difference is never directly addressed, literally keeping the construction of difference out of the picture, and thus on a subconscious level. The naturalistic style of Dutch painting suggests that these artistic constructions are in fact faithful portrayals of nature and guarantees of authen­ ticity. Producing knowledge by rendering certain things invisible is highly topical; it plays a major role in ideological debates. The media, particularly television, create an ‘eyewit­ ness-effect’ that suggests what we see is the ‘truth’— an analogy to the apparent natural­ ness created in Dutch painting. We cannot notice those omitted from the image or the frame, those without a voice, because they remain invisible. The notion that pictures created between the Renaissance and Modernity (at least intend to) reproduce the reality we see has been maintained to this day. Supposedly it was not until the Avant-garde that painting as mimesis finally came to an end. This prejudice is particularly persistent in regard to 17 th century Dutch painting. In fact, however, Dutch painting was not only concerned with the visualization of optical phenomena, but also dealt with the depiction of invisible ones. Dutch painters used painting as a medium to reflect its own status and relationship to the visible world. Many Dutch artists (albeit not all) demonstrated that painting is not mimesis in a variety of ways: Mieris, for example, used a mirror to reflect the portrayed woman as an other, thus anticipating issues of selfrecognition and self-misconception that were addressed much later by Lacan. Vermeer, in turn, used the picture within a picture to demonstrate how our thinking is influenced by images. Images not only depict (the visible), they produce meaning (of the invisible), just like language. In the relationship between image and language, the image’s semantics are as powerful as its interconnection with language. An examination of the relation between text and image in Dutch painting leads to a discussion of the ongoing methodological controversy between iconologists and image theorists in the field of art history and of current theory debates within cultural studies (in the sense of the German Kulturwissen­ schaften). Based on a representation theory approach, I demonstrate how these opposing interpretations can be overcome in favor of an entirely new perspective. The 17 th century was an age when debates on affect first peaked. We can find remarkable parallels to today in this context. After a long period of neglecting emotions in scientific discourse, emotions have once again become a current topic. Then and now central issues revolve around the question of visibility: Can we recognize a person’s inner state by their facial expression, gesture and body? Ter Borch, Vermeer, Hoogstraten and other Dutch artists from the second half of the 17 th century interpreted emotions as intimate, individual and subjective, unlike their baroque contemporaries. The named artists used painting, i.e. means of visibility, to address invisibility. Considering psycho-

10

historical aspects I not only examine how emotions are represented, but also how they help produce imagination in recipients. Painting actively contributed to the generation of subjectivity in early bourgeois Dutch society. Many scholars have not yet realized the importance of imagination in Dutch painting. This book argues for an understanding of art history as part of cultural studies, as a Kulturwissenschaft. Cultural studies are based on the idea that everything produced by humans must be seen as produced by humans. What may sound trivial at first goes beyond tangible objects and includes knowledge systems, religions and values. We can only recognize the world through media, through visual and lingual signs. Visual art takes up a special role within this semiotic system. Art is both product and producer of discourse, embedded in non-lingual experiences and practices of society. This means it is also involved in conflicts and power relations. Unlike most social historians, I assume that images are not mere illustrations of social reality; they in fact actively contribute to the formation of concepts of ‘reality,’ such as social differences or gender relations. We must always keep in mind that we are asking our questions from a present perspective. A deeper historical dimension can change our current views. It is important to create awareness for the semantic potential of visual media, in this case of the medium painting. Images are key in shaping how we perceive our identity, the other — and the world. I hope the field of cultural studies (Kulturwissenschaften) will soon abandon its focus on text and pay more attention to the semantic potential of visual art. Art history as a cultural study, in turn, must be anti-essentialist, oppose any decontextualization of art and refute all notions of the artist-as-genius. Art is never a mere illustration of text — here is where I clearly draw a line between my approach and iconology. Meaning is not only embedded in certain motifs, it can also be found within form itself, as what I call aesthetic staging. The aim is to learn to read the semantics of aesthetic structures. Art is unique in its ability to visualize and thus address contradictions and ambiguities that are usually excluded from normative discourse. Once the significance of visual arts’ aesthetics is recognized, its analysis in context with other social practices and discourses can sub­ stantially deepen or change our understanding of certain historical events and periods. It can, as I will demonstrate, help correct previously established chronologies. This book has many fathers, mothers and grandparents. They are the many people and texts that have inspired this book. I am in close scholarly exchange with some of these authors, while I have never had the chance to personally meet others. My first and greatest influence is my mother, Grete Tugendhat (1903 –1970), who commissioned and oversaw the building of the Tugendhat House designed by Mies van der Rohe in Brno. She was the one who sparked my love for art in countless conversations, visits to the museum and during travels. She taught me that art is nourishment, a basic need. I was

11

able to turn this passion into a profession during my studies under Otto Pächt at the University of Vienna. He taught me to take the aesthetic structure of art seriously, to refrain from instrumentalizing it and to always see it in the context of image tradition. The generation of the late 1960s helped me break through a constricted art history focused only on art-immanent matters and to expand its scope to socially relevant issues. I never could have written this book without numerous exchanges of ideas with likeminded art historians, who I have predominantly met at women art history conferences: They were the first to advocate a feminist approach to art history and to introduce semiotics, post-structuralism, discourse analysis and psychoanalysis to our conservative field of study. At conferences I also learned a great deal from my peers’ critical feedback, especially from Silke Wenk, Sigrid Schade, Kathrin Hoffmann-Curtius, et al. Numerous colleagues were important as I delved into the field of cultural studies (Kulturwissen­ schaften), especially at the IFK Vienna (Internationales Forschungszentrum Kultur­wissen­ schaften Wien) and the University of Vienna. I would like to express my special thanks to Gotthart Wunberg who dealt with my text with unparalleled fervor. Without the years of debate with Horst Wenzel, I would not be where I am today: It started with a new view of the Middle Ages leading to a re-evaluation of the ‘modern’ in the modern period and continued with a clarification of the highly complex relation between text and image. Equally productive were conversations and workshops with Ludwig Jäger, whose linguistic competence helped me express the theoretical aspects of my methodological approach with greater precision. My husband, Ivo Hammer, is not only my best critic, but as an art historian and conservator has taught me how to look at objects differently and in more detail, consistently keeping in mind the materiality of the actual object. Viktoria SchmidtLinsenhoff’s (†) helpful comments were a great source of inspiration and motivation. Karin Gludovatz — student, teacher and friend — was there for the entire journey. I also thank Marie-Luise Angerer, Helga Kämpf-Jansen (†), Christina Lutter, Elisabeth Nemeth and Agnes Sneller. Special thanks go to Martina Gaigg for her wonderful layout and design. This book was originally published by Boehlau Verlag Cologne, Weimar, Vienna in 2009. With very few exceptions, I was unable to consider any literature published after 2009 in the translation at hand. Jane and Susan Lowbeer helped make the English edition possible. I admire Margarethe Clausen for her profound understanding of my text and am grateful for her meticulous translation. Books cost a remarkable amount of money. My gratitude goes to my university, the University of Applied Arts Vienna and its rector Gerald Bast, who made this publication possible with his generous financial support.

Daniela Hammer-Tugendhat Vienna, 2009 /2015

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Part I: Visible becomes Invisible

Gender Construction in Rembrandt’s Works

1 On Female Representation or

On the disappearance of male protagonists from the field of representation My interest lies in the subversive potential of visual art; in alternative, albeit mar­ginal discourses, in the inconsistencies, contradictions and boundaries of our culture. So why choose Rembrandt? I chose him because scholarly research has rightly confirmed that Rembrandt’s representation of femininity has a truly alternative attitude. Rembrandt’s portrayals of women have become some of the most famous images in the history of Western art, prompting emotive reactions amongst his strongest critics and enthusiastic admirers alike. This is the first sentence in the catalog of the exhibition Rembrandt’s Women held in London in 2001.1 Rembrandt’s portrayals of women, particularly his nudes, have garnered hefty amounts of criticism from classicists since the 17 th century.2 At the same time, his representations of femininity have also been received quite positively, especially by gender-cri­tical scholars like John Berger, Mary Garrard or Mieke Bal. 3 I want to further explore the fascination evoked by Rembrandt’s images of women. In the following, I will investigate the representation of femininity in his oeuvre by analyzing a few exemplary works. First we will deal with what is visible in these images, then we will ask what is kept out of the image, is made invisible. As I will demonstrate, the answer to this question will 231 Julia Lloyd Williams (ed.), Rembrandt’s Women, exhib­i­tion catalog National Gallery of Scotland, Edinburgh, Royal Academy of Arts, London 2001, Munich, London, New York 2001. 232 These critiques, ranging from Sandrart (1675), Pels (1681) and Houbraken (1718) to Kenneth Clark (1966) and others, are so well documented that there is no need to repeat them here in great detail. See, a.o., Jan A. Emmens, Rembrandt en de regels van de kunst, Utrecht 1968; Eric Jan Sluijter, “Horrible Nature, Incomparable Art”: Rembrandt and the Depiction of the Female Nude, in: exh. cat. Edinburgh, London 2001, p.  37 – 45; Anat Gilboa, Images of the Feminine in Rembrandt’s Work, Delft 2003, p. 12 – 17; Eric Jan Sluijter, Rembrandt and the Female Nude, Amsterdam 2006. 233 John Berger, Ways of Seeing, London 1972; Mary Garrard, Artemisia Gentileschi. The Image of the Female Hero in Italian Baroque Art, Princeton 1989, esp. p.  238  f.; Mieke Bal, Reading Rembrandt. Beyond the World-Image Opposition, Cambridge 1991.

also change our view of the visible.

An alternative to traditional patterns of femininity? ­­— Bathsheba The starting point of my observations is Rembrandt’s Bathsheba from 1654, in the Louvre (plate 1). 4 No other portrayal of a woman in the artist’s oeuvre has received so much scholarly attention in the past few decades.

15

Pl. 1: Rembrandt, Bathsheba, 1654, canvas, Paris, Louvre Fig. 1: Bible Moralisée, David and Bathsheba, 15th century, Paris, Bibl. nat. de France, Ms. 166 fol. 76 v

Research on the painting even includes two monographs, namely Ann Jensen Adams’s anthology Rembrandt’s Bathsheba Reading King David’s Letter from 1998 and Petra Welzel’s German master thesis Rembrandts Bathseba from 1994.5 My own dealings with this particular painting began in 1993.6 It is remarkable how much art historic research has (at least to some extent) changed throughout the years. When I first began my work, asking about gender constructions was still a taboo in Rembrandt research. As a reminder, let us quickly revisit the story of Bathsheba as it is told in the Old Testament in 2 Samuel 11 – 12. One evening, from inside his palace, King David sees a beautiful woman taking a bath. He inquires about her and finds out that she is Bathsheba, wife of Uriah. David sends a messenger to summon her and later sleeps with her. When Bathsheba becomes pregnant, the king summons her husband, who is at war, and commands him to visit his wife in an effort to conceal his adultery. Uriah refuses to stay with his wife and instead remains with his soldiers in front of the king’s palace. David sends him back to war with a letter to his superior, ordering to send Uriah to the front line and thus to his death. Uriah dies. After the required mourning period has passed, David makes Bathsheba his wife. All we find out about Bathsheba is that she mourned her husband’s death. God punishes David by letting their son born out of wedlock die. The iconography of this episode is a story of re-interpretations and reversals, in which one thing remains the same: the object character of Bathsheba. 7 During the Early Middle Ages, the story illustrated the need for repentance and promoted the introduction of confessions. As a visual tradition we most often encounter this story as an illustration of the penitential psalm 51, in which David repents in reaction to Nathan’s reproof. The

16

fact that solely David is blamed and not Bathsheba, should not be misinterpreted as a special validation of women in the Old Testament’s story. A look at the parable Nathan cites to reprove David sheds light on the true values of the time. Just like the rich man stole the poor man’s only ewe, David stole Uriah’s wife. Like a piece of livestock, Bathsheba is a trading object that has changed 234 Oil on canvas, 142/142  cm. Top and left very likely cropped. On technique and state of preservation, see Ernst van de Wetering, Rembrandt’s Bathsheba: the object and its transformations, in: Ann Jensen Adams, Rembrandt’s Bathsheba Reading King David’s Letter, Cambridge 1998, p.  27 – 47. Nothing is known about the circumstances of the painting’s production — whether it was a commissioned work, was sold, or remained in the artist’s possession — nor about its contemporary reception. On the history of its reception after 1811, see: Gary Schwartz, Though Deficient in Beauty. A Documentary History and Interpretation of Rembrandt’s 1654 Painting of Bathsheba, in: ibid., p.  176 – 203. 235 Ann Jensen Adams (ed.), Rembrandt’s Bathsheba Rea­ ding King David’s Letter, Cambridge 1998; Petra Welzel, Rembrandt’s Bathseba — Metapher des Begehrens oder Sinnbild zur Selbsterkenntnis? Eine Bildmonographie, European University Studies, Series 28: History of Art, vol. 204, Frankfurt a. M., Vienna, et al. 1994. Also see Sluijter 2006, p.  333 – 368. For a bibliography on research, see ibid. 236 I published a short summary of my insights on the painting many years later: Geschlechter-Differenz. Die Bathseba von Rembrandt, in: Ingrid Bennewitz (ed.), Lektüren der Differenz, dedicated to Ingvild Birkhan, Bern, Berlin, et al. 2002, p. 125 – 141. 237 On the iconography of Bathsheba see: Elisabeth Kunoth-Leifels, Über die Darstellungen der Bathseba im Bade. Studien zur Geschichte des Bildthemas. 4. bis 17. Jahrhundert, Essen 1962; Welzel 1994; Eric Jan Sluijter, Rembrandt’s Bathsheba and the Conventions of a Seductive Theme, in: Adams 1998, p. 48 – 99; Daniela Hammer-Tugendhat, Judith und ihre Schwestern. Konstanz und Veränderung von Weiblichkeitsbildern, in: Annette Kuhn, Bea Lundt (eds.), Lustgarten und Dämonenpein. Konzepte von Weiblichkeit in Mittelalter und früher Neuzeit, Dortmund 1997, p.  343 – 385, especially p.  367 – 373; Sluijter 2006, p.  333  f. 238 This, for example, is how the story is illustrated in the Carolingian Utrechter Psalter. Utrecht, Universiteitsbibliotheek, ms 484 fol. 29  r; see E. T. De Wald, The Illustrations of the Utrecht Psalter, Princeton n.d., fig.  47. 239 Bible Moralisée, 13th century, Oxford Bodl. Libr. 270  b fol.  152 and 153  v; A. De Laborde, La Bible Moralisée Illustrée, Paris 1911 – 27, vol. 1, figs. 152, 153. 210 Found, for example in Albrecht Dürer’s designs from 1521 for the City Hall Council Chamber in Nuremberg (Morgan Library and Museum, New York). The topos of Weiberlist originally only included the couples Aris­ totle and Phyllis and Samson and Delilah: the smartest and the strongest man, respectively, fall victim to the seductive powers of a woman. Essential reading on the theme of Weiberlist is Susan Louise Smith, The Power of Women: A Topos in Medieval Art and Literature, Pennsylvania 1995; also see Hammer-Tugendhat 1997, p.  367 – 373.

owners.8 Depictions from the High Middle Ages are usually based on Augustine’s interpretation. In his typological speculations, which cite the Old Testament to justify and verify the New Testament, King David becomes a model for Christ and Bathsheba, in reference to the Song of Songs, represents Ecclesia, the Bride of Christ. Consequentially, Uriah becomes Satan, or in Isidor of Sevilla’s interpretation, the Jewish People. Here we find a first instance of reversal: Adultery and murder are denied while the betrayed is turned into the devil. This typological interpretation was picked up by the Bibles Moralisées, in which scenes from the New Testament are paired with analogous motifs from the Old Testament.9 The christening of Ecclesia is linked to Bathsheba’s bath, Bathsheba summoned by David is paired with Christ summoning the faithful (his church). In late medieval literature the allegory of Bathsheba as Ecclesia could not withstand the general surge of secularization and Bathsheba (once again) became a woman. In this role, the figure experienced another reversal, this time one of shifted moral values. David is no longer the one at fault for the tragic events, instead it is Bathsheba’s seductive beauty. This new mean­ ing found its way into the Bibles Moralisées of the 15th century (fig. 1). Paradoxically the story of Bathsheba now also became part of the socalled Weiberlisten, the theme of dangerously powerful women.10 By tying her into this context, Bathsheba is turned into the perpetrator and

17

Fig. 2: Adam Elsheimer, Bathsheba, 1600 – 10, gouache, Vienna, Albertina Fig. 3: Cornelis Cornelisz. van Haarlem, Bathsheba, 1594, canvas, Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum

David becomes the victim. Parallel to the visual arts, late medieval literature such as the widely read Livre de la Tour pour l’enseignement de ses filles, which the German audience knew in a paraphrase by Marquart von Stein, blamed the sin of adultery on Bathsheba’s haughtiness.11 This reinterpretation reflects urban society and its valorization of marriage and the imperative of female chastity that came with it. Women’s supposedly corruptive beauty and the adultery it ‘caused’ were also central moments of the narrative among Rembrandt’s contemporaries. In a series of engravings from the 16th century, Maarten van Heemskerck, for example, used the episode of Bathsheba taking a bath to illustrate the Sixth Commandment “You shall not commit adultery” instead of the more fitting Ninth Commandment “You shall not covet your neighbor’s wife.” The latter command­ ment was instead illustrated with the story of Potiphar’s wife, who tried, but failed to seduce Joseph.12 The misogyny we see here is so engrained that the actual words of the biblical text are ignored. Calvinists and moralists in Rembrandt’s time used the story of Bathsheba to warn of women’s seductive beauty and of adultery. Opinions were diverse in regard to the issue of blame, ranging from placing nearly all of it on Bathsheba to at least partially blaming her. She was definitely considered guilty of not preventing the possibility of someone seeing her naked.13 At this point we can identify a culmination of disciplinary ramifications. While late medieval literature reprimanded Bathsheba for boldly exposing her nude body to David, the moral breach now lies in the fact that she did not prevent being watched in the first place. Thus Calvin judges her in one of his 87 weekly sermons:

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And as for Bathsheba, she is not to be condemned merely for washing herself; there should have been more discretion in her, even if she thought she could not be seen. For an honorable and chaste woman does not present herself this way, in order to not seduce men nor to be the work of the devil, to spark the fire; thus Bathsheba was unchaste, in this sense.14 The iconography of Rembrandt’s Bathsheba is a combination of traditional elements, as none of the used motifs are new.15 The motif of the bathing woman with a kneeling female servant washing her feet has a long tradition. Based on antique sources, it can be traced back to medieval illuminations such as the Psalter of Saint Louis from the 13th century, and to the German masters of the 15th century, Lucas Cranach and Albrecht Altdorfer. Dutch artists like Maarten van 211 Edith Wenzel, David und Bathseba. Zum Wandel der Weiblichkeit im männlichen Blick, in: Bulletin des Zentrums für interdisziplinäre Frauenforschung der Humboldt-Universität Berlin-Brandenburg, vol. 11, 1995, p.  41 – 55. 212 See Sluijter 1998, p.  83  f., Heemskerck fig. 6, p.  50; also see below (Chapter 2) on the impossible reversal of roles (women as rapists) and the theme of Potiphar’s wife. 213 On the different positions see Sluijter 1998, p. 83 and Welzel 1994, p.  48 – 65. On the danger of the gaze, see below in the section on Susanna. 214 English by translator. “Quant est donc de Bethsabée, elle n’est point condamnée simplement de s’estre lauee; mais il y devoit auoir plus grande discretion en elle, qu’elle pensast bien de n’estre point veue. Car une femme chaste et pudique ne se monstera point en telle sorte, pour allecher les hommes ny pour estre comme ung filet du diable, afin d’allumer le feu; Bethsabée donc a esté impudice, quant a cela.” John Calvin, Sermon on 2 Samuel. French quote after Hans Rückert, Neukirchen-Ubyn 1936, p. 281. 215 Scholars generally assume that Rembrandt had painted two other versions of Bathsheba before the monumental one from 1654. One version is assumed to be from 1632; however it has only been preserved in copies. The best of these can be found at the Musée des Beaux-Artes in Rennes, where there is also an etching by one of Rembrandt’s students. See RRP, vol. 2, 1986, C 45, p. 591 – 594. We see a half nude Bathsheba sitting in a landscape with David’s palace in the background; an old maidservant sits at her feet, cutting her toenails while Bathsheba holds a small bouquet of flowers in her hand. The second version is a panel painting from 1643, which is in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. The attribution to Rembrandt has been contested, but the image’s invention usually is concluded to be his. See Sluijter, 1998, p. 65  f. and 2006, p. 341  ff. I think this is a piece by one of Rembrandt’s students, because Bathsheba’s coquettish pose turned to the beholder contradicts Rembrandt and, as a whole, the painting seems to be inspired by Lastman’s Bathsheba. 216 On the mentioned images, see Kunoth-Leifels 1962: figs. 6, 19, 22 – 25, 36 – 38, 43, 58 – 60. 217 See Welzel 1994, p.  37.

Heemskerck or Rembrandt’s teacher Pieter Lastman also made use of the motif. In its radical reduction to female nude and the footwashing servant, Rembrandt’s image shows remarkable proximity to a few drawings by Elsheimer (fig. 2). The elimination of King David, the main biblical protagonist of the story, was also already done by others, for example by Buytewech in an etching from 1615, by Elsheimer in the aforementioned drawings and by Cornelis Cornelisz. van Haarlem in a panel painting from 1594 (fig. 3). In another drawing, Buytewech already employed the intense contrast between youth and old age. In it the reference to the transitory nature of female beauty was explicitly emphasized by including the word ‘vanitas.’ 16 Including a letter is also not Rembrandt’s invention. Even though the biblical text does not mention any letter to Bathsheba — David summoned her with a messenger — it became somewhat of a marker for the story during the 17 th century.17 Knowledge of the story was passed on through images as well as through written text. The images that carry the memory of a story are transported to the present with

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Fig. 4: Peter Paul Rubens, Bathsheba, drawing, 1613/14, Berlin, Staatliche Museen, Kupferstichkabinett Fig. 5: Simon Bening, Bathsheba, Hennessy Book of Hours, early 16th cent., Brussels, Bibl. Royale, Ms. II, 158

contem­po­rary elements, gradually changing the canonical texts. How the royal messen­ ger became a messenger with a letter and then just a letter can only be understood from the point of view of media history. Horst Wenzel points out how, in a predominantly oral culture, the messenger represents the master.18 As written culture slowly took over, the letter gradually began to replace the physical representative of the master, making the messenger less and less important. In analogy to the story of Bathsheba, this pheno­ menon of change can also be found in depictions of the Annunciation, in which the angel started handing Mary a letter in the Late Middle Ages.19 The word of the master excorporated itself from the body of the messenger and instead became part of writing. We can see how closely linked the Annunciation and Bathsheba were in visual memory in a drawing by Rubens, which shows a kneeling, angel-like figure in flowing draped garments handing a letter to a naked Bathsheba (fig. 4). The motif of handing over a letter was passed on in Bathsheba iconography from

the early 16th century (fig. 5). Along with the messenger’s gradual loss of meaning as a representative of the master and the consequential reduction of the figure to a mere tool only used for transferring a message that no longer depended on him, we can witness a change in gender: the messenger turned female. In Simon Bening’s illustration, it is a woman who hands Bathsheba the letter. In Dutch painting from the 16th and 17 th century these women are most often old and ugly women, procuresses, or, like in Ruben’s pain­ ting, a dark-skinned messenger (fig. 6). This shifted how the passing of the message was understood. Instead of a royal command executed, the focus now lay in the adulterous content of the letter.

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Fig. 6: Peter Paul Rubens, Bathsheba, c. 1635, panel, Dresden, Staatliche Kunst­ sammlungen, Gemäldegalerie Fig. 7: Jan Lievens, Bathsheba, c. 1631, canvas, Studio City (Cal.), Coll. Mr. and Mrs. Cooney

The letter is part of the iconography of message transmission and thus of an action-oriented context. In medieval visual narration, we usually have a chronological sequence of events. This was also the case in the miniatures of the Bibles Moralisées, which first introduce David watching the beautiful Bathsheba taking a bath and then the messenger bringing Bathsheba to the king. In painting after the Renaissance, which sought to unite space and time in linear perspective, both scenes are often depicted together: we see Bathsheba taking a bath while a matchmaker or messenger hands her a letter and David’s palace is seen in the background. Jan Lievens, who studied together with Rembrandt under Lastman in Amsterdam and later frequently communicated with him in Leyden, already eliminated the dramatic element of handing over the letter. He did, however, keep the prop. There seem to be at least two versions of the subject by Lievens from the 1630s: one is mentioned by Philip Angel in Lof der Schilderkonst, published in Leyden in 1642. Angel explicitly stresses that the message is not conveyed orally through the matchmaker, but in a letter.20 The picture, which also depicts a Cupid with bow and arrow, is lost today. Another version, presumably from 1631, presents a clothed Bathsheba holding a letter and looking at the viewer. The procuress is seen in profile behind her, to the left (fig. 7).21 The scene takes place in an interior setting. In the 1630s 218 See Horst Wenzel, Hören und Sehen. Schrift und Bild. Kultur und Gedächtnis im Mittelalter, Munich 1995, especially p. 287 – 291. 219 For example in an Annunciation by an Upper German Artist from 1640, in: Wenzel 1995, fig.  38, p.  289. 120 Philips Angel, Lof der Schilderkonst, Leiden 1642, p.  48 – 51. 121 Werner Sumowski, Gemälde der Rembrandt-Schüler, 5 vols., Landau/Pfalz 1983 – 90, vol. 3, no. 1189, p. 1779. 122 Sluijter 1998, p. 62  ff. On similar pictures by Lievens, Salomon Koninck and Philip Koninck, see Sumowski vol. 3, no. 1188, no. 1086, no. 1002.

and -40s there were numerous related versions among Rembrandt’s peers. Interestingly, the identification of the respective portrayed story as Bathsheba, Esther or other biblical heroines is often unclear.22 These visual inventions must

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be seen in a wider context. In this case, the context of a culture of letters, which began playing a vital role in Holland during the 1630s and which we will investigate more thoroughly in the second half of this book. All the iconographical elements used in Rembrandt’s painting already existed beforehand. What is new and different about his painting is the specific combination of these motifs and the aesthetic staging as a whole, and therefore the meaning of its contents. Rembrandt brings all the action to a standstill in his painting. He even eliminates the procuress, reducing her part to a maidservant washing Bathsheba’s feet. In comparison, the old woman in Lievens’s image is also inactive, but she can be linked directly to the letter in Bathsheba’s hands. It is a reciprocal relation: the letter suggests that she is a procuress, while her presence defines the letter as the one that was just delivered and contains David’s message. Remarkably enough, scholars have been quite unsure what letter Bathsheba might be holding in Rembrandt’s painting. Freise claims that it was a later episode in the story, after Uriah’s death, because that was the only explanation for Bathsheba’s sorrowful face.23 This interpretation was rightly refuted, but not without declaring the painting to be set at the beginning of the story. Mieke Bal, on the other hand, uses a semiotic approach for her analysis, regarding the letter as a “sign of textuality” and subsequently concluding that the letter also connotes the message David sent along with Uriah, indirectly containing the latter’s death sentence.24 I find it remarkable that the elimination of definite markers, such as the procuress, seems to disable the specification of a certain moment within the narrative, thus dissolving the boundaries of the story. Because there is no specific action, the letter lets the entire story of Bathsheba unfold before our mind’s eye. Rembrandt’s painting is not the illustration of a text that we can link to a specific passage and thus to a specific timeframe in the story. The painting itself is a text, albeit one that cannot be read like a written one. Different parts of the text can be synoptically perceived. Rembrandt’s contemporaries did not read history paintings as illustrations of temporally set episodes. This is documented in a passage of De pictura veterum by Franciscus Junius, a treatise that was published in Amsterdam in 1637. Here Junius calls for a linking of past, present and future elements in one painting, especially in regard to history painting.25 Research on Rembrandt would greatly profit from the inclusion of this specific contemporary source. Many images by Rembrandt have caused pointless debates on whether this or that episode from a specific story was portrayed. This however, is a fundamental misreading of the core of Rembrandt’s artistic practice.26 Rembrandt’s forgoing of any exterior moment of action is radical. He even avoids any form of embellishment or specification of the surroundings. The scene is reduced to Bathsheba and the maidservant, who both appear stuck to the image’s surface like a

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relief. All potential movement is suppressed. The servant does not bend down at her lady’s feet like in versions by Elsheimer or Rembrandt’s teacher Lastman; she is a halffigure cropped by the painting’s edge, applied to the image’s surface, lacking any spatial position. Bathsheba sits upright, her limbs arranged in a system of verticals and horizontals, created by hints of her seat, the balustrade covered by her shimmering, golden garments and the architecture. Bathsheba’s naked body is fully lit and in full view, yet its austerity and monumentality create a sense of distance. Even though Rembrandt breaks with the iconography of an actively conveyed message, he does not let the painting slip into an idyllic scene, nor does he merely present the audience with an appealing nude to behold. As opposed to Elsheimer’s drawings, with which it shares the figurative reduction to maid and nude, Rembrandt positions the letter at the center of the image. In fact, it nearly is at the physical center of the painting, at the intersection of Bathsheba’s legs and her hand resting upon them, the same height as her crotch, which the written pages are facing. The letter’s text 123 Kurt Freise, Bathsebabilder von Rembrandt und Lastman, in: Monatshefte für Kunstwissenschaft, 2, 1909, p.  302 – 313. 124 Bal 1991, esp. p. 228  ff.; also Bal, Reading Bathsheba: From Mastercodes to Misfits, in: Adams 1998, p. 119 – 146, esp. p. 128  f. Similarly, see Wetering 1998, p.  40  ff. 125 1637 Latin, 1638 English and 1641 Dutch version. Franciscus Junius, De pictura veterum libri tres. The Painting of the Ancients (1638), in: Keith Aldrich, Philipp Fehl and Raina Fehl (eds.), The Literature of Clas­ sical Art, 2 vols., Berkeley 1991, vol. 1, p. 275. Quoted here after Wetering 1998, p.  40  f.: “[…] onely that the methode of a painted history must not always be tyed to the lawes of a penned historie: an historiographer discourseth of affaires orderly as they were done, according as well the times as the actions: but a Painter trustheth himselfe into the very middest, even where it most concerneth him: and recoursing from thence to the things forepast, preventing (foreshadowing) likewise the things to come, he maketh his Art all at once represent things alreadie done, things that are adoing, and things which are as yet to be done.” 126 I would like to cite the discussion on Rembrandt’s late work Haman Recognizes His Fate  (St.  Petersburg, Hermitage, fig. 131) as an example. In this work, like in many others, Rembrandt generalizes the essence of the narrative so much that even the subject cannot be clearly determined. There is debate on what point of the story is depicted and even whether this is a story from the book of Esther at all. See, a. o., Madlyn Kahr, A Rembrandt Problem: Haman or Uriah?, in: Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes, vol. 28, 1965, p. 273  ff.; Madlyn Kahr, On the Evaluation of Evidence in Art History, in: Burlington Magazine, vol.  114, 1972, p.  551 – 553; Christian Tümpel, Ikonographische Beiträge zu Rembrandt. Zur Deutung und Interpretation seiner Historien, in: Jahrbuch der Hamburger Kunstsammlungen, vol. 13, 1986, p.  95 – 126; Christian Tümpel, Rembrandt. Mythos und Methode, Antwerpen 1986, p.  316 – 392; H.  van de Waal, Rembrandt and the Feast of Purim, in: Oud Holland, vol. 84, 1969, p. 199–223.

remains invisible to us, and yet this very letter floods the painting with text and meaning. Bathsheba is not shown during the act of reading, she obviously already knows what it says. Her slightly tilted head and downcast eyes signal a state of pensiveness. Her facial expression and the letter contextualize each other. Thus the dark, empty pictorial space becomes somewhat of an associative space for the viewers who can unfold their thoughts and feelings within the given framework of the story — sinking into a mode of contemplation in analogy to the protagonist herself. The absence of a messenger/procuress reduces King David’s power to the letter. The decision whether to commit adultery or disobey the king’s order is shifted completely inward, into Bathsheba’s mind. If David had her summoned by a messenger, thus physically retrieving her, she would not have any room for decision. The letter, however, opens up a temporal and physical space of contemplation, suddenly allowing her to consider possible actions and their consequences. Here we see the connection

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Fig. 8: Willem Drost, Bathsheba, 1654, canvas, Paris, Louvre

Fig. 9: Govert Flinck, Bathsheba, 1659, canvas, St. Petersburg, Hermitage

between letter culture and the inner self (Innerlichkeit), which we will deal with in more detail later on. The entire action takes place within Bathsheba, making it a matter of her psyche. The aesthetic staging is what produces this effect of psychological charging: the radical reduction of the narrative to Bathsheba and her maid, the freezing out of any exterior action and the significant connection between letter and pensive gaze. Because we are familiar with the letter’s content and know that it confronts Bathsheba with a decision, we interpret (because of the illegible letter) Bathsheba’s facial expression as one reflecting the process of decision-making. Contemplation is difficult to portray and the object of reflection — in our case the letter — supports our interpretation of Bathsheba’s face. Rembrandt also achieves Bathsheba’s air of pensive, melancholic introspection through her tilted head, the slightly arched eyebrows and, most of all, her downcast dark eyes and the thereby staged lost gaze. The specific lighting of the scene emphasizes the inwardness: red and ochre tones, especially those in the golden garment shimmering from the shadowy darkness, dipping the scene in a mysterious light. This light seems to emanate from the bodies and objects themselves. The entire aesthetic staging of the painting aims at moving the story from the outside into Bathsheba’s inner self. It is like a visualization of Bathsheba’s mind. The image’s viewers are supposed to imagine her feelings and thoughts while she makes the terribly difficult decision. Transforming the narrative into her inner struggle simultaneously activates the audience’s fantasy; by representing reflection the viewers are encouraged to reflect themselves.

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Bathsheba is portrayed as an individual contemplating a decision. Does that mean that Rembrandt represents her as a subject capable of decision-making? In order to clarify this question and with it the concept of femininity in this and other works by Rembrandt, we must deal with several questions. I will return to answer this question after a few detours. First I would like to position the painting within tradition. Rembrandt does not suggest any explicit accusations, neither David nor Bathsheba are accused. He rather encourages the contemplation of tragic and unsolvable conflicts. Rembrandt’s Bathsheba is neither a piece of livestock or object of trade (as in early medieval tradition, closely tied to the Old Testament), nor is she an allegory of the church (as in illuminated manu­ scripts like the Biblées Moralisées from the High Middle Ages); she is neither a dangerous seductress, nor the object of voyeuristic male desire like in the visual tradition prevalent since the Renaissance. As closely related as Rembrandt’s painting may be to Cornelisz. van Haarlem’s from 1594 (fig. 3, p. 18), it differs immensely in its understanding of the subject. Cornelisz. stages female nudity and beauty in three variations. In Rembrandt’s image, it becomes impossible for the viewer to merely enjoy the beauty of the presented female body. The emphasis of Bathsheba’s pensive expression encourages the audience to see the individual instead of just a beautiful body. In the same year, 1654, Rembrandt’s student Willem Drost also painted a Bathsheba — obviously influenced by his teacher (fig. 8). However, the even further reduction of figures to just Bathsheba herself is not

used for an even deeper level of content. Quite the opposite is the case: Drost flaunts Bathsheba’s beauty by letting her blouse slip off her shoulder as if by accident, intended to direct the viewer’s gaze to her white breast, and adding her smoldering gaze to the viewer. The letter has once again been reduced to a mere attribute held in her hands. Other contemporaries, including Rembrandt’s students Govert Flinck or Cornelis Bisschop, also gave up dealing with the issue of Bathsheba’s inner conflict in favor of depicting her seductive beauty (fig. 9). What is exceptional about Rembrandt’s Bathsheba is indeed the pairing of an erotic female nude with an individually portrayed face signalizing contemplation.27 Her pensive gaze has often been pointed out by scholars. Ann Jensen Adams, for example, writes: One of the most consistent observations about the painting is Bathseba’s sober emotional tenor: she sits lost in deep, apparently melancholic, thought.28 127 On the meaning of faces in Rembrandt’s work, see below, part II, Chapter 5. 128 Adams 1998, p. 10.

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Adams continues that she is not perceived as an anonymous object of male desire, but as an individual who is experiencing her own subjectivity and with whom the viewer can empathize.29 Sluijter uses similar words to describe the difference between Rembrandt’s and Lieven’s use of the letter motif: In Lieven’s painting, the letter and the longing gaze of this courtesan-like Bathsheba merely seem to anticipate the meeting with her lover. Rembrandt turns our attention instead to Bathsheba’s reflecting on the content of the letter. 30 The first written description of the painting in a Christie’s auction house catalog from 1811 already emphasizes Bathsheba’s melancholic facial expression — even though it includes the dismissal of Rembrandt’s nudes typical for the normative concept of beauty in the early 19th century: Though deficient in beauty, the head of Bathsheba is not wanting in expression; she is just informed of the passion of David, and her countenance is clouded with the melancholy forebodings of its fatal consequences. 31 Contemporary Dutch painting in the 17 th century also included depictions of women characterized as individuals, however almost exclusively in the genre of portraits; occasionally in narrative paintings, but never in nudes. Following the tradition of Italian, particularly Venetian painting, nudes were a genre that included beauty, chastity and eroticism, but never individuality and subjectivity. Rembrandt joined the representation of an erotic, naked female body and an individualized face signalizing contemplation. Scholars have merely stated the facts on this phenomenon, but have neither analyzed and historically positioned it, nor have they investigated its meaning for the under­ standing of femininity in Rembrandt’s day and age. And so, Bathsheba merely remains a sign for the greatness of Rembrandt’s art. Svetlana Alpers and Margaret D. Carroll are the only scholars who have tried to find an explanation for the unusual nature of Rembrandt’s portrayal. 32 Alpers ties the reason for the individuality and subjectivity of the depicted figure to the model. She adopts the often-claimed speculation that Rembrandt’s longterm partner, Hendrickje Stoffels, was in fact the model for Bathsheba. Linking the painting with the artist’s biographical facts and circumstances is anything but a new

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practice. In 1654, the year the painting was made, a five-month pregnant Hendrickje was cited to appear before the protestant church council; she was accused of living in sin with Rembrandt and was excluded from communion. The new aspect of Alpers’s interpretation is that she sees the model, or more specifically, Hendrickje herself, as the reason for the aforementioned specific characteristics of the painting. According to Alpers, the oddly twisted body — an almost fully frontal torso with the head in profile — and the unclear positioning of the legs, combined with her facial expression conveying a sense of inacces­ sibility are all signs of Hendrickje’s unruliness: Against the evidence of her bodily pose and the anecdotal letter in her hand, she resists the role. 33 However, the reason the body is twisted in an anatomically incorrect pose is an aesthetic one. While the position of Bathsheba’s head in profile allows her gaze to look like lost in the void, the contortion of her torso makes it possible to present the full beauty of her body to the viewers. Even the greatest ‘realists’ never fully followed nature’s model, as divergences from anatomically ‘correct’ depictions were always necessary for aesthetic reasons. Rubens, a master of depicting bodies, also resorted to this type of aesthetically motivated alterations. Just think of his wife’s contorted pose in the nude Portrait of Hélène Fourment (Het Pelsken). How a body is represented is also an issue of the medium used. While a spontaneous drawing might incorporate movements made by the model, it seems highly unlikely that the same 129 Ibid. 130 See Sluijter 1998, p.  58  f. 131 Quoted from and commented in Schwartz 1998, p. 176 – 203, here p. 179  f. 132 Svetlana Alpers, Not Bathsheba. I: The Painter and the Model, in: Adams 1998, p. 147 – 159; Margaret D. Caroll, Not Bathsheba. II: Uriah’s Gaze, in: ibid., p. 160 – 175. I am ignoring Caroll’s theory that Rembrandt identifies himself with Uriah and not with David; and that he is trying to sublimate his fear of loss when he claims that Hendrickje is not Bathsheba. 133 Ibid., p. 157. 134 For a refutation of the model theory, see esp., Volker Manuth, “As stark naked as one could possibly be painted …”: The Reputation of the Nude Female Model in the Age of Rembrandt, in: exh. cat. Edinburgh, London 2001, p.  48  –  53. On Rembrandt’s relationships with women, see: Simon Schama, Rembrandt and Women, in: Bulletin of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences, vol.  38, April 1985, p.  21 – 47; Simon Schama, Rembrandt’s Eyes, London 1999; S. A. C. Dudok van Heel, Rembrandt: His Life, His Wife, the Nursemaid and the Servant, in: exh. cat. Edinburgh, London 2001, p. 19  – 27; on general sources on Rembrandt’s biography, see: S. A. C. Dudok van Heel, Archival Investigations and the Figure of Rembrandt, Amsterdam 1987  –  88; W. L. Strauss, M. van der Meulen (eds.), The Rembrandt Documents, New York 1979.

thing would happen for a monumental panel painting, which requires meticulous planning and — as we have seen — is positioned within a clearly set visual tradition. The impossibility for a woman in the 17 th century, even if she was not the artist’s wife, to sit as a model for a nude has already been verified by scholars. 34 Nude models were prostitutes, or considered as such. Rem­ brandt’s biography makes it clear that he con­ sidered Hendrickje his life partner and officially accepted their daughter Cornelia in 1654. He was unable to marry Hendrickje for legal reasons, because he could not dispose of the fortune his first wife Saskia had left their son Titus and was not allowed to remarry without the consent of her family.

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Images are always images. They are constructions, and not copies of a given reality. ‘Realism’ does not reflect a real, living person. Alpers, like many other art historians, has obviously fallen for Rembrandt’s realistic effect. One typical quality of Rembrandt’s art is exactly this effect of tangible realism and individuality. We are supposed to believe that there is a real human being of flesh and blood before us. It is not the power of the model, but rather a certain form of representation centered on the categories individuality, emotion and subjectivity. These categories are supposed to be conveyed to the viewers as if the represented was an actual, living person. This is what triggers a sense of identification. If Rembrandt really was inspired by the appearance of his wife or lover, the interesting point would not be personal identification with one of these women, but rather the fact that the artist’s private context found its way into his art at all. We will see later how these images contributed to a new form of perceiving individuality and subjectivity in 17 th century bourgeois Dutch society. First I would like to take a closer look at another painting by Rembrandt to demonstrate what paradoxes have resulted from the strongly felt need to identify the women represented in his works as actual figures from his private life.

Reversals —Woman in Bed (plate 2)35 We have a signed and dated painting. And yet — in an ironic twist of fate — the last digit of the date is illegible. All we have is 164_. The 1640s are the decade in which all three women who we know played an important role in the artist’s life lived in Rembrandt’s house: his wife Saskia van Uylenburgh died in 1642, Geertje Dircx from Ransdorp lived there from 1642 to 1649 as a housekeeper and as a wetnurse for Rembrandt’s son Titus. There is no confirmed portrait of Geertje. Rembrandt’s relationship to her was considered a shameful chapter in his life. Scholars were so shocked about the master’s immoral behavior that they kept all evidence of the story under tight wraps until the 1960s. 36 Rembrandt had had an affair with Geertje and, according to her, had promised to marry her. Instead of keeping his promise, he threw her out after Hendrickje moved in. Geertje sued Rembrandt, who was forced to pay her. After numerous squabbles, Rembrandt managed to have her committed to the Spinhuis  in Gouda in 1650, a kind of reformatory or correctional house, from which Geertje was not released until 1655. Hendrickje was first confirmed a member of the household in 1649 and remained Rembrandt’s life partner until her death in 1663. Depending on the number scholars choose to fill the gap in Woman in Bed’s date, the identity of the portrayed lady miraculously changes. All three women have been postulated as models

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for the painting. François Tronchin, who owned the picture in the 18th century, dated it as 1641, automatically making the woman Saskia. Saskia may have posed for a number of Rembrandt’s drawings of women lying in bed. However, current research dates the painting as made in the second half of the forties for stylistic reasons. Which of the two remaining rivals, Hendrickje or Geertje, is portrayed divides the opinion of today’s scholars. 37 If one of these women actually was depicted here, there would be no trouble identifying her, considering the faithfulness of Rembrandt’s portraits. This example demonstrates that Rembrandt’s realism creates the effect of individuality; in fact the effect is created so efficiently that a large number of art historians have fallen for it. 38 He achieves the impression of individuality through a certain roughness in the figure, expressed in the heaviness of the body, the large hands, the nearly missing neck, the rough skin, the ruddy cheeks and the thick nose. For Rembrandt it was about the idea   of individuality. The construction of this uniqueness does not derive from the model’s actual features and cannot be explained with biographical elements or the greatness of Rembrandt’s art. The answer lies in the historical context of a certain discourse in Holland’s early bourgeois society. I do not want to dismiss completely that Rembrandt’s women were the inspiration for certain figures and pictorial inventions. However, even if this were the case, it would have been a historical novelty for an artist’s personal life to find its way into his art in this manner. 39 135 National Gallery of Scotland, Edinburgh, oil on canvas, 81.1/67.8  cm. For a bibliography, see: exh. cat. Edinburgh, London 2001, no. 100, p. 182 – 184; RRP, vol. 3, 1989, A  146. 136 Dudok van Heel 2001, p. 19. 137 Among those in favor of Geertje are: Albert Blankert, Rembrandt. A Genius and his Impact, exhibi­tion cata­log, National Gallery of Victoria, Melbourne, Canberra, Zwolle 1997, no. 14, p. 130 – 133 and Alpers, Rembrandt’s Enterprise. The Studio and the Market, London 1988, p.  64. — Alpers uses the term “generally accepted.” In favor of Hendrickje are, among others, Horst Gerson, Rembrandt’s Paintings, Amsterdam 1986, cat. 227, p.  497 and L.  J. Slatkes, Rembrandt, Ca­ ta­­logo Completo, Florence 1992, cat. 292, p.  442. 138 As further evidence for the theory that Rembrandt’s realism is not a recording of actual reality, but rather a consciously employed effect and thus the production of meaning, I would like to point out Diana Bathing from 1630/31 (drawing and etching at the British Museum, London): The etching is ‘more realistic’ than the drawing, because in the etching we see an emphasis of details that are not considered ‘ideally beautiful’ (such as folds of skin in the stomach area). 139 Thus Eddy de Jongh, for example, carefully considers drawing conclusions between the emergence of Flora depictions in Rembrandt’s oeuvre and his private life. The images coincide with the respective pregnancies of Saskia and later Hendrickje. Eddy de Jongh, The Model Woman and the Woman of Flesh and Blood, in: exh. cat. Edinburgh, London 2001, p. 29 – 35, here: p. 35. 140 Christian Tümpel, Studien zur Ikonografie der Histo­ rien Rembrandts. Deutung und Interpretation der Bild­inhalte, in: Nederlands Kunsthistorisch Jaarboek, vol. 20, 1969, p. 107 – 198, here: p. 176 – 178.

What is so remarkable and irritating about the painting is, similar to Bathsheba, the juxtaposition of an individualized face and an obviously erotic subject. The wish to fully grasp the subject matter of this extraordinary painting has gone beyond attempts to firmly link it to a person from Rembrandt’s personal background. There have also been endeavors to tie it to (or invent) a manifest story. A majority of scholars dealing with the painting follow Christian Tümpel’s interpretation that the panting is a depiction of Sarah expecting her groom Tobias, from the apocryphal book of Tobit. 40 The story is about Sarah, who has been married seven times, but whose husbands are always murdered in their wedding night by the demon Asmodeus. When Tobias is married to Sarah, he heeds the advice

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Pl. 2: Rembrandt, A Woman in Bed, c. 1645 – 49, canvas, Edinburgh, National Gallery of Scotland Fig. 10: Pieter Lastman, Tobias and Sarah, 1611, panel, J. Ch. Edwards Coll., Boston, Museum of Fine Arts

of the angel Raphael and puts pieces of a fish’s liver and heart on a bowl of cinders. The intestines of said fish (who later on in the story help him cure his father from blindness) help him defeat the demon and enable him to spend his wedding night with Sarah. Rembrandt’s teacher Lastman illustrated this rarely depicted scene in 1611 (fig. 10). We see Sarah in bed, leaning on her arm as she watches Tobias kneeling on the floor, burning the fish’s intestines. Hovering in the air above Sarah’s bed, the angel Raphael wrestles the demon. Tümpel argues that Rembrandt extracted the figure of Sarah from this scene. It is a fact that Rembrandt’s image is unique in its iconography. I think it is absolutely impossible that anyone of Rembrandt’s contemporaries would have associated the image of a woman in bed with the barely known scene of Tobias and Sarah. The woman in our painting is not similar to the Sarah in Lastman’s work: In the Lastman she does not lift a curtain and her gaze is not directed outside the painting, instead she looks at Tobias kneeling on the floor. Why does art historic research feel the need to incorporate Rembrandt’s painting in a neatly defined narrative context? 41 It has been demonstrated that many of his pictures cannot be linked to one explicit theme or cannot simply be ascribed to (biblical) stories. It would make more sense to analyze the aesthetic staging of these images and to investigate the specific function of their motifs than to desperately search for a specific iconographic source. Next to the numerous drawings of women in bed made by Rembrandt in the thirties and early forties, the source for the invention of this particular image was likely the painting of Danaë that he began in 1636 and completed in the forties (plate 8). 42 A Woman in Bed seems like a reversed detail taken from the large nude composition. 43 Here, we can see the development of several similar motifs: the female figure leaning on a large, white embroidered pillow, wearing an unusual headdress, with a decidedly clear

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Fig. 11: Rembrandt, Girl at a Window, 1645, canvas, London, Dulwich Picture Gallery Pl. 8: Rembrandt, Danaë, 1636 and 1643 – 49, canvas, St. Petersburg, Hermitage

gaze — in this case toward an undetermined, yet well-known male, namely Jupiter. There is also a predecessor of the curtain motif, as the old maid is drawing it back. In conclusion, we can ascertain that the staging of expectation is what connects these two paintings. At the same time that Woman in Bed was created, Rembrandt developed a motif that captured his attention for many years and was later adapted and varied in many ways by several of his students: woman at the window, or to be precise, a woman seemingly leaning out of a window opening into the space of the viewer. 44 His Girl at a Window, dated 1645, 141 On the absurdities that can result from art historians’ urge to always explain pictures with images that came before them, see the critique by Leo Steinberg, An Incomparable Bathsheba, in: Adams 1998, p. 100 – 118. 142 On Danaë, see below. 143 This was already concluded by Richard Hamann, Rembrandt, Berlin 1969, p.  95. Also see: Christopher Brown, Jan Kelch and Pieter van Thiel (eds.), Rem­ brandt und seine Werkstatt, exh. cat. Gemäldegalerie Berlin, Munich 1991, no.  36, p.  230 – 232, here p.  232. 144 The Kitchen Maid from 1651 at the National Museum in Stockholm is part of this group as well as Woman at an Open Door from approx. 1656/57 at the Gemäldegalerie Berlin, Staatliche Museen. In my opinion, The Girl in a Picture Frame is a yet unsolved and difficult issue. It is seemingly signed by Rembrandt and is dated 1641. Formerly part of the Lanckoronski Collection, it went missing until 1990 and today is part of the Stanislaw August Collection in Warsaw’s Royal Castle. It shows a girl in a red dress and oversized velvet hat standing frontally in a picture frame, which her hands are laid over. This is an explicit trompe l’oeil. After having seen the original in a 2006 exhibition in Berlin, I highly doubt both the dating and Rembrandt’s full authorship.  (Ernst van de Wetering, Jan Kelch (eds.), Rem­ brandt. Genie auf der Suche, exh. cat. Berlin, Staatliche Museen Gemäldegalerie, Cologne 2006, cat. no.  33, fig. on p.  308).

which is in the Dulwich Picture Gallery in London today, can be considered the central piece of this group (fig. 11).The portrayed young woman eludes any precise identification: scholars have deemed her anything from a maid to a courtesan or biblical figure, but none of these diverging ascriptions can be confirmed. The girl’s clothing is too vague and there is no clear narrative context. While the plain white shirt may lead us to believe she is a maid, the gold necklace surely points in a different direction. 45 This invention was followed by many variations of differently aged women among Rembrandt’s peers, ranging from the child-like girl in Rembrandt’s picture to an old woman like

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Fig. 48: Rembrandt, Self-Portrait, 1640, canvas, London, National Gallery Fig. 11: Rembrandt, Girl at a Window, 1645, canvas, London, Dulwich Picture Gallery

in a painting by van der Helst. The same wide spectrum can be found in regard to social status: we have a maid with a broom by Fabritius, a fantastically elegantly dressed lady by Jan Victors and numerous socially indefinable figures like a young woman portrayed by Hoogstraten (fig. 12). 46 The shared motif in all these pictures is a female figure leaning out of the opening of a door or window, turned towards the viewers’ space, while the pictorial space is always dark and non-descript. Rembrandt had already developed this trompe l’oeil effect of a figure extending itself beyond the boundaries of the image in portraits from the early 1640s, including a self-portrait from 1640 (fig. 48), an etching of Cornelisz. Sylvius from 1646, or the portraits of Nicolaas van Bambeek and Agatha Bas from 1641. His student Jan Victor also created noteworthy versions, dating from as early as 1640 and 1642. 47 The trompe l’oeil effect was preceded and prepared by Gerrit van Honthorst, for example in The Merry Violinist from 1623. We see a laughing musician as he pushes a curtain to the side, leans out of a window-like opening and toasts the viewers with a wineglass in his hand (fig. 13). Figures who cross the threshold of a

painted frame and with it the pictorial space slowly began to appear during the 15th and 16th century, for instance the portrait of Jacqueline de Bourgogne by Jan Gossaert from 1520 in the London National Gallery or the portrait of Maria Magdalena Portinari by Hans Memling in the Metropolitan Museum New York; the original

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145 On different ascriptions, see exh. cat. Edinburgh, London 2001, no. 104, p. 188. The catalog refrains from any final conclusions. 146 Due to the signature, the Young Woman used to be ascribed to Rembrandt, but today it is rightly ascribed, in my opinion, to Hoogstraten. Further examples: Carel Fabritius, Girl with a Broom, Washington D. C., National Gallery of Art; Jan Victors, Girl at the Window, 1642, Amsterdam, Salomon Liliaan Gallerie, ill.: exh. cat. Edinburgh, London 2001, p. 188, fig. 137; Jan Victors, Young Girl at the Window, 1640, Paris, Louvre, ill.: Sumowski 1983 – 95, vol.  4, no.  1785; Philipp Koninck, Girl with Pearl Necklace, 1664, formerly in The Hague, art dealership S. Nystad, ill.: Sumowski 1983 – 95, vol. 3, no. 1021; Gerard Dou, Young Girl with a Burning Can­ dle, ca. 1660 – 65, Collection Thyssen-Bornemisza, ill.: Sumowski 1983 – 95, vol. 1, no. 291; Ferdinand Bol, Wo­ man at a Window, Vaduz, A. F. Studer, ill.: Sumowski 1983 – 95, vol. 1, no. 123; Bartholomeus van der Helst, Old Woman at the Window, Leipzig, Museum der bildenden Künste, ill.: exh. cat. Edinburgh, London 2001, fig. 71, is a particularly interesting example in this group.  Depicted is a woman with a landscape in the background, opening a window panel from the out-

Fig. 12: Samuel van Hoogstraten, Young Woman at an Open Door, c. 1645, canvas, Chicago, Art Institute Fig. 13: Gerrit van Honthorst, The Merry Violinist, 1623, canvas, Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum

ancestor of this optical illusion is of course Adam’s foot painted in bottom view in the Ghent Altarpiece by Jan van Eyck. The subject of Dutch paintings depicting a woman at the window or door is the border between interior and exterior in a double sense. From a social perspective we have the boundaries between private home (defined as female) and public space (defined as male); from a media-oriented perspective we have the border between pictorial space and the viewers’ space. 48 Victor Stoichita demonstrated that the aesthetic border was an obsession during the 17 th century and that the frame was considered a fundamental issue for the definition of every image. 49 The frame is what separates the two worlds: the world of the image and the real world. Painting the frame turns the frame into the subject and thus questions the relationship between represen­ tation and reality. Unlike the examples cited by side. She seems to look inside at the viewers in the room. There are also a few examples of young men looking out the window: Samuel Hoogstraten, Boy Looking through the Window, ca. 1647, St. Petersburg, Hermitage, ill.: Schama 1999, p.  524. 147 Fig.: exh. cat. Edinburgh, London 2001, p. 188; another version by Victors from 1640 in the Louvre, Paris in: Sumowski 1983 – 95, vol.  4, no. 1785. 148 On the positioning of women at windows and thresholds as a means to address the boundaries between private home and public space, see: Heidi de Mare, Die Grenze des Hauses als ritueller Ort und ihr Bezug zur holländischen Hausfrau des 17. Jahrhunderts, in: kritische berichte 1992/94, p.  64 – 79. On precursory examples of figures extending the image’s frame, see Ivo Hammer, Typologie und frühbürger­ licher Realismus. Die Biblia Pauperum Weigel-Felix, The Morgan Library N. Y. Ms 230, (unpublished) doctoral thesis, University of Vienna 1975. 149 Victor I. Stoichita, The Self-Aware Image. An Insight into Early Modern Meta-Painting, Cambridge, New York 1997, Chapter 3. Surprisingly, Stoichita does not mention this group of images, even though it is paradigmatic for the complex of issues he deals with.

Stoichita, we are not looking into the image, where our gaze is directed through a window into a landscape or through a door into a certain pictorial space. No, here the pictures’ prota­go­ nists lean out of the pictorial space into our space. It is the reversal of the usual relationship between image and viewer. Most of Rembrandt’s students address the frame as the defined opening of a window or door. In the aforemen­ tioned example by Hoogstraaten from 1645, the window, door and frame are crafted into one (fig. 12). Rembrandt’s Girl at a Window (fig. 11)

does not show a clearly defined location, we

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Fig. 14: Rembrandt, The Holy Family, 1646, panel, Kassel, Schloss Wilhelms­ höhe, Gemäldegalerie Alte Meister und Antikensammlung

have neither a doorframe nor a window. Rembrandt does not demarcate the boundaries between pictorial space and viewers’ space, but rather blurs them. The blurriness of the boundaries of media, paired with an individually characterized figure produces his signature effect of realism. Sources confirm that contemporaries actually reacted to these trompe l’oeil effects. Roger de Piles, a French painter and scholar (1635–1709) noted that Rembrandt had attached a painting of a maid looking out of a window to the side of his house to fool those who came by. Supposedly they did not recognize the optical trick until they had observed that the girl’s eyes were not moving.50 Even though this anecdote is surely a figment of the author’s imagination and takes the form of a traditional comple­ ment to the artist, it nonetheless tells us about the specific type of reception it received. This illusionist effect can also be found in Woman in Bed. Here we also have a single, female half-figure under an arched upper edge, looking from a dark pictorial space into the viewer’s space. Here the viewer is also drawn very close to the woman and there is no (painted) frame to remind him of the boundaries between him and the depicted figure. Both the distance created by the medium and the actual spatial distance between viewer and the painted woman are meant to be dissolved. The illusion is evoked especially by the extreme proximity the image induces. Rembrandt creates this feeling of closeness with several techniques: the tight framing of the pictorial space, the viewer’s positioning right at the bedside (we are looking down on the right arm, but the hand drawing the curtain is painted in bottom view) and finally, the rough manner of the painting.51 Next to windows, doors and frames, curtains can also signal the boundaries between pictorial space and viewers’ space. It is no coincidence that Rembrandt painted the Holy Family (Kassel) around the same time, in 1646 (fig. 14).52 Here, he marks the difference between the spaces of the two media with a curtain that seems to cover the

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Fig. 15: Francesco Colonna, Hypnerotomachia Poliphili, Nymph and Satyr, Venice 1499, woodcut Fig. 16: Pablo Picasso, Faun Revealing a Sleeping Woman, 1936, lithograph/aquatint

actual painting. Wolfgang Kemp demonstrates how Rembrandt uses the painted curtain to identify the Holy Family as a painting and thus destroys the sacral character of the image. His knowledge of the image as a medium creates the effect of distance in the representation of a devotional image. Rembrandt also experiments with his knowledge on the power of the medium in Woman in Bed. However, his goal is quite the opposite from the Holy Family. The representation of a profane, erotically staged female figure aims at making the viewer forget any awareness of how the medium works. ‘The woman’ is supposed to leave her space and enter his reality. The tactile quality of Rembrandt’s painterly technique boosts this effect, giving us the feeling that we could almost touch the woman before us. As opposed to its position in the Holy Family, the curtain in A Woman in Bed becomes an immanent part of the bed and thus of the image. She draws back the curtain herself, revealing the sight of her body. Here we also have an instance of reversal. Ever since this particular iconographic tradition began in the Renaissance, we have been used to male figures — satyrs or god-like figures — drawing back curtains to reveal naked female figures, most often nymphs, to the eyes of the viewer. One of the earliest and most proficient images is an illustration from a 150 Exh. cat. Edinburgh, London 2001, p. 188. 151 In his treatise on painting Inleyding tot de hooge  schoole der schilderkonst, published 1678 in Rotterdam, Rembrandt’s student Samuel Hoogstraten recommends painting objects in the foreground of an image in a rougher, more open manner than objects in the background. See: Ernst van Wetering, Rembrandt: The Painter at Work, Amsterdam 1997, p. 184. 152 See Stoichita 1997, p.  60 – 62; Wolfgang Kemp, Rem­ brandt. Die Heilige Famile oder die Kunst, einen Vorhang zu lüften, Frankfurt a. M. 1986. On the meaning of curtains also see part II, Chapter 3, notes 600, 634 – 638. 153 Rembrandt also used this motif in both of his versions of Jupiter and Antiope. See below.

series of woodcuts in Hypnerotomachia Poliphili, which was published in Venice in 1490 (fig. 15). The exposure of female nudity by male prota­ gonists was a popular erotic motif during the Renais­sance and Baroque periods53 and en­du­red far into the 20th century — for example in Picasso’s work (fig. 16).

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Rembrandt staged Woman in Bed as an erotic figure: lying in bed, leaning on a large white pillow, lifting a curtain to reveal herself. She is wearing an ‘impossible’ garment, an odd nightgown with just one sleeve (it is an actual sleeve and not a sheet thrown over one shoulder). Her partial clothing emphasizes the act of taking clothes off, yet her nudity is only hinted at with her partially exposed breast. The right hand in front of her breast is reminiscent of the pudica gesture. Together the hands evoke the dialectic interplay of covering and revealing. The bizarre gold headdress heightens the erotic tension, as it is not anything a woman would actually wear to bed. By linking a sense of expectation in the female figure with an eroticized staging, Rembrandt triggers the viewers’ fantasy to envision a male addressee. Let us sum up our observations on Woman in Bed: The traditional relationship between viewer and female nude is reversed: the (assumed male) viewer does not penetrate the linear perspective of a pictorial space with his gaze to see a naked beauty and there is no male figure in the image to representatively do so for him.54 Instead, we have an erotically staged female protagonist who draws back the curtain herself and looks into the viewer’s space. The woman is not an idealized beauty, but rather has individual features; her body, hands, skin and face are painted in a realistic manner. The direction of her gaze is from left to right, which is the active viewing direction. She looks into the viewer’s space, but not directly at the viewer. Her attention is not directed at us, which results in an irritating effect. The staging of extreme proximity and intimacy while simultaneously excluding the viewer combined with the effect of realism may have sparked the desire to identify the female figure in order to at least link her to Rembrandt as a person or to invent an (unseen) male protagonist. This figure, however, is not de­ picted; the object of her desire is invisible and she, in turn, is unavailable for the viewer. One could even speak of a triangular constellation: the (real) viewer in front of the painting, the woman in the painting and a second, simulated (presumably male) figure outside the image, who is the focus of the woman’s attention. What we have here is the staging of expectation and desire in a double sense: desire sparked in the viewer and the representation of a female figure who desires. This desire can never be fulfilled, just like our desire to find out who the woman is looking at. The imaginary rival in the paint­ ing’s off-space heightens the viewer’s desire.55 The female figure can neither be traced back to one of the women in Rembrandt’s life, nor can she be identified as a specific figure within a traditional narrative or icono­ graphy. In fact, the unrealistic costume and ambivalent characterization of this rather roughly painted woman reclining in an elegant bed, the blending of realistic and fairy tale-like or fantastical elements increase the effect of vagueness. Together with her gaze into the painting’s off-space, this activates the viewers’ fantasies: we all start to wonder

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what is going on. Because no story is told, we begin to develop different stories in our head. The wide array of interpretations found in research is the result of Rembrandt’s staging. He creates an invisible space that we fill with our own associations.56 Here we encounter a phenomenon that will be further investigated in this book: Dutch painting’s contribution to the formation of subjectivity. Similar to Bathsheba, Rembrandt pairs signs of individuality and subjectivity with signs of eroticism. It is exactly this combination that causes an irritation of the traditional female dispositif. I have held several lectures on this subject and have often encountered colleagues who found Rembrandt’s images of women completely unerotic. Therefore, I would like to briefly comment on their reception today. Whether the image of a person is considered erotic or not is an entirely subjective matter, just as it is impossible to objectively measure how erotic or unerotic an actual, living person is. There are, however, certain themes, motifs and signs that were used and perceived as erotic codes in certain historical contexts like the staging of nude Bathsheba or the Woman in Bed described above. The combination of individuality with traditionally erotic themes and signs is exactly what makes Rembrandt’s female figures so unusual. It is a disturbance, or rather shift of conventional patterns of femininity, in which eroticism was always defined as idealized and purified beauty detached from specific individuals. Venetian nude painting from the Renaissance, which Rembrandt also referred to, is an example for this concept. We can also find a clear separation between individualized female portraits and deindividualized, idealized female figures in the nude genre among Rembrandt’s Dutch contemporaries. That today’s audiences consider Rembrandt’s representations of fem­ ininity unerotic proves how deeply perceptive patterns are rooted in men and women to this day. While Bathsheba is so unique because her pensive attitude paired with a nude is rightly considered highly unusual, Woman in Bed is marked by an erotic staging with the representation of female individuality in a domestic scene instead of a mythologically or biblically heightened setting. The gesture of 154 Linda Hentschel, Pornotopische Techniken des Betrachtens. Raumwahrnehmung und Geschlechterordnung in visuellen Apparaten der Moderne, Marburg 2001. 155 On the production of desire by the Other in the field of literature, see: René Girard, Figuren des Begehrens. Das Selbst und der Andere in der fiktionalen Realität, Münster, Hamburg, London 1999. 156 During a lecture on this painting at the IFK, Vienna (Internationales Forschungszentrum Kulturwissenschaften) in September 2004, a few attendees argued that the woman seems to express a sense of melancholic reminiscence after saying goodbye rather than of expectation. The controversial discussion that followed made it all too clear that Rembrandt’s painting truly provokes a wide range of reactions.

drawing back a curtain and the distinct gaze are signals of female activity; within the context of an erotic staging, this can be read as the representation of female desire. Because the portrayed woman cannot be defined as a specific (for instance biblical) figure and thus cannot be tied to a narrative context, her desire has no negative connotation, like the story of

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Potiphar’s wife. Our question, whether Rembrandt grants his female figures the status of being a subject, cannot be answered yet. What we can assert is that this kind of female representation is highly unusual at the time.

Discourses on femininity

How unusual are the aforementioned visual representations of positively connoted female desire within discourses on femininity at the time? Art is only intelligible within its contemporary frame of discourses, or rather is part of these discourses itself. With addressing the importance of contextualizing art comes the necessity to point out a few related issues. One problem is that there is barely any research on the representation of female subjectivity and female desire in Dutch literature.57 Unlike painting from that period, 17 th century Dutch literature is quite unknown outside the Netherlands, even though there is clear evidence that visual artists and Rederijkers (writers) were closely tied at the time.58 The language barrier is a central part of this problem.59 Furthermore, dif­ ferences between various text types60 must be considered and finally, how they related to social practices is a difficult and barely answerable question. The texts that are most thoroughly researched and easily grasped are normative texts: texts that create and pass on certain norms and judge, affirm, legalize or disparage certain social practices. Strictly speaking, this text type is made up of theological and legal texts and conduct books. The normative ideas on gender relationships in 17 th century Holland are bundled in the writings of Jacob Cats.61 Cats (1577 – 1660) was a legal expert and pensionary of Holland. He owned and sold land and stocks, which made him a very wealthy man. As one of the most influential men in Holland, he was part of the political, economic and cultural elite. Cats is the author of several emblem books and works of didactic verse. He can rightly be considered one of the most read Dutch writers of his time, as his books could be

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157 I am not familiar with any research dealing specifically with this question; my observations are mostly based on the following literature: H. Rodney Nevitt, Jr., Art and the Culture of Love, Cambridge 2003 (Cambridge Stud­ies in Netherlandish Visual Culture); Maria-Theresia Leuker, Widerspenstige und tugendhafte Gattinnen. Das Bild der Ehefrau in niederländischen Texten aus dem 17. Jahrhundert, in: Hans-Jürgen Bachorski (ed.), Ordnung und Lust. Bilder von Liebe, Ehe und Sexualität im Spätmittelalter und Früher Neuzeit, Trier 1991, p.  95 – 122; Maria-Theresia Leuker, “De last van’t huys, de wil des mans …” Frauenbilder und Ehekonzepte im niederländischen Lustspiel des 17. Jahrhunderts, Niederlande-Studien, vol. 2, Münster 1992; Jan Konst, De vrouwelijke personages in het toneel van Vondel, in: Neerlandica Wratislaviensia 12, 1999, p. 7 – 21; Els Kloek, Nicole Teeuwen, Marijke Huisman (eds.), Women of the Golden Age. An International Debate on Women in Seventeenth Century Holland, England and Italy, Hilversum 1994; Agnes A. Sneller, Reading Jacob Cats, in: Kloek et al. 1994, p. 21 – 34; Agnes A. Sneller, Met man en macht. Analyse en interpretatie van teksten van en over vrouwen in de vroegmoderne tijd, Kampen 1996; Marijke Spies, Women and Seventeenth Century Dutch Literature, in: Marijke Spies, Rhetoric, Rhetoricians and Poets, Amsterdam 1999, p. 109 – 124; Klaske Muizelaar and Derek Phillips, Picturing Men and Women in the Dutch Golden Age: Paintings and People in Historical Perspective, New Haven, London, 2003; Franits 1993. In response to my question whether there were any affirmative descriptions of female desire in Dutch literature of the time, Agnes Sneller wrote: “ik ken jammer genoeg geen analogie van Vrouw in Bed, er zullen echter zeker teksten zijn waarin een (Nederlandse) vrouw zich als actieve liefdespartner opstelt,

found in almost every bourgeois household. He combined Calvinist teachings with traditional popular beliefs and easily comprehensible stories from Christian and antique tradition. Thus his writings merged normative and narrative elements. One of his most popular works was Huwelyck (matrimony) from 1625, a didactic poem describing the stages in a woman’s life from girl to wife and mother, to widow. Huwelyck is part of a long-lasting tradition of matrimonial codices like Le Ménagier de Paris, Alberti’s Della Famiglia, Albrecht von Eyb’s Ehebüchlein, Juan Luis Vives’s De institutio foeminae Christianae from 1524 and, as a paragon, Erasmus’ Encomium matrimonii from 1518 and Christiani matrimonii institutio from 1526. For Cats, matrimony is the base of all human life; neither God’s church nor human society could exist without it. The only conceivable way of life for women is in the role of housewife and mother. Women are not really perceived as independent beings, but rather as subordinates of husband and family. Cats directly addresses women in his writing. Women are assigned a passive role in regard to their love life and courtship. A vrijster (a young woman eligible for marriage) must not articulate her love, except in response to (serious) courtship by a man. Active female desire is only introduced in a context of sin like the story of Cyprine and Probus, in which Cyprine commits adultery.62 The call for female passivity in all matters of love can also be found in conduct books, such as the Italian La Civil Conversazione by Stefano Guazzo that was maar ik heb daarvan geen voorbeld in mijn corpus.” Maria-Theresia Leuker wrote: “Meines Wissens nicht. In der komischen und erotischen Literatur kommen solche Repräsentationen von Frauen vor, letztlich sind sie aber immer negativ konnotiert.” (As far as I know, there aren’t any. Some representations of women like this can be found in comedic and erotic literature, but they are always negatively connoted.) I would like to thank both for their support. 158 Maria A. Schenkeveld, Dutch Literature in the Age of Rembrandt, Amsterdam, Philadelphia 1991. 159 Ralf Grüttemeier, Maria-Theresia Leuker (eds.), Niederländische Literaturgeschichte, Weimar 2006. The focus of this volume lies on the modern period. 160 Hans Jürgen Bachorski, Diskursfeld Ehe. Schreibweisen und thematische Setzungen, in: Bachorski 1991, p.  512 – 545. 161 Willem Frijhoff, Marijke Spies, 1650: Hard-Won Unity. Dutch Culture in a European Perspective, vol. 1, As­sen 2004, especially p. 19, p.  77   f., p.  531 – 583; Agnes A. Sneller (ed.), Jacob Cats, Huwelijk, Amsterdam 1993; Sneller 1994, p. 21 – 34; Sneller 1996, especially p. 170  ff.; Leuker 1991, p. 95 – 122; T. Loonen, De vrouw in het werk van Cats. Erasmiaanse inspiratie. De zeventiende eeuwse discussie, in: Bulletin van de Koninglijk zeeuwsch genootschap der wetenschappenwoerkgroep historie en archeologie 28, 1978, p. 26 – 46; Nevitt 2003. 162 In a bedroom scene Cyprine says: “I thought: I can call this noble heart my own, I can enjoy it when I want, I can even use it in my bed.” (English by translator) Sneller 1994, p.  27: “Only a wicked woman would express herself to be such an active lover.” The story is told in Trou-Ring, another book on matrimony by Cats. 163 Nevitt 2003, p. 73.

translated from Italian to Dutch in 1603. Guazzo’s ideal of female modesty is demonstrated in sentences like: […] when she speaks, she seems to remain silent and when she is silent, she seems to speak.63 Equal to remaining silent, downcast eyes are a sign for a virtuous woman. Interpreting cultural expressions solely under the aspect of normative texts will always produce deficient results. What Bachorski establishes for German literature from the 15th and 16th century can also be applied to Dutch culture in the 17 th century:

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What only appears as the expression of urges that must be subdued in matrimony in treatises stands alone in a vast and obvious mass of stories centered on uncontrollable lust triumphing over all rules estab­lished by church, moral and law.64 The complexity of this discursive field and the multitude of literary forms prohibit the search for a singular order of discourse. Farces (kluchten), fables, novels and —  particularly in the 17 th century — comedies diverge immensely from the abstract ideo­ logical ideas they are based on. Comedies from the 17 th century are performative demon­ strations of existing paradoxes and conflicts. Even if a comedy about adultery ends in the re-establishment of matrimonial order, non-normative realities are presented and can be experienced. The actual narration can end in the complete dismantling of the moral concepts it intends to enforce. Maria-Theresia Leuker, who wrote a book on female representation and concepts of matrimony in 17 th century Dutch comedy, demonstrates that the most differentiated and advanced form of dealing with issues of gender relations and the function of matrimony can be found in comedies. She rightly concludes that in light of the large efforts made to argue for the subordination of women, they obviously must have been needed. Comedies refer to a breach of norms as part of common reality. These comedies should not be interpreted as illustrations of normative discourse. In my opinion, the unruly aspects, the momentum of the performative, the getting-out-of-hand in the struggle with and against predominant norms need to be emphasized. Even if, as Leuker points out, girls and women actively voicing their desires in these texts are repri­ manded and punished, their energy and potential is visible and audible on stage, making it possible for female viewers to experience and empathize with them.65 Theater was subsequently harshly attacked by Calvinist clerics. Andries Pels authored a text commissioned by the Council in the last quarter of the 17 th century, in which theater was defended, but only under the condition that it become a moral institution. Pels was also one of the first to harshly criticize Rembrandt’s art, especially his nudes. It is astonishing how art historians interpreting visual art tend to almost exclusively draw from sources that per definition claim normative authority. Particularly proponents of iconological interpretations have turned Dutch painting to a beacon of morals, and Cats is generally the point of reference. Comedies, dramas, poems and other fields of non-normative texts more closely related to visual art have hardly been used as sources. I would like to emphasize that there is no logically stringent connection between iconological methods of interpretation and the idea of art as an instrument of visualizing moral norms or other normative constraints. I believe moralizing interpretations have

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little to do with Dutch painting. They do, however, reveal a lot about the thinking of certain art historians. Not until recently have we seen changes in the perception and evaluation of Dutch painting.66 H. Rodney Nevitt’s Art and the Culture of Love in Seventeenth-Century Holland is one of these voices. He investigates songs from the first half of the 17 th cen­ tury, poems, emblem books and ars amandi and compares these forms of love literature with the period’s youth culture in Holland. He dethrones Cats by demonstrating the wide array of voices that existed. Very frivolous texts were as common as moralizing and Petrarchan texts. Nevitt locates a conclusive connection between the love culture and painting and graphics in David Vinckboon’s garden parties and works by others such as Esaias van de Velde. The love texts are (almost) exclusively authored by men; the songs’ voice usually reflects a male perspective. Women singing the songs sang about his love. There are, however, a few remarkable exceptions like the following poem from the song collection Den Nieuwen Lust-Hof (1602) by an anonymous author. In the song, a woman laments how her gender prevents her from articulating her love and thus explicitly points out the taboo: Die my bemint en trouwe biet / Die sluyt ick uyt mijn herte, / En die ick min en vrijt my niet, / Ist niet een groote smerte. // Den ick bemin en wil my niet, / Die spreeck ick also selden, / Eylaes wat leet is my geschiet, / ‘Ken derf mijn Liefd’ niet melden. // De Voghelkens in’t groene Wout / Gaen onbedwonghen vryen, / Daer is gheen dwangh van vrienden out / Die haer haer lust benyen. // Wat doet die eer, die layde eer / Al vrouwen lust ontbreekcken, / Dat zy niet vry na haer begheer / Van liefde moghen spreecken. // Dit doet mijn hert en mijn ghemoet / Met droevighe ooghen claghen, / 164 Bachorski 1991, p.  528. 165 In the play Jan Klaaz of gewaande dienstmaagt from 1682 by Thomas Asselijn, the girl Zaartije forces her parents to allow her to marry her lover by secretly trick­ ing him into her home and sleeping with him. Even though the marriage is divorced in the course of the play, the comedy caused a scandal and was subsequently forbidden. The problem was not only her noncompliance to an official marriage deal, but the presentation of a woman who actively fights for her love and against her parents’ will. Leuker underestimates the subversive potential of a play like this and overrates the end of the play, which re-establishes order through punishment. Leuker 1992, p. 157. 166 See below, esp. part II, Chapter 3. 167 Nevitt 2003, p. 85 (Engl. translation) and p. 246, note 189, quoted after A. A. Keersmaekers, Wandelend in den Nieuwen Lust-Hof. Studie over een Amsterdams Liedboek 1602 – (1604) – 1607 – (1610), Nijmegen 1985, p.  60 – 70.

Misschien mijn lijden waer gheboet / Dorst ick mijn Liefd’ ghewaghen. / […] O Prins der minnen vol perty / Ghy quetst die teere vrouwen / En gheeft haer daer gheen vryheijt by / Om liefde t’onderhouwen.67 The second part is particularly remarkable:

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[…] Of what service is that honor — that blazing honor / that takes away all women’s happiness / That they, according to their desire / May not speak their love. […] Oh prince of love, full of hostility / you torture tender women / you give them no freedom / to live their love. Another written record of a ‘female’ voice on love is a song from Bredero’s Liedboek dating 1622. Despite being written in Petrarchan verse, the speaker is a woman. Originally the song is from his play Lucelle (1616), in which the main protagonist Lucelle breaks traditional convention as she is the first to profess her love to her admirer.68 Female authors who wrote love poetry barely existed. There were exceptions like Tessel­ schade Roemers (1594 – 1649), who was one of the poet Roemer Visscher’s two highly educated daughters. Her love poems are marked by the idea of an equal partnership between lovers.69 In social practice, which we of course cannot fully fathom, there seem to have been some instances of female initiative, as the prominent example of Dorothea van Dorp and Constantijn Huygens proves. It is not only remarkable that Dorothea van Dorp made the first move, but also that Huygens does not reflect his own experience in his poems, but instead converts them into the conventional, patriarchal pattern. 70 In light of all research presently available on the subject, I can conclude that, next to the predominant discourse embodied in Cats, there were in fact a few exceptions allowing females to voice their desires, or at least some cases where the articulation and repre­ sentation of female desire were not connoted as something completely negative. Rembrandt’s affirmative representation of female desire in A Woman in Bed might be an exception to the rule, but nonetheless can be considered historically possible. Equally as important as contextualizing visual art in its contemporary discourses is the specific quality of the respective medium. Thus the possibility of pairing an individualized face signaling contemplation with an erotically charged nude (Bathsheba) is a unique quality of visual art, which, in this form of synopsis, would probably be inconceivable in the field of language.

Dangerous gazes — Susanna Images of Bathsheba, like portrayals of Susanna or Diana with Actaeon must also be seen in the context of the heavy debates led at the time on the danger of erotic images. 71 Already during the Renaissance there were discussions on the eroticizing effect

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of images. Pictures were not just enjoyed as ‘pure art.’ 72 Art was supposed to arouse desire, like Leonardo writes in his treatise on painting. 73 While Erasmus and other 17 th century moralists such as Jacob Cats or Camp­ huyzen fulminated against images of nude women, claiming that they seduced and spoiled people, contemporary nude painting mostly focused on Bathsheba, Susanna or Diana and Actaeon — stories in which the sight of a naked female body either leads men to com­ mit crimes (Bathsheba, Susanna) or brings about their demise (Diana and Actaeon). The context of its presentation moralizes the lusting, desiring gaze. David often serves as the chief justification in this debate: If even the hero of the Old Testament succumbed to the sight of a naked woman, how could a normal man ever resist such powerful temptation? On the other hand, authors like Joos van den Vondel and Jan Vos praised depic­tions such as Bathsheba in their poems. 74 In reference to the ancient Greek painter Apelles, they con­sidered painting the most beautiful female nude the pinnacle of artistic creation. Bathsheba is also the motif of choice in this discourse, even more so than Venus, because her beauty even seduced the greatest hero of the Old Testament. 75 168 Nevitt 2003, p.  86, p.  89. 169 Sneller 1996, especially p.  266 (p.  266 – 272  =  English summary). 170 Nevitt 2003, p.  86. Huygens incorporates the episode in the poem Doris oft Herder-Clacht, in which he himself appears and speaks as a sheperd. 171 Eric Jan Sluijter, De “heydensche fabulen” in de Noord­ nederlandse schilderkonst circa 1590 – 1670. Een proe­ ve van beschrijving en interpretatie van schiderijen met verhalende onderwerpen uit de klassike mythologie, (proefschrift) 1986, Leyden, p.  270 – 281; Sluijter 1998, p. 76 – 83; Sluijter, Seductress of Sight. Studies in Dutch Art of the Golden Age, Zwolle 2000; Sluijter 2006; Stefan Grohé, Rembrandts mythologische Historien, Cologne, Weimar, Vienna 1996, p. 216 – 218; Welzel 1994; also see Werner Busch, Das keusche und das unkeusche Sehen. Rembrandts Diana, Aktaion und Kallisto, in: Zeitschrift für Kunstgeschichte 52, 1989, p.  257 – 277. Sluijter sees Rembrandt’s opinion in the debate on the effectiveness and legitimation of erotic images as the main point of Rembrandt’s Bathsheba. 172 David Freedberg, The Power of Images, Chicago 1989. 173 Elizabeth Cropper, The Place of Beauty in the High Renaissance and ist Displacement in the History of Art, in: Alvin Vos (ed.), Place and Displacement in the Renaissance (Medieval and Renaissance Texts and Studies, vol. 132), Binghampton 1995, p. 159 – 205; Marianne Koos, Bildnisse des Begehrens. Das lyrische Männerporträt in der venezianischen Malerei des frühen 16. Jahrhunderts — Giorgione, Tizian und ihr Umkreis, Emsdetten, Berlin 2006, p. 272 – 306. 174 Sluijter 1998, p.  80  f., and 2000, p. 122. 175 On Rembrandt’s Bathsheba, Sluijter (1998, p. 86) writes: “In his Bathsheba of 1654, then, Rembrandt portrayed her not as a self-evidently dishonorable, active seductress, but rather as the passive victim of her own fateful beauty to which no man — least of all the viewer — is able to offer effective resistance.”

The top favorite theme for voyeuristic scenes in painting is Susanna and the Elders (plate 3). The biblical story of Susanna is about

the chaste wife of the rich Jew Joakim. Two old judges desired the beautiful woman and hid in Joakim’s garden to watch her take a bath. When they tried to force her to commit adultery, she resisted, even though they threatened to defame her by spreading a rumor that she was having an affair with a young man. Susanna knew that her refusal would probably equal a death sentence. However, Daniel prevented her sentencing to death by cross-examining the elders who be­came entangled in their web of lies, thus pro­v­ ing Susanna’s innocence. Ultimately, the old men were sentenced to death by stoning instead of her. The story of Susanna is set in the time of the Babylonian Jewish Diaspora in the 6th cen­ tury BCE. It was first brought to written form in the first century BCE, and in early Christianity

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Pl. 3: Rembrandt, Susanna, 1636, panel, The Hague, Mauritshuis

Fig. 17: Lorenzo Lotto, Susanna and the Elders, 1517, panel, Florence, Uffizi

Fig. 18: Capitoline Venus, Roman copy after Greek original, Rome

the Daniel of the story was identified with the biblical figure Daniel. The story was not sanctioned as the 13th chapter of the Book of Daniel until the Council of Trent. 76 In early Christian art, Susanna is portrayed in the catacombs as an orant with extended arms — she is depicted as an innocent soul in need who was saved by God; she is a symbol of God’s fair judgment. In medieval iconography the story of Susanna was usually portrayed as an entire narrative. 77 The relevance of the story is based on her absolute purity and willingness to sacrifice herself. During the Renaissance we see a radical shift in the story’s meaning. 78 A singular scene was suddenly detached from the narrative sequence. The extraction from a narrative context combined with a new meaning was closely linked to changes in the art market and the new medium of panel painting. The story of Susanna was no longer primarily told in a series of public frescos or as illuminations accom­ panying a continuous text, but instead was de­ signed as a panel painting intended for private and profane reception. 79 The choice of image no longer revolved around God’s judgment, which had been the essence of early medieval depictions. Now the beautiful and desirable nude of Susanna was the

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176 W. O. E. Oesterley, An Introduction to the Books of the Apocrypha, Their Origin, Teaching and Contents, New York 1935. In Jewish tradition, the legend obviously had the function of illustrating the fight between Sadducees and Pharisees in regard to a stricter handling of laws and a more exact examination of witness accounts, ibid., p.  391  ff. 177 Liselotte Popelka, Susanna Hebrea. Theatrum castitas sive innocentia libertas. Ein Beitrag zur alttestamentarischen Ikonografie, besonders des deutschen und niederländischen Kulturkreises, in: Mitteilungen der Gesellschaft für vergleichende Kunstforschung 16/17, Vienna 1963; Harald Olbrich (ed.), Lexikon der Kunst vol. 7, Susanna (entry by Marianne Koos), Leipzig 1994; Engelbert Kirschbaum (ed.), Lexikon der christlichen Ikonografie, Susanna (cols. 228 – 231), Rome, Freiburg, Basel, Vienna 1972. 178 Michaela Herrmann, Vom Schauen als Metapher des Begehrens. Die venezianischen Darstellungen der “Susanna im Bade” im Cinquecento, Marburg 1990 (also doctoral thesis, Hamburg 1985); Mary D. Garrard, Artemisia Gentileschi. The Image of the Female Hero in Italian Baroque Art, Princeton 1989; Marianne Koos, Bernadette Reinhold, Zum Bildthema “Susanna und die Alten” (comparative review of Michaela Herrmann and Mary D. Gerrard), in: FrauenKunst-

Fig. 19: Tintoretto, Susanna and the Elders, c. 1555 /56 canvas, Vienna, Kunsthistorisches Museum

central focus of the story. We have two iconographical strands: one is the scene of the elders lurking; the other is the accosting scene, which, in turn, either shows the men physically attacking Susanna or trying to verbally force her into compliance. Ever since the first visualization as a panel painting in 1517 by Lorenzo Lotto, Susanna was tellingly depicted in the tradition of Venus iconography (fig. 17). The beacon of chastity was turned into the desirable love goddess. A central issue in portrayals of Susanna from the Renaissance is that they formed visual gender regimes that have fundamentally Wissenschaft, Rundbrief 15, Marburg 1993, p. 127 – 136; Bettina Baumgärtel, Silvia Neysters (eds.), Die Heldin in der französischen und italienischen Kunst des 17. Jahrhunderts, exh. cat. Düsseldorf 1995, p.  329 – 345; Jean-Claude Prêtre, Suzanne. Le procès du modèle, Paris 1990; Gaila Bonjione, Shifting Images: Susanna through the Ages, doctoral thesis, Florida State University 1997 (unfortunately unavailable to me). 179 See below, section on Lucretia. 180 In the second half of the 16th century, several treatises were written in Italy — for example by Firenzuola, Luigini and Trissino — postulating the theory of an ideal femininity as the combination of beauty, modesty and eroticism. Francis Ames-Lewis, Mary Rogers (eds.), Concepts of Beauty in Renaissance Art, London 1997. 181 While the original is lost, there are Roman and later copies and a multitude of variations such as the pictured Capitoline Venus. Berthold Hinz, Knidia. Oder: Des Aktes erster Akt, in: Detlef Hofmann (ed.), Der nackte Mensch, Marburg 1989, p.  51 – 79; Nanette Sa­lomon, The Venus Pudica: Uncovering Art History’s ‘Hidden Agendas’ and Pernicious Pedigrees, in: Ann Olga Koloski-Ostrow, Claire L. Lyons (eds.), Naked Truths. Women, Sexuality and Gender in Classical Art and Archaeology, London, New York 1997, p. 197 – 219.

shaped our culture: the viewer of the image is conceived as a male subject sublimating his de­­sire in his gaze. Meanwhile, the ideal of femin­ inity is the irresolvable ambivalence of embody­ ing beauty and seduction while simul­taneously remaining absolutely chaste.80 The congenial figure of ambivalence between modesty and seduction is the Venus Pudica, which has inspired count­less versions of Susanna since the Renais­ sance. The motif of covering the crotch and often the breasts goes back to the ancient Greek sculp­ tor Praxiteles from the fourth century BCE, who with his Venus Pudica created a paragon for all sculp­tures of female nudes that followed (fig. 18).81

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Fig. 20: Govert Flinck, Susanna and the Elders, c. 1640, panel, Berlin, Staatliche Museen, Gemäldegalerie Fig. 21: Pieter Lastman, Susanna and the Elders, 1614, panel, Berlin, Staatliche Museen, Gemäldegalerie

It was the first female nude in ancient art. The pudica gesture (a hand in front of the crotch and / or breasts) is highly ambivalent: it covers what should not be seen, but simultaneously directs the gaze exactly there. The (male) gaze becomes a voyeuristic one that looks where it supposedly is not allowed to look. The female figure, in turn, is staged as one who should be ashamed of her nudity. She is exposed to a male gaze that she is trying to cover herself from — quite the opposite of the male Kuroi, who proudly present their naked bodies. And so a certain visual regime staged as early as Antiquity went on to deeply shape prevalent gender relations. Tinto­retto created the classic scenario of voyeu­ rism in his versions of the subject following Lotto’s invention. Here the glorious female nude is presented to the viewer while Susanna is oblivious to the old men watching her (fig. 19). Physical violence is sublimated in the power of the gaze.82 By keeping the narra­

tive frame (the story of Susanna) in mind, desire is irrevocably entwined with sin, power and violence. Innumerable pictures of Susanna and other female figures have continued to vary these visual structures in different stagings to this day. In 17 th century Dutch art, all three variations of Susanna iconography were developed further: the voyeur scenario in paintings by Rembrandt’s student Govert Flinck (fig. 20) or Jan van Neck (fig. 23); the attempt to verbally convince Susanna by Lastman (fig. 21), Jacob van Loo or Michael Willmann83; the violent attack in two versions by Jan

Lievens (fig. 22) and Samuel Koninck.84 Next to a few drawings, Rembrandt produced two paintings on the subject, one version from 1636, which is now part of the collection of the Mauritshuis in The Hague (plate 3) and a second version from 1647 in Berlin, which Rembrandt had already

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Fig. 22: Jan Jorisz. van Vliet after Jan Lievens, Susanna and the Elders, c. 1629, etching Fig.  23: Jan van Neck, Susanna and the Elders, canvas, Copenhagen, Statens Museum for Kunst

designed in its basic structures during the thirties.85 The version from 1636 is highly unusual. Rembrandt eliminated at least one of the elders and positions the viewer in his stead. I would like to mention that the panel originally had an arched top and was cropped by one centimeter on the right side, while a strip of four and a half centimeters was added to the same side later on. Therefore, the head of the old judge in profile originally did not exist. All we can see or rather suspect of the second elder is a turban with a feather. In a copy drawn by Willem de Poorter dating from 1636 there are no elders at all.86 Susanna’s frightened, hunched pose and the attempt to cover herself with a towel show that she realizes she is being watched. She knows that someone can see her, but she cannot see the elders. Susanna’s gaze is 182 Daniela Hammer-Tugendhat, Kunst / Konstruktionen, in: Lutz Musner, Gotthart Wunberg (eds.), Kulturwissenschaften. Forschung — Praxis — Positionen, Wien 2002, p.  313 – 338; here: p. 319 – 325. On the sexualiza­ tion of the gaze and the process of making desire scopic through linear perspective, see Hentschel 2001. 183 Van Loo: Glasgow, Art Gallery, ill.: Sumowski 1983–95, vol. 1, p. 159; Willmann: Nuremberg, Germanisches Nationalmuseum, ill.: Sumowski 1983–95, vol. 1, p. 89. 184 Samuel Koninck: The Hague, S. Nystad (art dealer) ill.: Sumowski, vol. 3, 1983, no. 1095. 185 For the painting in The Hague, see RRP, vol.  3 (1635 – 1642), 1989, p. 117, 196 – 201. 186 Ibid. for drawing by Poorter, p.  200. The results of the examination remain unclear, but the question whether Rembrandt himself added the strip is rather supported by the research team. I cannot understand this decision, because the right part of the signature (on the added strip) is definitely not by Rembrandt. Whatever the truth may be, fact is that the painting was originally conceived with only one elder who was practically invisible. In my opinion it is unthinkable that Poorter single-handedly eliminated the elders, which are iconographically required by tradition and had always been depicted.

directed at the (equally invisible) viewer outside the image, who thus is also apostrophized as a voyeur. Traditional versions of the lurking scene either show Susanna absorbed in thought or fully concentrating on her bath and beauty (for instance in Tintoretto’s version from Vienna (fig. 19) or Govert Flinck’s (fig. 20); or she

unaffectedly or seductively gazes out of the picture like in van Neck’s version (fig. 23), which is an adaptation of Rembrandt’s graphic of Diana; or Cavaliere d’Arpino’s painting from 1607 (fig. 24), which stages Susanna as a Venus combing herself. In Rembrandt’s painting,

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Fig. 24: Cavaliere d’Arpino, Susanna and the Elders, c. 1607, panel, Siena, Pinacoteca Nazionale Fig. 25: Jan van Noordt, Susanna and the Elders, 1670, canvas, San Francisco, Fine Arts Museum — Legion of Honor Museum

Susanna’s hunched, tortured pose, the covering of her crotch and breasts and her fearful facial expression all signal that she does not want to be watched. The figure lacks the usual play of showing and covering, of modesty and allure that we know from a version by Jan van Noordt (fig. 25), who was obviously familiar with Rembrandt’s work. Susanna is not merely presented as an ideal of female beauty, as an object of desire. The subject here is her reaction to being watched. The viewer is made aware that he is looking even though the woman being looked at does not want this. The aspect of violence, which be­comes recognizable in (rare) depictions of the attack scene (such as a version by Lievens), but is always left out of the voyeurist scene, remains clearly visible in Rembrandt’s Susanna. The sublimation of violence into the power of the gaze is marked as a violent relationship in the field of sight. The reflection of voyeurism as a gender-specific relationship of violence is also a theme in an etching by Lucas van Leyden from 1508 (fig. 26). As far as I can tell, all research on Susanna iconography has failed to take this highly unusual etching into account. It extracts the bathing scene from the entire cycle as early as 1508, almost an entire decade before Lorenzo Lotto’s panel. I believe that the extraction of single scenes from narrative sequences in illuminations and frescos for graphics is highly relevant for panel paintings and deserves more scholarly attention. Lucas van Leyden played an eminent role for Rembrandt, who was also from Leyden.87 Van Leyden, however, went the opposite direction: The main protagonists in his etching are the elders, while Susanna is only a small figure in the background, sitting by the river fully clothed, dangling her feet in the water. Speaking in the terms of Linda Hentschel, one could say that as a sort of compensation for the impossibility of catching a glance of naked Susanna or the invisible

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Fig. 26: Lucas van Leyden, Susanna and the Elders, c. 1508, engraving, Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum

site of her sex, the viewer’s gaze is lead far into the depths of the picture.88 Here the bridge and its reflection on the water’s surface form an opening — an opening into a void. In the foreground, right between the elders’ and Susanna’s space, Leyden positioned a tree stump with a small, upward pointing branch. Dangling from this phallic object, the artist attached a little sign with the initial “L,” inscribing himself into the scene. This marvelous, voyeurism-criticizing invention by van Leyden was not directly adopted. Connections to Rembrandt cannot be detected on a formal or iconographic level, but rather lay in a shared sense of basic contents, with both artists explicitly exposing the issue of the subject’s inherent voyeurism. As before, we face the usual difficulties when it comes to the question of how Rembrandt’s Susanna was received by his contemporary audience: the biggest one is the lack of sources. Proponents of reception aesthetics and semiotics-based art history have argued that meanings are not simply inherent to images, but rather depend on context and reception.89 In this regard, feminist analyses 187 Otto Pächt, Rembrandt, Munich 1991, p. 126  ff., 155, 171  f., 177, 183. 188 Hentschel 2001. 189 See a. o. Wolfgang Kemp (ed.), Der Betrachter ist im Bild. Kunstwissenschaft und Rezeptionsästhetik, Cologne 1985; Wolfgang Kemp, Kunstwerk und Betrachter: Der rezeptionsästhetische Ansatz, in: Hans Belting, Heinrich Dilly, Wolfgang Kemp, Willibald Sauerländer (eds.), Kunstgeschichte. Eine Einführung, Berlin 2003 (1985), p.  247 – 265; Mieke Bal, Norman Bryson, Semiotics and Art History, in: Art Bulletin 73 /2, 1991, p. 176 – 208. 190 As an exemplary work on this point I would like to mention: Sigrid Schade, Silke Wenk, Inszenierungen des Sehens. Kunst, Geschichte und Geschlechterdifferenz, in: Hadumond Bussmann, Renate Hof (eds.), Genus, Stuttgart 1997, p.  340 – 407.

have managed to create awareness for the blind­ ness of gender issues in traditional art-historical research.90 Elizabeth Honig claims the existence of a female gaze, a female determined form of reception, in the specific situation in Holland and thus counters the usual absolutization of the male gaze predominant in feminist literature. According to Honig, unlike in Catholic and

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feudally governed countries, the place of painting was the private home in bourgeois Holland, and the private home was a female determined place. She argues that female recipients were already anticipated in the production process and that women could at least participate in choosing and buying the art that would adorn their private homes.91 Honig’s call for the investigation of gender-specific reception of Dutch painting was followed by Klaske Muizelaar and Derek Phillips, who attempted to further substan­tiate these claims by initiating a socio-historical survey of written sources, inventories and actual interiors.92 Their endeavors failed, because no sources documenting any genderspecific forms of reception were found. Both authors arrive at the conclusion that the recep­tion of paintings differed according to social status, education and gender. They contest an absolutization of the male gaze as much as any over-emphasis of a female gaze. This point seems quite plausible, but unfortunately cannot be supported by any specific documents.93 And so we are back to analyzing specific images, which Phillips and Muizelaar persistently avoid. Let us return to Rembrandt’s Susanna. Speaking in terms of reception aesthetics, several viewer positions — which can also appear as a combination in one viewer — are possible. Firstly, there is a ‘female’ point of view, identifying with Susanna’s fears and defensive reaction. The painting could also have the opposite effect of stimulating the lust of a male viewer through his position of power and the staging of an overwhelmed and ashamed Susanna. A third reading could be a male position in the sense of mirror­ ing: a viewer who imagines himself in the elders’ place knowing that they will be stoned to death for their actions. The plausibility of this form of reception can be substantiated with contemporary sources. Jacob Cats, for instance, cites a picture of Diana and Actaeon to reflect a viewer’s startled realization that he is somehow in the same position as Actaeon.94 The image can be read in a way that allows us to become aware of and critically reflect our culture’s pre­ valent visual regimes and their implicit power structures.

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191 Elizabeth Alice Honig, The Space of Gender in Seventeenth-Century Dutch Painting, in: Wayne Franits (ed.), Looking at Seventeenth-Century Dutch Art. Realism Re­considered, Cambridge 1991, p. 187 – 201, esp.  p. 193 – 195. 192 Muizelaar, Phillips 2003. 193 Agnes Sneller presents plausible and convincing differ­ ences in gender-specific reception for literature and theater: Agnes A. Sneller, Passionate Drama. Coster’s Poly­ xena re-read, in: Dutch Crossing 25/1, 2001, p.  78 – 88. 194 Busch 1989, p.  274. 195 RRP, vol. 2, 1986, p.  487 – 494; Sluijter 1986, p.  90 – 94, 195 – 197; Busch 1989, p.  257 – 275; Grohé 1996, p. 195 – 223; Janicek 2004; Sluijter 2006, p. 165 – 193; Daniela Hammer-Tugendhat, Alterität und Persistenz. Rembrandt und die antiken Geschichten, in: Jan Bloe­ mendal, Agnes Sneller, Mirjam de Baar (eds.), Bronnen van inspiratiae. Recepties van de klassieken in de vroegmoderne Nederlanden in muziek, literatuur en beeldende kunst, Hilversum 2007, p. 77 – 97. 196 Actaeon: Ovid, Met. III, 155 – 257, Callisto: Ovid, Met. II, 401 – 495. Busch (1989, p. 271) sees a possible source of inspiration for Rembrandt in Sandrart’s description of a (lost) painting by Lanfranco, which is said to combine the two scenes; Grohé (1996, p.  213f) refers to a

Fatal looks and a laughing nymph —  Diana and her Nymphs Bathing, with Actaeon and Callisto The complexity of the gaze in a field of tension between lusty and wounding, or even deadly looks was a subject that Rembrandt repeatedly dealt with, for example in his early work Diana and her Nymphs Bathing, with Actaeon and Callisto from 1634 (plate 4).95 The two stories, “Diana and Actaeon” and “Diana Discovers Callisto’s Pregnancy” are separate stories in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, which in visual tradition were usually not paired in a single image.96 The story of Actaeon is about a hunter who unintentionally happened upon Diana and her nymphs taking a bath; as revenge for a human seeing her naked, she splashed him with water, turning him into a stag that was torn to death by his own hounds. The other story is about Callisto, one of her nymphs who had been raped by Jupiter disguised as Diana. When Callisto refused to take off her clothes as Diana and her fellow nymphs took a bath, the other nymphs tore off her clothes and revealed her pregnancy. Diana expelled Callisto from the group and jealous Juno turned her into an ugly bear after she gave birth to her son Arkas. As a young man, Arkas encountered the bear and wanted to kill it, not recognizing his own mother; Jupiter finally took pity and lifted them into the sky as stars, where we can see them shine in the stellar constellations Ursa Maior and Ursa Minor. Both stories center on the deadly consequences of seeing: Actaeon pays with his life for (accidentally) seeing naked Diana. Not only lustful gazes can be fatal; Diana’s cold, chaste gaze on Callisto’s pregnancy proves to be the beginning of her plight. The most striking detail and the most silver pitcher and bowl by Paulus van Vianen, decorated with scenes from the two episodes, but separately with one scene on each side. There is one example that has never been associated with Rembrandt — a copper etching by Nicaise de Ruyter from 1688, in which both scenes are actually linked. However, the etching has nothing in common with Rembrandt’s painting on a formal level. The etching’s design is ascribed to Cornelis Cornelisz. which — if that is true — could mean that the visual linking of the two scenes was indeed performed before Rembrandt. I would like to thank Anthea Niklaus for refering me to her text on Nicaise de Ruyter in: Robert Stalla (ed.), Es muss nicht immer Rembrandt sein. Die Druckgrafiksammlung des Kunsthistorischen Instituts der Universität München, exh. cat. Munich, Berlin 2001, p. 150, fig. p. 151. Sluijter (1986, p. 195) correctly points out the relation between both episodes and their specific description in Ovid: “In beide beschrijft Ovidius een zeer verwante, uitgesproken idyllische omgeving en is het ontkleed zijn van Diana en haar nimfen essentieel voor het verhaal; in beide verhalen wordt de idylle verstoord door een inbreuk op de kuisheid van deze maagden, die meedogenloos wordt gestraft.”

severe breaking of a taboo in the painting, surprisingly, have barely, if it all, been commented on by scholars. On the right-hand side of the picture, one nymph in the group trying to pry off Callisto’s clothes to expose her forbidden pregnancy to Diana stands in the back as her naked body convulses with laughter and her open mouth reveals the top row of her teeth (plate 4, detail). Only Busch goes beyond merely

mentioning this odd gesture in his monograph on the painting; he ascribes the extremity of the gesture to the influence of Alberti’s De pic­ tura, a text that was decisive for all art theoretical

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Pl. 4 + Detail: Rembrandt, Diana and her Nymphs Bathing, with Actaeon and Callisto, 1634, canvas, Anholt, Museum Wasserburg Anholt

writings that followed.97 According to Busch, Rembrandt merely wanted to visualize the emotion that expresses itself as laughter in a drastic physical movement. In my opinion this interpretation falls short of going beyond an immanent art discourse. The motif of laughter is neither part of the textual model of Callisto’s story nor can it be identified as part of any iconographic tradition. As far as I can tell, there is no comparable figure in either Rembrandt’s or any of his peers’ work: a female nude in a history painting (!) whose body is fully captivated by an excessive bout of laughter.98 The nymph’s laughter could be inter­preted as a commentary on the happenings in the entire painting and not merely as schadenfreude toward Callisto.99 Ovid recounts Actaeon’s tragic fate as one without fault on his part, while Christian commentators introduced moralizing and didactic aspects to the story. Van Mander, Cats and other Dutch writers turned the story into an exemplum on the dangers of seeing. The figure of Actaeon becomes one of identification for the viewer within this discourse of moralizing the gaze. Grohé delivers a conclusive analysis of the visual structures in Rembrandt’s painting and describes the “forbidden pleasures, illicit glances and inclusion of the viewer” as the basic elements connecting, determining and describing the two stories.100 He does not mention the laughing nymph. Rembrandt positioned her at a prominent spot in the painting, as she constitutes the furthermost right point of a triangle formed by one diagonal of nymphs reaching to the oldest one and another diagonal into the spatial depth of the scene between Diana and Actaeon. Formally, the laughing nymph and Actaeon form the corner points of the entire composition. Diana the goddess is turned to the hunter as she splashes him with the water that will change him and subsequently lead to his death. Diana’s body is twisted in her movement, exposing her full naked body 52

197 Busch 1989, p.  263 ff. It would be interesting to include contemporary theories on laughter by scholars such as Erasmus or Juan Vives. One passage that I find very close to Rembrandt’s understanding is from the Traité sur les passions de l’âme by René Descartes. However, it was published more than a decade later, in 1649. Descartes cites two causes for laughter: joy, mixed with “the surprise of wonder” (“surprise de l’admiration”), or hatred, mixed with the surprise of wonder. Laughing is thus not only an expression of joy, but often also of hatred, caused by the bafflement felt when we encounter something by surprise. (René Descartes, engl. Stephan Voss, The Passions of the Soul, Art. 124 – 126, p.  83 f.) 198 While laughter was never depicted in history paintings, it was quite common in genre paintings from the time, for instance by the Utrecht Caravaggists, Frans Hals, or Judith Leyster. Leyster was somewhat of a specialist for laughing figures; however, her work only includes one female figure laughing (in the background) in Merry Trio from 1629 – 31 (London, Maastricht, Coll. Noortman). Only men and children laugh in her pictu­res, while women smile. (A conclusion reached by Christa Gattringer on the subject of Judith Leyster in my university seminar Affect / Emotion / Imagination. The role of 17th century Dutch painting in the formation of subjec­ tivity in the Early modern period, held at the Department of Art History, University of Vienna in summer 2006.) 199 Laughter instead of punishment as a commentary on sexual transgressions could have been inspired by a story in Homer’s Odyssey or Ovid’s Metamorphoses, in which Vulcan catches Mars and Venus in the act of adultery and captures them in his thin net, exposing them to the laughter of the other gods. This laughter is known as Homeric laughter. See Hammer-Tugendhat 2007, p.  83 f. 100 English by translator. For original German quote, see Grohé 1996, p.  218. 101 On this question, Janicek (2004, p.  58) points out Freud’s analysis of the comical in the sexual and obscene in her master thesis: “A chance exposure has a comic effect on us because we compare the ease with which we have enjoyed the sight with the great expenditure which would otherwise be required for reaching this end.” Sigmund Freud, James Strachey (trans.), Jokes and their Relation to the Unconcious, London 1960, p.  221 f. 102 In a later self-portrait (ca. 1662 – 1669) in Cologne, Rembrandt presents himself as a laughing old man. Albert Blankert, Rembrandt, Zeuxis and the Ideal Beauty, in: Album amicorum J.  G. van Gelder, The Hague 1973, p.  32 – 39) conclusively argues that Rembrandt portrays himself as Zeuxis who, according to antique legend, was supposed to paint an ugly woman and had to laugh so hard that he died. The profile visible on the left side of the painting and a depiction of the subject by Rembrandt’s student Arent de Gelder support this theory. Despite differences in the subject, this late self-portrait proves that laughter had a specific meaning in Rembrandt’s work. This may be relevant for the interpretation of the Diana painting and for the linking of self-reflection, reflecting the medium painting between the representation of ideal beauty or (ugly) reality and death. This connection calls for further scholarly attention.

(which must not be viewed under penalty of death) to the viewer. This coincidental exposure, which Diana is not aware of, bears a certain humor.101 Diana punishes whoever sees her naked with death, yet it is exactly this act of punishment that exposes her to the viewer. Could the nymph’s laughter be understood as a comment to this circle of gazes? Manic laughter about forbidden gazes and rules that lead to death? Is the nymph laughing in place of the viewer? The viewer, however, will hardly want to identify with this brazen creature. I believe the nymph can be read in numerous ways: as a burlesque negative figure, who — only as the figure it is — can laugh at dominant moral values and thus allows the viewer to do the same; on the other hand viewers can also distance themselves from this offensive character. This ambiguity found in jesters and similar charac­ ters has a long tradition that can be traced back to the Late Middle Ages. The nymph’s laughter could also be understood as a comment on the voyeurism of a viewer who finds pleasure in this brutal scene of exposure. The entire Callisto group does not follow any visual tradition. Viewers used to enjoying lasciviously posing female nudes while simultaneously gloating over Callisto’s fate are irritated on more than one level. Instead of gracefully posing nymphs we are shown a cluster of naked women whose violent behavior equals that of the pack of fighting dogs — a representation of hitherto unseen harshness. As the viewer is confronted with both the nymphs and Actaeon, he can recognize his own (voyeuristic, salacious) gaze and the nymph’s malicious laughter becomes a kind of mirroring of his own reaction.102 The manifold palette of looks and gazes could also

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allow the viewers to identify with the nymph in back view sitting on the far right of the group, who forms a sort of double figure with the manically laughing nymph. She turns back (thus connecting the two scenes on a formal level) and with her hand protecting her eyes, she calmly looks at Actaeon: neither frightened, nor judging, nor reacting in any way. This is pure looking.103 The manic laughter definitely thwarts any traditional interpretations of moralizing didactics. I find it quite astonishing that art historians have left out exactly this figure from their interpretations.104 Apart from the fact that the laughing nymph obviously cannot be classified or derived as a figure, this void demonstrates the tendency of some iconologists to interpret images as illustrations of texts, particularly of didactic and moralizing texts. If no corresponding text passage can be found, there is no instrument for interpretation and the figure in question just does not ‘exist.’ The laughing nymph is an indication that images are not moral teachings, but rather that art — as opposed to normative discourse — at least has the potential to bring ambiguity and contradictions into the picture and address them. In literature there are instances of analog kluchten, a form of farce that was popular in Holland in the first half of the 17 th century. Van Stipriaan analyzed the epistemological dimension of laughter in kluchten.105 Calvinist theologians condemned laughter and, with a growing French influence and the moralizing critiques of Andries Pels, laughter was gradually eliminated from Amsterdam theater from the 1670s onward. Contemporaries were definitely aware of the explosive nature of matching ima­ ges, as numerous sources of the time by Erasmus, van Mander, Cats, Hoog­stra­ten, Lairesse and others demonstrate. They either vehemently criticize or even fully condemn these images.106 Rembrandt’s Diana and her Nymphs Bathing, with Actaeon and Callisto transgresses its contemporary decorum and horizon of expectations on multiple levels.107 This breach of canon causes irritation and forces viewers to think about the meaning behind the linking of these two separate stories, the nymph’s intangible and impertinent laughter as well as moralizing visual prohibitions and their deadly consequences.

Where have all the men gone? Let us finally return to Bathsheba. We have been able to establish that Rembrandt developed an alternative idea of femininity, which joins individuality, subjectivity (contemplation) with nudity and erotic elements. We have confirmed that this concept is a transgression of dichotomous structures of femininity and we have questioned and broadened our observations by analyzing A Woman in Bed. We have even recognized an astonishing level of empathy in his Susanna. These are all marvelous findings! But what

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about the male protagonists? Where is King David in the painting of Bathsheba? He is not only required by the text, but even constitutes the main figure of the story and was present in images following a century-long tradition.108 David and his power are present in the image, but only in the metonymic form of the letter. David is present as invisible text, as written word, as logos, but not as body. Considering the importance Rembrandt attached to the representation of words,109 the physical absence of the male protagonist becomes even more explosive. The ‘physical’ King David has left the field of represen­ tation and entered the space before it, becoming one with the viewer. Like the viewer, he looks at beautiful Bathsheba before his eyes. Research in the field of reception aesthetics has demonstrated that images can preset a certain form of reception and thus can pro­ duce a certain viewer110; because the viewer ‘replaces’ King David, he is conceived as a male viewer.111 In Susanna, a figure immanent to the picture is also replaced with a male viewer. Unlike in Bathsheba, the precarious voyeuristic position of the viewer in Susanna is addressed as problematic through the gaze of the female figure from within the picture at the viewer. In A Woman in Bed the gaze of the female figure is directed at an assumed male protagonist who is outside the image, but not identical with the viewer. The subject in 103 Busch 1989, p.  271  f. (and following him Grohé 1996, p.  209  ff. and Janicek 2004, p. 42  ff.) point out the two old people that faintly appear out of the forest in the very darkened background and interpret them as an inner-pictorial mirroring of the viewer in the sense of a pure gaze. They assume that they are a male / female pair (Busch: maybe Philemon and Baucis) and that both are looking at the scene. While studying the original painting in detail, I noticed that the two figures are very likely two women wearing turbans and the left directs her gaze upwards at the sky and not at the scene be­fore her. 104 For the short mentioning, see Busch 1989, p.  263, note 97. 105 René Stipriaan, Leugens en vermaak. Boccaccio’s novellen in de kluchtkultuur van de Nederlandse Renaissance, Amsterdam 1996. 106 See note 74; Sluijter 2006. 107 In her analysis of Rembrandt’s The Rape of Europe, Amy Golhany (Rembrandt’s Europe. In and Out of Pictorial and Textual Tradition, in: Luba Freedman, Gerlinde Huber-Rebenich (eds.), Wege zum Mythos, Berlin 2001, p.  39  –  55, here p.  50  f.) describes Rembrandt’s adherence to the Aristotelian unity of time and action and thus to the cultural norm of the time. Rembrandt was therefore within the “horizon of expectations” (Golhany refers to H. R. Jauss, Toward an Aesthetic of Reception, Minneapolis 1982, p. 11). 108 Rembrandt’s immediate predecessors Cornelisz. van Haarlem, Elsheimer and Lievens had already eliminated David from their depictions. 109 Julius Held, Das gesprochene Wort bei Rembrandt, in: Otto von Simson, Jan Kelch, Neue Beiträge zur Rem­ brandt-Forschung, Berlin 1973; Christiane Häslein, Am Anfang war das Wort. Das Ende der “stommen Schilderkonst” am Beispiel Rembrandts, Weimar 2004. 110 Kemp 1985 and 2003. 111 See Schade, Wenk 1997 for further literature.

Bathsheba and Susanna is looking. King David looks at Bathsheba, the elders look at Susanna, and their desires are sparked through looking; the viewer thus repeats their action by looking at the picture — with the important difference that he is looking at an image and not at an actual woman. Asking about the male protagonists changes our view of the female figures, even if the male protagonists have become invisible. If we only focus on a women’s art history and limit our analysis to the image of femininity, the actual issue remains outside our awareness. Asking about gender relations or gender diffe­ ren­ces is what points us to the actual relation­ ship between genders. Asking who or what is (made) invisible in which context and what is no longer the subject of representation is as important as asking what and how something is depicted.

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In Bathsheba and Susanna, the male protagonist shifts from painted object in the image to gazing subject in front of the image. There are also images that do not revolve around the subject of looking, but require a male protagonist, who nonetheless remains unrepresented. We will investigate the resulting issues as we take a look at the example of Lucretia.

On the discourse of rape —Lucretia To this day, the ancient Roman figure of Lucretia has remained a central figure in the prevalent discourse on rape.112 This astonishing fact is strikingly demonstrated in the recently published (German) doctoral thesis by Jan Follak.113 It is telling that of all figures, Lucretia became the exemplum par excellence. Her status as a role model is based on the fact that she committed suicide after being raped and thus contributed to the downfall of the Roman monarchy. From Antiquity to the modern period, her story ranged among the top exempla, which are moral anecdotes used to pass norms and values from one generation to the next. She can justifiably be considered the incarnation of a ‘real’ ideal woman — as opposed to the ideal of the Holy Mother. Follak describes how exempla lost their relevance in modernity and were replaced by modern science, which took over the role of explaining the world. He argues that because of the loss of educational knowledge transported in exempla, science is forced —  at times in extensive empirical studies — to rediscover these anthropological truths. According to Follak, women’s reactions to rape were already adequately described in the 14th century by Coluccio Salutati. Follak continues that His [Salutati’s] description of the process and consequences of rape leads to the same conclusion as modern psychological studies, which describe the phenomenon with empirical means. This can be proven in a comparison of Salutati’s Declamatio and studies on Rape Trauma Syndrome conducted during the 1970s in the USA. Based on empirical data, the phenomenon that was automatically linked to the exemplum of Lucretia in Salutati’s time, was newly named and described. […] The behavioral patterns scientists observed when questioning rape victims are almost identical to statements Salutati lets Lucretia make in his Declamatio. Far from delivering truly new findings, Burgess and Holmstrom only rediscover knowledge that was already present in the exemplum of Lucretia.114

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The reactions rape victims experience, described as Rape Trauma Syndrome and by Salutati, include fear, feelings of shame, embarrassment and anger, desire for revenge and feelings of guilt. In Declamatio, Lucretia’s feelings of guilt are the main motivation for her suicide. Follak draws the following conclusion from the comparison between Salutati’s text and the American study: Like the rape victims in Burgess and Holmstrom’s study, Lucretia asks herself how and why this could have happened. 115 In Salutati’s Declamatio, these feelings of guilt are linked to possible feelings of pleasure during the rape, to the fear of having been ‘corrupted’ and to facing a life driven by carnal lust. Two aspects in this speech about raped women are particularly conspicuous and actually continue to influence political and legal practices related to the subject: The first aspect comprises the ‘diagnosis’ of feelings of shame in the victims and the implication of partial complicity that is linked to them. Complicity is either explained as allegedly provocative behavior before or supposed feelings of pleasure during rape. This is not the framework to further discuss how the phenomenon of sexual violence is dealt with today, but I would like to point out the gruesome topicality of the subject during the Bosnian War during the 1990s and in the constant acquittals we see in rape cases every day. Contrary to Jan Follak, I do not believe that the exempla describe anthropological truths, but rather the opposite, that they produced certain values and norms that were inter­ nalized over a longue durée and are continuously reproduced today. Exempla as normative and literary texts and images have played a fundamental role in creating the ludicrous phenomenon that victims have to feel complicit in their own violation. Salutati lets Lucretia lament the beauty of her body as the reason for her rape and lets her fear that she felt lust against her will; he depicts her as afraid that “shameful acts will begin to please 112 Stefan Blaschke compiled an excellent bibliography on the subject rape: The History of Rape: A Bibliography: http://archive.org/details/HistoryOfRapeABibliography, retrieved Dec. 10, 2012; Christine Künzel, Gewalt/ Macht, in: Christina von Braun, Inge Stephan (eds.), Gender@Wissen. Ein Handbuch der Gender-Theorien, Cologne 2005, p. 117 – 138. 113 “Lucretia zwischen positiver und negativer Anthro­ po­logie. Colluccio Salutatis Declamatio Lucretie und die Menschenbilder im exemplum der Lucretia von der Antike bis in die Neuzeit.” Follak wrote his doctoral thesis at the Depart­ment of Literary Studies at the University of Constance in 2002. It is avail­able online: http://nbn-resolving.de/urn:nbn:de:bsz:352-op us-9144, retrieved Dec. 10, 2012. 114 English by translator; Follak 2002, p. 183  f. 115 English by translator; Follak 2002, p. 186. 116 English by translator; Follak, p. 122.

[her]” and puts phrases in her mouth such as “nothing is as fickle as a woman.” 116 This is not an authentic experience made by a raped woman, as Follak seems to believe. It is rather a text that is part of a long-lasting patriarchal tradition that was written by a man. And if women choose not to press legal charges it is not because there is an inherent feeling of shame in them, but because they fear the practice of inquisitorial

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questioning. In addition, rapists are not only often acquitted; women pressing charges face the risk of being sued for defamation.117 At the same time, the prevalent discourse on rape surely influences women’s own interpretation of their rape.118 Lucretia — what kind of story is this? 119 How could the texts and images of this nar­ra­tive shape the idea of rape so thoroughly throughout the centuries that some schol­ ars still accept it as the anthropological truth today? How could suicide be considered the ideal reaction to rape and victims of sexual assault become an ideal of femininity? We will take a look at this story that became so paradigmatic for the discourse on rape and will briefly follow different interpretations of the “archetypical rape victim.” 120 Sources and their re-interpretations The base for all further adaptations of the subject is Livy’s version in Ab urbe condita from the first century BCE.121 During the siege of Ardea, the sons of the Roman king Tarquinius Superbus and their military commanders spent an evening of food and drink, passing the time debating the virtues of their wives. Collatinus, a relative of the king, boasted that his wife Lucretia surpassed all others in virtue. In order to settle the debate that followed, they all rode to Rome the same night; they found their wives feasting and reveling, while Lucretia was the only one quietly spinning the wheel at home with her maids. Sextus Tarquinius, one of the king’s sons, was tempted not only by Lucretia’s beauty, but also by her modesty. He returned that night and an un­ suspecting Lucretia welcomed him in her home. While she was sleeping, Sextus threatened her with a dagger and tried to force himself unto her. She resisted and said she preferred to die rather than to give herself to him. So he threatened to kill her and a male slave and to place their naked bodies together so he could claim that she had been caught committing adultery. Lucretia realized that she would not be able to prove her honor and let him abuse her, telling her hus­ band, her father and Brutus the following morning: “It is only the body that has been violated, the soul is pure; death shall bear witness to that. […] Although I acquit myself of the sin, I do not free myself from the penalty; no unchaste woman shall henceforth live and plead

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117 One of many recent examples: A case of sexual assault that took place in the Austrian refugee camp Traiskirchen (“Reception Centre East”) was dismissed by the court in 2005. An asylum seeker from Cameroon lodged a criminal complaint alleging that she had been raped by a security guard. Said guard was acquitted for rape, even though he admitted that he had been intoxi­ cated and had locked the woman in his office with the intention of having sex with her in the middle of the night. The woman, in turn, was threatened with charges of defamation, which may result in a jail sentence of up to five years. For further information on the inci­ dent, see Der Standard, June 21, 2005. http://hudoc. echr.coe.int/sites/eng/pages/search.aspx?i=0011131 37#{%22itemid%22:[%22001-113137%22]}, retrieved Dec. 10, 2012. 118 On the discursive and historically conditioned character of experience, see: Joan Scott, The Evidence of Experience, in: Critical Inquiry, vol. 17 (summer) 1991, p.  773 – 797. 119 On the history of Lucretia, see the two monographs Hans Galinsky, Der Lucretia-Stoff in der Weltliteratur, Breslau 1932 and Ian Donaldson, The Rapes of Lucretia. A Myth and its Transformations, Oxford 1982. Also see the well-researched bibliography in Follak 2002, which the author surprisingly barely includes in his own observations. 120 Elizabeth Robertson, Public Bodies and Psychic Domains: Rape, Consent and Female Subjectivity in Geoffrey Chaucer’s Troilus and Criseyde, in: Elizabeth Robertson, Christine M. Rose, Representing Rape in Medieval and Early Modern Literature, New York 2001, p.  283. 121 Livy, Ab urbe condita I, 57 –  60; On Livy’s Roman sources

Lucretia’s example.” 122 She then pulled the dagger from under her clothes, called for revenge and stabbed herself to death. The incident subsequently lead to the downfall of the Roman monarchy in 510 BCE. The sacrifice of her life was the necessary legitimization for the founding of the Roman Republic. For a vendetta to begin, there must be blood. The central values of the story are already present in Livy’s original: gloria (glory), pudicita or castitas (modesty or chastity) and libertas (freedom). Unlike men, women could only gain glory through modesty or preserve it by committing suicide. Of course the Roman chronicler’s main point is gloria, the glory of the founding myth of Rome. He nonetheless also designs an ideal type of femininity in this exemplum, along with an ideal type of reaction to the experience of rape. Cases of rape were not really treated differently than adultery in Roman law: both were considered a property crime defiling the woman and, more importantly, questioning the fatherhood of any potential offspring.123 In cases of adultery, fathers were allowed to kill their daughters. Rape was only considered a provable offence if the victim showed physical signs of abuse. Lucretia had given in —  even if it was under an immense amount of pressure. A woman’s statement without witnesses was not considered legally valid, so the case could have been interpreted as adultery.124 Lucretia thus single-handedly carried out a law that the male society she lived in could have and Greek versions, see Galinsky 1932, p. 13; Follak 2002, p.  31. 122 Livy I, 58: “Ego me etsi peccato absolvo, supplicio non libero; nec ulla deinde impudica Lucretiae exemplo vivet.” English translation by. Rev. Canon Roberts. New York, 1912. 123 Donaldson 1982, p. 24; Appleton (Trois episodes de l’histoire ancienne de Rome: Les Sabines, Lucrece, Virginie, in: Revue historique de droît français et étranger, 4éme Ser. 3, Paris 1924, p. 193 – 271, here p. 265) sees the base for Lucretia’s suicide in the moral values of the Roman pastoral people: “Qu’une femelle est gâtée pour toujours par le contact avec un mâle d’une race différente.” The notion that there is hardly any difference between adultery and rape has remained more or less intact in the Catholic Church. When Catholic nuns asked the pope for permission to abort the fetuses they conceived when they were raped during the Bosnian War, their plea was denied. In an interview on the subject in the monthly periodical Basta, the Aus­ trian Bishop of St. Pölten at the time, Dr. Kurt Krenn, analogized adultery and rape, stating both cases were “improper ways of conception.” (For a German article on the incident, see Der Standard, April 1, 1993, p.  4.) 124 On this and particularly on the influence of Roman Law on jurisdiction from the Middle Ages to the 16th century, see Elisabeth Koch, Maior dignitas est in sexu virli. Das weibliche Geschlecht im Normensystem des 16. Jahrhunderts, Frankfurt a. M. 1991, esp. p. 100 – 102, 120. 125 See Valerius Maximus, Facta et dicta memoriabilia. Libri I – VI, John Briscoe (ed.), Stuttgart 1998; here: VI, 1, 2 – 3, 4. 126 Ovid, Fasti, Book II, 721– 852 (February 24), Engl. trans­lation by A. S. Kline 2004.

enforced on her. Thus her death no longer seems like patriarchal force, but rather like an autonomous decision. Shortly after Livy’s story, Valerius Maximus congruously added two further stories to his exempla, in which fathers murder their daughters themselves — in one case even as a preemptory measure 125. The collection was one of the most important during the Middle Ages and early modern period. Next to Livy, Valerius Maximus and Plutarch, it was first and foremostly Ovid who perpetuated the reception of this antique story. His poetic description in Fasti tones down the heroic aspects of the narrative in favor of its erotic components.126 Instead of bearing noble qualities, Lucretia has become a touching character. In the ‘confession scene,’ Lucretia blushes and begins to cry. Her beauty is sensualized in empathic descriptions, thus making Sextus’s desire for her plausible to the audience. According to Galinsky, Ovid created the

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prototype of someone “captured by blind love” or of the eroticist who becomes a tragic sinner.127 Here we have the early stage of an interpretation that will subsequently lead to blaming rape on women and their seductive beauty. Early Christian writers like Hieronymus adopted the notion that it was better for a woman to die than to continue living in a state of dishonor: (female) chastity was always more important than death. Lucretia became a martyr; her suicide is reminiscent of Christ’s sacrificial death. This Christianized adaptation of Lucretia significantly shaped artistic portrayals of her during the Middle Ages and early modern period; and so images of Lucretia in 16th century Germany and the Netherlands became related to depictions of the Man of Sorrows.128 This is a parallel to the seemingly miraculous idea that Lucretia’s sacrifice could wash away the guilt of her perpetrator. How could the blood of an innocent raped woman possibly obliterate the sin of her rapist? This ludicrous reversal was preserved well into the 20th century, for instance in a libretto by Ronald Duncan for the opera Lucretia by Benjamin Britten from 1946: Here in this scene you see: Virtue assailed by sin but with strength triumphing; All this is endless Crucifixion for him. Nothing impure survives, all passion perishes, virtue has one desire to let its blood flow Back to the wounds of Christ.129 It would go too far at this point to further investigate the structures of this concept that reaches back to the roots of Christian religion and the underlying archaic idea that guilt can be atoned by the sacrificial death of an innocent.130 Even though Augustine played a central role in shaping Christian sacrificial ideology, he never considered Lucretia a martyr in the Christian sense. In fact, he had a problem with Lucretia. In his first book De civitate Dei, written between 413 and 415, he dealt with the fall of Rome at the hands of Alaric and the Visigoths in 410. Rape was committed in this context and many of the affected women committed suicide. This was the specific historical event that prompted Augustine, with the exemplum of Lucretia in mind, to contemplate an adequate reaction for women who had been raped. Here we

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can clearly identify the similarities and differences between ancient and Christian thinking. The value of female chastity remained undisputed, but suicide was a sin according to Augustine in particular and Christian values in general. By committing suicide, Lucretia killed an innocent person. In Christian beliefs, suicide was no longer a heroic act guaran­ teeing posthumous glory, like it was during Antiquity. Christianity considered it the murder of a soul, a sign of desperation and thus religious doubt. Glory was also no longer thought of as the ultimate virtue. Inner values and a clear conscience before God became more important. There was a visible shift from shame culture to guilt culture.131 Purity was an issue of the mind and not the body. Thus, if Lucretia had not felt any pleasure during her rape, she was considered innocent, but guilty of murdering an innocent. At this point, Augustine developed a thought that would prove disastrous for the entire debate on the subject for centuries to come. He contemplated the reasons that lead Lucretia to take her life; one of the reasons he considered was the possibility of her own guilt: […] but what if she was betrayed by the pleasure of the act, and gave some consent to Sextus, though so violently abusing her, and then was so affected with remorse, that she thought death alone could expiate her sin?  132 And so Augustine concludes: If you extenuate the homicide, you confirm the adultery: if you acquit 127 Galinsky 1932, p. 15. 128 Compare, for example, with woodcuts by Baldung Grien depicting a Man of Sorrows and Lucretia as halflengths — a staging focused on intimacy and immediacy. The positioning of the figures makes them seem identical at first glance. On this, see Carol M. Schuler, Virtuous Model / Voluptuous Martyr. The Suicide of Lucretia in Northern Renaissance Art and its Relation to Late Medieval Devotional Imagery, in: Jane L. Caroll, Alison G. Stewart (eds.), Saints, Sinners, and Sisters. Gender and Northern Art in Medieval and Early Modern Europe, Aldershot, Burlington 2003, p. 7 – 25. See below. 129 Quoted after Donaldson 1982, p.  28. 130 On the questionable nature of an ideology of the victim, see Gudrun Kohn Waechter (ed.), Schrift der Flammen, Opfermythen und Weiblichkeitsentwürfe im 20. Jahrhundert, Berlin 1991, esp. Hildegard Cancik-Lindemair’s essay, Opfersprache. Religionswissenschaftliche und religionsgeschichtliche Bemerkungen, p.  38 – 56; René Girard, The Girard Reader, James G. Williams (ed.), New York 1996; Daniela HammerTugendhat, Kriegerdenkmäler. Kritische Gedanken zum Opferdiskurs, in: Patrick Werkner (ed.), Kunst und Staat — ein problematisches Verhältnis, Vienna 2007, p. 119 – 135. 131 Donaldson 1982, p. 33  f.: with reference to E. R. Dodd, The Greeks and the Irrational, 1951. 132 Augustine, De civitate Dei, 19, 47 – 51. 133 Ibid., p.  58 – 62.

her of adultery, you make the charge of homicide heavier; and there is no way out of the dilemma, when one asks, if she was adulterous, why praise her? If chaste, why slay her? (“Si adulterata, cur laudata; si pudica, cur occisa?”)133 Augustine’s aim was to elaborate on Christian values in contrast to Roman values and to explain that an inner sense of chastity was more important than gaining glory from your peers. Raped women were supposed to bear their shame; if their souls remained pure during rape, it would be recognized before God. Even though doubts on Lucretia’s chastity play

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only a minor role in Augustine’s writing, the issue would go on to increasingly occupy male fantasies; the pertinent passage has repeatedly been cited to this day. In Declamatio Lucretiae, Coluccio Salutati goes further and puts these words of doubt in Lucretia’s mouth, thus creating a fictional woman who appears to authentically confirm that women feel lust when being raped. Salutati lets Lucretia say the following words: Alas for me! Will such a righteous soul as mine be able to endure anymore in this corrupted body without the blame of disgrace? Don’t you think I will discover some pleasure in chastity of a corrupt body? Oh hidden shame! Spare me, father, and spare me, husband and you gods of chaste young women. Allow me not to harbor so much grief in my soul and not to recall so much the feeling of that embrace without the enticements of my disobedient members assailing me, without remembering the traces of the marriage flame. That sad and unpleasing pleasure, of whatever sort it was, must be avenged by the sword. […] Too great are the powers of Venus for anyone who has had some experience of pleasure. I don’t ever want the image of such a crime to be brought before the eyes of the mind. Nothing softens grief and emotions in a woman more quickly than time, which extinguishes them; if I delay, perhaps shameful acts will begin to please me.134 Lucretia also ‘certifies’ the notion that the female body and its beauty provoke men to become sexually violent: You, earthly body, who produced the cause and occasion of adultery with your former beauty, give up your soul; pour forth this blood […]135 A great number of artworks since the 16th century stage Lucretia as a lasciviously posing nude, which we will explore in more detail further below. Parallel to the onset of the early modern period, the idea that women who are raped automatically experience feelings of lust became more and more embedded in popular belief. Lucretia the saint became Lucretia the whore: for example in Jacques du Bosque’s work L’Honneste Femme from 1636, in which she has sexual intercourse with a number of different men and fears that it will all come to light.136 Starting in the 16th century, burlesque or parody versions shaped reception during the Rococo. These depictions blatantly deny the occurrence of a crime as they depict Lucretia fully enjoying her rape.137 The concepts of Lucretia developed during Antiquity and early Christianity all lived on, either as parallel readings or hybrid versions. The version based on Livy centering on

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the heroic act of suicide for the benefit of a (male) political revolt was particularly relevant during the Renaissance and the concept of the femme forte during the Baroque period.138 Here we also have a coupling of private female life and public, male connoted (govern­ mental) power. At the same time, the Christian elevation of Lucretia to a martyr continued. In recourse to Valerius Maximus and Plutarch, the matrimonial discourse of the early modern period turned Lucretia into the ideal of a modest and virtuous wife as numerous examples in matrimonial books, sermons, plays and devotional literature demonstrate.139 Juan Luis Vives, one of Erasmus’s students who lived in the Netherlands, aptly sums up the idea in his influential text De institutio foeminae Christianae. He lets dying Lucretia mumble: “What can be secure for a woman when her chastity is lost?” and adds, “[…] nothing remains to a woman who has cast away her chastity.” 140 Of course Ovid’s version was just as renowned as Livy’s and played an eminent role during the Renais­ sance and Baroque period. Emphasis on what Galinsky calls “the erotic component” 141 combined with Augustine’s doubt of Lucretia’s chastity subsequently lead to a rape discourse that is still prevalent today. This discourse perpetuates the notion that women are complicit in their rape because of their radiating physical appeal and beauty and that they (sub)consciously enjoy being raped. Lucretia fever The revival of ancient figures during the Renaissance weakened Augustine’s medieval position condemning suicide. The condition for the acceptance of her suicide was of course the fact that Lucretia was a heathen figure from Antiquity.142 She soon rose to the position of a female ideal, or rather ideal 134 Salutati, Declamatio Lucretie, English translation quoted after Stephanie H. Jed, Chaste Thinking. The Rape of Lucretia and the Birth of Humanism, Indianapolis 1989, p. 151. 135 Ibid., p. 152. 136 See Donaldson 1982, p. 37. 137 See the examples cited in Donaldson 1982, p. 83 – 100. 138 Exh.  cat. Düsseldorf 1995. 139 A selection of works includes Francesco Barbaro’s De re uxoria from 1415, Albrecht von Eybs’s Ehebüchlein, Hans Sachs’s Lucretia play and the sermons of Abraham a Santa Clara. Also see: Barbara Pöchhacker, Dux Romanae Pudicitiae. Deutsche Bearbeitungen des Lucretia-Stoffes im 15. und 16. Jahrhundert, master thesis, University of Vienna 1992. 140 Juan Luis Vives, De institutio foeminae Christianae, Plantin 1579, I, 44. English: Charles Fantazzi, The Education of a Christian Woman, Chicago 2000, p.  85  f. 141 Galinsky 1932, p. 15; p.  220. 142 Thomas Browne distinguishes between Christian and pagan suicide in 1635, claiming that only Christians are to be condemned for taking their life. Ron M.  Brown, The Art of Suicide, London 2001, p. 101. 143 Stephanie H. Jed, Chastity on the Page: A Feminist Use of Paleography, in: Marilyn Migiel, Juliana Schiesari (eds.), Refiguring Women. Perspectives on Gender and the Italian Renaissance, Ithaca, New York 1991, p. 114 – 130.

wife. A wave of ‘Lucretia fever’ broke out and she became omnipresent in humanist texts143 and conduct books on matrimony; girls were christened Lucretia; she became one of the most popular themes for cassoni, the marriage chests that brides received as wedding presents and as a visual warning that it was preferable to die than to be unfaithful. Suicide became the only believable proof of chastity, a criterion of innocence. This was already propagated in Boccaccio’s De claris mulieribus from 1361, a text that was soon translated from its Latin original into several European national languages and became widespread thanks to the invention of letterpress printing. Suicide as a proof of

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chastity and an ideal reaction to rape is also the content of a poem written in the early 16th century by Giovanni de Medici, son of Lorenzo de Medici and later Pope Leo X. I would like to present the poem here, not because of its poetic beauty, but as a repre­ sentative example for the Lucretia trope of the time: Gladly I fall to earth, the cruel steel Driv’n to my heart; and yet I find delight In this self-slaughter, since it needs must prove That none was ever shown more prompt than I. With joyful eyes I mark my life-blood flow, And curse the crimson stream with scathing words. O Blood of mine, more hateful than the drugs Which Cerberus or Hydra can produce, Depart all-tainted to thine ancient source! Hence bitter-sweet and vile disease of Life, That once did fill my frame with comeliness! Thus doth your Lucrece warn her happier peers Ever to bide in purity and grace, And ever hold intact the marriage vow. For is it not the chiefest boast of Rome That all her matrons walk in Virtue’s path, Seeking to rule their lords by chastity, And not by beauty or the art to please? Thus am I willing by mine own sad end To preach this lesson; that the faithful soul Must not survive in the polluted clay.144 It is assumed that Leo X wrote this poem when an ancient statue interpreted as Lucretia was found in Rome around 1500. The statue in question had great influence on the future image production of the figure. In his seminal essay Lucretia Statua from 1951, Stechow retraces the fundamental iconographic renewal of image production that took place in the first decade of the 16th century.145 The narrative sequencing of the story as it is found on cassoni 146 was abandoned in favor of depictions of Lucretia as a single figure during the act of suicide. Dramatic versions showing the rape are quite rare; it was mostly Titian and his circle as well as Rubens who dealt with and represented sexual violence.147 Stechow rightly ascertains that, apart from reducing the narrative to the single figure of Lucretia in the moment of suicide, the depiction itself deviates from the textual version. The text calls for the suicide to take place in public before witnesses. The main point of the

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Fig. 27: Marcantonio Raimondi (after Raphael), Lucretia, c. 1510/11, engraving, Amsterdam, Rijksmusem Fig. 28: Joos van Cleve, Lucretia, c. 1520/25, panel, Vienna, Kunsthistorisches Museum

act lies in Lucretia’s testimony and her call for revenge. With few exceptions — notably almost always in graphics 148 — panel paintings in Italy, Germany and the Netherlands show Lucretia as a single figure. As early as 1505, 144 Leo X, In Lucretiam Statuam I; quoted after Herbert M. Vaughan, The Medici Popes, London 1908, p.  28. 145 Wolfgang Stechow, Lucretiae Statua, in: Beiträge für Georg Swarzenski, Berlin 1951, p. 114 – 124. 146 Paul Schubring, Cassoni. Truhen und Truhenbilder der italienischen Renaissance, Leipzig 1915; Theresa Ge­ orgen, Lucretias Vergewaltigung. Privatisierung einer Staatsaffäre, in: Ines Lindner et al. (eds.), Blick-Wechsel. Konstruktionen von Männlichkeit und Weiblichkeit in Kunst und Kunstgeschichte, Berlin 1989, p.  437 – 444. 147 Titian’s painting of Lucretia’s rape (ca. 1570, Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge) is a case of its own. Titian addresses the aggression behind the act of violence and Lucretia’s panic-striken horror. Tarquinius’s wild gaze goes beyond Lucretia; her gaze and gesture signalize fear and defense. 148 On the graphic examples Pencz, Meckenem, Goltzius, see: Karin Hanika, Lucretia als ‘Damenopfer’ patriachaler Tugendkonzeptionen. Die vier Kupferstiche des Hendrik Goltzius, in: Hans Jürgen Bachorski, Helga Sciurie (eds.), Eros — Macht — Askese. Geschlechterspannungen als Dialogstruktur, Trier 1996, p.  395 – 422; Karin Hanika, ‘Eine offene Tür, ein offenes Mieder.’ Das Schicksal der Lucretia zwischen Vergewaltigung und Ehebruch, in: Ulrike Gaebel, Erika Kartschoke (eds.), Böse Frauen — gute Frauen. Darstellungskonventionen in Texten und Bildern des Mittelalters und der Frühen Neuzeit, Trier 2001, p. 109 – 132. 149 Hannover, Kestner-Museum; ill.: Stechow 1951, p. 117, fig. 1. 150 See especially the excellent essay by Linda C.  Hulst, Dürer’s Lucretia: Speaking the Silence of Women, in: Signs 1991, p.   205 – 237. Hulst bases her observations on a different perspective, asking whether and what kind of heroic image of femininity was possible in the Renaissance.

Sodoma painted an isolated Lucretia in full length, with a half exposed chest standing in an implied landscape.149 This was followed by a flood of similar images by the same artist, by Francesco Francia and others. An etching by Marcantonio Raimondi, which, according to Vassari, can be traced back to a drawing by Raphael, proved to be very influential (fig. 27). Lucretia, standing upright amidst ancient architectural structures, demonstrates an ideal of gloria in her monumentality and subtle pa­ thos, just as described in Livy’s text. However, her widespread arms and tilted head are re­ miniscent of Christ’s pose on the cross. The iconography of a standing Lucretia in full length was also popular in Germany, in depictions by Dürer, Cranach, Baldung Grien and in graphics by Hans Sebald Beham.150 In renderings by Francesco Francia and later Palma Vecchio, we find Lucretia in half-length; here she stands be­

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fore a dark background, which equals the disso­lution of any specific spatial context in favor of an independent singular figure. The invention of the half-length figure determined depictions in the Netherlands. Dietrich Schubert compiled the abundant production there: Artists like Pieter Coecke, Quentin Massys, Joos van Cleve, The Master of the Female Half-Lengths, The Master of the Holy Blood, Jan Gossaert, Bernard van Orley and others developed one or more versions (fig. 28). As a typical example for art historic dealing with the subject, I would like to cite Schubert’s reasoning for the mass appear­ance of Lucretia images: On one hand, the Roman who committed suicide with a dagger after being violated by Tarquinius was considered the epitome of virtue in the Netherlands as well as other artistic regions, while on the other hand, the subject allowed the depiction of a nude female body in a dramatic situation, a somewhat fertile moment, which with its manifold nuances probably constituted the special artistic appeal of these images.151 What are the reasons for such widespread divergence from the textual template and the reduction from an entire narrative to the single figure of Lucretia taking her life? What was the motivation behind this fundamental iconographic replacement? Stechow and others read the discovery of the ancient statue and the poem of Leo X as the source for both the plethora of images and the cult revolving around Lucretia during the 16th century. Time and again we can observe this type of foreshortened reasoning in art history; attempts to base fundamental changes in art on the influence of isolated and immanent instances of artworks and texts. I believe that shifts of this sort can only be fully understood as part of a complex discursive process and the underlying correlation of its different fields. The poetic moods of a prospective Pope and the finding of an actually unidentified ancient statue could not have initiated anything, but rather must be read as symptoms of a broad discourse that had already spread out among (higher) society. Isolated Lucretia figures are only conceivable in a cultural environment in which the story was already so well-known and internalized that the representation of a female figure with a dagger immediately triggered the entire narrative. The figure’s isolation also pushed all political implications of the story into the background. What remained was the token of Lucretia, a symbol of chastity and an incarnation of an ideal femininity that consists of committing suicide after being tainted by rape. The privatization of Lucretia is also part of the early modern discourse of matrimony, which, based on the social strata of the urban bourgeoisie, deemed marriage the ideal form of life, even surpassing celibacy. In the northern Netherlands, where Reformation had taken hold, an abundance of matrimonial texts appeared, targeted specifically at female readers. The core texts of this group are

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Encomium matrimonii and Christiani matrimonii institutio by Erasmus and Juan Luis Vives’s treatise De institutio foeminae Christianae, written 1523 and translated into Dutch in 1544. These texts were extremely widespread up to the 17 th century; following their lead, Jacob Cats wrote Huwelyck in 1625, which became a bestseller.152 Juan Vives compares male and female virtues; a man needs a number of them: wisdom, eloquence, sense of justice, strength, courage, compassion, generosity and several more; a woman, on the other hand, needs none of them. She must only be one thing: chaste. A woman lacking chastity is like a man lacking all of the aforementioned virtues.153 It is fully in this sense that Jacob Cats differentiates between male and female honor. While male honor is marked by authority, power and wisdom, female honor is fully based on chastity.154 Vives, in turn, cites Susanna and Lucretia as positive exempla. For him, they are the epitome of ideal women; unlike numerous Christian virgins and martyrs, they are more than mere incarnations of chastity, they are chaste wives. Parallel to these texts we can find a large production of didactic graphics propagating concepts of female virtue in word and image.155 We can only fully understand these pictures as part of the discourse they are embedded in — a discourse rooted in ancient traditions that had also taken a specific topical form. At the same time, images played an active role in shaping said discourse and helped root a specific image of femininity so deeply in the minds of men and women that women today still process their experiences in accordance with its patterns. Furthermore, the extraction of a singular 151 Dietrich Schubert, Halbfigurige Lucretia-Tafeln der 1. Hälfte des 16. Jahrhunderts in den Niederlanden, in: Jahrbuch des Kunsthistorischen Instituts der Universität Graz 1971, 6, p.  99 – 110. 152 See note 61. 153 Jlja M.  Veldman, Lessons for Ladies: A Selection of Sixteenth- and Seventeenth-Century Dutch Prints, in: Simiolus 16, 2/3, 1986, p. 113 – 127, here p. 119. 154 On the particularities of this terminology, see Sneller’s thorough linguistic analysis of the term achtbaerheyt Cats uses in Tooneel van de mannelicke achtbaerheyt: Agnes Sneller, Jacob Cats’ Tooneel van de mannelicke achtbaerheyt (1622), in: W. Abrahamse et al. (eds.): Kort Tijt-verdrijf, opstellen over Nederlands toneel. Aangeboden aan Mieke B. Smits-Veldt, Amsterdam 1996, p. 103 – 109; Sneller, Agnes Verbiest. Wat woorden doen, Couthino 2000. Sneller’s linguistic findings are confirmed by historic empirical research: see Hermann Roodenburg, Die Amsterdamer Kirchenzucht im 17. Jahrhundert und die These der Sozialdisziplinierung, in: Zentrum für Niederlande-Studien, Jahrbuch 3, Münster 1992, p.  27 – 37. 155 Veldman 1986; Yvonne Bleyerveld, Chaste, Obedient and Devout. Biblical Women as Patterns of Female Virtue in Netherlandish and German Graphic Art, ca. 1500 – 1730, in: Simiolus 28, 4, 2000 – 2001, p.  219 – 250. Artists include Dirck Volkertsz. Coornhert and Crispin de Passe.

figure from a narrative context is a characteristic phenomenon for the shift from early to high Renaissance. This shift was additionally pro­ moted by panel painting. I believe the issue of medium is of great importance here. The me­ dium changed the mode of representation and with it, the semantic layer. It was an interface for different, yet interconnected layers: panel pain­t­ ing was no longer publicly received art like a wall fresco and was no longer directly connected to text like illumination art. Panel painting thus made it possible to depict autonomous figures, to decontextualize them and privatize the narrative. One connective element is the genre of graphics. Thus we still find entire sequences

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Fig. 29: Lucas Cranach the Elder, Lucretia, 1533, panel, Berlin, Staatliche Museen, Gemäldegalerie Fig. 30: Lucas Cranach the Elder, Venus, 1532, panel, Frankfurt, Städelsches Kunstinstitut

of scenes from the Lucretia narrative illustrated in graphics from the 16th and 17 th century; often lines from the text are printed alongside the image. At the same time we have folios like the one by Marcantonio, where Lucretia is already conceived as a monu­ mental singular figure (with or without text). Only by means of the medium of panel painting was it possible for Lucretia to become the symbol of truth for the entire story. The rest of it, the crime, the sexual violence, Tarquinius the rapist, her husband Collatinus, her father, Brutus, the oath of revenge, the expulsion of the Tarquinians, the downfall of the Roman Kingdom, the founding of the Republic — all of it disappeared from the field of vision and literally can no longer be seen in the dark backdrop behind the single figure of Lucretia. During high Renaissance there was an enormous demand for pictures of Lucretia  — we know of at least 37 versions by Lucas Cranach alone.156 In his more developed later paintings from the 1630s, a nude Lucretia it set off against a dark backdrop (fig. 29). Not only her radical isolation, but also her nudity stands in stark con­trast to the text. Both Livy and Ovid, as well as later texts, explicitly mention how Lucretia hid the dagger

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beneath her gowns so none of her relatives could stop her. It is also un­conceivable that Lucretia, who considered pudicitia the highest value, would appear before her witnesses without clothing. Ovid explicitly mentions that her only con­cern was to fall and die decently.157 Cranach’s Lucretia stands in a relaxed counter-pose and is virtually identical to his depictions of Venus from the same time (fig. 30) in regard to posture and gaze. The emphasis of these nudes’ linear outlines may not seem very sensual to us, but conform to the beauty ideals preferred by Cranach and his clients. Only a closer look at the nudes reveals whether we have a depiction of the Goddess of Love or of a chaste woman on the verge of committing suicide. The relaxed position of Lucretia’s arm would make it im­ possible to stab herself and the dagger is not very prominent as it is held in the same angle as her arm. Its point barely seems to be touching her skin. As the dagger is used as more of an attribute than a weapon and as her body is intact, her attitude relaxed and her face signals neither fear nor desperation, we can conclude that death is trivialized in this depiction. This is not a demonstration of heroic action, but rather a limp, passively lingering female figure taking in the viewer’s gaze with open arms. In order to boost the tingling sensation of seeing her exposed lap, Lucretia, like Venus, lasciviously flaunts a wafer-thin, see-through veil. What should be veiled is thus explicitly unveiled; where the gaze supposedly should not wander is exactly where it is directed. If Lucretia is to be read as nothing else but an allegory of chastity, then why this overtly sexualized depiction that contradicts the text in each detail and instead closely resembles depictions of Venus? This critical reading was very much supported by moralist contemporaries — first and foremostly Erasmus — who harshly criticized all tantalizing versions that did not adhere to the written model.158 Eroticized versions of Lucretia mark German and Dutch production during the 16th century.159 Reducing the figure to half-length allowed the viewer an even more intimate gaze of the naked or half-naked female body (fig. 31). Audiences were familiar with halflengths from late medieval devotional images; 156 Max J. Friedländer, Jakob Rosenberg, The Paintings of Lucas Cranach, rev. ed., Ithaca, New York 1978. 157 Ovid, Fasti II, 833 – 34: “tum quoque, iam moriens, ne non procumbat honeste respicit: haec etiam cura cadentis erat.” (“Even then in dying she took care to sink down decently: that was her thought even as she fell.”). 158 Specifically on Lucretia, see: Ellen Muller, Jeanne Marie Noel, Kunst en moraal bij humanisten. Theorie en beeld, in: exh.  cat. Nijmegen 1985, p. 129 – 159, here: p. 141; for more general observations on Erasmus’s opinion, see Erwin Panofsky, Erasmus and the Visual Arts, in: Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institute 32, 1969, p.  200 – 227. 159 Hulst 1991; Hanika 2001; Schuler 2003; Garrard 1989, Capter  4. 160 Schuler 2003, esp. p. 15  f. 161 Ibid., p. 9.

Schuler points out striking similarities between two woodcuts by Baldung Grien, who used an identical iconography and formal staging for Lucretia and a Man of Sorrow.160 Lucretia as a devotional image? Schuler argues that there is a link between desperation and erotic appeal that, as she claims, has yet to be investigated in regard to sources and effects.161

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Fig. 31: Pieter Coecke van Aelst, Lucretia, first half of the 16th century, panel, Lindau, private collection

In Pieter Coecke’s knee-length Lucretia 162, the Latin sentence “Satius est moriquam indecore vivere” inscribed in the balustrade reminds us of the story’s moral that it is better to die than to live on in shame (for Lucretia). By twisting her almost fully exposed torso, the sensually and erotically staged body is presented to the viewer’s eyes. The dagger’s shaft is pressed against the balustrade and can be read as a continuation of the viewer’s perspective, leading directly into the body. With the dagger obtaining a phallic quality, it becomes possible for the viewer to also fantasize Tarquinius’s penetration and the vio­lence of the sexual act. Lucretia’s tilted head with the artistically arranged hair, her slightly parted lips and the eyes rolled upwards can be read as both the ‘petit mort’ of orgasm and actual physical death. Cranach, Pieter Coecke and many other German and Dutch artists created de­ pictions of Lucretia that unite a wide range of different, sometimes even opposing inter­ pretations of the subject. It is one of art’s great qualities to visualize contradictions that are usually excluded from normative discourse in favor of one-sided and thus norma­tive statement.163 This can take on many forms. Sometimes discrepancies are addressed explicitly, thus visualizing and creating awareness for the limitedness and ambivalence of normative discourse. In our case, contradicting strands of Lucretia interpretations are fused into a seemingly harmonious unity. Differing aspects of the story’s interpretations are added up: the normative laws of female chastity, often explicitly visualized in text within the image; Lucretia’s idealized chastity in the form of an immaculate beauty and the motif of suicide; at the same time reminders of doubts about her chastity, signalized in the staging of an erotically charged nude female body; and finally, the specifically Christian idea of a sacrificial martyr achieved by adopting the formal characteristics

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typical for late medieval devotional and martyr images in her gesture and gaze. The in­ viting presentation of the female nude and the phallic movement of the dagger that does not visibly pierce her body can be read as an invitation to the male viewer to envision the sexual act and relive it in his mind. Art makes it possible to represent prevalent norms while triggering completely contrary fantasies. I believe that the mixed signals that these images send out may have been received in many ways. Female audiences might have identified themselves with the warning to remain chaste and the horrible consequences that any misconduct would bring. For men, however, the images bore the opportunity to enjoy the erotic thrill of looking at beautiful nudes while simultaneously praising female chastity (especially in regard to their own wives) and fantasizing about sexual violence. And so it became possible to unite the two opposing positions of a dualistic under­stan­d­ ing of femininity in a single artistic figure. The ideal, chaste wife who gets rid of herself right after being sexually abused and the other woman, the lover, courtesan, whore, erotic ideal. These lascivious stagings may also suggest that women actually want to be raped. In good Christian tradition, Lucretia’s martyr death also atones the per­petrator’s sins. Her death reestablishes moral balance. Lucretia is the epitome of patriarchal hypocrisy. Social practice Like the texts and images on Lucretia, social and legal practices are part of the discourse on female chastity, marriage and rape.164 In stark contrast to the meaning of female chastity, the phenomenon of (male) sexual violence barely receives any attention. Historic research since the 1970s has found that in regard to sexual moral, highly diffe­r­ ent parameters were set and legally executed according to gender. Sources of criminal law texts from the 16th century show that rape did not play a major role compared to other crimes and was mostly subsumed and identified under the category stuprum.165 Stuprum, in its original meaning ‘disgrace,’ was used to describe all illicit sexual acts, including rape, as equal to adultery. The abduction of a woman was punished as a far 162 In my opinion, we can assume that there was a model image from Leonardo’s circle in Milan. See the paint­ ing Lucretia Romana by Giampietrino (Chazen Museum, University of Wisconsin, Madison), which, in turn, was inspired by Leonardo’s Leda; ill.: Wheelock, Keyes 1991, p.  4, fig.  4. 163 Scholars tend to negate this potential in favor of onesided interpretations. 164 E. Koch 1991; Angela Koch, Die Verletzung der Gemeinschaft. Zur Relation der Wort- und Ideengeschichte von “Vergewaltigung,” in: Johanna Gehmacher, Gabriella Hauch, Maria Mesner (eds.) Österreichische Zeitschrift für Geschichtswissenschaften, “Bodies / Politics,” Innsbruck, Vienna 2004, p.  37 – 56; Diane Wolfthal, Images of Rape. The ‘Heroic’ Tradi­ tion and its Alternatives, Cambridge 1999. For further literature, see the online bibliography “The History of Rape. A Bibliography” (see note 112). 165 E. Koch 1991, p. 100. 166 See E. Koch 1991, p. 105 for sources.

greater crime: “plus est rapere quam per vim stuprare.” 166 Raptus, ‘abduction’ — the term that lives on in the actual word ‘rape’ — was con­ sidered a crime of property committed against the father, husband or family in general. The terminology and the legal practice it reflects clearly reveal that it was not about the violence and crime committed against the woman; what counted was the abduction of another man’s property. It was an issue between men, in which

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the woman was no more than a semiotic character.167 (The narrative of Lucretia is also a story about male conquests.) In the modern period, the crime shifted from one per­ taining to family to one affecting society: rape was now categorized as sexual misconduct and thus as an offence and crime against morality in general.168 It was not until the 1970s that the idea of sexual violence as something that predominantly affects women’s sexual self-determination found its way into legal texts (of North American and European countries). Before that, women hardly had a chance to prove that they had been raped; only loud screams witnessed by other parties or signs of strong physical violence stood a chance of being accepted as sufficient proof.169 Adaptations of the strict moral idea that it was better for a woman to die than to commit sin resulted in a legal interpretation that men were only found guilty if they had employed direct physical force on their victims. (Thus legal practices corresponded fully to the morals expressed in the story of Lucretia.) Accusations by women had no value as proof against opposing accounts by men. Men were often acquitted while women were sued for defamation.170 If a woman’s reputation was anything less than immaculate, she was very often blamed of being a seductress. Even pregnancy was used as evidence against women: an ancient theory propagated by Galen — opposing Aristotle’s theory on sexual reproduction — claimed that female orgasm was necessary for conception. This theory turned into a trap for many women, as pregnancy was interpreted as proof for an orgasm and thus as exoneration for the accused rapist.171 These facts all resulted in a very small number of rape charges and even fewer convictions. The men that were convicted were most often foreigners, outsiders or social underdogs.172 In the Netherlands of 16th and 17 th century, there was no law against rape.173 The Politieke Ordonnantie from 1580, the main book of legal regulations, only mentions abduction and incest as crimes. The terms used speak for themselves: the same word is used for extramarital intercourse and rape: oneerlijk (vleselijk) converseren, defloreren, onteren, misbruiken.174 Manon van der Heijden’s research on original court records of the cities Delft and Rotterdam revealed that only 14 cases of attempted or executed rape were recorded in the entire 17 th century. These cases almost exclusively pertained to virgins or minors. All cases of married woman being raped resulted in mere warnings for the rapists. It was obviously assumed that women who had some extent of sexual experience could not be innocent. Unmarried women with sexual experience had no chance what­ soever in court. Widows, who neither had any ‘innocence’ to lose, nor ‘belonged’ to somebody anymore, did not even bother to take legal action. Women who were no longer virgins had to count on being charged and convicted with defamation. Whatever the results of a rape case were, even if the perpetrator was convicted, the victim was sure to have a tainted reputation and damaged honor. Legal practices in cases of incest make

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even clearer how guilt was projected from male perpetrators onto female victims. Girls who had already begun menstruating and had been abused by their fathers, uncles or brothers were automatically considered complicit and thus punished as well. Research on the situation in Germany, Britain and the Netherlands reveals a shift from the dispositif of property to one of sexuality during the early modern period.175 Gradually, rape was considered less a crime against property and more a sexual one. And so, a Dutch matrimonial law from 1656 was the first to make it punishable to seduce an honorable girl.176 The focus now lay on whether a sexual act was performed with or against the will of the woman. On one hand this signals a budding awareness for women as active subjects; on the other, it allowed an 167 See, a. o., the excellent analysis in Miranda Chaytor, Husband(ry): Narratives of Rape in the Seventeenth Century, in: Gender and History, vol. 7, no. 3, Nov. 1995, p.  378 – 407. 168 Thus stated in the Criminal Code for Germany in 1871; See A. Koch 2004. 169 E. Koch 1991, p. 100  f.; A. Koch 2004, p. 5  f.; Lyndal Roper, Das fromme Haus. Frauen und Moral in der Reformation, Frankfurt a. M. 1995, p. 76; Wolfthal 1999, p.  99  ff. 170 In 13th century England, for example, more women were convicted for defamation than men for sexual violence. See Wolfthal 1999, p. 178; Also see note 117. 171 According to ancient medicine, as it was compiled by Galen, the common opinion was that human procreation required not only male semen, but also ‘female semen.’ The liquid discharged during female orgasm was thought to be this semen. This idea persevered well into the 18th and 19th centuries: The female ovum was not discovered until 1827. Danielle Jacquart, Claude Thomasset, Sexualité et savoir médicale au MoyenAge, Paris 1985; Thomas Laqueur, Making Sex: Body and Gender from the Greeks to Freud, Harvard 1990, p.  66, 161. 172 A. Koch 2004. This touches upon a methodological problem, namely how to deal with a lack of sources. It would definitely be wrong to assume that the small number of evident legal cases means that there was only a very small number of sexual crimes. What seems very telling, for example, is that most cases of rape were reported in connection to infanticide cases. See Chaytor 1995, p.  378 (note 3, p.  401). 173 Manon van der Heijden, Women as Victims of Sexual and Domestic Violence in Seventeenth-Century Holland: Criminal Cases of Rape, Incest and Maltreatment in Rotterdam and Delft, in: Journal of Social History 33, 2000, p.  623 – 44, esp. p.  624. 174 Manon van der Heijden, Huwelijk in Holland. Stede­ lijke rechtspraak en kerkelijke tucht 1550 – 1700, doctoral thesis, Amsterdam 1998, p.  94  f. 175 Chaytor 1995, p. 296  ff.; A. Koch 2004; Roper 1995, p. 75   ff. 176 Van der Heijden 2000, p. 624. 177 Her research is focused on Britain, but considering the similar progression of urban development in Holland, we can assume that her findings are also applicable to Holland. 178 Chaytor 1995, p.  397.

even more intense and internalized investigation of possible complicity: Had the woman pro­ voked her rapist? Had she seduced him? Hadn’t there been any way to prevent it? Had she been somewhere she should not have been on her own? Had she tried to fight him off at all? Had her screams been loud enough? …? In her excellent work Husband(ry): Narratives of Rape in the Seventeenth Century, Miranda Chaytor demonstrates the interrelation between social order, work, family, property situation and (self) perception in cases of rape.177 The development of urban-bourgeois society led to a withdrawal of upper middle class women from domestic production to a private, thus more sexualized life. From the second half of the 17 th century well into the 18th and 19th century, only poor women filed charges of rape; no aristocratic or upper bourgeois woman would have made her rape public.178 The source of court files shows that victims always spoke ‘in the name of’: in the name of their honor, which in turn is defined by their work, their husbands and their families. For bourgeois women it was not only about honor, but also about innocence. Innocence could hardly be proven and even less so re-estab­ lished. Innocence was defined as an absence,

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the absence of certain knowledge. How could this ever be restored after sexual experience of any sort? A raped woman remained tainted for the rest of her life by default. We can also identify this discursive shift on sexual violence in literature. In 18th century English novels, the fascination with the subject rape is replaced by a fascination with seduction.179 It is in this sense that we can understand the notable decrease in interest in the subject of Lucretia in 17 th century urban-bourgeois Dutch society compared to feudal Catholic countries. Lucretia barely plays a role in 17 th century Dutch literature and Galinsky only mentions two plays by Dirck Pieterz. Pers and Neuyes of Neuye, as well as two further Lucretia dramas by unknown authors.180 Great Dutch playwrights like Vondel did not deal with the subject at all. Heroic suicide did not conform to the ideal of femininity prevalent among Dutch moralists and literates.181 The idea of ideal femininity was the virtuous wife. When Lucretia is referred to at all, it is in this slightly changed meaning. In Pers’ play, Lucretia is converted into an example of a virtuous wife who never leaves the house, supervises the maids and sits at the spinning wheel.182 This is also how she was portrayed by Rembrandt’s student W. de Poorter in 1631.183 The new version of the rape story in Jacob Cats’s verse novella Trouringh (wedding ring) from 1637 is symp­ tomatic for the development, especially since Cats, as mentioned above, was a key figure in shaping the discourse on women and marriage in 17 th century Holland.184 Even though Lucretia must have conformed to his ideal of a chaste wife, her suicide obviously was highly proble­ matic for the devout Calvinist. He thus cloaked the adequate reaction to rape in a different narrative. Based on the story from Gesta Romanorum, Cats describes the case of Tryphose and Jocasta, who were both raped by the same man. According to a Roman law (invented by Cats), there were two options for the women: marriage or death penalty. Tryphose, described as a proud and harshly negative figure, chooses death, while docile Jocasta decides to marry her rapist. Cats por­ trays the rapist as a victim who was seduced by Tryphose’s chastity (!): “Sy had my eerst verkracht, eer ick haer maeghdom nam.” (‘She

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179 Ibid. In the 18th century novel Clarissa by Samuel Richardson, we have the description of a rape. Clarissa remains tainted and is ruined mentally and physically; she subsequently dies from the anguish. Richardson and his contemporaries expected a truly virtuous woman to become melancholic and ultimately die after being raped. 180 Galinsky 1932, p. 120  f.: Dirck Pietersz. Pers, Lucretia  ofte het Beeld der Eerbaaheydt, 1624; Neuyes of Neuye, De gewroke Lucretia of Rome in vryheit, Amsterdam 1669; supposedly a drama about Lucretia was per­ formed in Amsterdam in 1609 and 1642, respectively. 181 However, Jan Vos wrote a poem about Govert Flinck’s Lucretia in 1660, emphasizing the political dimension of the narrative: “In the red ink [of her blood] she writes: definition of freedom.” See Gary Schwartz, Rem­ brandt. His Life. His Paintings, New York 1985, p. 330. 182 Franits 1993, p. 72 (note 52, p. 216). In Dutch painting and graphic art, the trope of woman at the spinning wheel became the symbol of the ideal housewife (or Lucretia herself is depicted at the spinning wheel), even though this activity was no longer part of social practice in bourgeois households. 183 Toulouse, Musee des Beaux Arts. Sumowski, vol.  4, p.  2417, fig. 1604. 184 Sneller 1996, p. 170   ff. 185 In Cats’s elaborate collection of emblems Sinne- en minnebeelden, Lucretia and Tarquinius are only mentioned once. Under the motto Et in aequore flamma est (VXI) Tarquinius is named alongside Samson, An­ tonius, a. o. as those who indulged in love at the cost of all other things. The Dutch and Latin versions can be found online in a collection of Cats’s emblems; http://emblems.let.uu.nl/emblems/html/c162716. html, retrieved Dec. 2, 2012.

had already raped me before I took her virginity.’) Contrary to the story of Lucretia, the perpetrator is practically absolved from his guilt while the women are blamed for sedu­c­ ing him with their charm and chastity.185 In the visual arts the fascination with the Lucretia motif cooled down significantly during the 17 th century. Most examples are from the beginning of the century and almost all (except Frans van Mieris the Elder, Caspar Netscher, Adriaen van der Werff and Arnold Houbraken) are graphics: Maerten de Vos, Hieronymus Wiericx, Jan Muller, Paulus Moreelse.186 Rembrandt — An entirely different Lucretia? Considering the above, it is quite remarkable that Rembrandt made three paintings on the subject. The first version is lost; it must have dated from before 1658, as we know thanks to a comment in Abraham Wijs and Sara de Potter’s inventory on the occasion of their bankruptcy that year: “een groot stuck schilderij van Lucretia / van R. van Rijn.” 187 The two preserved versions are from 1664 188 and 1666 189, respectively (plates 5 and 6). None of the two were commissioned

works, and we know nothing about the circum­ stances of their production, but the high level of 186 A Pigler, Barockthemen, Budapest 1974 (2nd edition), vol. 2, p.  406. A painting of Lucretia by Govert Flinck must have been lost. See Schwartz 1985, p. 330. 187 Strauss, van der Meulen 1979, 1658/8, p.  418. 188 National Gallery of Art, Washington, D. C., Andrew W. Mellon Collection, inv.  no. 1937.1.76, oil / canvas, 120/101  cm, signed and dated: “Rembrandt 1664.” The painting is well preserved; in 1985 an aged, discolored varnish layer and discolored repaints were removed. The painting’s provenance is only verified from 1825 onwards. For a detailed description of the painting’s state of preservation, the painterly technique used and a bibliography, see Arthur K. Wheelock, Jr., Dutch Paintings of the Seventeenth Century (The Collection of the National Gallery of Art. Systematic Catalogue), Washington, D. C., New York, Oxford 1995, p.  280 – 287. Arthur K. Wheelock, Jr., George Keyes, Rembrandt’s Lucretias, exh.  cat. The Minneapolis Institute of Arts, Washington, D. C. 1991; exh. cat. Edinburgh, London 2001, cat. no. 141, p. 242 – 244; Gilboa 2003, p. 166 – 170. 189 The Minneapolis Institute of Arts, The William Hood Dunwoody Fund, inv.  No.  34.19, oil / canvas, 110.17/92.28  cm. Signed and dated: “Rembrandt   f   1666.” The painting is very well preserved, it was cleaned in 1964 and 1988. Its provenance is only verified from the mid-19th century onwards. For technical details and the entire bibliography, see the documentation of The Minneapolis Institute of Arts. I would like to thank Erika Holmquist-Wall for sending me the documenta­ tion. Also see the literature mentioned in note 188. 190 “Although this late work has been unanimously regard­ ed by scholars as one of Rembrandt’s greatest works, the treatment of the subject, Lucretia, still eludes final interpretation.” Documentation, The Minneapolis In­ sti­tute of Arts, 2005.

quality we can see in both panels demonstrate that they were very important for Rembrandt. Even though scholars agree that especially the Minneapolis version is one of his most impor­ tant works, the picture “still eludes final inter­ pretation.” 190 Both paintings follow the aforementioned tradition of an isolated, singular figure, which corresponds to the development of private and decontextualized images in bourgeois panel painting. Once again, scholars most often root Rembrandt’s interest in the subject in his bio­ graphy, in the death of Hendrickje Stoffels in 1663. Wheelock and Keyes, for example, argue the following in a brochure on the two Lucretias published by both museums:

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Pl. 5: Rembrandt, Lucretia, 1664, canvas, Washington, D. C., National Gallery of Art Pl. 6: Rembrandt, Lucretia, 1666, canvas, Minneapolis, Institute of Arts, The William Hood Dunwoody Fund

The extraordinary poignancy of Rembrandt’s paintings of Lucretia suggests that the motivation for these works has deeper roots than the political or moral associations traditionally brought to this tragic figure.191 What is meant with “deeper roots” is Rembrandt’s private life. Supposedly painting images of Lucretia’s suicide was a sort of psychological catharsis for Rembrandt, allowing him to process the death of his lover and the memory of her humiliating status as his concubine. This generally accepted interpretation seems questionable to me: 192 His first Lucretia painting was made several years before Hendrickje’s death; especially the model for the Minneapolis version does not bear the slightest resemblance to any image supposedly representing Hendrickje. Why, I dare ask, is the private sphere the deeper one? Is this belief not already part and parcel of a modern understanding of art, centered around the artist and his work and assuming that meanings are created in the inner self of an autonomous subject? 193 If Rembrandt actually processed personal experiences in his work, the remarkable aspect about it would be the new and specifically bourgeois phenomenon of privatization, of an artist incorporating his own private and intimate life into his art. An idea that would have been unthinkable at any earlier point in time. Whether these paintings were privately motivated or not, they are part of a visual tradition and the chain of meaning they communicate.

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Fig. 32: Paolo Veronese, Lucretia, c. 1580 – 83, canvas, Vienna, Kunsthistorisches Museum Fig. 33: Caravaggio, David with the Head of Goliath, canvas, 1609/10, Rome, Galleria Borghese

Iconographically, scholars are very one-sided as they assume both paintings to follow Italian tradition. Especially research on the version in Washington refers to the etching by Marcantonio mentioned above (fig. 27, p. 65) and to Venetian examples from members of Titian’s, Veronese’s and Palma 191 Wheelock, Keyes in: exh. cat. Minneapolis, Washington D. C. 1991, p. 10. 192 Also see my observations on models in the section on Woman in Bed. 193 Nanette Salomon, Der kunsthistorische Kanon — Unterlassungssünden, in: kritische berichte 21, 1993/4, p. 27 – 40; Sigrid Schade, Kunstgeschichte, in: Wolfgang Zinggl (ed.), Spielregeln der Kunst, Dresden 2001, p. 86 – 99; Schade, Wenk 1995, p.  340 – 407; Kathrin Hoffmann Curtius, Silke Wenk (eds.), Mythen von Autorschaft und Weiblichkeit im 20. Jahrhundert, Marburg 1997. 194 Wheelock 1995, p.  282; Wheelock dismisses the idea of a Dutch source: “Northern prints and paintings of Lucretia have a quite different character and do not seem to have influenced Rembrandt in his depictions of Lucretia,” ibid., note 8, p.  286; B. P. J. Broos, Index of the Formal Sources of Rembrandt’s Art, ed. by Gary Schwartz, Maarssen 1977, p.  49  f. Not a single mention of Dutch tradition can be found in this list. Any influence by artists from the north of Europe, such as Cranach or Dürer, is still decidedly rejected in the Edinburgh exhibition catalog from 2001 (exh. cat. no. 141, p.  242). The specific 16th century Netherlandish tradition is apparently unknown among Rembrandt scholars, alongside the essay by Schubert from 1971, where these images were compiled. 195 See images in Schubert 1971.

Vecchio’s circle.194 I cannot understand why Dutch visual tradition is completely neglected here. Rembrandt was surely familiar with Italian images and graphics, but his compatriots had already incorporated and adapted these influ­ ences into their work in the course of the 16th century. Rembrandt was just as acquainted with images by Veronese (fig. 32) or by members of Titian’s circle as with pictures of Lucretia by Dutch artists from the first half of the 16th century, such as Joos van Cleve (fig. 28, p.  65), The Master of the Female Half-Lengths, Quentin Massys and others.195 Yet indeed, Michael Hirst rightly points out the remarkable kinship be­t ween the truly unusual pose of the

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Lucretia in Minneapolis and Caravaggio’s David with the Head of Goliath in the Villa Borghese (fig. 33).196 Future research should consider whether this (possible) inspiration for Rembrandt only applies to a formal level, or if it could have also been a semantic one including Caravaggio’s ironic play on the role of perpetrator and victim. As is well known, Goliath’s features resemble the artist himself. David’s tilted head and his down­ cast eyes as well as the positioning of the arm and the dagger pointed to the area of her crotch can also be identified in Rembrandt’s Lucretia. The diagonal direction of David’s shirt is translated into the necklace around Lucretia’s neck. I believe that Rembrandt was particularly fascinated by the effect of melancholy and contemplation in this unusual and unheroic depiction of David: the reflection of murder and suicide. Rembrandt’s otherwise iconographically traditional painting offers one truly unique detail, which may have also been inspired by Caravaggio’s David: the cord that Lucretia grasps. This cord has been puzzled over many times. It has been interpreted as a bell pull, drapery cord or supportive contraption for the model. Schama points out that bell pulls did not exist in 17 th century Dutch interiors.197 The drapery associated with the cord has been interpreted as a theater-like effect and thus as the boundary between her private canopy bed and public witnesses.198 The final curtain after the last act, revealing and covering at once. The problem with this otherwise plausible interpretation is that Rembrandt never — neither in his numerous drawings and etchings, nor in his pain­t­ ings — used cords for the drapery of canopy beds.199 Additionally, the cord seems to be made of metal as the specks of refracted light suggest, pointing to a bell after all. This contradicts the specifications of the text as the bell is a quick way to summon the wit­ nesses after the deed is done. So how was Goliath’s head turned into a cord? When I try to imagine this development during the painting’s actual production, I come to the following possible conclusions. Rembrandt was deeply impressed by Caravaggio’s in­ven­ tion. Instead of choosing a more obvious portrayal of Judith, he decided to paint the thematically diametrical figure of Lucretia. Caravaggio’s composition suggests a certain position for Lucretia’s left arm. Rembrandt must have seen this exact position right be­ fore his eyes while working on preparatory drawings with his model. The model held on to a cord in certain poses in order not to tire too quickly. And so the arm’s position in the model painting merged with the position of the actual model’s arm, allowing Rembrandt to retain the gesture in his composition while giving it a new semantic meaning.200 In Maes’s Eavesdroppers we find this type of cord attached to steep staircases and women holding on to them to keep from falling. Maybe cords were not only installed for models, but were a not completely uncommon fixture in Dutch houses. Rembrandt’s Lucretia, who has just stabbed herself and is about to fall, needs the support of the cord to remain standing upright. She can thus die in a stoic pose201, following Ovid’s text:

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Even then in dying she took care to sink down decently: that was her thought even as she fell.202 Perhaps Caravaggio’s David also inspired 196 Michael Hirst, Rembrandt and Italy, in: The Burlington Magazine CX, 1968, p.  221. It remains unclear how Rembrandt found this model image, because Caravaggio’s David was not reproduced in etchings. Perhaps he was familiar with a painted copy. 197 Schama 1999, p.  662. 198 The theatrical aspect in both versions was particularly emphasized by Held (1973, p. 123); Schama (1999, p.  662) interpreted the curtain as part of a canopy bed and thus as a threshold between “public hurt and private grief.” 199 There are no cords to be found on the countless curtains and bed curtains depicted in Dutch painting, with very few exceptions: Godfried Schalcken, The Doctor’s Visit, 1669, ill.: Sutton 1984, cat. no. 98, p. 168, fig. 12; Jacob van der Merck, Vier van de vijf zintuigen, Rotterdam, Museum Boymans van Beuningen, ill.: De Jongh 1976, p. 162. 200 This theory of a complex link between motives from iconographic tradition and a mundane fixture for the model, subsequently leading to a resemantization, can be supported with the following example: Rembrandt’s last etching of a female nude from 1661 (London, Brit. Museum) shows a woman in back-view with a raised hand holding an arrow. It is nearly identical to a drawing by Johannes Raven (London, Brit. Museum) who obviously drew the same model. In Raven’s drawing, the model is holding on to the same type of cord. Rembrandt’s nude has an identical arm position, but he put an arrow in her hand (and also added a faint impression of a tiny male head). The arrow seems unmotivated, the hand is not really holding on to it, so the presence of the cord remains tangible. Interpretations of the nude range from Venus to Diana, to others; ill.: exh.  cat. Edinburgh, London 2001, p.  233. 201 Among them, Christopher Wright, Rembrandt, Munich 2000, p. 78. 202 Ovid, Fasti II, 833 – 34: “tum quoque, iam moriens, ne non procumbat honeste respicit: haec etiam cura cadentis erat.” See note 157. 203 Wheelock, Keyes, 1991, p.  6. 204 Example for a painting: Claude Vignon, 1640s, Blois, Château et Musées, ill.: exh.  cat Düsseldorf 1995, p.  297, fig. 144; see note 148 on the graphic examples. 205 At the same time as Rembrandt, the North Italian artist Francesco Cairo painted several versions of Lucretia’s suicide, depicting her as a singular figure after stabbing herself. One of these versions is in the Liechtenstein collection in Vienna: Lucretia as a halflength without a weapon in her hand, but with a gaping wound in her sternum; the version from the Prado in Madrid shows Lucretia sinking to the floor, the dagger stuck between her bare breasts. Cairo’s pictures are highly sexualized and thus stand in stark contrast to Rembrandt’s images. Beverly Brown, Virtuous Virgins, Matthiesen Fine Art LTD, London 2004, fig. 7 and 10. 206 This term was coined by Otto Pächt (1991) who generally used it to describe Rembrandt’s late oeuvre, particularly for The Return of the Prodigal Son.

Rembrandt to portray Lucretia after the act —  the correspondence between the position of David’s and Lucretia’s right arm, alongside the alignment of their respective daggers pointing at their genitals is undeniable. However, claiming that David inspired Rembrandt to depict a mo­ ment “that no artist had ever before depicted: Lucretia, in a moment between life and death […]” is a bit exaggerated.203 There are other works, both in graphics and painting, showing Lucretia after she has wounded herself fatally.204 However, in most of these depictions witnesses are also present 205 and either members of her family or Brutus catch her as she falls. In Rembrandt’s version, all witnesses are removed. The idea that the viewers replace any witnesses immanent to the picture seems problematic because it does not have a persuasive structure; Lucretia does not try to connect with the viewer, her gaze seems lost and completely intro­spec­ tive. By eliminating the witnesses, Rembrandt cuts off all exterior action and with it all narrative elements. The moment of death is frozen eternally. Rembrandt achieves a sense of “detemporalization in an event-portraying painting (Entzeitlichung des Ereignisbildes)” 206 by employing different aesthetic strategies: to die without falling — the cord allows this exter­ nal static. The cessation of all action is also achieved through the frontal view of the figure, the two-dimensional composition and the unity of body, garment and space, which, in turn, results from the interplay between the warm light and dark and the coloring shared by all

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elements.207 The arrest of any external movement and action draws all attention inside, into the psyche of the figure.208 The slight tilt of her head, the left half of her face in the shadow, her gaze into the void with slightly swollen and bloodshot eyes and a barely visible trace of white heightening on the lower eyelid suggesting tears — these elements signalize infinite sadness. Rembrandt’s aesthetic staging not only brings a sense of individuality and psy­ chology to the story of Lucretia. By eliminating all action while simultaneously adhering to certain narrative elements such as the dagger, the cord, the bleeding wound and Lucretia’s intense facial expression between sadness and contemplation, Rembrandt invokes the entire story and not only the moment of her death.209 Rembrandt neither presents the heroic act of suicide, nor the moment before as in the earlier version, but rather shows us the act of dying. In his essay on the philosophy of art and Rembrandt, Georg Simmel notes that the moment of death, inherent to all things living, is more insistently present in Rembrandt’s portrayals of humans than in any other painting.210 He continues that instead of understanding death as the greatest enemy or the biggest contradiction to life, such as it is represented in the genre of danse macabre, Rembrandt saw death as an integral part of our ‘so-being’ (“So-sein”). Simmel detects this immanence of death in the artist’s portraits. His observations can be applied fully to Lucretia. Rembrandt accomplished a complete translation of hurt and death into form: many individual layers of color illustrate the processual character — the coming and going — of life; his open, layered painting technique conveys the impression of cuts and tears.211 Lucretia is positioned close to the viewer’s eye, while simultaneously being with­ drawn from by the motif of her imminent fall and the dispersing effect of Rembrandt’s painterly technique. The painful juxtaposition of intimate proximity and alienation makes it possible for the audience to empathize intensely with Lucretia’s death experience. If the representation of a female figure’s suicide had been Rembrandt’s single aim, he may well have picked another story.212 Even if Rembrandt was not solely interested in the story of Lucretia, the traditional iconographic elements he used caused his con­tem­ poraries to identify both versions as Lucretia and interpret them with all the corres­pon­d­ ing connotations. Where can we situate Rembrandt’s paintings within the discourse on Lucretia and all its implications of honor, political legitimization of the female victim, ideals of femi­ ninity, chastity and rape? By choosing to depict Lucretia taking her life as an isolated

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figure in half-length, Rembrandt followed a tradition that was quite common in the Netherlands. However, his aesthetic staging and semantics reflect a different attitude. Even though the version from Washington, D. C. follows the tradition of Marcantonio’s etching (fig. 27, p. 65), it lacks all aspects of heroism: the figure is not reminiscent of ancient poses; there is no glorifying architecture; the exuberant gesture of the left arm is toned down into a soft movement of the hand, which rather points at a moment of pause or perhaps intends to keep the witnesses at a distance. In the etching and most halflength pictures by Netherlandish artists from the 16th century, an engraving in the balu­s­ trade or background marks the historical narrative. Rembrandt, in turn, did everything to make his depictions of Lucretia individual and private and to eliminate any traces of the story’s political dimension. His portrayals neither represent a femme forte, nor do they instru­mentalize the female victim for the alleged freedom of the public. In the Roman narrative, Brutus pulling the dagger from Lucretia’s wound marks the story’s turning point, as the symbol of suicide is transformed into one of revolutionary uprising. By contrast, Rem­brandt’s painting represents Lucretia still holding the dagger in her hands after wounding herself fatally.213 In most pictures and graphic depictions, which either tell the entire story, like the cassoni, or stage Lucretia’s suicide before witnesses, Brutus is shown hol­ding up the dagger as a sign of his oath. The dagger is the sign that visualizes the shift from private to political story. The tropes of gloria and libertas, central to the story from Antiquity to the Baroque period, are irrelevant in Rembrandt’s versions. His paintings of Lucretia are not political allegories. Nor are they allegories of female chastity. In fact, his emotionalizing and realistic staging makes any allegorical reading impossible. Let us compare the Lucretia from Minneapolis with Netherlandish versions from the 16th cen­ tury, for instance with one by Joos van Cleve (fig. 28). Even though Cleve, like many of his Netherlandish colleagues, depicts Lucretia in the moment she thrusts the dagger into her chest, her body remains astoundingly intact, 207 Note, for example, how the wide sleeve at the right side of the painting only slowly evolves into brightness before the dark background, or how the colors of the visible parts of her body are partially the same as those of the garment or the barely visible pillows (or bedding) on the left behind Lucretia. 208 Compare to the related staging in Bathsheba. 209 Garrard (1989, p.  238  f.) concludes from Lucretia’s contemplative look that it is the moment right be­fore the fatal act; she obviously overlooked the bleeding wound. 210 Georg Simmel, Rembrandt. An Essay in the Philosophy of Art, New York 2005, p.  70 –79. 211 Alpers (2003, 1988) also detects an analogy between painter, butcher and surgeon, as all their hands ‘cut’ into an unfamiliar body. 212 I am referring to Dido, for example, whose broken heart drove her to commit suicide after Aeneas left her. 213 The same conclusion can be found in Bal 1991, p.  74: “But by removing it [the dagger] herself, Lucretia robs Brutus of this opportunity to use her drama semiotically for political purposes.”

which means that the weapon is read as an attribute and the allegorical character of the image is maintained. The motifs Rembrandt used are more restrained (no dagger piercing skin, no nudity), but the bloodstain slowly seeping from her skin and spreading on her white undergarment has an incredibly sugges­ tive force. Rembrandt achieved this effect with many layers of color and the subtle change from the red of her blood to the white of her gown. His Lucretias also cannot be described as (realistically imaginable) virtuous housewives

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Fig. 34: Jan Muller, Lucretia, early 17 th century, engraving, Dresden, Staatliche Kunst­sammlungen, Kupferstich-Kabinett

like many contemporary versions. Additionally, their fantastical, seemingly royal gowns clearly separate them from the bourgeois sphere. One of the most prominent characteristics of the story’s visual tradition is, as we have already seen, the eroticization of Lucretia (see figs. 29 and 31). This is also how we encounter her in Dutch graphic art, for example in an etching by Jan Muller (fig. 34). We are presented an almost nude Lucretia sitting on a bed with spread legs, lasciviously turning towards the viewer. The aesthetic staging of her suicide seems more like a sexual act, but not like rape. Rembrandt’s Lucretia is not the object of voyeuristic desire; quite contrary, he did everything to avoid this impression. In both versions, Lucretia is fully clothed, her body not at all exposed, her female attributes not emphasized. Her face, particularly the areas around her eyes and mouth, seem swollen and red from crying. In the Minneapolis version, her undergarment opens slightly like a curtain, but instead of revealing her nude female body, we see a white surface. Not even a hint of her breasts, traditionally almost always exposed, is visible through the gown. Only two openings in her clothes symbolically refer to her body: the bleeding wound and the corresponding slit below her neck. Mieke Bal interprets this correspondence, additionally emphasized by the long necklace, as an association to both an unscathed and a wounded vagina.214 Lucretia’s clothing is barely comprehensible in regard to its cut and parts, but plays an important expressive function. The white undergarment is partially covered by a further, pale green garment, which is visible at her shoulders and right arm. It throws soft, wavelike creases at her neck and is covered by a dress or cape that seems to be slipping from her body. All we can see of it on her right arm is the cuff, because the arm’s movement

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has made it slip off. The lower part of the outer garment seems to balloon as if she were already falling, while the broadening shape stabilizes the composition at the same time. And so the different layers of fabric covering her body signal both royal splendor and devastation — falling and breaking down while simultaneously supporting the figure. Rembrandt’s portrayals of Lucretia defy traditional interpretations of the story. They neither represent politically heroic, nor purely allegorical, nor morally didactic compo­nents — and certainly no sexualized components. But they are influenced by a specifically Christian tradition of interpretation, which transformed the heathen heroine into a martyr. The Lucretia in Washington, D. C. spreads her arms like Christ at the cross, while the version from Minneapolis is reminiscent of the (half-length) Man of Sorrows with wounds in his side. What both women lack, however, is the typical upward gaze of martyrs, looking up at the sky and thus to God. The Lucretia from Washington pensively looks in the direction of her hand guiding the dagger, while the Lucretia from Minneapolis stares into the void. Thus, the two figures are once again made profane. The attitude of a passive victim is countered in the latter version as Rembrandt grants his female protagonist a certain sense of autonomy: dying, she holds herself upright and is not caught by anyone else; there is no Brutus to take the dagger and swear revenge; instead, she holds it in her own hands. The version from Washington shows Lucretia pointing the dagger at her chest. Her mouth is opened slightly as if speaking to herself or to her hand directing the dagger.215 In regard to this point, Wheelock fittingly quotes a verse from Shakespeare’s The Rape of Lucrece from 1594 216: Poor hand, why quiver’st thou at this decree? Honour thyself to rid me of this shame: For if I die, my honour lives in thee; But if I live, thou livest in my defame. The relationship between Rembrandt and Shakespeare runs deeper. In Shakes­ peare’s epic poem we see a culmination of the conflict between the ancient Roman and the Christian interpretation of the story.217 Norms are no longer clearly demarcated, but rather oppose each other. The Roman understanding of Lucretia as a heroine is turned into sin according to Christian-Augustinian principles, which clearly reject suicide. As Augustine already wrote, Lucretia’s situation is hopeless. In Shakespeare’s verses, this conflict is spelled out; Lucretia ponders how she could escape her dilemma. Following the antique under­standing, she sees her honor 214 Bal 1991, p. 75  f. 215 Held 1973, p. 123. 216 Wheelock 1995, p.  284  ff. This link was already drawn by J. Veth, Rembrandt’s Lucretia, in: Beelden en Groe­ pen, Amsterdam 1914, p.  25. 217 Donaldson 1982, p.  40 – 56; Garrard (1989) rightly sees a parallel to Artemisia Gentileschi’s Lucretia in regard to this phenomenon (see below).

forever tainted and death as the only possibility to re-establish it. At the same time, she feels tortured by the knowledge that suicide is a sin:

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To live or die which of the twain were better, When life is shamed, and death reproach’s debtor. ‘To kill myself,’ quoth she, ‘alack, what were it, But with my body my poor soul’s pollution?’ 218 The inner pause, contemplation and melancholy in Rembrandt’s paintings of Lucretia can be interpreted as visualizations of such an inner monolog. Shakespeare developed a female figure who doubts and contemplates. And yet Lucretia reproduces traditional attributions of femininity: she feels shame and guilt and speaks of adultery.219 Then the mood changes and she fully unleashes her feelings of hate and lust for revenge against Tarquinius; later she pronounces that in fact Tarquinius is the one who kills her. She stabs herself with the words: tis he, that guides this hand to give this wound to me. Despite a certain sense of disruption, Shakespeare represents an idea of femininity that maintains chastity as the highest good and adheres to a role of passivity. Therefore, all action — in this case, revenge — is left to men. Women are like wax, they become what­ ever men imprint on them: For men have marble, women waxen, minds, And therefore are they form’d as marble will; The weak oppress’d, th’impression of strange kinds Is form’d in them by force, by fraud, or skill: Then call them not the authors of their ill, No more than wax shall be accounted evil Wherein is stamp’d the semblance of a devil.220 Rembrandt was not familiar with Shakespeare’s text; it was neither translated into Dutch, nor did the painter speak English.221 What Rembrandt’s paintings and Shakes­peare’s text have in common is their basic attitude towards Lucretia. Shakespeare also excludes all political aspects; his drama is staged as a hopeless individual tragedy that is emo­ tionally comprehensible. The epic poem concentrates on its figures’ inner monologs.222 A picture cannot speak. But Rembrandt repeatedly attempted to visualize words, to show speaking, to illustrate contemplation.223 His Lucretia from Washington alludes to an inner monolog with slightly parted lips and the gesture of her left hand. The melancho­lic facial expression of Lucretia from Minneapolis, on the other hand, exudes an air of con­ templation within a context of no action that still maintains narrative elements. Despite

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her inner struggles and doubts, Lucretia ultimately commits suicide — just as the story requires. After her long monolog in Shakespeare’s epic poem, this suicide does not seem conclusive. There are two lines at the end of the poem, which oddly enough are never quoted, but, in my opinion, explicitly express doubts about the point of this sui­cide and thus the logic of the entire story.224 After Brutus has pulled the dagger from Lucretia’s wound, he calls the present men, all struck by grief, to seek revenge instead of wallowing in pain: Such childish humour from weak minds proceeds: Thy wretched wife mistook the matter so, To slay herself, that should have slain her foe.225 This should not be mistaken as moralizing criticism against the sin of suicide as propagated by Augustine. It is a sober observation that the innocent victim has taken her life instead of that of her rapist. The sentence seems to linger. It emphasizes our impression of irrationality and paradox, which, we must not forget, is part and parcel of the story. The effect of Rembrandt’s paintings and Shakespeare’s epic poem are com­ passion and empathy for Lucretia and a feeling of bewilderment through the tragic fate of this chaste and innocent woman. Galinsky asks the two “central questions that have been asked 218 Shakespeare, The Rape of Lucrece, http://www.opensourceshakespeare.org/views/poems/poem_view. php?WorkID=rapelucrece, retrieved Feb. 22, 2013. 219 Coppelia Kahn points out the ambivalence of Shakespeare’s Lucretia: “In giving Lucrece ‘tongue,’ Shakespeare perforce works against the patriarchial codes that, at the same time, he puts into her mouth.” (Lucrece: The Sexual Politics of Subjectivity, in: Higgins, Silver 1991, p. 141 – 159, here: p. 142). 220 Shakespeare, The Rape of Lucrece, http://www.opensourceshakespeare.org/views/poems/poem_view. php?WorkID=rapelucrece, retrieved Feb. 22, 2013. 221 I thank Agnes Sneller for this information; Sneller con­firmed that Huygens was the only member of Rembrandt’s circle who knew English. 222 The first part of the epic poem describes Tarquinius’s inner struggle against his desires. 223 Held 1973; Häslein 2004. 224 Neither Donaldson, nor Galinsky, nor any literature on Rembrandt dealing with his relationship to Shakespeare, nor Coppelia Kahn who wrote a feminist analysis of the poem, mention these lines. 225 Shakespeare, The Rape of Lucrece, http://www.opensourceshakespeare.org/views/poems/poem_view. php?WorkID=rapelucrece, retrieved Feb. 22, 2013. 226 English by translator. Galinsky 1932, p.  218. 227 Donaldson 1982, p.  56. Even Norman Bryson (Two Narratives of Rape in the Visual Arts: Lucretia and the Sabine Women, in: Tomaselli, Porter 1989, p. 152 – 173; esp.  p. 165 – 171) speculates whether Lucretia felt lust against her will in the sense of Augustine; he believes that the problem is due to the apparent invisibility of a female orgasm.

for two thousand years: Why did Lucretia give in? Why did she commit suicide?” 226 20th century scholars have also tried to find answers to these questions and to understand Lucretia’s actions. Even Donaldson ends his chapter on Shakes­ peare with the words: “The poem gives a con­ stant sense of problems perceived but not solved.” He laments that Shakespeare does not offer an answer to the question of how a dis­ honored woman should react.227 However, this is the wrong question to ask. It should not be why Lucretia commits suicide, but rather: Why did men construct a female figure whose (tragic) ideals force her to commit suicide after being raped? We do not need a hermeneutic approach to Lucretia, but rather the deconstruction of this entire patriarchal story, which establishes the rape of

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Fig. 35: Correggio, Jupiter and Io, 1527 – 31, canvas, Vienna, Kunsthistorisches Museum

women as a sort of law of nature, makes victims complicit and finally expects raped women to either commit suicide, or die of shame and desperation.228 Rape is considered a ‘tragic fate for women’ to this day. This ‘fate’ has a name: male patriarchal violence. Compared to the visual traditions of his time, Rembrandt conceived an alternative Lucretia who is neither instrumentalized for political purposes, nor idealized as an icon of chastity, nor sexualized — in short, who is not a mere symbol in a male dominated semiotic system. The subject of these paintings is she herself, her suffering, her dying, her death. And yet: Does only identifying with her pain not lead to a calamitous suppression? To the suppression of the male perpetrator who caused the entire drama in the first place? To the perception of this death as suicide, even though it was actually murder? The rhetorics of the images appeal to the viewers’ compassion, yet at the same time they suggest that the rape is solely Lucretia’s problem. The actual perpetrator, Tarquinius, is invisible. Male violence becomes invisible, but that does not make it disappear, it is woven into the fabric of the story. So what does this invisibility achieve? Of course the viewer is familiar with the story. But he does not have to feel guilty; he is not in Tarquinius’s position. Instead, he stands in for the witnesses. Moreover, we have established that neither painting has a persuasive structure: Lucretia does not address the viewer. In Bathsheba and Susanna the (male) viewer actually replaces the missing male figure, by

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doing what the figure in the image would do, namely looking at the respective woman. The question how we can interpret the act of rendering invisible — whether the viewer is encouraged to imagine or to suppress the invisible — can only be answered in context. Rembrandt’s images were and are still received as part of a specific visual and textual tradition, in which the perpetrator has (almost) never been the subject: a culture in which rape was retold and remembered as a story about women; a culture in which it was common legal practice to acquit rapists and blame their female victims instead. “Rape exists as an absence”— the editors of Rape and Representation, Higgins and Silver, state in their foreword. The literary texts they compiled all revolve around rape, but without explicitly naming it.229 The message of these texts is rather to “show rape as not rape.” 230 We can only interpret Rembrandt’s paintings of Lucretia in the context of this cultural tradition. This is not the place to extensively elaborate the full dimensions of rape culture, but I would like to mention that one of the defining texts of our literary culture, Ovid’s Metamorphoses, centers around stories of seduction and rape. No other literary work was as widely received during the Renaissance and Baroque, particularly by artists. Rape is legitimized as a divine act: While the ‘Father of Gods’ himself is usually the perpetrator, his female victims are not only not commiserated, they are also the ones who are pun­­ ished. Why, I would like to ask, is this the case and why of all stories did Ovid’s stories inspire artists of the early modern period so thoroughly? And why are these stories of rape artistically staged in a way that makes them seem like sensual love scenes? We have gotten so used to the myriad of heroic depictions of rape by artists ranging from Correggio, Titian and Rubens to Poussin, Delacroix and many others, that we do not even realize what they actually represent (fig. 35).231 Unfortunately, there are no sources that could reveal how Rembrandt’s contem­ poraries read his portrayals of Lucretia. When it comes to the reception of these paint­ ings, we are forced to rely on the analysis of the 228 In the paradigmatic novel Clarissa by Samuel Richardson from 1747, the heroine (named Clarissa instead of Lucretia) does not commit suicide, as it would be anachronistic. Instead, she dies on her own from inner shame and desperation. See also note 179. In the entry on Lucretia in his Dictionnaire from 1697, Pierre Bayle wrote that suicide was an ideal reaction to rape during Antiquity, but that today a nun could offer better and more appealing proof of her innocence by simply becoming melancholic and dying. See Donaldson 1982, p.  58  ff. On this issue, also see Elisabeth Bronfen, Over her Dead Body: Death, Femininity and the Aesthetics, Manchester 1992. 229 Higgins, Silver 1991, p.  3. 230 Christopher Cannon in his epilog to Robertson, Rose 2001, p.  415. 231 See below (think of Io, Callisto, Europe, The Rape of the Daughters of Leucippus, The Rape of the Sabine Women, a. o.). On the aestheticization of sexual violence see Wolfthal 1999. 232 See above: Dangerous gazes — Susanna. 233 Sluijter 2001, p.  40.

works themselves and their contextua­liza­tion.232 How the Lucretias were read surely depended on the cultural knowledge and per­sonal experience of each viewer, which we can assume was pronouncedly gender-specific. To get an idea how Rembrandt’s male contem­poraries may have read his paintings of Lucretia, I would like to relate the following anecdote: Upon seeing a depiction of Susanna, the poet Jan Vos defamed the model as being unchaste.233 Of course Rem­brandt’s versions of Lucretia do not depict any nudity like that of Susanna, but both

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represent role models of female chastity. This story illustrates how male contemporaries could project their sexual desire onto women without reflecting their own part in it. Female viewers probably empathized with the figure’s pain and immea­surable despair. Perhaps Rembrandt’s empathic and suggestive interpretation actually makes it easier for us to swallow the ultra-patriarchal bait of how this woman’s sacrifice was a necessity instead of realizing the full scope of a gruesome and perverse story? The intimacy of the staging and the focus on Lucretia’s mental state and inner self suggest that the crime she experienced was her problem. We ‘suffer’ with Lucretia and we ‘love’ her for her sacrificial death. In his epic poem, Shakespeare sheds some light on how people reacted to images of this kind. After Lucretia has finally decided to act, she sends a messenger to call her husband Collatinus home from Ardea. During the long wait for his return, she sinks into deep contemplation over a painting that she has known for a long time, but now sees with fresh eyes. It is a painting of the Trojan War — a typical subject for ekphrasis, with a long-lasting tradition that goes back to Vergil’s Aeneid and ultimately Homer’s Iliad.234 In our present context, I am less interested in the art of ekphrasis than in the question of how Shakespeare’s Lucretia deals with the pain­ting. His poem gives us marvelous insight into possible forms of reception. Lucretia’s approach is one of identification and emotion: On this sad shadow Lucrece spends her eyes, And shapes her sorrow to the beldame’s woes […] and later: Which all this time hath overslipp’d her thought, That she with painted images hath spent; Being from the feeling of her own grief brought By deep surmise of others’ detriment; Losing her woes in shows of discontent. It easeth some, though none it ever cured, To think their dolour others have endured.235 What Shakespeare conveys here is that the reception of an image depends on the viewer’s own experience. Lucretia is upset and berates the painter for depicting Sinon the traitor so innocent-looking that one cannot see his malice. Then she remembers Tarquinius and she changes her opinion on the painting:

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‘It cannot be,’ quoth she, ‘that so much guile’ — She would have said ‘can lurk in such a look’; But Tarquin’s shape came in her mind the while, And from her tongue ‘can lurk’ from ‘cannot’ took: ‘It cannot be’ she in that sense forsook, And turn’d it thus, ‘It cannot be, I find, But such a face should bear a wicked mind.’ 236 Reaction on Rembrandt’s Lucretias will have been as diverse as their viewers’ experience, but most likely settled between empathy and compassion, induced by the idea of a ‘terrible fate,’ which is still prevalent today. One example of the many instances where we find the idea perpetuated is the Washingtonian catalog text from 1995, where even Wheelock speaks of fate: “In the Gallery’s haunting image, Rembrandt has evoked both Lucretia’s profound sadness and her resignation to the fate forced upon her.” 237 Radical positions Since I am deeply interested in the question of what was conceivable in a specific historical context within our culture in terms of gender discourse, I began to retrace the most radical positions. This is the only way to clarify how alternative Rembrandt’s por­ trayals of Lucretia and other female tropes truly are. In her acclaimed monograph on Artemisia Gentileschi, Mary Garrard described her version of Lucretia (1621 – 25) as the most unusual and most radical variation of the subject in early modern painting (fig. 36).238 Garrard stresses that this is not a repre­ sentation of the suicide, but rather the moment just before, the moment the decision is made. 234 Haiko Wandhoff, Ekphrasis: Bildbeschreibungen in der Literatur von der Antike bis in die Gegenwart, in: Horst Wenzel, Wilfried Seipel, Gotthart Wunberg (eds.), Audiovisualität vor und nach Gutenberg, Schriften des Kunsthistorischen Museums Wien, vol.  6, Vienna 2001, p. 175 – 184. 235 Shakespeare, The Rape of Lucrece, http://www.opensourceshakespeare.org/views/poems/poem_view. php?WorkID=rapelucrece, retrieved Feb. 22, 2013. 236 Ibid. 237 Wheelock 1995, p.  282. Among Rembrandt scholars, only Bal 1991 and Gilboa 2003 fully acknowledge the fact that Lucretia and similar images are about rape. 238 Garrard 1989, p.  210 – 244. 239 I would like to point out the remarkable similarity be­ tween Gentileschi’s Lucretia and an etching by Hans Sebald Beham from 1520. Here we see Dido sitting on a stone pedestal. She leans over the dagger she is holding in her right hand. The similarity lies in the perception of the female body, which Beham also depicts as strong and muscular, in the emphasis on pain and conflict in the women’s faces at the expense of beauty and in the general staging, which is directed at the contemplation of the act (fig. III, Bartsch 15, formerly vol. 8/2, New York 1978, p.  67, fig.  80).

Here Lucretia is portrayed as a decision-making subject. Because the painting’s subject is the moment of decision-making, it becomes pos­ sible to question whether her action makes any sense. Garrad quotes Shakespeare and John Donne, who reflected the right to doubt and the right to commit suicide. As opposed to Rem­ brandt’s Lucretia who is more of a compassioninducing ‘Woman of Sorrows,’ we here have the representation of a femme forte, a strong heroine.239 While Gentileschi’s Lucretia gazes upwards in hope of finding salvation through God, Rembrandt’s version in Minneapolis is left

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Fig. 36: Artemisia Gentileschi, Lucretia, c. 1621 – 25, canvas, Genoa, Palazzo Cattaneo-Adorno

to herself. What stays the same is the fundamental problem: male sexual violence is rendered invisible. I am not propagating the concept of women’s art history, which exclusively traces the representation of femininity, but am rather in favor of an approach that investigates the structure of gender relations: gender studies instead of women’s art history. If we assume relational structures, we will find different questions and issues. I believe it is important to insist on the fact that the story at hand is one of rape. In representations of this story the male part has been rendered invisible — so invisible, in fact, that even feminist art historians no longer see it. The reflective space that both Rembrandt and Gentileschi visualized and Shakespeare formulated is limited by the story’s structure. And these limits are quite narrow. Even controversial interpretations of the figure of Lucretia by Christian exegetes, humanists, or literary critics today are forced to remain within the tight boundaries of the story’s dispositif and thus to deal with the absurd question whether it was right for Lucretia to commit suicide or not. Shakes­ peare gave a voice to Lucretia, but her words continue to revolve around her chastity, which is finally confirmed by her suicide. She is not a complex figure full of ambiguities like Tarquinius, who, torn between desire and morals is designed as a truly tragic indi­ vidual.240 There is no alternative telling of the story, Lucretia is not an ambivalent figure like Judith.241 So what were her options? Tossing the dagger out the window to put an end to the story?

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Querelle des Femmes And so it is not surprising that the topic of Lucretia was only rarely picked up by radical thinkers dealing with issues on gender. A search for the most advanced and pronounced position fighting for gender equality inevitably leads to contributors of the Querelle des Femmes. The Querelle des Femmes is a Europe-wide242 debate on gender order that primarily took place in polemic, 240 Kahn 1991, p. 146  ff. 241 Hammer-Tugendhat 1997. 242 The best-known and most influential participants in the Querelle in Europe include: France: Christine de Pizan, see below. Marie de Gournay (1565 – 1645) was a friend of Montaigne and editor of his essays. Her most important contribution to the debate was the essay Egalité des Hommes et des Femmes, in which she decidedly rejects the concept of a superior or inferior sex and instead claims the equality of soul and mind. This reasoning was later adopted and further devel­ oped by the Cartesian Poullain de la Barre. Italy: Around 1600 the Querelle peaked mainly in Venice with Moderata Fonte, Lucretia Marinella and Cristofano Bronzini. Germany: Agrippa von Nettesheim, Declamatio de nobilitate et praecellentia foeminei sexus, 1529. England: Jane Anger (pseudonym). Spain: Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz, see below. Holland: Anna Maria van Schurman, Johannes Beverwijck, see below. 243 Joan Kelly, Early Feminist Theory and Querelle des Femmes, in: Signs 8, 1982, p.  4 – 28; Elisabeth Gössmann (ed.), Ob die Weiber Menschen seyn, oder nicht? München 1988; Margarete Zimmermann, Vom Streit der Geschlechter. Die französische und italienische Querelle des Femmes des 15. bis 17. Jahrhunderts, in: exh.  cat. Düsseldorf 1995, p. 14 – 33; Gisela Bock, Margarete Zimmermann (eds.), Die europäische Querelle des Femmes: Geschlechterdebatten seit dem 15. Jahrhundert, Stuttgart et al. 1997; Gisela Engel, Friederike Hassauer, Brita Rang, Heide Wunder (eds.), Geschlechterstreit am Beginn der europäischen Moderne. Die Querelle des Femmes, Königstein/Taunus 2004. 244 Margarete Zimmermann, “Querelle des Femmes,” entry in: Renate Kroll (ed.), Metzler Lexikon Gender Studies, Geschlechterforschung, p.  329  f. The first ref­ erence to La Querelle des Dames can be found in Martin Le Franc’s Le Champion des Dames from 1440. During the early modern period, terms such as debate, controversy and defense were more commonly used for the phenomenon; the term Querelle did not become established until 1900. 245 Andrea Maihofer, Die Querelle des Femmes: Lediglich literarisches Genre oder spezifische Form der gesellschaftlichen Auseinandersetzung um Wesen und Status der Geschlechter?, in: Heide Wunder, Gisela Engel (eds.), Geschlechterperspektiven. Forschungen zur Frühen Neuzeit, Königstein/Taunus 1998, p. 262 – 272; here: p. 263. Bock, Zimmermann 1997, p. 16. 246 This was during the conference “EuropaGestalten. Die Querelle des Femmes,” organized by the former Zentrum zur Erforschung der Frühen Neuzeit, Frankfurt University, Frankfurt a.  M.,  November 2003; see also Friederike Hassauer, ‘Heiße’ Reserve der Modernisierung. Zehn Blicke auf das Forschungsterrain der Que­ relle des Femmes, in: Engel 2004, p. 11 – 19.

controversial texts written between the early 15th and late 18th century.243 The term describes both a debate between women and a debate about women (and the definition of femininity), complaints, accusations and refutations.244 However, scholars have recently pointed out that the Querelle was a more complex pheno­ menon, which also included the definition of masculinity. Thus, the term Querelle des Sexes would be more fitting.245 Women and men participated in the debate, the latter including both deeply misogynist as well as philogynist positions. In our context, knowing about the Querelle is not only relevant when it comes to evaluating the figure of Lucretia. It is rather about acknowledging that a debate explicitly dealing with gender issues was taking place in the early modern period, during Rembrandt’s lifetime. The debate also included remarkably radical positions, thus proving that an aware­ ness of gender differences actually existed. These issues are not merely projections from our present day into the past. What made the Querelle so unique was its polemic character and the phenomenon that both adversaries and defendants of women joined the dispute and reacted to each other. The Querelle included more than one specific type of text; it encom­ passed all literary genres, theater, theology, philosophy, medicine, popular culture and art. As Friederike Hassauer fittingly described it, it was the “hot knowledge 246 within gender know­

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ledge.” The contents debated may have shifted over time, from its beginnings to the French Revolution, but some subjects were persistently topical. This especially applies to defining and ascribing what was considered masculine or feminine. The debate was about the superiority, inferiority or equality of a certain gender; about marriage; about the division of labor; about social positions within society as a whole and thus about power; about women’s access to education, knowledge and insight. Within this process something that could be described as an early form of women’s encyclo­pe­dia developed, as well-known and significant female figures from the bible, Antiquity, history and the respective present were compiled. The contributors and their contribu­tions formed a female memoria, in other words, specifically female knowledge. The most radical authors even identified gender as a cultural construction instead of a biological category. Following this idea, they unmasked the bias and ideologies propagated in miso­g ynist texts. This is a remarkable finding: a certain form of feminist thinking and writing existed as early as the onset of the early modern period! Questions of this sort were also discussed in Rembrandt’s circles. One of the most accomplished women of the time lived nearby, in Utrecht: Anna Maria van Schurman (1607 – 1678).247 Her dissertation, written in Latin, was printed in 1638: Dissertatio: Problema practicum, num foemina christianae conveniat studium litterarum. Schurman’s text belongs to the literary genre of the Querelle; she deduces women’s right to education in all disciplines and arts in a line of logical arguments. However, she only argues for the right to obtain knowledge and education and does not strive for any further women’s rights. For her Dutch peers, who respected her as much as Huygens, Cats, Barlaeus or Beverwijck, she was considered an absolute exception, a miracle of nature, or, as the French Carmelite Louis Jacob wrote in his praise for Schurman, a monstrum naturae.248 A doctor from Dordrecht, Johan van Beverwijck, was in close contact with Schurman and also wrote a text — in Dutch, not Latin — on the subject in 1639: Van de Wtnementheyt des vrouwelicken geslachts (On the excellence of the female sex).249 He mainly praises women for their moral superiority and thus argues that they should have the right to education — but nothing further. Fully conforming to the tradition of Erasmus, Vives and Cats, Beverwijck has no doubts that a woman’s place in life is marriage and that female learning is a private matter that could never lead to public office. But there was (at least?) one radical, albeit isolated and marginal voice in Holland: Charlotte de Huybert. Huybert wrote a poem to Beverwijck, explaining how reason and experience had shown that women and men were equally fit for professional life and leadership, and that only law prevented women from taking public office. She continues to ponder the reasons for these restrictions: jealousy, men’s fear of women and pure imperiousness.250

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Christine de Pizan (born 1365 in Venice, died ca. 1430 in Paris) was the first con­ tributor to the Querelle des Femmes. The debate first flared up in reaction to one of the most popular and most read medieval texts, the Roman de la Rose by Jean de Meung, which was written in 1270 and was still widespread around 1400. Christine dared to criticize the text as misogynist and adversary to marriage. Her critique broke the text’s authority and sparked a gender specific form of literary criticism. In 1405, her book La Cité des Dames was published.251 Pizan postulated a female persona as the author, con­ fidently speaking of  je, Christine. Conversa­tions 247 Schurman spent most of her life in Utrecht until she became a devout follower of the pietistic preacher Jean de Labadie in 1666. Originally from a wealthy background, she could afford to stay unmarried. Schurman knew several languages: next to Latin, Greek and Hebrew, she also knew Arabic, Syriac, Aramaic and modern European languages; she was versed in the sciences, philosophy and theology; she played musical instruments and painted. Scholars from a range of European countries were in correspondence with her. Her publications include poems and short essays. Mirjam de Baar, Machteld Löwensteyn, Marit Monteiro, Agnes Sneller (eds.), Choosing the Better Part. Anna Maria van Schurman (1607 – 1678), Dordrecht, Boston, London 1996. A critical analysis of Schurman’s rather conservative views can be found in Marijke Spies, Charlotte de Huybert, en het gelijk. De geleerde en de werkende vrouw in de zeventiende eeuw, in: Literatuur 1986/6, p.  339 – 350. 248 Mirjam de Baar, Brita Rang, Anna Maria van Schurman. A Historical Survey of her Reception since the Seventeenth Century, in: Baar et al. 1996, p. 1 – 21, here: p. 5; in a letter to Huygens, Caspar Barlaeus pictures what could have been if Schurman had been a man: “si vir esset.” See Agnes Sneller, “If She had Been a Man …” Anna Maria Schurman in the Social and Literary Life of her Age, in: ibid., p. 133–149, here: p. 148  f. 249 Lia van Gemert, The Power of the Weaker Vessels: Simon Schama and Johan van Beverwijck on Women, in: Kloek 1994, p.  39 – 50; Sneller 1996, p. 143  ff. 250 Spies 1986. Huybert’s argumentation obviously follows the tradition of Agrippa von Nettesheim. Except for the poem that Beverwijck published, none of her work is known. For the text, see Spies 1986, p.  344. 251 Christine de Pizan, The Book of The City of Ladies, English by Earl Jefferey Richards, London 1983. 252 Pizan 1983, p.  6  ff.: “Do you not know that the best things are the most debated and the most discussed? […] It also seems that you think that all the words of the philosophers are articles of faith, that they could never be wrong.” 253 Pizan 1983, e. g. p. 17 – 20. 254 Pizan 1983, p.  63  f: Lady Reason says: “If it were custo­ mary to send daughters to school like sons, and if they were then taught the natural sciences, they would learn as thoroughly and understand the subtleties of all the arts and sciences as well as sons.” In the following Lady Reason explains to an astounded Christine that women were forced to stay in the house and therefore could neither gather practice nor experience and that this was due to the structure of society. 255 Pizan 1983, p. 160 – 162.

with the allegorical female figures Reason, Recti­ tude and Justice help construct the City of Ladies, which is built on famous and important women from the bible, Antiquity and other historical periods. Christine intentionally wrote her book as a defense for women against defamatory and slanderous writings by male authors. Through the guise of three allegorical female figures, Christine de Pizan even found a way to voice her doubts on the great philoso­phers.252 She ela­ borates on the plethora of possible causes for misogyny, ranging from ignorance, resentment and jealousy to malice and lust for power.253 Particularly impressive is her analysis of the social conditionality of education and knowledge and her evidence that if women had access to schools and science, they would be equal to men in all domains.254 It is telling how Pizan positions and contextualizes the story of Lucretia in The City   of Ladies. The title of chapter 44 in the second book is “Refuting those men who claim women want to be raped, Rectitude gives several examples and first of all Lucretia.” 255 The three following chapters explicitly deal with rape. The thematic frame is neither the founding of Rome, even though it would seem fitting because of the motif city, nor is it praising chaste women. Instead, Christine expresses her sorrow:

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[…] when men argue that many women want to be raped and that it does not bother them at all to be raped by men even when they verbally protest. It would be hard to believe that such great villainy is actually pleasant for them. She answered: ‘Rest assured, dear friend, chaste ladies who live honestly take absolutely no pleasure in being raped. Indeed, rape is the greatest possible sorrow [douleur sur toutes autre] for them.’ 256 Christine’s sorrow is not only caused by the fact that women are raped, but also by the way rape is discussed. A brief narration of Lucretia follows, ending with the Utopian sentence claiming that some people believe Lucretia’s violation inspired a law that put the rape of a woman under capital punishment. Christine adds that this was surely an adequate, just and holy law. She continues to recount further episodes under the subject of rape, intended to present alternative options for women to react to male sexual violence. Women should not commit suicide out of shame, instead they should defend themselves.257 In the following chapter she tells the story of a Galatian queen who was captured by the Romans and raped by a centurion of the Roman army. This narrative is originally from Boccaccio’s De claris mulieribus. Christine, however, significantly changed the original by letting the queen avenge herself: She single-handedly beheads the centurion and thus dismantles the idea of the passive victim and revenge as an exclusively male act. The following chapter recounts a series of stories illustrating the horrors of rape. The last episode is particularly inventive: In a Lombardian city taken over by enemies, the lord’s daughters, thinking that the enemies were going to rape them, found a strange remedy, for which they deserve much praise: they took raw chicken meat and placed it on their breasts. This meat quickly rotted because of the heat […]. The men let them be immediately. But this stink made them quite fragrant indeed.258 A truly unique concept of honor! I found the most radical interpretation of the Lucretia narrative in the writings of Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz 259, who lived between 1648 and 1695 in colonial Mexico, where she spent part of her youth at the Spanish viceroy’s court. She later joined a Hieronymite order, where she stayed the rest of her life. The decision to join an order was obviously

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less about religion and more about her aversion against marriage.260 Primarily, how­ ever, life in a cloister was the only opportunity for women in Catholic countries to study science and literature. Sor Juana is best known for her worldly poems, particularly her text Primero Sueño, which follows the tradition of the philosophical dream. As a female scholar, she not only proposed an explicitly female subject of cognition, but also dared to refute the treatise of a well-known Jesuit in her theological polemic.261 Sor Juana thus confidently ventured into a male-dominated field, namely theological discourse. In defense of her theological writing, she wrote a letter to the bishop of Puebla, who had written the introduction to Primero Sueño under the pseudonym of Sor Filotea. Following the tradition of the Querelle, Respuesta a Sor Filotea is a passionate defense of women’s right to knowledge, insight and writing.262 It must have been an immense amount of pressure and innumerable repressions that forced a woman with this deep knowledge and awareness to give up all her books and instruments two years prior to her death. As her biographer Calleja triumphantly states, she “declared war on herself and succee­d­ ed in fully defeating herself.” 263 There is no direct link between the Dutch painter who lived in the tolerant and open-minded atmosphere of Amsterdam and the poet from Mexico, except that they both lived during the 17 th century and shared the same pool of general knowledge. Mexico under the reign of Catholic Spain was surely not 256 Ibid., p. 161. 257 Maureen Quilligan, The Allegory of Female Authority. Christine de Pizan’s Cité de Dames, Ithaca, London 1991, p. 156 – 161. Quilligan compares versions of Lucretia by Boccaccio and Christine de Pizan (p. 159): “Boccaccio interprets Lucretia’s suicide to be the act by which women’s response to rape in the future should be judged. By contrast, for Christine, Lucretia slays herself to demonstrate how awful it is to be raped, as well as to save women from feeling shame for her — not to shame them into doing the same.” 258 Pizan 1983, p. 164. 259 Octavio Paz, Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz oder die Fallstricke des Glaubens, Frankfurt a.  M. 1994 (1991); Christopher F. Laferl, Birgit Wagner, Anspruch auf das Wort. Geschlecht, Wissen und Schreiben im 17. Jahrhundert. Suor Maria Celeste und Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz, Vienna 2002, p. 71 – 143; The Sor Juana Project by the Spanish Department of Dartmouth College: www. dartmouth.edu/~sorjuana/, retrieved March 10, 2013. 260 Laferl 2002, p.  87. 261 Ibid., p. 102  ff. 262 She confidently defends her talent and hunger for knowledge as god-given and thus as not only good, but also inviolable (Laferl 2002, p. 113). 263 Laferl, 2002, p. 116  ff. The specific reasons for this immense act of self-denial and punishment are un­ known. 264 The Redondilla is no.  9, titled Arguye de inconsecuentes el gusto y la censura de los humbres que en las mujeres acusan lo que causan in the edition of complete works. Obras completas, Mexiko 1985, p. 109.

more liberal than Amsterdam. And so Sor Juana’s poem She Proves the Inconsistency of the Desires and Criticism of Men who Accuse Women of What They Themselves Cause 264 is all the more astounding. The story of Lucretia is not retold in full detail, but poignantly apostrophized. I shall only quote the pertinent verses of this 17-stanza poem in English; the decisive verse is also quo­t­ ed in the Spanish original: Silly, you men — so very adept at wrongly faulting womankind, not seeing you’re alone to blame for faults you plant in woman’s mind. After you’ve won by urgent plea the right to tarnish her good name, you still expect her to behave —  you, that coaxed her into shame.

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You batter her resistance down and then, all righteousness, proclaim that feminine frivolity, not your persistence, is to blame. When it comes to bravely posturing, your witlessness must take the prize: you’re the child that makes a bogeyman, and then recoils in fear and cries. Presumptuous beyond belief, you’d have the woman you pursue be Thais when you’re courting her, Lucretia once she falls to you For plain default of common sense, could any action be so queer as oneself to cloud the mirror, then complain that it’s not clear? […] Either like them for what you’ve made them or make of them what you can like. [final stanza] […] your arrogance is allied with the world, the flesh, and the devil! The Spanish original of the stanza on Lucretia: Qure’reis, con presuncio’n necia, hallar a la que busca’is, para pretendida, Thais, y en la posesio’n, Lucrecia 265 The ideal woman is supposed to be a “Thais,” a whore, a frivolous being willing to be seduced, yet every man wants a chaste wife. The whore and the saint desired at once. The dichotomous concept of femininity is revealed as a male fantasy, a figment of imagi­ nation. It is not about two contrary female personae (whore, saint), but rather about one paradox figure who is supposed to embody one persona one time, and at other times, the other. Sor Juana explicitly addresses this male hypocrisy. She implicitly deconstructs the story of Lucretia and demonstrates that it — like many other images of femininity — was created by men.266

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Among the most distinguished women of the early modern period, Lucretia does not figure as an ideal of femininity. Quite the opposite, for Christine de Pizan she is the sad proof that rape is the worst thing that can be done to a woman. Pizan envisions tough laws and tough female revenge; Sor Juana Inés de La Cruz deconstructs her as a figure of male projections and for many others, this icon of chastity is plainly uninte­r­ esting compared to female scholars and not really worth mentioning. Christine de Pizan also provides an eloquent response to the unfortunately still widespread opinion which Roy Porter’s explicitly words as “rape was not on the minds of pre-industrial women.” 267 As ‘proof’ for the theory that rape was a rare phenomenon during the early modern period and that the anxiety that comes with it is merely a current projection created particularly by US-American feminists, Porter calls on the lack of legal documents and women’s witness accounts that could serve as sources. I sincerely hope that the reasons for this vacuum have become clear; violence rendered invisible does not mean that it did not exist, for every void calls for interpretation.268 The few sources that we do have, such as the ones cited above, are simply not acknowledged; neither by Roy Porter, nor by scholars who work as meticulously as Galinsky. Ovid’s Metamorphoses already demonstrate how these voids, these gaps in cultural memory, are produced. We learn how the female voice that wishes to speak of sexual violence is silenced. Book VI of Ovid’s Metamorphoses includes the story of Philomela who was raped by Tereus, her sister’s husband. To ensure that she could never speak about the abuse, he locked her up and cut off her tongue. So she wove crimson thread into white wool to tell her story and sent the tapestry to her sister who understood what had happened. The same Book VI begins with the story of Arachne who had dared challenge the goddess Athena by claiming that she was the undisputed master in the art of 265 I thank Marlen Bidwell-Steiner for helping me understand the Spanish version precisely. 266 In another poem titled Engrandece el hecho de Lucre­ cia Sor Juana specifically deals with Lucretia and condemns her suicide, but without the hypocrisy of Augustine. Janice A. Jaffe, Sor Juana, Artemisia Gentileschi, and Lucretia: Worthy Women Portray Worthy Women, in: Romance Quarterly 40/3, 1993, p. 141 – 155. 267 Roy Porter, Rape — Does it have a Historical Meaning? in: Tomaselli, Porter 1989 (1986), p.  216 – 236, here: p.  221. As a counterpoint: Diane Wolfthal, ‘Douleur sur toutes autres.’ Revisualizing the Rape Script in the Epistre Othea and the Cité de Dames, in: Marilynn Desmond (ed.), Christine de Pizan and the Categories of Difference, Minneapolis 1998, p.  41 – 70. Also see note 172. 268 For an analysis of these voids under psychological and historical aspects, see the exemplary essay by Chaytor 1995. 269 Ovid, Metamorphoses, Book VI, 131. Agnes Sneller, Pallas and Arachne, in: J. F. Van Dijkhuizen et al. (eds.), Living in Posterity. Essays in Honour of Bart Westerweel, Hilversum 2004, p.  259 – 265.

weaving. Arachne’s offense was not only her arrogance, but also the motives she chose to weave into her tapestry: They were 21 scenes of abduction and rape committed by the gods in the guise of animals. The most prominent perpetrator of all was, of course, Jupiter. Athena “ripped the web, and ruined all the scenes that showed those wicked actions of the Gods” 269 and subsequently turned Arachne into a spider. Women who attempt to reveal their own or other women’s rape were silenced in the most brutal manner, by mortals and gods alike. It is

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striking how the female ‘voice’ could neither articulate itself in words, nor in real images. It could only exist after being shifted into the verbal description of an imaginary image. The imaginary image of ekphrasis became the only possibility to represent otherwise invisible sexual violence.270 Rembrandt devised an alternative image of Lucretia, yet he remained faithful to the structure of the traditional Lucretia narrative; his boundaries were the boundaries of our culture. A few dared to cross these boundaries, but their discourse has remained marginal to this day.

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2 On Male Representation or

On the disappearance of female protagonists from the field of representation In the works discussed so far, we have encountered masculinity mostly as a void. Even though the respective narratives call for male protagonists, they were rendered invisible in Rembrandt’s Bathsheba, Susanna and Lucretia. In order to understand the meaning of this phenomenon, we will examine how masculinity is represented in Rembrandt’s oeuvre and identify the contexts in which masculinity becomes invisible. Male representation in Rembrandt’s works has never been questioned before. Even the relatively small number of scholarly texts with a feminist approach or at least a per­ spective inspired by gender debates, treats the term ‘gender’ as one limited to female representation. This problem is a general one that goes well beyond the subject of Rembrandt. Masculinity was and is largely still considered equivalent to the universal norm, humanity, gender neutral and per se unmarked. This misconception is constitutive both for male identity and the fiction of autonomy.271 Only women were perceived and described as gendered beings. Their alleged ‘difference’ to men was ascribed to precisely this conditionality of gender. The use of l’homme / man in French and English, respec­ tively, is symptomatic for the idea: The terms both mean human being and male. In the early days of feminism, feminists (understandably) focused their energy on processing, analyzing and deconstructing the idea of femininity and women. It was not until the 1980s that debates within feminist theory developed further into gender studies, which define gender as a relational link between femininity and masculinity. However, men and masculinity often remained a negative canvas for extensive research on women and femininity. It was not until the late 1980s that broader research on masculinity emerged.272 This is not the place for an extensive overview of theoretical approaches on men and masculinity, a field which developed — thanks to the groundwork laid by women’s rights movements and feminist theory — alongside gender studies, LGBT studies and queer theories.273 All I would like to note is that in analogy to femininity, masculinity is considered a 270 Heffernan 1993, p.  46 – 90. 271 Sigfried Kaltenecker, Georg Tillner, Offensichtlich männlich. Zur aktuellen Kritik der heterosexuellen Männ­lichkeit, in: Texte zur Kunst 17, Feb. 1995, p.  37 – 47. 272 This new wave of research began in the US during the 1970s: for example Joseph H. Pleck, Jack Sawyer (eds.), Men and Masculinity, Englewood Cliffs, NJ 1974; in German-speaking countries: Klaus Theweleit, Männerphantasien, Reinbek bei Hamburg, vol. 1 1977, vol.  2 1978.

category produced by discourse, with varying formulations in different historical and cultural contexts. Masculinity is closely linked to other categories such as social class, ethnicity and

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sexual orientation. Drawing its roots from Antonio Gramsci, R. W. Connell coined the term hegemonic masculinity in the 1990s. This concept continues to mark the field of men and masculinities274 as it describes both the historical mutability of male ideals and the multitude of masculinities. Hegemonic masculinity thus not only constitutes itself in its difference to femininity, but also in its repudiation of ‘other,’ particularly homosexual masculinities. It conforms to the male ideal of a social elite constituted by excluding men belonging to lower social classes or non-white ethnicities.275 The term also pinpoints how power relations more complex than physical domination shape relationships between different groups of men and women. Principles such as submission, complicity and margi­na­l­ ization can all play a role in shaping gender relations. One of the disputed points of Connell’s theory is the assumption that there is only one type of hegemonic masculinity.276 R. W. Connell postulates her concept for the time after 1450, yet in modernity and especially today, we can observe various patterns of hegemonic masculinity.277 For the 17 th century Netherlands, this concept is highly relevant because: Hegemonic masculinity exists where — in regard to social ideologies and to some extent social practices — social strata become permeable and different social groups have (a minimum amount of) contact. Here, the social status of (male) individuals is the result of individual achievement and no longer a matter of birth status. This applies to bourgeois society, whose (male) protagonists consequently function as ideal types of hegemonic masculinity.278

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273 Harry Brod (ed.), The Making of Masculinities. The New Men’s Studies, Boston 1987; BauSteineMänner (ed.), Kritische Männerforschung. Neue Ansätze in der Geschlechtertheorie, Berlin 1996; Walter Erhart, Britta Herrmann (eds.), Wann ist eine Mann ein Mann? Zur Geschichte der Männlichkeit, Stuttgart, Weimar 1997; Hans Bosse, Vera King (eds.), Männlichkeitsentwürfe. Wandlungen und Widerstände im Geschlechterverhältnis, Frankfurt a. M., New York 2000, esp. R. W. Connell’s essay Die Wissenschaft von der Männlichkeit (The Science of Masculinity), p. 17 – 28; Annette Pussert, Auswahlbibliographie: Männerbilder und Männlichkeitskonstruktionen, in: Zeitschrift für Germanistik, N. F. XII, H.  2, 2002, p.  358  ff.; Claudia Benthien, Inge Stephan (eds.), Männlichkeit als Maskerade. Kulturelle Inszenierungen vom Mittelalter bis zur Gegenwart, Cologne, Weimar, Vienna 2003; Martin Dinges, Stand und Perspektiven der “neuen Männergeschichte” (Frühe Neuzeit), in: Marguérite Bos, Bettina Vincenz, Tanja Wirz (eds.), Erfahrung: Alles nur Diskurs? Zur Verwendung des Erfahrungsbegriffs in der Geschlechtergeschichte, Beiträge der 11. Schweizerischen HistorikerInnentagung 2002, Zurich 2004, p.  71 – 96; Willi Walter, Gender, Geschlecht und Männerforschung, in: Stephan, von Braun (eds.) 2005, p.  97 – 115; l’HOMME. Zeitschrift für feministische Geschichtswissenschaft, Krise(n) der Männlichkeit?, eds.: Christa Hämmerle, Claudia Opitz-Belakhal, Vienna 2008/2; for English literature on the subject, see The Men’s Bibliography: http://mensbiblio.xyonline. net/, retrieved Aug. 2, 2013. 274 R.  W. Connell, Masculinities, Cambridge 1995. For further literature, see http://www.raewynconnell.net/ search/label/Publications%20full%20list, retrieved Aug. 20, 2013. 275 On the meaning of competition in homosocial power relations see also: Pierre Bourdieu, La domina­ tion masculine, Actes de la recherché en sciences 84, 1990, p.  2 – 31. “As a rule, the male habitus is built and realized only in relation to the reserved space in which the serious games of competition are played.” (Engl. quote after Marie Pierre Le Hir, Cultural Studies Bourdieu’s Way: Women, Leadership and Feminist Theory, in: Brown, Nicholas, Szeman, Imre (eds.), Pierre Bourdieu: Fieldwork in Culture, Oxford 2000, p. 123 – 144, here p. 134.) 276 For a differentiating analysis of R. W. Connell’s theories, see Martin Dinges (ed.), Männer — Macht — Körper. Hege­moniale Männlichkeiten vom Mittelalter bis heute, Frankfurt a. M. 2005. 277 For Connell, the current ideal of masculinity is represented by the top manager.

Despite the fact that the artistic field dealt with the constructedness of masculinity as early as the 1970s — in parodic demonstrations by artists such as Jürgen Klauke, Urs Lüthi or Michel Journiac — the academic field of art history was late to focus on male representation and to this day only does so marginally.279 When some of my colleagues, students and I organized the Third Conference for Women Art Historians (Dritte Kunst­ historikerinnen-Tagung) in 1986, we included a segment titled Men — Images — Myths (Männer — Bilder — Mythen).280 Within the German-speaking field of art history, this was 278 English by translator. German original: Michael Meuser, Sylka Scholz, Hegemoniale Männlichkeit. Versuch einer Begriffsklärung aus soziologischer Perspektive, in: Dinges 2005, p.  211 – 228, here: p.  215. 279 One of the first publications on the subject was Margaret Walters, The Nude Male. A New Perspective, Michigan 1978. 280 The articles were published in the corresponding eponymous volume: Barta et al. (eds.) 1987. 281 The approaches developed here were continued at the following conferences: Mirrorings / Reflections. Identifi­ cation Patterns of Patriarchal Art History (Spiegelungen. Identifikationsmuster patriachaler Kunstgeschichte), Fourth Conference for Women Art Historians in Berlin, 1988; the Sixth Conference for Women Art Historians in Tübingen: Myths of Authorship and Femininity in the 20th Century (Mythen von Autorschaft und Weiblichkeit im 20. Jahrhundert), with an eponymous publication edited by Kathrin Hoffmann-Curtius and Silke Wenk, Marburg 1997; several contributions at the Conference for Women Art Historians in Trier: Projections. Rascism and Sexism in Visual Culture (Projektionen. Rassismus und Sexismus in der visuellen Kultur), publication edited by Annegret Friedrich, Birgit Haehnel, Viktoria Schmidt-Linsenhoff, Christina Threuter, Marburg 1997. For individual art-historical essays and publications on the representation of masculinity, see the bibliography in Pussert 2002 and Mechthild Fend, Marianne Koos (eds.), Männlichkeit im Blick. Visuelle Inszenierungen in der Kunst der Frühen Neuzeit, Cologne, Weimar, Vienna 2004. 282 Unfortunately, the texts from this symposium were never published in one volume; a few of them were published individually, including: Victoria SchmidtLinsenhoff, Male Alterity in the French Revolution: Two Paintings by Anne-Louis Girodet at the Salon of 1798, in: Ida Blom, Karin Hagemann, Catherine Hall (eds.), Gendered Nations. Nationalism and Gender Order in the Long Nineteenth Century, Oxford, New York 2000, p.  81 – 105; Silke Wenk, Nike in Blau. Yves Kleins Transformationen des Weiblichen im Zeitalter der Weltraumfahrt, in: Silke Wenk (ed.), Versteinerte Weiblichkeit. Allegorien in der Skulptur der Moderne, Cologne 1996; Kathrin Hoffmann-Curtius, Im Blickfeld. John der Frauenmörder von Georg Grosz, exh. cat. Hamburger Kunsthalle, Stuttgart 1993. 283 Fend, Koos 2004. 284 Exceptions are: Thomas Röske, Blicke auf Männerkörper bei Michael Sweerts, Fend, Koos 2004 p. 121 – 135; Alison McNeil Kettering, Gentlemen in Satin: Mascu­ line Ideals in Late 17th Century Dutch Portraiture, in: Art Journal 2, 1997, p.  41 – 47.

the first event that addressed male repre­sen­ tation.281 In 1995, the University of Applied Arts Vienna hosted a symposium fully dedicated to the subject of Constructions of Masculinity and Male Myths in Art and Visual Media (Konstruk­ tionen von Männlichkeit und Männer-Mythen in der Kunst und in den visuellen Medien).282 The first collection of art-historical essays in German was published as late as 2004; it com­ prises texts from the sym­posium A View on Masculinity. Visual Stagings in Art since the Early Modern Period (Männlichkeit im Blick. Visuelle Inszenierungen in der Kunst seit der Frühen Neu­ zeit).283 To my knowledge, there is no specific research on masculinity in Holland in the fields of visual art, literature, culture or social studies.284 This is particularly unfortunate considering the special situation of 17 th century Netherlands, where a specific form of bourgeois masculinity originated and sub­sequently spread to other European countries. I do not claim that the fol­ lowing observations are a comprehensive analysis of different forms of male represen­ta­ tion in Rembrandt’s oeuvre; I can only point out a number of problematic aspects.

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Differences Let’s begin with a thought experiment and recall the paintings discussed in pre­ vious chapters (Bathsheba, Woman in Bed, Susanna, Diana and Lucretia). Can we picture images with the same or similar contents, but with male protagonists? Are reversals even possible? Does Rembrandt’s oeuvre include any works portraying a man experiencing sexual violence by women? If so, how is the abuse staged? Is there such a thing as an eroticized male body intended for a female gaze? The impossible reversal I — women as ‘rapists’ or Potiphar’s Wife Of course there is no male equivalent to Lucretia: women cannot rape men. Even though a direct reversal of these roles is not possible, we find it depicted in Western art, as Wolfthal writes: In fact, despite the great number of known male rapists, the most frequently depicted sexual aggressor was a woman, Potiphar’s wife, whose story is related to Genesis, 39.285 Potiphar’s wife — who unsurprisingly does not even have a name — had her sights set on an attractive young man named Joseph who had just been nominated head of the household by her husband, who was captain of the Pharaoh’s palace guard. She attemp­t­ ed to seduce Joseph, but he adamantly refused. One day, when the servants were all out of the house, she once again lusted for him and grabbed him by his coat, but Joseph slipped out of it and ran away. As retaliation, Potiphar’s wife claimed that he had tried to rape her, which led Potiphar to incarcerate him. This episode has been depicted innumerable times, but the context it was set in and the function it was ascribed are even more potent than the sheer quantity of images that was produced. In fact, it is a central element in the discourse on rape. The biblical narrative is supposed to be proof that wo­ men are the ones who abuse men and, even more so, that women who feel rejected will falsely accuse men of being raped. As I have elaborated in the previous chapter, the already small number of charges brought against sexual abusers rarely ended in convic­ tions, while women were often convicted of defamation. In medieval literature, parti­ cularly the Bibles Moralisée, Potiphar’s wife became a figurehead for the lewdness and deceitfulness of all women.286 Even more striking is the fact that Joseph and Potiphar’s Wife was used to illustrate the Tenth Commandment (You shall not covet your neighbor’s wife …) instead of a more fitting image such as Susanna and the Elders.287 Lucas Cranach was commissioned by Phillip Melanchton to produce a series of woodcuts of the Ten Commandments in 1527. The Tenth Commandment is illustrated with the seduction

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Fig. 37: Rembrandt, Joseph and Potiphar’s Wife, 1634, etching, Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale

scene from Joseph and Potiphar’s wife. Martin Luther reused the cycle in his Large Cate­ chism, which was distributed to a mass audience. The Catechism was unparalleled in shaping people’s beliefs and views. The images of Joseph and Potiphar’s wife were re­ ceived in this context and interpreted as the social practice of how rape is dealt with; simultaneously they contributed to denying the reality of male sexual violence while instead perpetuating the idea of women making false accusations. Rembrandt also painted a panel on the story in his late work, but he did not choose the moment of seduction (Gen. 39, 7–12) as he did in the etching of Joseph and Potiphar’s Wife from 1634 (fig. 37). For the more official medium of panel painting, he chose the scene that follows, in which Potiphar’s wife accuses Joseph before her husband (Gen. 39, 13–18).288 The significant difference between the two media will be discussed in detail further below. Researchers have unanimously agreed on an engraving by Antonio Tempesta as the source for Rembrandt’s etching (fig. 38). I do not necessarily consider this a given, since Rembrandt was able to draw from 285 Wolfthal 1999, p. 162. In the following I refer to the chapter Potiphar’s wife in Wolfthal 1999, p. 161 – 179. However, Wolfthal only examines examples from the Middle Ages and early modern period up to the 16th century. 286 Ibid., p. 172. 287 Ibid., p. 173  ff. 288 Dated 1655, Berlin, Gemäldegalerie. The version in the National Gallery of Art in Washington, D. C. is a studio copy. The episode was only rarely depicted in panel painting; it is drawn from elaborate illumination cycles of the Joseph story. 289 The only thing clearly reminiscent of Tempesta’s ver­ sion is the diagonal position of the bed.

a wealthy tradition.289 Tempesta’s engra­ving follows a popular iconography, with Joseph’s pose and gestures clearly marking a person fleeing. Rembrandt’s Joseph, however, is not on the run; he rather seems to push himself away from the nude woman, his hands reaching out toward her as he tries to defend himself. This

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Fig. 38: Antonio Tempesta, Joseph and Potiphar’s Wife, c. 1600, engraving, London, British Museum

unusual pose stems from a rare artistic tradition showing Joseph facing Potiphar’s wife as he attempts to get back his coat (fig. 39).290 Rembrandt kept the gesture and pose of pushing away, but without justifying it with a physical act. Joseph does not try to grasp the coat, so the pose can be interpreted as one of defense against seduction. Contrary to an outright gesture of flight, we here have the visualization of inner drama and conflict. The woman lying in bed is unique in her obscenely exposed body, her legs spread and her crotch clearly visible for the viewer. The female sexual aggressor is far from being made invisible (unlike Tarquinius in Lucretia); neither a heroine, nor subdued in any way, we are confronted with a drastic, full-fledged presen­tation. In German graphic works from the 16th century there are a few rare folios that stage the episode like a dramatic love play: Hans Sebald Beham produced a number of engravings in which Joseph is completely naked (due to the coat being pulled off) and in his pose almost seems connected to Potiphar’s wife in a dancerly fashion; in one of the engravings he is even depicted with an erect penis (fig. 40).291 In Rembrandt’s version, the struggle against one’s own desires is not demonstrated on a physical level, at least not using a male body. And yet, there is a hint of struggle in Joseph’s peculiar pose, even if it is an inner, psychological struggle. Unlike the often-repeated claims that Joseph is turning away from Potiphar’s wife in disgust or that Rembrandt portrayed the opposites of good and evil, we can see the staging of a struggle between desire and resistance. In support of this argument I would like to point out a play about Joseph by Joost van den Vondel from 1640.292 It is well

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Fig. 40: Hans Sebald Beham, Joseph and Potiphar’s Wife, 1544, engraving, Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale

Fig. 39: Paolo Finoglio, Joseph and Potiphar’s Wife, c. 1622/23, canvas, Cambridge, Fogg Art Museum

known that painters and poets in Holland had close ties and it has been confirmed that Rembrandt and Vondel both referred to each other’s work.293 Vondel’s play dates from a few years later than the engraving. I am not assuming any direct influence, but under­ stand the proximity as an indicator of shared cultural ideas. In Vondel’s Joseph in Egypt, Potiphar’s wife actually has a name: Jempsar. She falls in love with young, attractive Joseph, becomes lovesick and can neither eat nor sleep. In a long conversation she confesses her love and desire for Joseph and explains her idea of sexual freedom: “Mijn wellust zy mijn wet” (May my lust be my law).294 Joseph suggests she tame her passion and confine her love to her marriage. Joseph does not become insecure and turn away from Jempsar until she stops arguing, lets her emotions take over, throws herself at his feet and threatens to die. Jempsar is not portrayed as an evil woman; the intense description of her passionate feelings offers a high degree of identification for the audience. 290 Also related is a version by Giovanni Biliverti from the early 17th century, Rome, Galleria Nazionale d’Arte Antica, Pal. Barberini, ill.: Garrard 1989, p. 81, fig. 74. 291 Walter L. Strauss, The Illustrated Bartsch, vol. 15, New York 1978, p.  45, nos. 13, 14, 15. 292 Joost van den Vondel, Joseph in Egypten, Amsterdam 1640, in: De werken van Vondel, vol. 4, 1930. See: Kåre Landvik Johannessen, Zwischen Himmel und Erde. Eine Studie über Joost van den Vondels biblische Tragödien in gattungsgeschichtlicher Perspektive, Oslo 1963, esp. p. 143 – 150; Konst 1999, p. 7 – 21. 293 Schenkeveld 1991, esp. p. 119  ff.  J.  A. Emmens, “Ay Rem­brandt, maal Cornelis stem,” in: Nederlands Kunsthistorisch Jaarboek 7, 1956, p. 133 – 165. 294 Vondel 1640, quoted after Johannessen 1963, p. 145.

Similar to Rembrandt’s engraving, the drama lies in the struggle between arousing and re­ straining desire, between body and mind. What is crucial here is that both Vondel’s and Rem­ brandt’s work (adhering to tradition) iden­tify the physical with femininity while the mental is equated with masculinity.

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Fig. 41: Codex Manesse, Jacob van Warte, c. 1320, Heidelberger Univeristätsbibliothek, Cod. Pal. Germ. 848, fol. 46v

The impossible reversal II — erotic images of men for a female gaze? Let’s take a look at the second question: Does Rembrandt’s oeuvre include any male nudes in an erotically connoted context? Are there any male equivalents to Bathsheba, Woman in Bed or Susanna? A naked man lost in thought over a love letter while his feet are being washed; a man nervously attempting to protect his nudity from hidden viewers; a man in bed expectantly pushing aside a curtain? The answer, ‘naturally,’ is no. The analogy of gender configurations seems silly to us. But why? It is not anything specific about Rembrandt’s work, but rather a problem of our culture. The male gaze was and remains a central issue in feminist criticism of art and images. The resulting asymmetry, however, goes well beyond the fact that artists were mostly male and (nude) models were mostly female. The result is not the obvious outcome of any male artist / female model constellation. I would like to note that medieval courtly art offered a broad spectrum of erotic images, which also included male protagonists, for example the Codex Manesse (fig. 41), border drawings in the Wenzel Bible (fig. 42), or the abundance of images of the

Fountain of Youth (fig. 43) in illuminations, frescoes and tapestries.295 Male depictions were not slowly faded out of images until after the first third of the 16th century.296 These developments should not be thought of as a linear process; and yet it is possible to detect a tendency that became manifest in the 18th and 19th century. After all, it was so persistent that, for us today, a reversal of genders in these images seems inconceivable while the fixed link between femininity and erotic image seems ‘natural.’

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Fig. 42: Wenzel Bible, Bathing scene (title page, detail, book of Joshua), c. 1390, Vienna, Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, Cod. Vindob. 2759 – 2764, vol. 1, fol. 214  r Fig. 43: Fountain of Youth, c. 1430, fresco, Piemont, Manta Castle near Saluzzo

Rubens is a remarkable exception. He addresses male sensuality, sexuality, male desire and male violence. However, it would also be futile to look for conceptions of masculinity that are analogies of the aforementioned female nudes. In Rubens’s oeuvre male sexuality is always active and potent. Contrary to courtly Catholic Flanders, history painting, and with it nude painting, was not considered very relevant in bourgeois 17 th century Holland. Erotically staged male nudes were surely not common fare — with one exception: paintings with male nudes by Michael Sweerts. His depictions of male nudes have an “arcane air of mystery” that was convincingly identified by Thomas Röske as unsuccessfully suppressed homoerotic desire.297

Self-Images — Self-Portraits Like no other artist before or after him, Rembrandt created a remarkable number of self-portraits, ranging from oil paintings to graphics, to drawings. He is the first artist 295 Daniela Hammer-Tugendhat, Erotik und Geschlechterdifferenz. Aspekte zur Aktmalerei Tizians, in: Daniela Erlach, Markus Reisenleitner, Karl Vocelka (eds.), Privatisierung der Triebe? Sexualität in der frühen Neuzeit, Frankfurt a. M. et al. 1994, p.  367 – 446, esp. p.  394 – 401. 296 Ibid., p.  395. See below: Asymmetry. Gender Relations in the Field of Sexuality. A symptomatic example is Lucas Cranach’s Fountain of Youth from 1546 (Berlin, Gemäldegalerie): Only women are depicted nude and frolicking in the water while the men are dressed and ready to receive them after their rejuvenating bath. This development would need greater scholarly attention, particularly in regard to differences between more northern, Protestant countries and the counterreformatory south. Differences in media would also need more investigation, along with examinations of contextual particularities (clerical, urban, courtly, etc.). 297 Thomas Röske, Blicke auf Männerkörper bei Michael Sweerts, in: Fend, Koos 2004, p. 121 – 135.

whose self-portraits hold a significant position within his oeuvre. Not only their number is remarkable, the phenomenon that Rembrandt portrayed himself in several guises marks them unparalleled. The roles he assumes go well beyond the broad spectrum of artist personae. We can find Rembrandt in oriental attire with a poodle, Rembrandt as the Prodigal Son, as Apostle Paul and many others. In courtly society, clothing was a distinctive marker for a person’s

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social status. In his self-portraits, Rembrandt combines costumes that partially neither match his status, nor the era. It seems like “experimenting with the yet unlived possi­ bilities of life.” 298 Rembrandt designs a self that seems able to freely choose its social status.299 His art is what gives the self the freedom to do so. He, Rembrandt, is the creator of his own self. In our context the question is: What variations of male identity did he create for himself? Since Rembrandt not only portrayed himself as an artist and Amster­ dam burgher, but also slipped into various fictitious roles, an at least marginal shift in his conception of masculinity seems possible. Research on Rembrandt reveals diverging opinions on the meaning of his selfportraits. 300 Perry Chapman’s Rembrandt’s Self-Portraits. A Study in Seventeenth-Century Identity from 1990 is probably still the most well-founded study, as it also deals with the different costumes and their semantic meaning. Chapman no longer assumes the selfportraits to be true, authentic expressions of Rembrandt’s character and feelings, as older research still did, but she does interpret them as a search for identity and autonomy within a constituting bourgeois society. Alongside these social changes, she identifies Rem­ brandt’s depictions as an attempt to redefine his position as an artist no longer producing art primarily for individual commissions, but rather for the art market. Contrary to these findings, Harry Berger does not interpret Rembrandt’s self-presentation as an other as a search for identity, but rather believes that Rembrandt deals with and questions the genre of portraits and self-portraits and the poses they include. 301 We will not revisit the often-posed question why Rembrandt repeatedly dealt with his own face. 302 The question itself is too attached to the idea that his self-portraits exclusively originated from himself; it thus adheres to a paradigm that the self-portraits themselves helped create: the fiction of the autonomous self. 303 I believe it makes much more sense to investigate the effects that the variety of self-stagings had. Moreover, the

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298 Pächt 1991, p. 72. 299 One symptomatic example is the fact that Rembrandt often wears a golden necklace, even though (and unlike Rubens) he was not entitled to wearing one because he was neither born nor promoted into nobility. He did not draw his nobility from birthright or social status as a courtly artist, but rather from his personal artistic talent. See Chapman 1990, p.  58  ff. 300 Christopher Wright, Quentin Buvelot (eds.), Rem­ brandt by Himself, exh. cat. London National Gallery and The Hague, Royal Cabinet of Paintings, New Haven 1999. The catalog to the most seminal exhibition on Rembrandt’s self-portraits unfortunately only represents one scholarly approach, namely that of Ernst van de Wetering and the Rembrandt Research Project. According to the authors, Rembrandt only painted such a great number of self-portraits because of his hunger for fame and as a means to appeal to the new art clientele and its great interest in larger-than-life artist personalities. For a review of the catalog, see Stephanie S. Dickey in: Art Bulletin 82, 2000, p.  366 – 369. Ernst van Wetering, Rembrandt’s Self-Portraits. Problems of Authenticity and Function, in: Ernst van Wetering (ed.), The Self-Portraits 1625 – 1669, RRP, vol.  4, 2005, p.  89 – 317. On the expression studies in the mirror, see p. 170  f.; on the tronies, see p. 172  ff.; on the reductionist view of limiting the invention of self to the new commodity value of art and the necessity of marketing it, see Svetlana Alpers, Rembrandt’s Enterprise. The Studio and the Market, Chicago 1988. 301 Harry Berger, Jr., Fictions of the Pose. Rembrandt against the Italian Renaissance, Stanford 2000. 302 For newer findings on this question, see, for example, Marieke de Winkel, Costume in Rembrandt’s Self-Portraits, in: Rembrandt by Himself 1999, p.  60 – 74, here p.  60: “What could have been his reasons for depicting himself time and again in different guises?” 303 In light of current debate on the status of the subject, I find it remarkable that, concerning his subject concep-

path Chapman cleared needs to be pursued further so we can contextualize Rembrandt’s portraits in even greater detail. For example, a connection can be drawn to similar selfrepresentations in literature like Montaigne’s essays, the rising popularity of auto­bio­ graphies at the time, or Descartes’s philosophy. The love for costume and disguise, or the effect of theatricality, are not sole inventions by Rembrandt. 304 Apart from the close ties between Dutch painting and theater, I would like to point out the portrait historié that also gained appeal in Holland in the 17 th century, particularly among courtly circles. 305 Especially the ladies of the court loved to present themselves in mythological, biblical, historical or literary costumes, preferably of the Arcadian genre. Rembrandt translated the courtly form of portraiture into his own self-portraits, but adhered to his own realistic painterly style instead of adopting the typical idealizing classicist style. This is what led to the effects that disturb the allegorical reading inherent to the genre. His clients, in the meantime, commissioned portraits of themselves in their civilian clothing. There are only few examples of portraits by and of Rembrandt that can truly be counted as a portrait historié. Only the late self-portrait as Apostle Paul from 1661 (Amsterdam) is unquestionably tion, Rembrandt seems to have entertained the notion of a complex, conflicting, constantly shifting identity. Comparing the self-portraits to Cindy Sherman’s film stills from the 1980s is enlightening; not only because Sherman is a woman artist representing herself in different roles, albeit in the medium photography, but because her images signal the crisis of the subject. In Rembrandt’s images we still find a sense of auto­nomy behind all the complexity and irony. In Sher­ man’s work, only masks and clichés (in this case of femininity) are left, while an authentic self is no longer detectable. 304 Alpers (1988, 2003) uses this term and sees a literal connection to theater. However, she reduces this relation to the matter of disguise alone without asking whether, for example, cross dressing also existed in Netherlandish theater like it did in other countries such as Renaissance Italy and Shakespeare’s theater in Britain. Alpers also denies any visual tradition and explains Rembrandt’s particularity by speculating that he brought actual people into his studio, dressed them up and used them as live models for his drawings and paintings. 305 Rose Wishnevsky, Studien zum “portrait historié” in den Niederlanden, Bamberg 1967; Stephanie S. Dickey, Rembrandt and Saskia: Art, Commerce, and the Poet­ ics of Portraiture, in: Alan Chong, Michael Zell (eds.), Rethinking Rembrandt, Zwolle 2002, p. 17 – 47. 306 L. De Vries, Tronies and other Single Figured Netherlandish Paintings, in: Leids Kunsthistorisch Jaarboek 8, 1989, p. 185 – 202; Jaap van der Veen, Faces from Life: “Tronies” and Portraits in Rembrandt’s Painted Oeuvre, in: exh.  cat. Melbourne, Canberra 1997, p.  69 – 73; Marieke de Winkel in: exh. cat. London, The Hague 1999, p.  60  ff.; van de Wetering, in: RRP, 2005, p. 172  ff. On the meaning and function of costumes in Rembrandt’s oeuvre, see Marieke de Winkel, Fashion and Fancy. Dress and Meaning in Rembrandt’s Paint­ ings, Amsterdam 2008.

one; van de Wetering also names the selfportrait as Zeuxis from Cologne. The double portrait from Dresden with Saskia depicting a scene from the Prodigal Son also exhibits some traits of the genre. Unlike a true portrait historié, Rembrandt usually did not fully slip into a biblical, mythical or historical role; instead he either wore fantastical costumes or only masked himself with one or two props. The important point here, however, is that the practice of portraits in costume was known at the time. Next to self-portraits in costume we also have so called tronies. 306 Tronie, derived from old French troigne, means head or face. The term was used in 17 th century Holland for head or bust-length portraits of different character types that were individualized and based on actual models, but not fully individual portraits. During the 16th century, tronies were only produced as studies for studios. Rembrandt and his circle were the first ones to produce them for sale on the open market. The depicted characters often wore

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Fig. 44: Rembrandt, Self-Portrait with Gorget, c. 1629, panel, Nuremberg, Germanisches Nationalmuseum Fig. 45: Circle of Giorgione, Man in Armor, panel, Edinburgh, National Gallery of Scotland Fig. 46: Giorgione, Self-Portrait as David, c. 1500 – 10, canvas, Braunschweig, Herzog Anton Ulrich-Museum

fantastical or exotic costumes. What was the meaning of this new interest in individual faces that were neither portraits nor part of a narrative context? It certainly demonstrates a fascination with the phenomenon of individuality. The indistinct quality of the tronies served as a trigger for the imagination and associative thoughts. Many of Rembrandt’s images blur the line between self-portrait and tronie: Is it Rembrandt himself or a tronie with Rembrandt’s features? One example is the Self-Portrait with Gorget from 1629 at the Germanisches Nationalmuseum Nuremberg (fig. 44). Could Rembrandt have been inspired by a Giorgionesque invention? In Giorgione’s circle we can find several portra­y­als of men oddly combining attributes of military armor with melancholic and pensive facial expressions (fig. 45). The invention can clearly be traced back to a self-portrait by Giorgione as David (fig. 46). 307 So is the Nuremberg painting an ‘authentic’ portrayal of Rembrandt or is it a fictitious character? The prop-like quality of the attribute — only the gorget refers to military armor — emphasizes the impression of a masquerade. It is not Rembrandt as warrior, much less as Mars, but merely Rembrandt costumed with a piece of armor. Some of the more narrowly defined self-portraits also show Rembrandt wearing archaic or fantastical garments. It is often difficult to distinguish whether Rembrandt identified himself with the meaning of the respective attribute and presented possible versions of his self, as Chapman argues, or presented the poses and costumes as an ironic statement, as Harry Berger claims. Perhaps we do not need a final answer to this question, especially since Rembrandt’s true intention can never be revealed with cer­ tainty. The effects of his stagings, in turn, allow multiple readings: One could be that, thanks to his artistic genius, Rembrandt the man and artist could take on any role inde­

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pendent of birth right or status. This idea of a free, autonomous subject is a deeply bourgeois fiction. Holland’s bourgeois elite, for example, wore certain, quite strictly defined clothing ­— in other words bourgeois clothing — which was usually held in distin­ guished-looking black. Rembrandt’s fragmentary and fantastical costumes thus further emphasize the impression of masquerade and imaginary: clothing, poses, gestures as theater, play and illusion. After all, masquerades can open potential space, broaden the conceivable and visualize anything extraordinary, taboo and suppressed. 308 Let us take a closer look at some of the actual roles Rembrandt imagined him­ self in. His self-stagings range from representations as an autonomous individual or melancholic artist to different types of painter, to virtuoso, to presentations wearing a beret and gold chain, to fantastical disguises as someone from the Orient, biblical figures and costumes with military attributes. He presents himself in quite ambivalent situations, like in the double portrait with Saskia, in which he plays the role of the Prodigal Son (fig. 54). He even slips into the negative role of one of the henchman who erected the

cross. Later self-portraits show him marked by age. Never, however, does Rembrandt present himself as a devoted lover like he, for example, portrayed Saskia. He never repre­ sents himself in his physicality; quite contrary, his self-portraits are almost exclusively limited to his face. In the bust-lengths, the body seems to melt into the darkness. The usually black bust serves as a contrast to the meticulously elaborated face, making the latter the clear center of importance. 309 In the few three quarter-length and the single fulllength Self-Portrait as an Oriental Rembrandt’s body is hidden under huge amounts of 307 In his second edition of artist biographies, Vasari describes a self-portrait by Giorgione as David. Scholars assume that the self-portrait from Braunschweig is the cut original. Sylvia Ferino-Pagden, in: Sylvia FerinoPagden, Giovanna Nepi-Scirè (eds.), Giorgione: Mythos und Enigma, exh. cat. Gallerie dell’Accademia, Venice, Vienna, Milan 2004, p.  234 – 236. Wenzel Hollar made an engraving modeled after Giorgione’s painting in 1650, including Holofernes’s severed head; ill.: ibid., p.  238. On the variety of paraphrases also see ibid., nos. 10, 11, 12, 20 and Portrait of a Man in Armour by Sebastiano del Piombo from 1511/12 (Hartford): David Alan Brown, Sylvia Ferino-Pagden (eds.), Bellini, Giorgione, Tizian und die Renaissance der venezianischen Malerei, exh.  cat. Washington, D. C., Vienna, Milan 2006, cat.  no.  51, ill.: p.  259. For an interpretation of the example from Edinburgh and its relation to the Petrarchan love discourse, see: Marianne Koos, Bildnisse des Begehrens. Das lyrische Männerportrait in der venezianischen Malerei des frühen 16. Jahrhunderts — Giorgione, Tizian und ihr Umkreis, Ems­ detten/Berlin 2006, p. 190  ff. 308 Hartmut Böhme, Masken, Mythen und Scharaden des Männlichen. Zeugung und Begehren in männlichen Phantasien, in: Benthien, Stephan 2003, p. 100 – 127, esp. p. 102 – 104. 309 On the meaning of the face in Rembrandt’s work, see below; Koerner 1986.

fabric. His gaze never expresses the vague, dreamy air that many of his female portraits exude. Rembrandt always directly faces the viewer and remains in full control of his gaze, even when his eyes are cast in shadow or barely visible (Chap­man describes them as melancholic). There is nothing reminiscent of the Arcadian genre, which first became popular at court in Holland and in the later 17 th century was also widespread in a classicist manner among the higher strata of the bourgeoisie. An example I find symptomatic is a comparison between one of the artist’s most famous self-portraits and a portrait of his wife

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Fig. 48: Rembrandt, Self-Portrait, 1640, canvas, London, National Gallery Fig. 47: Rembrandt, Saskia with a Flower, 1641, panel, Dresden, Staatl. Kunstsammlungen, Gemäldegalerie

Saskia, from the same time. I am referring to the self-portrait of Rembrandt as a 34 yearold from 1640 and the portrait Saskia with a Flower from 1641 (fig. 47 and fig. 48). Chapman even assumes that “the two paintings in Titianesque guise form a complementary pair and perhaps were conceived as such.”310 We know that Rembrandt referred to Titian’s portrait of the famous Italian poet Ariosto (fig. 49) 311, the portrait of Castiglione by Raphael, which Rembrandt copied in pencil (fig. 50) and Dürer’s self-portrait from 1498 (fig. 51). 312 Rembrandt represents himself at the peak of his career as an artist, whose fame is further heightened by associating himself with Dürer, Raphael and Titian. Referencing Dürer’s self-portrait represents his affiliation with artistic tradition from the north. He also claims Raphael’s mastery of drawing and Titian’s colorism. The triangular composition of the painting and Rembrandt’s pose and costume all serve to represent a humanistically educated Renaissance artist. Moreover, he also claims the traits associated with those depicted in the quoted artworks: the poetic ingenuity of Ariosto and the courtly ideal of Castiglione. However, Rembrandt’s realism has replaced the harmonizing and idealized facial features in Raphael’s portrait of Castiglione, giving his face a new form of vividness and presence. This presence is further intensified by the spatiality of the self-portrait that Rembrandt achieves by orchestrating light and shadow. This is also detectable in the positioning of his body, particularly his arm, which, leaning on the balustrade, seems to reach into the viewer’s space. The brilliance of the steel blue silk costume in Titian’s

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Fig. 49: Titian, so-called Ariosto, c. 1510, canvas, London, National Gallery Fig. 50: Rembrandt, after Raphael’s portrait of Baldassare Castiglione, drawing, 1639, Vienna, Albertina Fig. 51: Albrecht Dürer, Self-Portrait, 1498, panel, Madrid, Prado

portrait has been replaced by more subtle brown tones; glamorous colors and fabrics would only distract from the center of attention, which is clearly Rembrandt’s face. The lighting emphasizes the face’s centrality, and the dark framing of beret, hair and clothing amplifies its luminance. Rembrandt’s gaze is directed right into the viewer’s eyes — this is not an automatic effect created by the mirroring effect of the self-portrait. The impres­ sion of a critically examining artist is accentuated by a hint of a crease on his forehead and the slight shadowing of the top left part of his face. The sum of these features adds up to a staging that creates the impression of a differentiated, reflective, autonomous subject. Despite the multitude of roles, masquerades, gestures and facial expressions, Rembrandt’s self-portraits are marked by an unmistakable individuality, with the exception of a few tronies, in which the lines between portrait and fictitious image are blurred. We cannot detect this kind of individuality in his female portraits, even though they exhibit a similar abundance of expression. Current research rightly asserts that former identifications of female depictions as Artemisia, Bellona, or Flora and the many drawings of women in bed as Saskia and later Hendrickje are no longer tenable. 313 These representations of women are not individualized enough to identify them as a specific person with certainty, even if they may have been inspired by Saskia or Hendrickje. Not even the silverpoint drawing from 1633 that Rembrandt himself documented as Saskia shows clearly individual facial features. The 310 Chapman 1990, p.  74. The measurements are almost identical, especially considering the fact that the selfportrait was originally square-shaped; self-portrait: 93/80  cm, Saskia: 98.5/82.5  cm. 311 Current research no longer upholds the interpretation that this is Ariosto. 312 Usually only Titian and Raphael are named: both were exhibited in original in the collection of Alfonso Lopez in Amsterdam; Rembrandt’s etching from 1639 is very close to Titian’s original. 313 See the respective recording in RRP; Dickey 2002, p.  23; exh.  cat. Edinburgh, London 2001.

portrait from Dresden from 1641 is one of the very few works — alongside the mentioned silverpoint drawing from 1633 and the etching of the self-portrait with Saskia from 1636 — that scholars have unanimously identified as a

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Fig. 52: Titian, Flora, c. 1515, canvas, Florence, Galleria degli Uffizi Fig. 53: Circle of Giorgione, Portrait of a Man, so-called Brocardo, c. 1510, canvas, Budapest, Szépmu˝vészeti Múzeum

portrait of Saskia (fig. 47). 314 Wearing a red velvet gown, Saskia fully faces the viewer, resting her left hand on her heart and presenting a carnation in her right hand to Rembrandt, or rather to the viewer. Behind her to the left, more flowers are strewn on a balustrade. Saskia’s dress is slightly opened and reveals a hint of her undershirt while a delicate veil covers her right breast. Lavish jewelry in her hair, on her body and on her clothing emphasizes the splendorous effect of the portrait. The carnation is a traditional symbol of love and martial fidelity. 315 The left hand on her breast is a gesture of affirmation and veracity. Thus, we have an image affirming love and devotion: Saskia as a wife who gives love to her husband and herself. The association with Flora, goddess of flowers and spring, is intentional. Rembrandt also painted the goddess in 1634 and in 1635 and once again resorted to the motive in 1657. His inspiration comes from Titian’s Flora from 1515 (fig. 52), which he was able to study in the Lopez Collection along with Raphael’s Castiglione and Titian’s Ariosto. As Julius Held demonstrates, Flora had a double meaning: one was goddess of flowers and spring, the other was the name of a Roman courtesan who is said to have sponsored the ancient Floralia games, according to the early Christian author Lactantius. 316 Joachim von Sandrart had a verse describing Flora as Titian’s lover printed on his copy of Titian’s Flora. 317 The fusion of Flora in her erotic connotation with a lover and wife was thus also a plausible connection for Rembrandt and his contemporaries. Rembrandt never portrayed his wife as a bourgeois wife like many of his colleagues did. Heightening a lover and loved one by depicting them as a mythological figure, therefore transcending everyday bourgeois existence into divine spheres, has a clear tradition linked to humanist Renaissance. Petrarch’s sonnets to Laura are the archetype; the ideal of love they embody was quite vital in bourgeois Holland and common in poetry by Vondel, Vos and others. 318 Following the new ideal of marriage in

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bourgeois-protestant Holland, Rembrandt transferred the courtly ideal of the un­attain­ able lover to his wife. Like Laura and her painted companions in Italian, particularly Venetian painting, Rembrandt’s Saskia/Flora is set somewhere be­t ween private intimacy and publicity. The difference between Rembrandt’s self-portrait as a 34 year-old and the nearly concurrent painting of Saskia could not be greater. He, the ingenious artist and bearer of culture, and she, the private and erotic wife, ‘tuned to love cap-à-pie.’ I imagine this may be met with a certain lack of understanding from my readers, who might find nothing unusual about this division. I would, however, like to point out that there actually was a male counterpart in the Petrarchan love discourse, albeit a geographically and temporally limited one. Marianne Koos compiled a group of male depictions from the Giorgionismo in her doctoral thesis Bildnisse des Begehrens. Das lyrische Männerporträt in der venezianischen Malerei des frühen 16. Jahrhunderts — Giorgione, Tizian und ihr Umkreis (Images of Desire. The Lyrical Male Portrait in Early 16th Century Venetian Painting —  Giorgione, Titian and their Circle). These portraits stand in remarkable contrast to the usual Renaissance portrayal of men, as those depicted typically have a vague, dreamy and enigmatic gaze (fig. 53). 319 The representation of an affective, subjective and desiring self is what distinguishes these images from other male representations. We can conclude that desire and devoted love were traits that were also attributed to men. Koos, basing her arguments on findings by Elizabeth Cropper, links the phenomenon to a Petrarchan group of artists around the poet Pietro Bembo. Two things make these portraits so remark­able: firstly, the fact that alternative concepts of masculinity have existed in our culture; and secondly, that they remained marginal and were forgotten. Rembrandt was familiar with early 16th century Venetian painting and even referenced its ideal of femininity; perhaps he was even directly inspired by the military costumes in Giorgionesque works. And yet he did not adopt this alternative concept of masculinity in his wide range of male por­traits, whether they were of himself or of others. In regard to self-staging, the double portrait of him and Saskia from 1635 (fig. 54) marks the limits of what was possible: costumed, even bearing an épée, active and salacious, yet tied to the discourse of sin set by the Prodigal Son. In his history paintings we can find a 314 RRP, vol.  3, A 142. 315 David R. Smith, Masks of Wedlock, Ann Arbor 1982, p.  59 – 63, 77. 316 Julius S. Held, Flora, Goddess and Courtesan, in: De artibus opuscula. Essays in Honour of Erwin Panofsky, New York 1961, p.  201 – 218. 317 Exh.  cat. Edinburgh, London 2001, p.  208. 318 Dickey 2002, p.  29  ff.; Alison McNeil Kettering, Ter Borch’s Ladies in Satin, in: Franits 1997, p.  98 – 115. 319 Koos 2006; Cropper 1995, p. 159 – 205. The direct comparison between male and female images from early 16th century Venice in the exhibition Bellini, Giorgione, Tizian at Kunsthistorisches Museum Wien in 2006 was very enlightening in this regard, see note 307.

certain shift in the conception of masculinity. Rembrandt does not portray heroes as we find them in the Renaissance or Baroque: no figures characterized by physical strength or beauty; quite to the contrary, many of them are marked by age and physical decline. Yet there are heroes of a different kind: heroes of the mind, of know­

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Fig. 54: Rembrandt, Self-Portrait with Saskia, c. 1635, canvas, Dresden, Staatliche Kunstslg., Gemäldegalerie Fig. 55: Rembrandt, A Woman Bathing, 1654, panel, London, National Gallery

ledge, like Homer, Aristotle and biblical figures. Rembrandt’s affinity to negative heroes like Judas, the Prodigal Son or Haman is remarkable as well. 320 Not only the choice of figures is striking, but even more how these anti-heroes are set at the center of the visual narrative as complex and ambiguous characters. He takes them seriously as figures, often making it impossible to distinguish between ‘good’ and ‘evil’. Despite the pronounced differentiation of masculinity in its representations, an image like A Woman Bathing from 1654 is still unthinkable with a male figure (fig. 55). Painted in an open style, yet signed by Rembrandt, we can assume that it was indeed completed. The sketch-like painting, fully focusing on effects of light and dark, gives the scene an air of mystery and a Giorgionesque atmosphere. Scholars have tried to explain the unusual painting by either ascribing it to traditional iconography (Bathsheba, Susanna) or interpreting it as a moralizing allegory (mulier impudica), or claiming the model was Hendrickje. 321 Even if the starting point for the image’s conception lay in the iconography of Bathsheba or Susanna, there is no obvious narrative indication to one of the biblical stories. The painting is rather an indicator for the gradual dismissal of biblical or mytholo­ gical themes and the adoption of freer inventions in which the female nude becomes the sole subject of the image. Once again, comparing contrasting interpretations can deliver

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Fig. 56: Rembrandt, Men Bathing, 1651, etching, London, British Museum

new insights: As mentioned above, there are no obvious signs determining whether the depicted female figure is an incarnation of pudicitia (Susanna), or the opposite, mulier impudica, the incarnation of impurity. As soon as we look beyond iconographic motifs (in this case the shirt-lifting) and include the aesthetical staging into our interpretation, it becomes unthinkable that this painting could bear any reference to unchasteness. Why do art historians — women and men alike — always feel the need to put a moral coating on all images that seem even remotely erotic? The female figure is not posing for the viewer, she does not even realize that someone may be watching her. With her shirt gathered up, she slowly makes her way into the water, seeming completely absorbed in thought, in her reflection. The water probably also reflects her lower body and with it, her crotch, which remains invisible to the viewer. Bound to end in a zone of dark shadows, any voyeuristic gaze is futile. The smiling young woman is fully focused on immersing herself in the water and thus on experiencing a pleasurable physical sensation. Therefore, she is not merely a passive object staged for the (male) gaze; she becomes active by con­ centrating on what her body is feeling. Since we are dealing with an image painted by a male artist 320 Jan Bialostocki, Der Sünder als tragischer Held bei Rembrandt, in: Kelch, von Simson 1973, p. 137 – 150. 321 For a display of various interpretations, see Jan Kelch, in: exh.  cat. Berlin 1991, p.  246 – 249. Kelch himself interprets the figure as a seductive Bathsheba. J. Leja, Rembrandt’s Woman Bathing in a Stream, in: Simiolus 24, 1996, p.  320 – 327.

and not with a real woman with real feelings, we must assume that Rembrandt translated his

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own sensations into the painting. He can only describe the depicted form of physical plea­sure through a woman — after all, there is no equivalent image of a bathing man. 322 He did make an etching of this theme using men in 1651 (fig. 56), but it seems more like a compositional sketch. The men are arranged additively, and the representation of the sensual experience of touching water, the idea of becoming one with nature or physical pleasure are clearly neither the subject nor the artistic aim. In 1646 Rembrandt created three etchings with male nudes, but they were all intended only as didactic models for his students. 323 I would like to once again point out that these ascriptions are not as ‘natural’ as they may seem to some: In late medieval courtly art, male protagonists in erotic bathing images and fountain-of-youth themes were a fairly common sight (figs. 41– 43). 324

De Staalmeesters or Public representation is male The issue we are looking at in Rembrandt’s work is not only that women and men are represented differently,325 but that they inhabit different spaces or rather never become part of representations in certain spaces and contexts. The gravity of this gender-specific differentiation becomes more obvious when we add Holland’s general image production to the equation. Differences in the representation of gender in Dutch painting not only took place through the marking of bodies and different characterizations of its protago­ nists, but most of all by drawing spatial boundaries. In short, this meant ascribing public space to males and private space to females. Space has a double meaning here: it refers to both the imaginary, painted space and to actual social space. Public space was marked by group portraits. They are a unique phenomenon; the political, social, religious and cultural specificities in Holland, which held an excep­ tional status in Europe at the time, found a unique artistic form in the genre of group portraiture. It is indeed no exaggeration to say that on the level of images, public space was fully occupied by group portraits. A kind of void had appeared in the field of religious representation, because Catholics were no longer allowed to hold public services and reformed churches had eliminated virtually all images. In the field of secular represen­ tation, courtly art, which determined all neighboring countries’ art, was almost reduced to nothing. Courtly-baroque representation was limited to the politically and culturally rather irrelevant House of Orange in The Hague. 326 The still preserved royal palace at the outskirts of The Hague commissioned by Amalia of Solms-Braunfels and her husband, stateholder Frederik Hendrik, gives us an excellent impression of how the House of Orange was represented. The paintings in the completely painted Oranjezaal all have

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mythological or allegorical themes aimed at heightening the House of Orange. The style fully conforms to the contemporary baroque taste common in other European courts. It is no coincidence that most of the artists were from the southern Netherlands, such as Jacob Jordaens, Thomas Bosschaert or Theodor van Thulden. The stateholder’s abundant painting collection also predominantly included Flemish painters. 327 The Dutch painters working for the court were usually from Utrecht, among them Gerrit van Honthorst. With the Peace of Westphalia in 1648 and the official recognition of the Netherlands as an autonomous republic no longer dependent of Habsburg Spain, the House of Orange lost more and more influence. Willem II, who had taken over the stateholdership after his father Hendrik’s death in 1647, died as early as 1650. The Republic of the United Nether­ lands decided to no longer fill the position of stateholder: The True Freedom, as the rule of the regents was called by the Netherlanders, lasted from 1650 to 1672. In the catastro­ phic year 1672, war was simultaneously declared on the Netherlands by France, Britain and the German cities Cologne and Münster; Jan de Witt, Great Pensionary of Holland and thus the country’s most central political figure, was killed by an angry mob. In this pre­ 322 I would like to once again point out Michael Sweerts’s ‘bathing’ pictures, which are indeed an exception in Netherlandish painting, see Röske 2004, p. 121 – 135. 323 Bartsch 193, 194, 196. Emmens (1968, p. 154  ff.) even speculated that these etchings could have been part of a drawing manual. 324 Hammer-Tugendhat 1994, p.  394 – 401. 325 Gender-specific differentiations were least prevalent in portraiture. Rembrandt did not idealize female portraits by omitting age or flaws. However there are tell­ing details, for example in the parallel images from around 1665 in New York, where the man holds a mag­ nifying glass while the woman holds a carnation, or the portraits of a married couple from around 1633 at the KHM Vienna, in which the man seems to make contact with the viewer in a speaking gesture while the wife is portrayed in a demure position, her arms close to her body and her gaze directed into the void. On equality but simultaneous differentiation in Dutch portraiture, see: Helga Möbius, Die Moralisierung des Körpers. Frauenbilder und Männerwünsche im frühneuzeitlichen Holland, in: Barta et. al. 1987, p.  69 – 83; Möbius, in: Möbius, Olbrich, 1990, p.  80 – 134, esp. p.  88 – 122. 326 Bob Haak, The Golden Age: Dutch Painters of the Seventeenth Century, London, New York 1984; Frijhoff, Spies, 2004, p.  494. 327 Haak 1984 includes a listing of all paintings in stateholder Frederik Hendrik’s collection according to an inventory from 1632 and 1634. 328 Tibor Wittmann, Das Goldene Zeitalter der Niederlande, Leipzig 1975 (1965); Jonathan Israel, The Dutch Republic: Its Rise, Greatness, and Fall 1477 –1806, 2 vols., Franeker 1996; Frijhoff, Spies 2004. 329 The provinces of Friesland, Groningen and Drenthe remained under the stateholdership of the Duke of Nassau. It is often forgotten that stateholdership was divided between the family branches of Orange and Nassau, which can probably be ascribed to the relative irrelevance of the northeastern provinces.

car­­i­ous situation Willem III was reinstated as the new stateholder. Historical summary What were the Netherlands in the 17 th century? 328 Since the Union of Utrecht in 1579, the seven northern provinces Holland, Utrecht, Zealand, Guelders, Overijssel, Friesland and Groningen had united themselves as the Repub­ lic of the United Netherlands in their struggle against Spain. Holland held the most powerful position, followed by Zealand and Utrecht; the northeastern provinces were rural and poor and did not have much to say. 329 The Netherlands were not a centralized state, but rather a confederation of cities with Amsterdam in the lead. Government was formed by the States General, the magistrates of each province. The Great Pensionary, appointed by Holland, was responsible for foreign and trade policy. Power was bundled in the patriciate of regents, old wealthy families who also assigned the city

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council and burgomasters from their own ranks. After a truce with Spain had been reached in 1609, the Netherlands grew to the most influential economic power in Europe, culmi­ nating by mid-century. 1608 – 1611 the Amsterdam Stock Exchange was built, in 1602 and 1621, respectively, the Dutch East India Company (VOC) and the Dutch West India Company (WIC) were founded. The Netherlands became the largest colonial and sea power in Europe, with colonies in India, Indonesia, Australia, Africa, North and South America. Amsterdam was the international trade and financial center. Between 1650 and 1672, the period of True Freedom, the Netherlands were an autonomous republic without a ruling sovereign. This meant they had a remarkably unique position in Europe, whose other countries were all firmly under feudalist and absolutist rule. 330 Frijhoff and Spies were the first to point out the tensions and conflicts within this federal construction in their seminal work Hard-Won Unity. The notion of harmonious unity was a repeatedly eulogized ideal and not social reality. “Concordia res parvae crescunt” was the republic’s motto: “Through harmony small things grow,” or “Unity means strength.” This ideal was perpetuated by scholars of Dutch culture and history. 331 Johan Huizinga, whose research on Dutch culture had a long-lasting influence on the image of the Netherlands from the 1930s to today, devised the notion of a united, peaceful and thoroughly bourgeois Dutch society. 332 The country’s military momentum and the ques­ tionable points of the aspiring colonial power were glossed over along with the pressure exerted by the Calvinist Church. A. Th. Van Deursen refutes this image and points out the two-sided face of the Netherlands: tradesman and priest. 333 This contrast serves as the starting point for Simon Schama’s cultural studies examination Embarassment of Riches. Schama identifies a fundamental contrast between the ascending bourgeoisie’s un­pre­ cedented wealth and luxury and Calvinist teachings, and concludes that this is the controversial core of Dutch self-conception. 334 However, Schama also simplifies the image and underestimates the multiplicity and its resulting tensions. The Netherlands were by no means a homogenous structure, quite the contrary: The struggle to negotiate opposing interests was surely decisive in shaping a specifically Dutch mentality. Nego­ tiations were necessary between the (military-monarchist) interests of the stateholder and the States General; between individual, sometimes very different provinces; between competing cities; between bourgeoisie and nobility; between the wealthy patriciate and middle-class citizens or simple folk. We must also not forget a division that lead to one of the worst wars of the 17 th century: religious differences. The Netherlands were not purely Calvinist, but rather regionally diverse: half of Utrecht’s population was Catholic; in Haarlem there was an equal number of Calvinists, Mennonites and Catholics. Deventer was orthodox Calvinist, while Amsterdam was pronouncedly liberal, also towards nonChristians, particularly Jews. At the Synod of Dordrecht in 1618–1619, the Calvinist Church

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asserted itself over the more liberal and tolerance-proposing Remonstrants, but the municipal administration ensured tolerance. In the second half of the century, the Calvinist church was ratified as Church of State, which, of course, increased its power. Official office was reserved for Calvinists only and public Catholic services were prohi­b ­ ited, but Remonstrants, Mennonites and Lutherans were widely tolerated. After all, the 80-Year War had been fought in the name of religious freedom. Freedom of conscience in religious questions was thus one of the fundamental ideas of the republic. International trade also contributed to this form of acceptance. Frijhoff and Spies convincingly elabo­ rate how the necessity to handle the myriad of differences profoundly shaped the Netherlands’ structure and, as the authors describe it, lead to a culture of discussion. Power was situated in cooperation both in questions of politics and economy. It was neither left in the hands of a single, absolutist 330 The situation might be compared to Venice, which was ruled by a Doge, though, to cantons in Switzerland, which never achieved such an economic status, or a few free German cities. 331 Frijhoff, Spies 2004, p.  62 – 66. 332 Johan Huizinga, Holländische Kultur des 17. Jahrhunderts. Ihre sozialen Grundlagen und nationale Eigenart, Jena 1933. 333 A. Th. van Deursen, Cultuurgeschiedenis bij Huizinga en in de Oude Algemene Geschiedenis der Nederlanden, in: Theoretische geschiedenis 13, 2, 1986, p. 197 – 208, here p.  206. 334 Simon Schama, The Embarrassment of Riches: An Interpretation of Dutch Culture in the Golden Age, New York 1987. On the relation between capitalism and Protestantism see: Max Weber, The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism, New York 2009 (1904/05 transl. 1930). 335 Essential on Dutch group portraiture: Alois Riegl, The Group Portraiture of Holland, Los Angeles 1999 (1902); on schuttersstukken, see: M. Carasso-Kok, J. Levy-van Halm (eds.), Kracht en zenuwen van de stad, exh.  cat. Frans Hals Museum Haarlem, Zwolle 1988, especially the essay by Christian Tümpel, De Amsterdamse Schutterstukken; Frijhoff, Spies 2004, p. 143 – 145; Bob Haak, Group Portraits in the Amsterdam Historical Museum, vol. I, Civic Guard Portraits, Amsterdam 1986 (with many illustrations); Paul Knevel, Armed Citizens: The Representation of the Civic Militias in the Seventeenth Century, in: Arthur K. Wheelock, Jr., Adele Seeff, The Public and the Private in Dutch Culture of the Golden Age, Newark, London 2000, p.  85 – 99. On regent portraits, see: Mechthild Beilmann, Das Regentenstück in Leiden, doctoral thesis, Munich 1989; Bob Haak, Group Portraits in the Amsterdam Historical Museum, vol. II, Regents, Regentessen and Syndics, Amsterdam 1986; for a compilation of the most well-known regent portraits and an analysis of their function in public life, see: Michiel Jonker, Public or Private Portraits: Group Portraits of Amsterdam Regents and Regentesses, in: Wheelock 2000, p.  206 – 226. Also see Möbius, Olbrich, 1990, p.  80 – 134 (individual and community in portraits and collective portraits); Haak 1984; Berger 2000, esp. p.  288 – 89, 316 – 348.

sovereign, nor up to aristocratic families or single individuals, but rather remained the responsibility of groups. These groups, in turn, had to bundle and coordinate opposing inter­ ests: the General States, the city councils, the head managers of VOC and WIC, the guild regents, etc. The group portrait The adequate form of representation for this form of power was the group portrait. 335 Instead of church or court, the institutions of the wealthy patriciate were the most relevant patrons of art. A wide range of groups found a shared form of representation in group portraiture: the militia companies or schutters guilds regents of merchant guilds and governors of welfare institutions. Group portraits were omnipresent in public life; they hung in the doelen (militia assembly halls), the guilds and welfare facili­ties like orphanages, nursing homes and hos­pitals. In contrast the factual government, the States General, the mayors and city councils, almost exclusively resorted to history paintings or allegorical images for city government

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Fig. 57: Dirck Jacobsz. Group-Portrait of Seventeen Members of the Kloveniersdoelen, 1529, panel, Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum

buildings. 336 The earliest form of group portraiture is the schuttersstuk, a portrait of a militia company. The oldest still-preserved work of this kind is by Dirck Jacobsz. from 1529 (fig. 57). The militia companies went back to the 14th century, when they were formed to defend the cities. These guilds experienced a revival in the second half of the 16th century, during the war against Spain. Their members were armed citizens. 337 The shutters (shooters or arquebusiers) were considered the heart of the city, symbol of a free city that answers to no master. Thus the meaning of their guilds surpassed their military function and they significantly contributed to the cultural process with parades and festivities. The doelen were not only used as assembly halls, but also served as a place for social gatherings and public representation; trade agreements were signed, receptions and banquets were held and guests of honor were accommodated there. A commission for a schuttersstuk was one of the highest signs of social approval. Rembrandt’s famous Night Watch was one of seven group portraits that the Cloveniersgilde in Amsterdam commis­sion­ ed between 1638 and 1645 for the ballroom of their new clubhouse. 338 Huizinga compares the sign­ifi­­cance of the militia companies and cham­ bers of rhetoric to the role of the academies in Italy, the salons in France, or the clubs in Britain. After the Peace of Westphalia in 1648, the

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336 As far as I know, no one has ever sought an explanation; Michiel Jonker (in: Wheelock 2000, p. 207) only states: “It is remarkable that the highest official bodies, such as the city corporation or the burgomasters, seldom or never appear in group portraits,” but never asks why. Perhaps the ideal of society (as a whole) was better represented in general allegories or history paintings. Maybe the reason was to keep power, which in fact lay in the hands of a very small, very wealthy elite, detached from specific, identifiable people. On Amsterdam, particularly the city hall, see: Albert Blankert, Kunst als regeringszaak in Amsterdam in de 17e eeuw. Rondom schilderijen van Ferdinand Bol, Amsterdam 1975. One exception is a group portrait of Deventer’s city council by Gerard ter Borch from 1667 in: Haak 1996. On the stringent relation between politics and art in the time of the

Fig. 58: Werner van den Valckert, Regents of the Groot Kramergild, 1622, panel, Berlin, Staatliche Museen, Gemäldegalerie

production of schuttersstuks abruptly declined even though the militia companies con­ tinued to exist. But the Netherlands continued all their warfare overseas. 339 Especially after 1650, in the stateholderless era of regent government, the Netherlands wished to present themselves as a peaceful community. Even though it still existed in social reality, militant action was to disappear from the public aesthetic field and thus from Dutch identity. 340 The main focus of public representation shifted from armed militia portraits to peaceful regent portraits (fig. 58). Regents were the directors of municipal institutions, especially welfare institutions; they were all members of the social elite. Translating the mode of repre­sentation for two such contrary groups was facilitated by the unspecific aesthetic staging of the group portrait. After all, the shooters were not portrayed in action or during shooting practice, but instead opted for a representation of themselves as individuals in a group. This concept led to pronounced difficulties in regard to aesthetic truce, see: H. Perry Chapman, Propagandist Prints, Reaffirming Paintings: Art and Community during the Twelve Years’ Truce, in: Wheelock, Jr., Seeff 2000, p.  43 – 63. 337 The shooters all came from wealthy families and the officers all belonged to the urban patriciate. 338 The other commissions went to Flinck, Backer, Sandrart, van der Helst und Pickenoy. On The Night Watch, see: Egbert Haverkamp-Begemann, Rembrandt. The Nightwatch, Princeton 1982. 339 Next to the Anglo-Dutch Wars 1652 – 54, 1665 – 67 and 1672 – 74 this includes warlike operations in and about the colonies against Spain, Portugal and the respec­ tive native peoples. 340 There are, however, depictions of naval battles which were commissioned by admirals and were quite popular with private collectors.

presentation: an assem­bly of singular characters, in which each indivi­dual had to be recognizable as such while also repre­senting a unified group. This double referential character — to the unique individual and the group — is what marks Dutch group portraits. In his seminal analysis Group Portraiture in Holland, Alois Riegl described them as

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Pl. 7: Rembrandt, De Staalmeesters (The Syndics), 1662, canvas, Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum

depictions of a democratic society. 341 Contrary to Riegl, I do not believe that an egalitarian image structure can be transferred directly to social reality. Despite any justified criticism of Riegl’s observations we can use his findings productively: the insight that the aesthetic structure carries a message about the content, in this case the message of the ideal of equality. 342 Represen­tations of the militia and the regents are not illustrations of social reality, but rather of their imaginary, ideal image; the fiction of a harmonious, conflict-free union of individuals and community, unity and equality. Rembrandt painted four group portraits; they are among his most important commissions. Alongside The Night Watch, The Anatomy Lesson of Dr. Nicolaes Tulp and Dr. Deyman, the regent portrait of the Staalmeesters is the one we shall take a closer look at. With his specific staging, Rembrandt managed to transcend the pure representation of a corporation, heading towards generalization: the Utopia of an ideal society. De Staalmeesters Rembrandt’s De Staalmeesters (plate 7) is one of six group portraits that hung in the great hall of the draper guild’s doelen. 343 We know who the patrons were because the sampling officers that were in office in 1662 are documented. 344 From left to right, they are: Jacob van Loon, the oldest at 67, Catholic; Volckert Janszoon, Mennonite, art collec­ tor; chairman Willem van Doeyenburg, Calvinist; Jochen de Neve, the youngest at 33, Remonstrant; and finally, Aernout van der Meije, Catholic and like van Doeyenburg from one of the wealthiest and most respected families in Amsterdam. Behind him is servant Frans Hendrickszoon Bel who had invented a successful new coloring technique. All

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depicted syndics were cloth merchants. What I find most remarkable is the represen­ta­tion of members of the social elite with four different religions: a symbol of Amsterdam’s society, its power and its tolerance. 345 Iconographically, the painting closely follows the tradition of the schuttersstuk: a 341 In Dutch portraiture all action was frozen and those portrayed were fully turned towards the viewer. Riegl (1902) described this as the ‘extra-pictorial unity’ (ausserbildliche Einheit) as opposed to the ‘inner pictorial unity’ (innerbildliche Einheit) in Italian and Italianrelated art, where figures within the image stand in relation to each other. For Riegl, group portraiture is the quintessence of ‘Dutch artistic volition’ (des holländischen Kunstwollens). 342 The sociological approach in the exhibition catalog Schutters in Holland 1988 misses, in my opinion, the meaning of the schuttersstuk; Riegl is only mentioned negatively and dismissed as a proponent of Hege­lian idealism in Christian Tümpel’s essay (De Amster­ damse Schutterstukken) (p. 76). The catalog’s authors argue that Holland’s unique situation somehow automatically caused group portraiture. They thus directly conclude from social reality to image. Even though they seem to be doing the opposite of Riegl, their belief in a mimetic relationship between image and social real­ ity is structurally closely related to Riegl. The shooters could have chosen another form of representation, for example in action or in reference to historical or mythological themes. See Daniela Hammer-Tugendhat, Rembrandt und der bürgerliche Subjektentwurf, in: Ulrich Bielefeld, Gisela Engel (eds.), Bilder der Nation. Kulturelle und politische Konstruktionen des Nationalen am Beginn der europäischen Moderne, Hamburg 1998, p. 154 – 178. 343 The analysis of this image is based on my essay Rem­ brandt und der bürgerliche Subjektentwurf from 1998; however, the text’s central question was what function group portraiture had in the constitution of a specif­ ically Dutch identity. On De Staalmeesters, see: Tolnay 1943, p.  31  ff.; H. Van de Waal, De Staalmeesters en hun legende, in: Oud Holland 71, 1956, p. 61 – 105 (English summary p. 105 – 107); H. Van de Waal, The Mood of the Staalmeesters. A Note on Mr. De Tonlnay’s Interpretation, in: Oud Holland 73, 1958, p.  86 – 89; Tolnay, A Note on the Staalmeesters, in: Oud Holland 73, 1958, p.  85   f; J. H. Van Eeghen, De Staalmeesters, in: Oud Holland 73, 1958, p.  80 – 84; Christian Tümpel, Rembrandt. Mythos und Methode, Königstein im Taunus 1986, cat.  no.  256, p.  418; André Chastel, Im­pres­sions. The Board of the Clothmakers’ Guild, in: FMR, no.  43, April 1990, p. 17 – 20; exh.  cat. Berlin 1991, no.  48, p.  278 – 283. 344 Eeghen (op.  cit.) identified those portrayed. 345 On the significance of religion and reciprocal religious tolerance in 17th century Holland, see: Heinz Schilling, Nationale Identität und Konfession in der europäischen Neuzeit, in: Bernhard Giesen (ed.), Nationale und kulturelle Identität. Studien zur Entwicklung des kollektiven Bewusstseins in der Neuzeit, Frankfurt a. M. 1996, p. 196  ff. 346 Govert Flinck, Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum; ill.: exh.  cat. Haarlem 1988, p.  97, fig.  69; see also there for further examples and images.

relatively small number of men assembled around a table, most of them sitting, a few of them standing. We can already find this staging in Werner van den Valckert’s 1622 portrait of Five Regents of the Groot-Kramergild or Govert Flinck’s Governers of the Kloveniersdoelen from 1642, a group portrait that together with Rembrandt’s Night Watch decorated the great hall of the newly built Kloveniersdoelen. 346 The unique effect of De Staalmeesters is based on the juxtaposition of unified space and action, and thus time, and the protago­nists’ psychological awareness for the viewer. Rembrandt combines a very close vantage point with an extremely low viewpoint. The confrontation this provokes with the viewer is substantially emphasized by the fact that (almost all) protagonists are visually fixating the viewer. In similar works by Rembrandt’s pre­ decessors, the viewer’s gaze is usually directed at the scene from a slightly raised perspective and with more distance to those seated at the table, thus ensuring the impression of remote­ ness. One exception is a painting from 1653 by Van der Helst, which also has a low viewpoint (fig. 59). The fact that the figures are in full-

length, however, inhibits any immediate con­ nection and, even more importantly, only one of the protagonists is looking directly at the viewer. In group portraits before Rembrandt’s, we can find an entire range of gestures, some of which are symbolical. They rarely, if at all, refer to each

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Fig. 59: Bartholomeus van der Helst, The Four Governors of the Archers’ Civic Guard, 1653 – 57, canvas, Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum

other and only few are aimed in the viewer’s direction; often two or more people seem to be speaking at the same time, or no one seems to be listening. The additive quality of the depicted symbols makes it impossible for these paintings to emit a sense of immediacy. The opposite is true for Rembrandt’s group portrait, where almost all figures direct their attention to the viewer. The exception is the person who has just been speak­ ing as we can tell from his speaking gesture. Oddly, the viewer feels like the figures are reacting to her/him. This effect is increased by subtly turned heads; the movement of getting up; the look of the second man from the right who was just concentrating on the book in his hands a moment ago; and the man at the far right lifting his arm in a mo­ mentary gesture. All this provokes the impression of the group reacting to the viewer as if they had all been concentrating on the chairman’s words when the viewer ‘interrupted’ their meeting. This means that the viewer is constitutive for the image. (It would be a different image if the viewer did not exist.) This stringent effect of presence, of present time was interpreted naturalistically, or anecdotally for a long time: entire stories were invented explaining the alleged conversation and reactions between the figures and a supposed party just outside the picture plane. 347 In his essay on De Staalmeesters from 1956, van de Waal clearly refutes these interpretations as absurd ideas. 348 However, the aesthetic structure that caused this reception cannot be interpreted as a mere “tectonic function” within purely artistic principles. 349 It has a deeper level of meaning. Research in reception aesthetics has asserted that images construct a viewer, that there is an inter­ action between image and viewer. 350

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The protagonists here are highly individualized in their facial features, their expressions, their gestures and their specific reactions. Each one of them seems to react differently to the viewer. We can find a range from quiet looking to standing up and wanting to leave. The diverging gestures create a sense of disquiet, yet the painting as a whole exudes a deep sense of calm. This calmness is created by the aesthetic structure and the planar organization of the panel: the table is positioned at a slight angle that almost seems parallel to the picture plane due to a low viewpoint. The heads are aligned at the projection line even though they are spatially disparate. The figures’ hands are arranged in one connecting line. And finally, the back wall parallel to the picture plane further emphasizes the sense of planarity. However, there is still a strong spatial effect, achieved through the optical tool of light and dark. Rembrandt creates the impression of a unified group in a space. In other words, the autonomy of each personality and indi­ viduality achieves full harmony within the group. The chairperson is only marked as such by the speaking gesture; he neither occupies the painting’s center, nor is he highlighted in the image’s composition. He also does not wear special clothing or have prominent facial features. The center of the painting is instead filled by the servant who, even though he stands in the background, is fully incorporated into the group, forming the top point of a triangular composition with the two middle figures. Despite this subtle allusion to social difference, the impression of a unified group consisting of equal individuals prevails. Merging the figures’ bodies also emphasizes the feeling of unity: especially the middle group seems to be a single dark mass of fused bodies. It becomes even clearer how specific this form of representation is when we 347 Bürger Thoré (Musées de la Hollande, Amsterdam, The Hague, Paris 1858, p.  25  ff.) was the first to come up with the idea that there must have been a party in front of the image to which the figures are supposedly reacting. 348 Waal 1956. 349 “[…] It is shown that elements which were considered to be interpretable as motifs of movement are to be regarded as solutions of problems of composition. The gestures in such pieces have in the first place a tecton­ic function.” (Waal, p. 106). This controversy gives us deep insight into the problem of art-historical approaches. Waal’s formal-analytical method, the anecdotal approach or the empathetic-psychological approach of his opponents as well as Tümpel’s iconographic-sociologist method all encompass essential aspects of the painting. Differences aside, their views all fall short of fully grasping the complexity between artistic production and social reality. The aesthetic structure of an image cannot only be argued formally or as immanent to the image. It must be questioned in regard to the meaning of its content, which in fact is closely tied to social reality, but must not be understood naively as a pure mimesis of said reality. 350 Kemp 1985. 351 It is unusual that only the gesture of the hand points to speaking, while the chairman’s mouth is closed. Thus he just has spoken. On the meaning of the word in Rembrandt’s work, see: Held 1973; Häslein 2004.

compare it to feudal representational images from the Baroque, which usually have a clear center that all movement is directed at or coming from. The center in this example of Dutch group portraiture is the viewer and — typically for Rembrandt — the word, spoken words, invisible text. 351 In De Staalmeesters, the group appears as a close-knit unit of equal members, a group whose individuals are taken seriously in their reactions and psychological structure. Individual reaction is also granted to the viewer. If we follow the figures’ gazes, we can find them diverging slightly, which means that there is not a single anticipated viewer, but multiple ones: several viewers who subjectively react in their own right. This genius constel­la­tion

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of gazes has tempted scholars to presume a party before the picture time and again. The subjectivity that Rembrandt grants both his figures and the painting’s recipients is responsible for the diverging interpretations of the protagonists and their mental states. 352 In conclusion, Rembrandt not only demonstrated the idea of subjectivity and individuality in his figures, he made it tangible for the viewer through the aesthetic structure. Human individuality and freedom as a condition for harmony for all is a concept that finds a remarkable parallel in the political theories of Baruch Spinoza. At the same time Rembrandt created De Staalmeesters, Spinoza wrote Tractatus Theologico-Politicus, which was published in 1670. 353 In the same decade he also wrote Tractatus Politicus, his thoughts on the state, which was still in its hand-written form when he died in 1677. 354 Spinoza created a utopia of human society that far surpassed the existing oligarchy of the regents’ rule. In his treatise he defends the individual freedom of each individual and declares it the base and condition for a democratic and peaceful state. He emphasizes the difference between humans’ feelings and thoughts and their natural right to think what they want and say what they think. According to Spinoza, freedom of thought does not endanger the state, but is rather the condition for a democratic state and guaranteed peace. A state in which the highest law is the wellbeing of its people, the will of the government will ultimately coincide with the individual’s will. Of course I am not claiming that Rembrandt was directly influenced by Spinoza. I rather believe that the specific political, denominational and social situation in the northern Netherlands enabled a culture that allowed ideas of individuality and their har­ monious relation in a community of freedom and statehood to develop. These ideas, in turn, found their respective expression in the fields of philosophy and visual art. At the same time philosophy and visual art are more than products of these social circum­stan­ ces, they actively contribute to the development of culture. Rembrandt envisioned the utopia of harmony between individual autonomy and community. He based his vision on the Dutch tradition of group portraiture as it is embedded in a specific context of social debate. While the individual portraits and varying gestures and reactions of those depicted evoke individuality, the structuring of the viewer-image relation explained above is an authentication of subjectivity. Commu­ nity, on the other hand, is generated through the fused bodies, isocephaly and, most of all, the space and organization of the picture plane (emphasis of the horizontal), which creates a common frame for the group. Doesn’t the ideality of this presented community make us forget the exclusions that are taking place? Isn’t the fact that this ideal society is entirely made up of the social

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elite and only of men pushed aside? This is not an image of equality, it is an image of equality within hegemonic masculinity. Masculinity here is equated with spiritualization and disembodiment. The Staalmeesters are not portrayed at work, sampling fabric. All sensual aspects related to fabric and the abundance associated with it are only materi­a­lized in the striking red carpet spread on the table. The extremely low viewpoint helped Rembrandt get rid of the many objects that would usually lie on the table. The remaining and thus central object is the opened book that the protagonists were obviously all con­ centrating on. Therefore the syndics are not characterized by their occupation or attri­ butes, but rather by self-representation. This is how the referential character to one specific corporation transcends into generality. At the same time the elimination of signs referring to physicality or sensuality represents a specific form of masculinity. The por­ trayed figures seem to have no bodies: the black, undifferentiated, merging shapes have engulfed their actual bodies. Not a single ray of light illuminates their bodies, only their faces and hands, which become the sole carriers of expression. The connective, com­ prehensive element in this group is the invisible word, the intellectual / mental / spiritual (das Geistige). The fact that hegemonic masculinity is not immediately recognizable, but rather appears as universality shows how successful the concept is. 355 I have mentioned several times how eminent the visualization of spoken words is in Rembrandt’s oeuvre. 356 Time and again, Rembrandt sought to depict his figures while speaking, for example Captain Cocq in The Night Watch, Dr. Tulp in The Anatomy Lesson, or the drawing of Joseph Telling his Dreams, et al. Visualizing an act of speech in the past, making the viewer realize that a figure has just spoken, takes this talent to the next level. Painting portraits that seem to speak is an old topos that was also a criterion of quality in Netherlandish writing. This form of praise was reserved for male portraits, we know of no female parallels. A double portrait of the Mennonite preacher Anslo and his wife (fig. 60) 352 The descriptions of the depicted affects vary drastically. Riegl identified “the feeling of a certain sense of satisfaction and agreement, but not the kind of malicious pleasure that arises from schadenfreude” (das Gefühl einer bestimmten Befriedigung und Zustimmung, nicht aber dasjenige einer hämischen Genugtuung und Schadenfreude); Tolnay (1943, p.  64): “Intimidated by these cold and penetrating glances, the spectator feels morally himself delivered up to these men whose judgement will decide his fate.” 353 Baruch Spinoza, A Theologico-Political Treatise [Tractatus Theologico-Politicus], translated by R. H. M. Elwes; http://ebooks.adelaide.edu.au/s/spinoza/benedict/ treatise/index.html, retrieved Aug. 27, 2013. 354 Baruch Spinoza, A Political Treatise [Tractatus Politicus], translated by R. H. M. Elwes; http://ebooks.adelaide.edu.au/s/spinoza/benedict/political/chapter11. html#chapter11, retrieved Aug. 27, 2013. 355 Meuser, Scholz in: Dinges 2005, especially p.  225. 356 Held 1973; Häslein 2004. 357 Schama 1999, p.  479.

provides some insight on the issue. Simon Schama rightly described the painting as a “Protestant icon” that shows “the living word. ”357 The visualization of spoken words is further intensified by the depiction of listening. The gender roles ascribed here are loud and clear: he speaks, while she listens. Rembrandt never created a female parallel to De Staalmeesters. In fact, Dutch painting only offers very few portraits of female

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Fig. 60: Rembrandt, Portrait of Cornelis Claesz. Anslo and his wife Aeltje Gerritsdr. Schouten, 1641, canvas, Berlin, Staatliche Museen, Gemäldegalerie

regents. Their work was mostly limited to poor houses, orphanages and hospitals, institutions belonging to municipal welfare — areas that were previously supervised by the Catholic Church. 358 Nonetheless, paintings of these institutions were also dominated by men. Portraits of females that did exist were mostly displayed in the regents’ cham­ bers and thus had a rather private character. 359 There are no female group portraits of guild governors, anatomies or schuttersstuks. One could believe that virtually no women held these positions. Which is true: there were no women in these posi­tions. Even in the period of True Freedom women were excluded from most political and leading official functions. Furthermore, social life in the militia companies, which played such a central role in Holland’s culture, was exclusively male. In the charter of the Haarlem civic guard from 1621, women and children are explicitly prohibited from partici­pating in any festive banquets, which at times went on for days. 360 A symptomatic example is an early schuttersstuk by Cornelis Anthoninsz. from 1533, in which femininity is not physically, but at least symbolically present in the form of a love poem on a piece of paper one of the guardsmen holds in his hands (fig. 61). 361 A panel by the Master of Frankfurt depicting a militia festival (still) shows men and women celebrating to­gether (fig. 62). The boundaries between public and private life became an increasingly pressing subject of debate. Jacob Cats, who further developed ideas by Erasmus and Vives and, as I have discussed earlier, deeply marked the normative discourse on women’s rights and duties, codified and normed gender-specific places and spaces in his writings. Cats never

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Fig. 61: Cornelis Anthoninsz., Banquet of Members of Amsterdam’s Crossbow Civic Guard, 1533, panel, Amsterdam, Historical Museum

tired of repeating that a woman’s place was the home — the home and nothing but the home. Female life was drastically limited to marriage and motherhood. Even non-con­­for­m­ist thinkers like Spinoza, who was so firm in his claim for equal rights for every individual, never doubted that this only applied to men. All men, except servants or criminals, had the right to political participation, as he explains: I added, besides, “who are independent,” except in so far as they are under allegiance to the laws of the dominion, to exclude women and slaves, who are under the authority of men and masters, and also children and wards […]  362 In an earlier chapter, I mentioned Doctor Johan van Beverwijck, who wrote on health-related subjects and dedicated his book Van de Wtnementheyt des vrouwelicken geslachts (On the excellence of the female sex) to 358 For example The Regentesses of the Old Men’s Alms­ house — the parallel portrait to The Regents of the Old Men’s Almshouse by Frans Hals 1664, Haarlem, Frans Hals Museum. On Amsterdam, see: Jonker 2000, p.  206 – 226. 359 Ibid. 360 Möbius, Olbrich 1990, p. 123. 361 Amsterdam, Historical Museum. The text says “In mijnen sin heb ick vercoren een meysken.” For an illustration showing the detail of the paper with legible notes and text, see: Haak 1986, vol. 1, p. 1. 362 Baruch Spinoza, A Political Treatise [Tractatus Politicus], translated by R. H. M. Elwes; http://ebooks.adelaide.edu.au/s/spinoza/benedict/political/chapter11. html#chapter11, retrieved Aug. 27, 2013.

Anna Maria Schurman. Even this proponent of women in the Querelle conceded intellectual talents and education to women, but only in a private, never in a public scope. Anna Maria Schurman, one of the most educated women at the time and author of a pamphlet arguing for women’s right to education, also only fought for

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Fig. 62: Master of Frankfurt, Guards Festival, second half of the 15th century, panel, Antwerp, Museum voor Schone Kunsten

private scholarliness. 363 As far as we know today, only one female voice protested against the exclusion of women from public office in written form. I am talking about Charlotte de Huybert and her poem (mentioned above) dedicated to Beverwijck. 364 In it, she laments that work by female scientists and scholars is ignored (“der vrouwen wetenschap voor niets gehouden wordt”), that women have no rights and are not even allowed to work in trades, even though reality is different: Of maakt de wet daarom, door hun gemaakt, gewag als dat een vrouwsperoon geen staat bedienen mag? Zij hebben, zeggen sij, zo’n grote recht verkregen: Geen vrouw kan zonder man noch recht, noch handel plegen. De rede leert ons toch het tegendeel daarvan, En d’ondervinding zelf, die wijst ons anders an. 365 She demands that all women be admitted to public office. Marijke Spies, who published and commented Huybert’s text, points out how many centuries it would still take until women were permitted to bring their intellectual achievements into the public. 366

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It is remarkable that women seem to have participated in public life more than written legal sources and didactic writings lead us to believe. Of course the relatively advanced capitalization of the Netherlands and the outsourcing of production from the private home that came with it formed an economic basis for the increasingly stricter separation of public and private space. 367 Yet there was somewhat of an intellectual overstatement that went beyond social reality. We can also detect this exaggeration in visual representations. During the 17 th century, Dutch painting created a dichotomy of female / private space and male/public space, not only illustrating gender segregation, but actually promoting it and thus contributing to the formation of gender-specific identity. In regard to group portraiture one could argue that it is only a depiction of specific corporations and thus not a representative image of (bourgeois) Dutch society per se. (Of course lower social classes are not represented at all.) Because these (very different) groups all chose this specific form of representation and especially because they chose it to mark public space, we can conclude that group portraiture indeed determined the public representation of Dutch society to a great extent. However, governmental sites, namely city halls, were not decorated with group portraits, but rather with history paintings. 368 Amsterdam’s city hall, built by van Campen between 1648 and 1655 was the most significant building at the time. Due to Amsterdam’s importance as a city, one could say that this building was the center of power in all the Netherlands. Paintings by the 363 In her argumentative essay Num foeminae Christianae conveniat studium litterarum? (published 1648 as part of her collected writings, Opuscula, by Elzevir in Leyden), Schurman pleads for the education of women in all arts and sciences. She argues that by nature, women have the same talent as men and, as individuals of the human species, feel the same need for knowledge and education. Contemporaries such as Constantijn Huygens, Jacob Cats, Johan van Beverwijck, Caspar Barlaeus, et al. all greatly admired Schurman, but also considered her an accident of nature. De Baar 1996; see also notes 247, 248. 364 Spies 1986, p.  339 – 350. 365 The poem is reproduced ibid., p.  343. 366 Ibid., p.  350: “[…] dat het nog eeuwen zou duren voordat Charlotte de Huybert haar zin kreeg en ook de intellectuele vrouw een werkende vrouw kon worden.” 367 Martha Howell, Women, Production and Patriarchy in Late Medieval Cities, Chicago 1986; Merry E. Wiesner, Working Women in Renaissance Germany, New Brunswick 1986. 368 See note 336. 369 Blankert 1975; Möbius, Olbrich 1990, p. 185  f.; Frijhoff, Spies 2004, p.   444 – 449. 370 See Ferdinand Bol’s: Fabritius and Pyrrhus, ill.: Blankert 1975, fig.  5. Also telling is a painting Bol made for the assembly hall of the newly built admirality: Imperia Manliana. The son of Roman Consul Titus Manlius Torquatus embarks on a warlike mission against the enemy against his father’s orders. Despite winning, the father has his son beheaded. The law of the father is confirmed as the ultimate law. Blankert, op.  cit., fig.  34.

most renowned artists of the time, including Ferdinand Bol, Govert Flinck, Jan Lievens, et al. mostly depict scenes from Roman history. In this case we are not predominantly interested in the surely well contemplated visual scheme, which clearly aimed at legitimizing the ideology of the regents’ rule. 369 We are more interested in one aspect that has not yet received any scholarly attention: the fact that none of these paintings include women. The two works in the burgomaster’s hall are by Ferdinand Bol and Govert Flinck (fig. 63), sized 3.5 / 4.85  m each. We see episodes of two Roman consuls whose incorruptibility and steadfastness were to set an example for all future mayors. 370 Women are not even present in supporting roles or among the crowds. In these images aimed at representing Dutch identity, women were not depicted at all,

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Fig. 63: Govert Flinck, The Steadfastness of Consul Marcus Curius Dentatus, 1656, canvas, Amsterdam, Royal Palace Foundation

not even in allegorical form. 371 The outrageousness of this omission becomes even more striking when we compare visual representation in the public and the private sphere. The contrast could not be more blatant. An endless number of domestic scenes that were not only exhibited in interiors, but also explicitly addressed the private home and the newly created site of the private image, almost exclusively depicted female figures. We will take a closer look at this in the second part of this book. 372 The separation of a male coded public sphere and a female coded private sphere is even more distinct than in courtly cul­ture. Also in contrast to feudal representation, group portraiture appears to claim social equality. The egalitarian image structure in Dutch group portraits evokes the fiction of an egalitarian society, in which exclusions are no longer noticed because they have been rendered completely invisible. Space is used to shape individuals, either by ascribing them to certain spaces or by excluding them from certain spaces. This also includes the staging of space and the symbolic occupation of space in the field of representation. 373

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3 Asymmetry. Gender Relations in the Field of Sexuality Summing up our observations so far, we can identify a remarkably alternative concept of femininity in Rembrandt’s work, yet at the same time find a significant asymmetry in the representation of gender. In a nutshell, female figures are eliminated from public representation, while male figures are omitted from any erotic context. This gender-specific differentiation conforms to the visual codes and norms of 17 th century Dutch art. The exodus of male protagonists from erotic images is an even more general phenomenon during the shift from late medieval feudal culture to early modern cul­ ture. 374 My own observations as well as those by feminist-oriented art historians has lead me to believe that sexuality in early modern art is almost exclusively represented with nude female bodies, while male sexuality is rendered invisible. In the following I will review this theory: how are gender relations staged when a sexual act requiring both partners is depicted? The motif I am speaking about is coitus. In post-antiquity occidental art, depictions of copulation are relatively rare. In art from the Middle Ages and the early modern period, coitus is almost never shown expli­ citly. Among the few exceptions is the Tacunium Sanitatis codex, a handbook on health and well-being that was illustrated in Italy in the late 14th century and, unsurprisingly, originates in Arabian culture. 375 Medieval art did 371 On the issue of female allegories as a sign of the exclusion of actual women, see: Wenk 1996; Sigrid Schade, Monika Wagner, Sigrid Weigel (eds.), Allegorien und Geschlechterdifferenz, Cologne, Weimar, Vienna 1994. 372 See Chapter 4: The Gender of Letters. 373 I would like to point out a conference in this context: Space and Self in Early Modern Europe, held by the Seventeenth and Eighteenth-Century Studies Center and Clark Library at the University of California. The conference took place in 5 segments between 2007 and 2008 and was directed by David Warren Sabean and Malina Stefanovska. 374 See Chapter 2: The impossible reversal 2 (figs.  41, 42, 43). Daniela Hammer-Tugendhat, Art, Sexuality and Gender Constructs in Western Culture, in: Art in Translation, vol.  4, issue 3, 2012 (2000), p.  361 – 382 (www. artintranslation.org). 375 Otto Pächt, Early Italian Nature Studies and the Early Calendar Landscapes, in: Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes, vol.  8, London 1950, p. 13 – 47. One can also find them in codices of canon law such as Decretum Gratiani, see: Peter Dinzelbacher, Mittelalterliche Sexualität — die Quellen, in: Erlach 1994, p.  47 – 110. 376 Malcolm Jones, Sex and Sexuality in Late Medieval and Early Modern Art, in: Erlach 1994, p. 187 – 304.

offer an abundance of metaphorical represen­ tations of sexuality, including horseback riding, the key in the lock, the unicorn and the young lady, a man playing the organ for a woman and different variations of sword and scabbard. 376 We most often find these metaphorical visuali­ zations of sexual acts in graphic art, but they also appear on the ‘hidden’ sidelines such as drolleries in illuminations or misericords in choir stalls. This should not be misunderstood as a complete suppression of sexuality, which pro­ hibits all explicit depictions. The main reason for the metaphorical representation of sexuality is that it is impossible to depict the full scope of a

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sexual act. Depictions will always remain imaginations of actual physical contact, as sexuality’s fundamental qualities remain invisible. Imaginations thereof can thus often be more effective in sparking recipients’ imaginations than any seemingly explicit image.

Danaë or How the male sex partner was made invisible In Italian Renaissance coitus was often portrayed by depicting couples with crossed / entwined legs. 377 Satyrs were often shown visibly aroused or explicitly involved in sexual acts. These caprine creatures are marked as male, but are not men; they represent a type of uncivilized, libidinous masculinity. Their partners are usually nymphs who, tellingly, do not differ from real women in their appearance. Sexual acts in history images were only legitimate in the context of antique mythology. The most important source for the depiction of erotic themes were Ovid’s Metamorphoses. From the Renaissance on­ ward, the preferred form of sexual representation was mythological disguise, which meant that the male protagonist, usually Zeus (Jupiter), disappeared in metamorphosis: a swan with Leda, a bull with Europe, a satyr with Antiope, disguised as Diana with Callisto, dissolved into fog with Io (fig. 35, p. 86) and as a golden rain with Danaë. In other words, early modern art actually achieved the impossible: portraying copulation without a male protagonist. We are left with the female nude. Basing this phenomenon on nothing else but its antique sources is not satisfactory. Why did artists almost exclusively resort to these narratives and what is the meaning behind the structure of these myths? Danaë quickly became the star of godly love affairs. The story traces back to Horace’s Carmina, Apollonius of Rhodes’s Scholia and Ovid. 378 Danaë was locked in an iron chamber by her father King Acrisius after an oracle had predicted her son would one day kill him. Jupiter fell in love with her and ‘wed’ her by turning into golden rain. (Danaë’s son Perseus actually killed his grandfather by accident later on.) Why Danaë was the one who became the favorite motif of erotic depictions is quite understandable, since the golden rain gives way to quite pleasant erotic associations (as a kind of auratic semen), whereas animals such as swans or bulls are not really appealing figures for identification. Jupiter as Diana bears the danger of ‘precarious’ lesbian connotations and the fog surrounding Io is not very easy to portray. Additionally, Danaë was already the popular identificatory motif for divinely legitimized seduction during Antiquity. In the comedy Eunuchus by Terence a painting of Danaë sparks an erotic fantasy in the prota­go­ nist’s mind, causing him to imagine himself in Jupiter’s place. By citing this episode — of course as an example of reprehensible heathen morals — Augustine transported the story into Christian tradition. 379 The passage from Terence was recurred to again and again — 

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Fig. 64: Johannes Eyssenhuth, Danaë, Defensorium inviolatae Mariae of Franciscus de Retza, 1471, woodcut, Regensburg Fig. 65: Master L. D. (Leon Davent), after Primaticcio, Danaë, c. 1540 – 50, engraving, Vienna, Albertina

on one hand to verify the effect of erotic images and on the other hand as a positive or negative exemplum. It was either used as a warning against the negative influence of heathen stories or as an invitation to emulate Jupiter. 380 377 Karin Orchard, Annäherung der Geschlechter. Andro­ gynie in der Kunst des Cinquecento, Münster 1992 (doctoral thesis 1988), p.  87; Leo Steinberg, The Metaphors of Love and Birth in Michelangelo’s Pietas, in: T. Bowie, C. von Christenson (eds.), Studies in Erotic Art, New York 1970, p.  231 – 338, here: p.  239 ff. 378 Horace, Carmina III, 16; Apollonios of Rhodes, Argonautica IV, v. 1091; in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Danaë is only mentioned briefly in the stories of (her son) Perseus’s adventures, Met. IV, 610  f. Originally probably a myth of fertility, which is still found as a sort of reflex on antique engraved gems. Usually Danaë is portrayed standing with opened garments. On this, see: William S. Heckscher, Recorded from Dark Recollection, in: Millard Meiss, De Artibus Opuscula XL. Essays in Honour of E. Panofsky, New York 1961, p. 187 – 200, here: p. 194  f., fig. 4. 379 Augustine, De civitate Dei II, 7. 380 In the debate on the power and danger of images that took place in the context of Reformation and CounterReformation, the example of Danaë was frequently cit­ ed as proof for the reprehensible effect of images. On this, see: Freedberg 1971, p.  229 – 242; Carlo Ginzburg, Tizian, Ovid und die erotischen Bilder im Cinque­cento, in: Carlo Ginzburg, Spurensicherungen. Über verborgene Geschichte, Kunst und soziales Gedächtnis, Munich 1988, p.  234 – 258; Grohé 1996, p.  249 – 261. 381 Erwin Panofsky, Der gefesselte Eros. Zur Genealogie von Rembrandts Danaë, in: Oud Holland 50, 1933, p. 193 – 217; Heckscher 1961. 382 Panofsky 1933, p.  207. 383 On the connection between images of the figure Dan­ aë, notions of prostitutes and depictions of courte­ sans, see: Grohé 1996, p.  250  ff.; Cathy Santore, Danaë: The Renaissance Courtesan’s Alter Ego, in: Zeitschrift für Kunstgeschichte 54, 1991, p.  412 – 427.

Two contrary interpretations developed in Christian tradition. 381 Already during Antiquity, in Horace’s and Ovid’s writing, the golden rain is interpreted as actual, physical gold and Danaë subsequently associated with prostitution. Adop­ting this notion, Danaë became a symbol for corruptibility in Christian mythography, particularly in Boccaccio’s work and the follow­ ing humanist tradition. Thus the golden rain turned into coins. Parallel to these developments there was a contrary set of interpretations, which turned Danaë into a personification of chastity, at times even a prefiguration of Mary. In visual media she can, for example, appear fully clothed and receiving moonbeams (fig. 64). 382 When the story’s sexual content is active, Danaë is a negative figure, a symbol of avaritia (avarice), a whore. 383 We only find a positively connoted Danaë when all sexual content is suppressed or

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Fig. 65: Master L. D. (Leon Davent), after Primaticcio, Danaë, c. 1540 – 50, engraving, Vienna, Albertina

denied. In Italian and Dutch humanist writing, the negative image clearly outweighs the positive. She represents greed, for example in the writings of Erasmus or van Mander. 384 At the same time there are several instances where the scene in Terence’s work was used to legitimate behavior following the footsteps of Jupiter. 385 Depictions of Danaë in the early modern period essentially followed inventions by Correggio, Primaticcio (fig. 65) and most of all, Titian (fig. 66). 386 Titian found a genius solution for the dichotomous interpretation of Danaë: In his second version from 1554, he split the figure into two women: actual Danaë, young, beautiful, fair-skinned and fully erotic — without being tainted by negative associations. The second figure is an old nurse with rough features, dark skin and low social status, greedily snatching the coins. Titian’s decisive innovation, however, is that, unlike Correggio and Primaticcio, he explicitly depicts the sexual act. In Correggio’s version, a cloth covers Danaë’s crotch, while Primaticcio’s version bans the golden rain to the background where it is reduced to an attribute instead remaining of the central point of action. Titian let the golden rain fall right between Danaë’s spread thighs, marking it as what it is: male semen. This open eroticism was new and

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384 Grohé 1996, p. 255  ff. 385 Ibid. A Dutch translation was available after 1555 (see p.  274, note 88). One of the most popular Dutch come­ dies, Moortje, from 1617 by Bredero is a paraphrase of Terence’s antique material (p.  255  ff.). 386 Hammer-Tugendhat 1994, p.  388 – 394. 387 English by translator. For the original quote: “[…] die michelangeleske Kühnheit des Hauptmotivs nicht mehr ertragen wurde […],” see Panofsky 1933, p.  210. 388 The subject of Danaë remained an inspiration for erotic phantasies in literature and visual art well into the modern era. Gustav Klimt’s version from 1907/08 (private collection, Graz) is symptomatic as it freezes the sexual act into an autistic moment of autoeroticism and stages it as a masturbatory act (Daniela Hammer-Tugendhat, Art, Sexuality 2012  [2000]). In his novel Green Henry, Gottfried Keller recounts an erotic dream in which he plays a god flying a giant bee that hovers above the city and lets golden rain fall on all girls at a marriageable age (New York, 1960 [Zurich 1879]; quoted here after Heckscher 1961, p. 191, note 15). 389 Panofsky 1933, p. 193 – 217; Heckscher 1961, p. 187 – 200; Madlyn Millner-Kahr, Danaë: Virtous, Voluptous, Venal Woman, in: The Art Bulletin 60, 1978, p.  43 – 55; Ernst van de Wetering, Het formaat van Rembrandt’s Danaë, in: Met eigen ogen. Opstellen aangeboden door leerlingen en medewerkers aan Hans L.C. Jaffé, Amsterdam 1984, p.  67 – 72; RRP, vol.  3, 1989, p.  209 – 223; Bal 1991, p. 142  ff.; Grohé 1996, p.  225 – 276 (Chapter 3: “Der entfesselte Eros — Danaë”); Eric Jan Sluijter, Emulating Sensual Beauty: Representations of Danaë from Gossaert to Rembrandt, in: Simiolus 27, 1999, p.  4 – 45; Sluijter 2006, p.  221  ff. Today the painting is in the Hermitage in St.  Petersburg, a canvas of 185 /203  cm, cut on all sides. De Wetering reconstructed the original size by comparing it to a paraphrase by

Fig. 66: Titian, Danaë, 1553/54, canvas, Madrid, Prado Fig. 67: Orazio Gentileschi, Danaë, c. 1621/22, canvas, Cleveland, The Cleveland Museum of Art

stayed unique. Almost all subsequent versions were based on Titian’s, but not a single artist followed suit in this regard, because, as Panofsky sublimely puts it, “the Michel­ angelesque audacity of the central motif was no longer endured.” 387 And so, Danaë’s pose was ‘corrected’: She once again reclines on her bed like Venus, with closed thighs, usually covered with a piece of cloth while the golden Rembrandt’s student Ferdinand Bol on the subject of Isaac and Esau. Analysis revealed that it was completed and varnished in a first version in 1636, but later paint­ ed over by Rembrandt. Due to the date of a second paraphrase by Bol, David and Salomon from 1646, the authors of RRP (vol.  3, 1989, p.  219) assume this as the terminus ante quem for the final version. Grohé (1996, p.  226 – 234) convincingly proposes that Rembrandt cut the image himself when he was repainting it and that the similarities between Bol’s David and Salomon and Rembrandt’s Danaë are not imperative. For stylis­ tic reasons the second and final version of the painting indicates that it was made in the latter half of the 1640s. The work was well preserved until as recently as 1985, when it was attacked with sulfuric acid and cut, causing extensive damage to the nude. 390 Panofsky 1933, p.  212; Millner-Kahr 1978, p.  51. 391 Grohé 1996, p.  244. 392 Ibid., p.  247. 393 Sluijter 1999 also mentions the other Dutch predecessors and at the same time emphasizes the close relation to Titian. 394 Panofsky 1933, p.  213, as opposed to Grohé 1996, p.  247. 395 Sluijter 1986, p. 437. 396 Millner Kahr 1978, p.  53; Tümpel 1969, p. 107 – 198, here: p. 159, fig.  p. 161; Grohé 1996, p.  247  f. Already cited in Richard Judson’s review of Heckscher’s Rembrandt’s Anatomy of Dr. Tulp, The Art Bulletin 42, 1960, p.  309. 397 In his etching, Menton already omitted the coins and replaced them with a beam of light. However, I do not detect any tangible connection to Rembrandt’s solution. The light beam in Menton’s folio is bundled like the tail of a comet and is aimed directly at Danaë’s crotch. The original idea of golden rain is still detect­ able and the beam has no influence on the lighting of the entire scene.

rain falls above or behind her, or is intercepted by the nurse (in rare cases by Cupid). Thus Danaë advanced to one of the most popular sub­jects of erotically charged nude painting during the Renaissance and Baroque. 388 Rembrandt’s Danaë follows in the foot­ steps of this tradition (plate 8). 389 Scholars have named versions by the following artists as predecessors for Rembrandt’s version: Annibale Carracci390, Orazio Gentileschi (fig. 67) 391, Denys Calvaert392, Hendrick Goltzius393, Hieronymus Wiericx394 , Jacob Matham (engraving after Abraham Bloemaert)395 and Frans Menton (engraving after Frans Floris)396. Rembrandt was surely familiar with these and similar works, but he expunged all traces that depreciate Danaë as a prostitute or signal any moralizing interpre­ tation: there are no more coins. 397 The golden rain is sublimated into pure light. The nurse is freed of her function as the greedy hag trying to

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Pl. 8: Rembrandt, Danaë, 1636 and 1643 – 49, canvas, St. Petersburg, Hermitage Pl. 1: Rembrandt, Bathsheba, 1654, canvas, Paris, Louvre Pl. 3: Rembrandt, Susanna, 1636, panel, The Hague, Mauritshuis

snatch the gold. She still participates in the scene, taking in the light beams at Danaë’s side as she pushes aside the curtain. However, the coins / the golden rain are what trad­ itionally marked a nude as Danaë. The lack of this symbol produced a myriad of inter­ pretations, of which Smith already captured the essence in the catalogue raisonné of 1836 by titling the work The Lover Expected. 398 Later Panofsky’s seminal iconographiciconologic analysis fully confirmed that the painting is indeed a depiction of Danaë. He explains the missing coins with the supposed re-adaptation of the chastity allegory from medieval tradition. Referencing the myth of Anteros, Panofsky interprets the fettered Cupid as a sign of forced chastity over­come with the arrival of Jupiter. His interpreta­tion of the fettered Cupid motif that is unique in Danaë iconography seems plausible to me.

 399

Representing elements from a dramatized plot in a performative sense is charac­­teristic for Rembrandt: The fettered Cupid represents the past, Danaë with her out­stretched arms sym­ bolizes the present reaching for the liberating future in the form of Jupiter’s bright golden light. We are witness to the point in the story where one extreme replaces another. In Rembrandt’s early works, the staging of these dramatized plots still seemed very close to the

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398 J. Smith, A Catalogue Raisonné of the Work of the Most Eminent Dutch, Flemish and French Painters, vol. VII, London 1836, no. 173. For at least 12 different titles, see RRP, vol.  3, 1989, p.  220. 399 In my opinion, Grohé (1996, p.  236  ff.) goes a bit too far in his otherwise justified critique of Panofsky. He exaggerates Panofsky’s interpretation of the painting as a pure allegory of chastity: “For him [Panofsky] Rembrandt’s Danaë is strictly an allegory of chastity.” (English by translator; p.  269  f., note 37) I do not see this suggested in Panofsky’s text: He rather speaks of “forced chastity” (1933, p.  216) and of “unwillingly suffered loneliness” (p.  217). I agree with Grohé that explaining the conversion of golden rain into light does not necessarily require recourse to medieval pu­ dicita iconography; Panofsky does not equate his iconographic recourse with an identical interpretation of content. Grohé, in turn, pays too little attention to the fettered Cupid when he writes: “that he [Rembrandt] left the Cupid in the image could be explained as an attempt to preserve a final reference to the identity of the depicted figure.” (p.  258) However, the fettered Cupid was never part of Danaë iconography. When Grohé

theater-like stagings that were typical in Baroque painting. 400 However, Rembrandt’s Danaë is surely not an allegory of chastity. We do not see a fully clothed allegorical figure like in medieval depictions, but rather a nude female body. The nudity itself may not entirely contradict an allegorical reading, but its specific aesthetic staging clearly does. Rembrandt does everything he can to increase the erotic tension of the scene: the female body is fully turned to the viewer, there is no fabric to cover her crotch. We are not only invited to see this body, we are supposed to feel like we could touch it. Rembrandt achieves this tactile effect with the figure’s pose, the depiction of her skin’s surface and the staging of light. Unlike versions by Titian and his successors, Danaë’s body here is not idea­l­ writes “we cannot speak of a fettered Cupid, it rather encourages an unleashing,” he employs an antago­nism that is not visible as such in the image; the polarity be­ tween fettering and unleashing Cupid can be defused by reading the image as a performative temporal sequence. 400 See, for example, The Rape of Europe. Amy Golahny (Rembrandt’s Europa. In and Out of Pictorial and Textual Tradition, in: Freedman, Huber-Rebenich 2001, p.  39 – 55) was able to identify a correspondence to Aristotle’s concept of peripeteia and Vondel’s Staetveranderinge. 401 See below, Daniela Hammer-Tugendhat, Kunst der Imagination / Imagination der Kunst. Die Pantoffeln Samuel van Hoogstratens, in: Klaus Krüger, Alessandro Nova (eds.), Imagination und Wirklichkeit. Zum Verhältnis von mentalen und realen Bildern in der Kunst der frühen Neuzeit, Mainz 2000, p. 139 – 153, here: p. 148; Eddy de Jongh, Erotika in vogelperspectief: de dubbelzinnigheid van een reeks zeventiendeeeuwse genrevoorstellingen, in: Simiolus 3, 1968 – 69, p.  22 – 74, here: p.  36 – 37; Eddy de Jongh 1976 (exh.  cat. Amsterdam), p.  259 – 261; Handwörterbuch des deutschen Aberglaubens 1987, 7, cols. 1292 – 1354.

ized, linear, or almost geometrically abstract. Instead, it seems like we can feel the heaviness of her inclining belly; we see a real body propped on the bedding and pillows. This becomes most obvious in the positioning of her left breast, which is squeezed together as it rests upon her hand and the pillow. The contact between hand and breast further heightens the impression of tactility. The slippers in front of the bed empha­ size the erotic character of the painting. In Dutch painting (and poetry), shoes and slippers were metaphors for female genitals. 401 The shoes’

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Fig. 68: Giulio Bonasone, Danaë, engraving, Vienna, Albertina

position accentuates the turning point in the story: lying directly beneath Cupid and Danaë, only the opening of the left shoe, pointing towards Jupiter, faces the viewer. Considering the above, how can we interpret the transformation from gold coins into immaterial light? Light is a central category in Rembrandt’s work, it is a fundamental signifier. 402 Its source here can be assumed in the top left corner. The light beam enters through the curtain held open by the nurse and pours itself onto Danaë. Her body, in turn, is composed of light and dark parts — even more than in other nudes by Rembrandt like the concurrently produced first version of Susanna (plate 3) or Bathsheba (plate 1), which he painted later. Danaë’s entire body is illuminated by the light and the white bedding enveloping her produces the impression of a glowing aureole. Jupiter’s beam seems to create Danaë’s physical body while she also appears to glow from within. This autoilluminating effect is also noticeable in the fettered Cupid, his golden glowing body not only stands out from the background, but is accompanied by a halo-like beam of light on the left. This light from two sources, or doubled light, corresponds to Danaë’s pose: she actively turns towards the light, or Jupiter. The ambivalent gesture of the outstretched arm is reminiscent of expectation or greeting, and maybe also expresses surprise by the light’s glare. Her gaze is not directed upward, at the sky. Thus the light apparently is not emitted by a stellar source, but rather comes from a male protagonist. Werner Weisbach claims that the painting could not possibly be of Danaë because of this gaze; he sees Venus awaiting Mars. 403 Danaë’s gaze, together with her active gesture and the sensuality of her nude body, makes it impossible to read this painting as an allegory of chastity. Dissolving the coins into light, on the other hand, signals that it also cannot be an allegory of

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avaritia. The doubled light, which Panofsky and Grohé describe as “irrational” and “diffuse and not quite logic” 404 , respectively, plays a substantial role for the conclusion that this is neither a portrayal of chastity nor of avarice. After all, Danaë neither has to look up at physical coins nor to a divine being. What we see before us is a sensually staged female nude awaiting her (male) partner. Setting out from the story’s narrative tradition, Rembrandt’s specific aesthetic staging achieves a shift in the interpretation of the theme’s content by transcending the dichotomy of earlier interpretations. He does everything to create a female figure that is as sensual and erotic as possible, while re­ fraining from any moralizing judgment of said sensuality. Instead, the glowing light lifts the entire scene into a ‘godly’ sphere. What we see here is the staging of desire — a desire that turns into a form of elevation as the coins are turned into doubled light. Perhaps it is even an ascent from desire to love. 405 Rembrandt indeed created an alternative Danaë figure and with it a new kind of female representation. We have already encountered this remarkable concept of femi­ni­ nity that entitles women to be individuals who desire (without any negative conno­tation) in our analysis of Woman in Bed. 406 In the case of Danaë, Mieke Bal and Madlyn MillnerKahr both address this type of femininity. Millner-Kahr describes Rembrandt’s conception of Danaë as unique because she is depicted as a woman who can give and receive love. The author adds: “A sexual woman is neither a saint nor a sinner, victim nor seductress, but a 402 See, a. o. Pächt 1991, p.  79 – 96; Ernst van de Wetering, Rembrandt und das Licht, in: Klaus Albrecht Schröder, Marian Bisanz-Prakken (eds.), Rembrandt, exh. cat. Albertina, Vienna, Munich 2004, p.  27 – 39; Daniela Hammer-Tugendhat, Gott im Schatten? Zur Bedeutung des Lichts bei Caravaggio und Rembrandt, in: Christina Lechtermann, Haiko Wandhoff (eds.), Licht, Glanz, Blendung. Beiträge zu einer Kulturgeschichte des Leuchtenden, Publikationen zur Zeitschrift für Germanistik, NF, vol. 18, Bern 2008, p. 177 – 189. 403 Werner Weisbach, Rembrandt, Berlin, Leipzig 1926, p.  242. 404 Panofsky 1933, p.  212; Grohé 1996, p.  229. 405 Herein lies the difference to related works by, for example, Carracci and Orazio Gentileschi, which also aim at erotic stimulation, but adhere to Danaë’s skyward gaze and the coins. 406 It has been pointed out that Woman in Bed has many similarities to Danaë. The female figure in the former, however, is reversed, reduced to a half-length and no longer thematically tied to a specific iconography. X-rays of Danaë have shown that the position of her hand was originally conceived differently; Grohé (1996, p. 228) believes that she pushed aside the curtain on her own in the first version, just like The Woman in Bed. If Rembrandt painted over Danaë in the 1640s, the two images would also have been painted around the same time. 407 Millner-Kahr 1978, p.  54  f. 408 Bal 1991, p. 169. 409 Grohé 1996, p.  259.

participant in full humanity.” 407 Mieke Bal describes Danaë: “Her beauty, desired by both the pre-textual desiring Zeus and the viewer, is not an object for possession taking. She emphatically disposes of it herself.” 408 Stefan Grohé, who rightly emphasizes the image’s eminent erotic quality, describes her as having “more dignity” and recognizes that she is “not made into an available object of lust to the same extent as” in Bonasone’s engraving (fig. 68). 409 The subject here is not just a female nude. After all, Rembrandt could have just painted a Venus. His Danaë follows the tradition of Venus depictions, but without being a Venus. Rembrandt does not depict the main event of the story, but rather the moment preceding it. Therefore it is up to the viewer to imagine the

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actual event: the actual sexual act. Millner-Kahr, and even more so Bal, explicitly pinpoint the image’s eminent sexual content instead of studiously ignoring it. Their analyses not only counter iconographic-iconologic readings of Danaë, but also keep the category of gender in mind. 410 However, an exclusively female-oriented art history, focusing solely on the representation of women, will fall short: the problem is the definition of gender relations. Since the myth at hand is about (heterosexual) copulation, it is important to also ask about male representation and male sexuality in the painting. In the field of sexual representation, masculinity and femininity are ascribed diametrical roles. In Rembrandt’s Danaë, the male protagonist is not even represented as golden rain (like in Titian’s version and those of his successors). Instead, it is completely spiritualized into light. In this image of a sexual act, masculinity is imagined as spiritual/mental/intellectual (das Geistige). Danaë, on the other hand, is physically fully present. Masculinity is cocon­structed in the image, even or because it is not explicitly portrayed. What is striking about this form of representation is how the male body and male desire during a sexual act are rendered invisible. The presumed male viewer can fantasize himself into Jupiter’s posi­tion and simultaneously imagine himself — also in regard to the sexual act — as a spiri­tual form. The female body is the foil for projections of sexuality, eroticism and physi­ cality, 411 while male sexuality and male physicality are not subjects of representation. The philogynist depiction of Danaë also allows women to identify themselves with the image. Ultimately, male and female viewers alike had internalized a set of gender-specific patterns, which were also perpetuated by images like Danaë. This construction of masculinity, and the polarization of gender relations that comes with it, can also be found in the discourse on conception that was prevalent at the time. During the 17 th century, different attempts were made to explain the phenomenon of procreation. 412 Following Aristotle, it was assumed that male semen was immaterial. Scientists associated with William Harvey interpreted conception as a type of infection: “Male semen is not sperm; the mind and soul are what we call life and they are related to light.”413 In medical theory, male semen was described as aura seminalis, or the energizing essence of a spiritual substance. Rembrandt may not have been familiar with the theory, but his paintings are just as much part of the discourse on gender differences as are these theories on conception. In this particular discourse, masculinity — including sexuality —  is conceived as spirituality, while femininity represents matter and body. The basic idea linking masculinity to activity, spirituality and culture and femininity to passivity, body and nature can be traced back to Aristotle’s procreative theory. This theory, in turn, is part of his substance theory, in which every thing consists of form and matter. The active (male) form is morphe while hylae is passive (female) matter. Aristotle’s theories massively influenced all medical and natural philosophical theory that followed. 414 During the

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17 th century, these notions were still highly productive in both common knowledge and medical science. On an aesthetic level the male part of the sexual act in Rembrandt’s work appears as light, while procreation theory from the time suggests the fully analog notion of aura seminalis.

Pornography? There are only few instances in art from the early modern age that explicitly depict men performing sexual acts. We usually encounter them in graphic arts — we will take a look at Rembrandt’s erotic graphic works further 410 Grohé (1996, p.  258) also lays emphasis on the image’s erotic content, which preeminently addresses the visual desires of the viewer, “whose erotic fantasies are supposed to be stimulated by the sensual nude” (English by translator); Sluijter (1986, p. 195  f.) generally describes the contemporaneity of “zinneprikkeling” (tingling sensation) and “bevestiging van de kuisheidsmoraal die op de gevaren van zinnelijkheid wijst” (the consolidation of chastity morals, which point to the reception of sensuality) in this case applied to Diana and her Nymphs Bathing, with Actaeon and Callisto. The same can be found in Schama 1999, p.  387 – 389. 411 Grohé (1996, especially p.  258  f.) interprets the omis­ sion of rain as an even more accessable possibility for the viewer to identify himself. However, he does not go beyond this statement and thus does not ask about the consequences for masculinity or the production of gender difference. 412 Laqueur 1992, p. 165 – 171; Gianna Pomata, Vollkommen oder verdorben? Der männliche Samen im frühneuzeitlichen Europa, in: L’HOMME, Zeitschrift für Geschichtswissenschaft 2, 1995, p.  59 – 85. 413 Carlo Musitano, De morbis mulierum Tractatus, Genf 1709, 26B, quoted after Pomata 1995, p.  77, note 63. 414 Danielle Jacquart, Claude Thomasset, Sexualité et savoir médical au Moyen-Age, Paris 1985; Isnard Frank, Femina est mas occasionatus. Deutung und Folgerung bei Thomas von Aquin, in: Peter Segl (ed.), Der Hexenhammer. Entstehung und Umfeld des Malleus maleficarum von 1487, Cologne 1988, p.  71 – 102. 415 Lynne Lawner, I Modi: the Sixteen Pleasures: an Erotic Album of the Italian Renaissance: Giulio Romano, Marcantonio Raimondi, Pietro Aretino, and Count Jean-Frederic-Maximilien de Waldeck, Evanston 1988; Bette Talvacchia, Figure lascive per trastullo de l’ingegno, in: Giulio Romano, exh. cat. Milan 1980, p.  277 – 287; Talvacchia, Taking Positions. On the Erotic in Renaissance Culture, Princeton 1999; Henri Zerner, L’Estampe érotique au temps de Titien, in: Tiziano e Venezia, exh. cat. 1980, p.  85 – 90. 416 Ginzburg 1988, p.  234 – 258; Bette Talvacchia 1989, p.  277. 417 Suzanne Boorsch, John T. Spike (eds.), A. Bartsch. The Illustrated Bartsch 28 (Le Peintre Graveur 15/1), New York 1985, p.  86 – 100; see also the commentary and the essay by Madeline Cirillo Archer, ibid., p.  97 – 99.

below. The most famous instance of an explicit representation are undoubtedly I Modi by Marc­ antonio Raimondi, a cycle of sixteen folios after drawings by Giulio Romano, depicting different sex posi­tions (fig. 69). 415 The Modi caused a huge scan­dal: Marcantonio, the engraver, was forced to destroy most of the printing plates and was then imprisoned; the series was prohibited. Censor­ship was so efficient that only a few marginal elements of the originals are left. However, a series of woodcuts — copies of the original engravings — with verses by Aretino was publi­shed shortly after and somehow managed to escape the censors. The fact that I Modi were graphic art and thus available to a broader audience instead of a social elite is what made them so dangerous. 416 This was surely not the sole reason for censorship. The subjects were deemed highly scandalous because they depic­t­ ed sex positions without any trace of mytho­ logical pretense; male protagonists are fully visible during copulation. Around the same time, in 1527, Caraglio made the series Loves of the Gods after drawings by Perino del Vaga and Rosso Fiorentino, which also contain very expli­ cit scenes (fig.  70). 417 They include a hitherto unseen exposure of female genitals to the (male)

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Fig. 69: I Modi, woodcut after engraving from Marcantonio Raimondi from 1527 (after drawings by Giulio Romano) Fig. 70: Gian Giacomo Caraglio (after Perino del Vaga), Merkur and Herse, from: Love of the Gods, 1527, engraving, Hamburg, Kunsthalle Fig. 71: Gian Giacomo Caraglio, Pan and Diana, from: Love of the Gods, 1527, engraving

gaze of the viewer. However, the direct presentation of female sex organs did not seem to cause much offence. The relationship between the protagonists in the incriminated Modi are marked by an unusual degree of parity. The female figures are equally active and have a gaze; at the same time, the male protagonists are visibly involved in the depicted sexual acts. There are only few images in Caraglio’s series in which we see the male figures engaged in sex. Unsurprisingly, none of these folios exist in their original form; the small number of preserved later versions and copies are all damaged in the significant places (fig. 71). 418 At the same time, engravings of Danaë, like the one by Bonasone (fig. 68), which

could not expose female genitalia any more voyeuristically do not seem to have irritated censors that much. I had suspected that the scandalous effect was caused less by the fact that the images were not mythologized and more by the fact that men were rendered visible during coitus. This was confirmed on closer examination of reception and arthistoric literature on these images. Cecil Gould, for example, writes about Correggio’s Loves of Jupiter: The fact that all four remain great art and not pornography is partly due to the extreme skill and delicacy of the painter, and partly also to the fact that none of them includes the form of a man, Jupiter having assumed various disguises — an eagle, a swan, a cloud, and a shower of gold — in order to further his designs. 419

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The decision whether an image is deemed art or pornography, and thus whether it is included or excluded from the higher realm of art, is not based on the obscenity of an explicit depiction of female sexuality, but rather on the visibility of a male protagonist in a sexual context. The denial of male sexuality and its sublimation into the metaphysical —  even during sexual acts — is perpetuated in arthistoric texts on mythological sexual themes. 418 Freedberg (1989, p.  362 – 365, figs. 172 – 174) points out a similar case of censorship: The etching Venus, Vulcan  and Mars by Enea Vico after Parmigianino from 1543 is preserved in three different stages: The original ver­sion depicts Vulcan working in his workshop with naked Mars and Venus making love on a bed in the background. In the second version, the lovers are erased from the printing plate. The third, corrected and final version shows only Venus, reclining on the bed with spread legs. 419 Cecil Gould, The Paintings of Correggio, London 1976, p. 132. 420 Erwin Panofsky, Problems in Titian. Mostly Iconographic, New York 1969, p. 12, note 10. 421 English by translator. German original: “Der Mensch, in Gestalt eines sich hingebenden Weibes, empfängt eine Berührung aus dem Überirdischen in Gestalt von göttlichem Regen, der in klingenden Goldstücken her­ abspringt. Hinter der Polarität der Geschlechter im männlichen Handeln und weiblichen Erleiden wird analog eine zweite sichtbar, in der das Weibliche für das Irdische, das Männliche für den Geist und das Metaphysische steht.” In: Ordenberg Bock von Wülfingen, Tiziano Vecellio, Danaë, Stuttgart 1958, p.  20. I would like to thank Alexandra Pätzold for introducing me to von Wülfingen’s monograph. Our conversations in front of Danaë at Vienna’s KHM were the starting point and inspiration for me to further delve into the subject.

Bock von Wülfingen, for example, makes the fol­lowing point in his text on Titian’s Danaë, which Panofsky described as a “remarkable little monograph” 420 : A human being, in the form of a woman surrendering herself, is touched by the supernatural in form of a divine rain that falls as the sonorous tinkling of coins. Behind the polarity of the sexes in male action and female endurance a second analog becomes visible, in which femininity stands for all things earthly and masculinity for spirit and the metaphysical. 421

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Fig. 72: Coitus, fresko, Pompeii, Casa del Centenario IX, 8, 3 (Cubiculum 43), 1st century AD, Pompeii

Most often art-historic literature attempts to justify that women are portrayed in suggestive positions and thus exposed to the male gaze with the fact that the artists who made the images were men. Scholars claim that male artists naturally painted female nudes without including male competition into the image and naturally constructed the image so they could fantasize themselves into the position of the (divine) sexual partner. I would like to counter this opinion with two thoughts. Firstly, it is necessary to look beyond a purely phenomenological observation, because, as I have pointed out, the male viewer cannot only envision himself as the invisible figure, but can even imagine himself as spirituality within the sexual act. Secondly, the reasoning here is wrong: it has nothing to do with anything being natural. For our own understanding it may be helpful to take a closer look at alternative approaches. I have already pointed out that in medieval courtly art, male figures were fully included in erotic depictions. A brief excursus into Antiquity will help put modern conceptions in perspective. In Roman society during the reign of Augustus, images of sexual scenes were understood differently. Newer research has successfully demonstrated that coitus scenes, most of which we know from Pompeii and Rome, not only decorated walls in brothels, as was assumed for a long time. In the form of frescoes and small pictures, they could also be found in the bedrooms of respectable Roman citizens (fig. 72). 422 Coitus scenes were additionally found on daily objects such as lamps and mirrors. The scenes depict couples in different sex positions, pleasuring themselves on beds mostly set in sparse interiors. Giulio Romano must have been inspired by these antique images when drawing I Modi. 423 However, the highly dissimilar context reveals how truly different these images were: the Roman images were socially accepted works of art openly displayed in the living quarters of wealthy Romans; they were objects of daily use seen by both men and women. In contrast, the Modi were graphics intended for private, perhaps secret use (by men only?).

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Fig. 73: Rembrandt, Ledikant, 1646, etching, Paris, Bibliotheque nat. de France

They definitely did not officially adorn any married couple’s bedroom. Roman society did not view these images as scandalous, unlike the 19th century archeologists who found them during excavations in Pompeii and promptly labeled them as pornography. These differing perceptions cannot be fully credited to a principally altered view on women; Roman, 16th century and 19th century societies alike were fully patriarchal (albeit in diffe­r­ ent forms). What had changed, however, was the opinion on sexuality. Myerowitz con­vin­ cingly demonstrates that for Roman men, erotic images were like mirrors of them­selves.424 Not only women, but also men functioned as objects of desire in these images. At the time in Rome, art was understood as a mirror, as a kind of doubling of real life. Sexuality was one of many layers in representing a male self.

One objection and three possible answers — Rembrandt’s erotic graphic works Above I observe that Rembrandt exclusively represented sexuality — in accordance with prevalent image culture in Holland at the time — with female bodies and even trans­ lated male protagonists partaking in sex into a spiritual concept. However, one could argue that I have withheld works that counter this proposition: What about works such as Ledikant (The French Bed) (fig. 73), Monk in a Cornfield (fig. 74, p. 152), or the two versions of Jupiter and Antiope (fig. 75 and fig. 76)? The first two are depictions of coitus showing a male protagonist, while the latter are explicitly erotic folios representing men as desiring figures. In the following I will address this valid objection to my previous observations. My three-layered answer can help us get a firmer 422 Amy Richlin (ed.), Pornography and Representation in Greece and Rome, Oxford 1992, especially the essay by Molly Myerowitz, The Domestication of Desire. Ovid’s Parva Tabella and the Theater of Love, p. 131 – 157. 423 Talvacchia 1980, p.  277. 424 Myerowitz 1992, p. 131 – 157.

grasp on the problem of gender asymmetry in the representational field of sexuality.

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Fig. 75: Rembrandt, Jupiter and Antiope, 1631, etching, London, British Museum Fig. 76: Rembrandt, Jupiter and Antiope, 1659, etching, Cambridge, Fitzwilliam Museum

First, we must give some consideration to the prevalent tradition and the distinc­ tive features of Rembrandt’s erotic folios. In the 17 th century there were two basic tradi­ tions for erotica: One followed German-Dutch tradition, which was predominantly marked by reformatory, moralizing and mostly anti-clerical attitudes. The other was oriented toward the Italian Renaissance, resorting to antique and mythological themes. It makes sense to further subdivide the Italian strain into two groups: works depicting the ‘loves of gods’ and the Arcadian-pastoral genre, which developed in Venetian panel painting in the early 16th century among Giorgione’s circles. Rembrandt catered to all three groups. It has been verified that he owned a collection of erotica, labeled bouleringe (amours) in the in­ventory from 1656, including works by Raphael, Rosso, Annibale Carracci and Bonasone. 425 Both folios of Jupiter and Antiope (fig. 75 and fig. 76), from 1631 and 1659, be­ long to the Italian mythologizing group. Almost all scholars agree that Annibale Carracci’s folio of  Jupiter and Antiope from 1592 was the model. 426 The pose of the reclining nude in Rembrandt’s younger folio, however, is so strikingly similar to Correggio’s Venus in the painting Jupiter and Antiope (or Terrestrial Venus) (fig. 77) that Rembrandt must have been familiar with some sort of graphic reflex of the painting. 427 The tiny engraving of the Monk in the Cornfield from 1646 (fig. 74, p. 152) clearly follows the tradition of Nordic reformatory graphic art, which thrived at poking fun at sexual transgressions committed by the Catholic clerus. This particular image goes back to an engraving by Heinrich Aldegrever from the first half of the 16th century, which was copied and varied multiple times (fig. 78, p. 152). 428 Rembrandt adopted the pastoral genre in the etching The Flute Player from 1642,

but included an ironic twist (fig. 79, p. 153): the rough shepherd aims both his gaze and the flute directly under the skirt of the wreath-making shepherdess. 429 Thus the manifest sexual content of the pastoral idyll is simultaneously spelled out and unmasked.

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Fig. 77: Correggio, Jupiter and Antiope, c. 1528, canvas, Paris, Louvre Fig. 73: Rembrandt, Ledikant, 1646, etching, Paris, Bibliotheque nat. de France

The most remarkable work among Rembrandt’s erotica is surely Ledikant or The French Bed, an etching from 1646 depicting copulation in a large canopy bed (fig. 73). It must have been a wholly new image for Rembrandt’s contemporaries, since it neither follows the mythologized tradition nor the German-Dutch one. The sexual act is not glossed over with antique themes; there is no god in disguise, no idealized female nude, no abstract or antique setting. All we see is a boy, a girl and a bed in a domestic setting. The folio can also not be ascribed to the genre of bordeeltjes, or brothel images, which had been popular in Holland since the 16th century. Typical bordeeltjes reflect a shady and semi-public atmosphere. They are marked by coupling figures as well as accompanying activities such as food, drink and dance. 430 Debate on the appropriate role and site of sexuality was sparked by the Reformation and Luther’s plead for matrimony and was further 425 Strauss, van der Meulen 1979, p.  349 – 387, no.  232. 426 See exh. cat. Vienna 2004, p. 164, no.  67 and 68. Also includes further literature. 427 White 1999, p.  207  f.; Holm Bevers, Jasper Kettner, Gudula Metze (eds.), Rembrandt. Ein Virtuose der Druckgraphik, exh. cat. Kupferstichkabinett Staatliche Museen Berlin, Berlin, Cologne 2006, p. 165. 428 See the detailed contribution in: Erik Hinterding, Ger Luiten, Martin Royalton Kisch (eds.), Rembrandt the Printmaker, exh. cat. Rijksmuseum Amsterdam, Brit­ ish Museum London, 2000, p.  221  f., no.  53. 429 Alison McNeil Kettering, The Dutch Arcadia: Pastoral Art and its Audience in the Golden Age, Montclair 1983. 430 On brothel images, see: Nanette Salomon, Early Netherlandish Bordeeltjes and the Construction of Social “Realities,” in: Wheelock, Seeff 2000, p. 141 – 163; Konrad Renger, Lockere Gesellschaft. Zur Ikonografie des Verlorenen Sohnes und von Wirtshausszenen in der niederländischen Malerei, Berlin 1970; Lotte C. van de Pol, Beeld en werkelijkheid van de prostitutie in de zeventiende eeuw, in: Gert Hekma, Herman Roodenburg, Soete minne en helsche bosheit. Seksuele voorstelingen in Nederland 1300 – 1850, Nijmegen 1988, p. 109 – 144.

intensified by Counter-Reformation. Ledikant is a visual statement contributing to the discussion: it clearly asserts that the site of sexuality is the private home. Due to its aesthetic staging, the scene maintains an erotic atmosphere while refraining from any associations to ‘matrimonial duty.’ Man and woman are equally present in the image; it is neither a scene of seduction nor of rape. Whether the man is actually a member of the household or an (illegitimate) visitor — as the hat displayed on the bedpost and the door left slightly ajar in the back left may suggest —  remains unclear.

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Fig. 74: Rembrandt, The Monk in a Cornfield, c. 1646, etching, Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale Fig. 78: Heinrich Aldegrever, Monk and Nun in a Cornfield, early 16th century, engraving, Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum

This leads us to our first question: How was this folio received? How the discipline of art history has dealt with Rembrandt’s erotica in general and this folio in particular is highly revealing. In Rembrandt’s Radierungen by Sträter and Bode from 1886, the authors dismiss the mere thought that the erotica could be the work of this master. 431 In Singer’s Klassiker der Kunst from 1906 on Rembrandt’s etchings, the erotica are the only images not pictured. Christopher White was the first to discuss Rembrandt’s erotic folios in Rembrandt as an Etcher from 1969: “To the best of my knowledge, Rembrandt’s interest in erotic subject matter has never been fully emphasized or discussed.”432 It was not until 1983 that Ledikant was thoroughly analyzed: To this day Werner Busch’s analysis remains the most elaborate and only one. 433 Busch still adheres to the notion that the depiction needs “thematic justification,” which he believes to be the Prodigal Son. 434 Busch detects relics of the respective iconography in the feathered hat and the glass on the table next to the bed. In his actual interpretation, however, Busch emphasizes the uniqueness of the etching and admits that the execution of the subject renders “the didactic usability of the scene useless.” He continues: “This ambiguity, like emphasis itself, furthers the focus on what is private, individual and unburdened by referential meaning.” 435 I highly doubt that props such as a feathered hat and a glass are enough to identify the Prodigal Son. Rembrandt loved feathered hats and, as someone who enjoyed masquerade and dis­guise, portrayed several men wearing this type of hat who were definitely neither the Prodigal Son nor soldiers. One example is the harpist in The Music Party from 1626. I find it at least questionable to insist on a legitimizing motif in Rembrandt’s era. Perhaps the props offered the option of a double entendre, thus providing cover for the erotic kick. Art historians generally only relied on written sources by Calvinist moralists such as Cats,

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Fig. 79: Rembrandt, The Flute Player, 1642, etching, London, British Museum

Camphuysen or Pels while ignoring other sources. One exception is Eddy de Jongh’s well-founded survey A Bird’s-Eye View of Erotica. Double Entendre in a Series of SeventeenthCentury Genre Scenes. 436 De Jongh points out that the sexual innuendos found in Dutch im­431 N. Sträter, W. Bode, Rembrandt’s Radierungen, in: Repertorium für Kunstwissenschaft 9, 1886, p.  259. On this, see: Werner Busch, Rembrandts ‘Ledikant’— der Verlorene Sohn im Bett, in: Oud Holland 97, 1983, p.  257 – 265, here: p.  257. 432 White 1969, vol. I, p. 165, note 29. 433 Busch 1983, p.  257 – 265. Even Rembrandt the Print­ maker (Amsterdam, London 2000, no.  52, p.  218 – 220), the only of many exhibition catalogs on Rembrandt’s graphic works to deal with the folio in more depth, lacks all continuative thoughts. 434 Ibid., p.  259. 435 English by translator, German original: “die didaktische Verwertbarkeit der Szene entfällt” and “Diese Uneindeutigkeit jedoch fördert, wie die Hervorhebung selbst, die Konzentration auf das Private, das Individuelle, von verweisendem Sinn Unbelastete,” Busch 1983, p.  262. 436 Eddy de Jongh, A Bird’s-Eye View of Erotica. Double Entendre in a Series of Seventeenth-Century Genre Scenes, in: Questions of Meaning. Theme and Motif in Dutch Seventeenth-Century Painting, Leiden 2000, p.  22 – 58 (Erotika in vogelperspectief: de dubbelzinnigheid van een reeks zeventiende-eeuwse genrevoorstellingen, in: Simiolus 3, 1968 – 69, p.  22 – 74). 437 Hekma, Roodenburg 1988, especially Donald Haks, Libertinisme en Nederlands verhalend Prosa 1650 – 1700, p.  85 – 107, here: p.  97; Wijnand W. Mijnhardt, Politics and Pornography in the Seventeenth- and EighteenthCentury Dutch Republic, in: Lynn Hunt (ed.), The Invention of Pornography: Obscenity and the Origins of Modernity, 1500 – 1800, Cambridge 1993, p.  283 – 300. 438 Mijnhardt, op.  cit. 439 On Wittewrongel’s Öconomia christiana from 1655, see: Haks 1988, p.  97; Mijnhardt, op.  cit.

a­ges and poetic texts were not intended to be moralizing and thus garnered attack by mora­l­ ists. Other sources could be more useful, such as medical advice books like Schat der gesontheyt by Johan van Beverwijck, published 1643 in Amsterdam; or the most popular handbook on eroticism and sexuality, Venus minsieke gasthuis from 1683, the Dutch adaptation of Nicolas Venette’s famous handbook.437 The latter in­clu­des advice on how to maximize pleasure during sexual intercourse. Dutch humanist Johan de Brune wrote that Dutch men and women knew all kinds of variations and tricks and could thus easily do without Aretino’s Poses.438 Even Calvinist priest Petrus Wittewrongel agreed that lively sexuality was not only free of sin, but desirable —  of course only within marriage. 439 Most of all, however, I would like to point out the literature of the time, the poems, songs and novels.

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Especially picaresque novels and comedies contained and praised extramarital sex with­ out resorting to any moralizing legitimization. 440 Unlike the situation in the country of its origin, the pornographic novel L’Ecole des filles was not only freely available in the Netherlands during the 1660s, but even publicly put on display in bookshops. 441 It was not until the mid-18th century that this (relative) permissiveness in the Netherlands was restrained, leading to the censoring or destruction of certain works. Even the work of Jacob Cats was cleared of all potentially erotic phrasings, even though it is considered restrictive per se within 17 th century literature. 442 As I have noted, this subject is in great need of interdisciplinary research. Nonetheless, it already seems apparent that our view on how sexuality was perceived in 17 th century Holland is still strongly influenced by 19th century discourse and thus requires scholarly review. In conclusion we can ascertain that Rembrandt’s etching of two clothed partners copulating in a domestic setting is presented in an intimate and erotic manner. Art histo­ rians deemed this portrayal intolerable and consequently excluded it from the master’s oeuvre, contrary to images like Danaë. The motif in Danaë is also coitus and the female protagonist is even nude, but the male protagonist in this image remains invisible. In order to assess gender-specific differentiation in the field of sexuality and re­pre­sentation, we must examine how protagonists are depicted and placed. The two copu­ la­tion scenes Ledikant and The Monk include a male protagonist, but in both cases he is only shown from the back and wearing clothes. Traditionally, Jupiter and Antiope is a scene of voyeurism and not copulation, unlike, for example, Leda, which is usually presented in the Michelangelesque version of Jupiter in the guise of a swan in actu. Keeping the scene voyeuristic in Jupiter and Antiope ensures that the tradition of only presenting a female nude and female genitalia is adhered to. The satyr, meanwhile, fulfills the role of unco­­v­ ering and watching the female figure. Moreover, male desire is not demonstrated with a male figure, but with a satyr, regardless whether it is Jupiter as a satyr or just a satyr. (This in turn would make the female figure Venus or a nymph and not Antiope, a ques­ tion still disputed in literature.) As mentioned above, the figure of the satyr allowed the representation of (male) sexual appetite and libidinous desire while maintaining a diffe­r­ ence to men. Christian tradition contaminated the traditional image of antique figures like Pan and satyrs by turning them into devil-like, caprine creatures with hooves, horns and tails. The semantic shift that these figures underwent illustrates the deep rift between antique and Christian culture. In Christianity, libido and unbridled sexuality equaled evil. In other words: the incarnation of evil in Christian culture was libido and sexuality. In the terms of Ludwig Jäger, one could say: The process of transcrip­tion (Transkription) rewrites the script (Skript) or original image, changing its meaning. 443 When we see a satyr, our visual memory automatically associates it with an image of the devil.

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As a result, the male viewer does not have to feel mirrored in the image. He is able to desire the sleeping beauty while distancing himself from his own libidinous desire through the satyr. Moreover, the two figures Jupiter/satyr and Antiope/Venus are depicted in a highly contrasting manner. The female body is erotically staged to the maximum: sleeping, passive and fully surrendered, this female body is the epitome of an object of desire. Meanwhile the satyr is active and, like the viewer, has the power of the gaze. In the early folio his body is only sketched out with a few lines, while it disappears in the shadows in the later version. Next to asking about reception within art-historical research and examining the aesthetic staging, the crucial question is which medium is used. It has often been pointed out that there is a correlation between the development of graphic art — and with it the possibility to distribute erotic art to a mass audience — and the development of pornography. 444 I would like to highlight another aspect. We can observe similar differences between panel painting and graphic art as the ones Bachorski established in varying discourses and genres of early modern literature. What we expect in one genre or medium can be completely taboo in another (like drolls or farces). If one defines genres as ‘relatively stable literary schemata of mea­ning 440 On songs, see: Nevitt 2003; on comedies, see: Leuker 1992; on picaresque novels, see: Haks 1988. 441 Mijnhardt 1993. 442 Ibid. Mijnhardt describes the special status of the Netherlands. He demonstrates the connection be­ tween pornography, philosophy and politics, which gave pornography such a subversive edge, particularly in England and France. In the Netherlands, however, bourgeois society prevented this development. 443 I am referring to the lecture: Transkriptive Verfahren. Zur medialen Logik der kulturellen Semantik, at IFK Vienna, December 15, 2003 and our joint workshop, also held at IFK Vienna on January 9, 2004. 444 Ginzburg 1988 (1983); Hunt 1994. 445 English by translator. German original: “Definiert man Gattungen als ‘relativ stabile literarische Sinnschemata bzw. Normenbündel […], die sich in der Autor- und Leserolle als Muster, beziehungsweise Erwartungen abbilden,’ dann unterstellt man ihnen eine Leistung bei der Sinnkonstitution in diskursiven Feldern”; Bachorski 1991, p.  534 with a quote from Jürgen Link, Ursula Link-Heer, Literatursoziologisches Propädeutikum, Munich 1980, p.  393. 446 In the medium panel painting overtly suggestive depictions were taboo; a telling anecdote was told by Arnold Houbraken (Grosse Schouburgh der niederländischen Maler und Malerinnen, Amsterdam 1718, translated into German by Alfred von Wurzbach, Vienna 1880, p.  63). Houbraken recounts the story of a painter named Johann Torrentius who was tortured to death in 1627 because his pictures were too brazen. See: De Jongh 1968/69, p.  68.

(Sinnschemata) or bundles of norms (Normen­bündel) […] which display them­selves as patterns or expectations in the author’s or reader’s roles,’ then one assumes that they take part in constituting meaning in discursive fields. 445 I would like to point out a link between media (panel painting and graphic art), different forms of representation (in the field of sexuality) and public or private space. 446 The point is that there is a difference within the bourgeois home that goes beyond the already established diffe­r­ ence between public life and private sphere. Within the home there was a difference between sites of bourgeois self-representation and fully private and intimate spaces, which were literally

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shifted into secrecy or defined as secret sites. Even in the medium of panel painting there was a distinction between public and private representation in homes; the two portraits of Willem van Heijthuysen by Frans Hals are an example for this. The more represen­ta­ tive, full-length portrait of Heijthuysen was displayed downstairs in the grote salet while the other, showing him casually rocking on a chair with crossed legs, hung in his private quarters. 447 The medium of graphic art created a new form of reception: graphic folios did not have to be framed and openly displayed; it was also possible to keep them hidden away in a drawer, safe from unwelcome eyes and only taken out to look at in private mo­ ments. They were neither about representation nor about creating a public self-image. Self-image did not necessarily have to be a portrait; one’s own ideal could also be repre­ sented through objects or other motifs. 448 Rembrandt painted fairly erotic panel pain­tings, such as Bathsheba, Susanna or Danaë, but there is no equivalent to his erotic graphic sheets. Ledikant as a panel painting is unthinkable. How can we interpret the gap between (represen­tative) panel painting and private graphic work? (This, of course, does not mean that all graphic works were exclusively consumed in private.) I see a discrepancy between demands made by Protestant-bourgeois culture and private experience, emotions, wishes and desires. This in turn produced the polarity between public self-representation and all that was intimate and private. The pressure to sublimate was not only directed at propriety and making sexual images taboo, or rather reducing them to the private sphere. It went hand in hand with creating gender-specific differences — differences that grew proportionally with the development of the bourgeoisie. 449 Erotic subjects were almost exclusively dealt with using the female body, while men were only found as viewers gazing at the image. (Think of French Rococo images by Boucher or Fragonard; pictures by the French salons or Impressionists; or even works by the 20th century avant-garde.) We can conclude that Rembrandt could depict the male protagonist in copulation scenes, but only in back-view, fully clothed and exclusively in the medium of graphic art. Moreover, Ledikant is a unique exception. Conceding to all these restrictions, this type of image was still possible in 17 th century Dutch culture, whereas it became intolerable for the art historians of the 19th and 20th centuries.

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4 Summary Let us return to the question asked when we examined Bathsheba: Does Rembrandt portray Bathsheba and other female figures as subjects? I am aware that this question would call for a (philosophical) discussion of the term subject, including historical, 17 th century concepts of the subject. Questions of gender-specific differences within concepts of the subject from that time would require discussion in a much broader art-historical and interdisciplinary context than the few exemplary ‘cases’ I have cited here. 450 More­ over, questions on subject, subjectivity, individuality, autonomy, free will and agency are modern issues marked by contemporary theoretical concepts. The fact that terms like subject or individuality were not fully formulated in theory at the time does not mean that they went unnoticed or were not negotiated in literature or visual art. I think it is justified to ask to what extent female figures in Rembrandt’s oeuvre were granted individuality, free will and thought in comparison to their male counter­parts. In contemporary Dutch drama, particularly in 447 Herman Roodenburg, On “Swelling” the Hips and Crossing the Legs: Distinguishing Public and Private in Paintings and Prints from the Dutch Golden Age, in: Wheelock, Seeff 2000, p.  64 – 84, here: p.  77  ff. 448 On self-representation in Dutch portraiture, see Berger 2000. 449 Hammer-Tugendhat 2000 (Kunst, Sexualität), p.  69 –  92. Erotic subjects were more liberally dealt with at Renaissance courts: male figures were also involved, for example in the frescos by Giulio Romano at Palazzo del Tè, paintings at Fontainebleau or images by Spranger at the court of Prague. 450 It would be highly interesting to include women artists from the time into these observations, such as Frans Hals’s student Judith Leyster (1609 –1660). At least in her self-portrait, Leyster presents herself as a confidently smiling, self-assured author. Another example is Gertruyd Roghman who is known for etchings of working women. On Judith Leyster, see especially: Frima Fox Hofrichter, Judith Leyster: A Woman Paint­ er in Holland’s Golden Age, Doornspijk 1989; Pieter Biesboer, James Welu (eds.), Judith Leyster. A Dutch Master and Her World, exh.  cat. Frans Hals Museum Haarlem, Worchester Art Museum, New Haven 1993. 451 Jan W. H. Konst, ‘Het goet of quaet te kiezen.’ De rol van de vrije wil in Vondels Luzifer, Adam in ballingschap en Noah, in: Nederlandse letterkunde 2, 1997, p.  319 – 337; Konst, Fortuna, Fatum en Providentia Dei in de Nederlandse tragedie 1600 – 1720, Hilversum 2003. 452 Konst 1999, p. 7 – 21. 453 Ibid., p. 12, 19, 20. 454 Sneller 2001, p.  87: “[…] but a woman who does not simply complain and who proves to be capable of fight­ing back without the protection of a man — this is a very different matter. It makes Polyxena an exceptional literary and dramatic masterpiece because it overturns the old certainties.”

Vondel’s work, precisely these issues — free will, responsibility and autonomy — are addressed, albeit humankind’s self-determination being limited by higher powers such as fate and God’s providence. 451 However, questions of human free will and autonomy are demonstrated exclusively with male figures. Women are not explicitly stripped of these privileges, they simply do not appear in significant parts. In Vondel’s plays, women are either martyrs, vamps or victims. 452 There seem to be only few exceptions and these were noted as such: Bathsheba in David, or the women in Batavische Gebroeders. These are active women whose actions were received positively. They act in place of and in the name of men. 453 Hecuba from Samuel Coster’s play Polyxena is also worth mentioning as a woman who takes it into her own hands to avenge her children’s death, even though she is ultimately killed. 454 All in all, we can detect some small shifts.

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Within the frame of what was historically possible, Rembrandt indeed created an alternative image of femininity. Women are granted subjectivity — when it comes to love. Here they are even allowed an active gaze (The Woman in Bed), thoughts and doubts (Bathsheba, Lucretia). Rembrandt presents his women with empathy, but they are mostly passive, receiving or sacrificing themselves. They listen and read, but have no power over words. Considering that words play a central role in Rembrandt’s work, this weighs quite heavily. A search for a female hero of similar mind as Aristotle with a Bust of Homer will be in vain. Rembrandt did conceive a strong female character in Judith, but later painted over the image with none other than Flora!455 For Rembrandt’s contemporaries, his images of women were legible despite their slight alterity; they were still within the boundaries of thought and discourse. Jacob Cats brought the time’s normative frame of thought to a point: Man shall not think that he stands above his wife like a prince stands over his subjects or like a shepherd over his stock, but rather like the soul over the body, inseparably tied in natural friendship. 456 Despite his alternative portrayals of femininity, there is a marked asymmetry to representations of masculinity in Rembrandt’s oeuvre. In short, femininity is tied to love, eroticism, body and passivity, while masculinity is linked to mind, ratio and (active) word. Masculinity, particularly in group portraiture, can be presented in public and represents publicity, whereas femininity is situated in private space. Even though these differences are not evaluated in Rembrandt’s work, they are intelligible within our culture. This is where the asymmetry becomes a hierarchy; where activity, ratio and culture stand above passivity, feeling, body and nature. Body and sexuality are dispelled from the ideal of hegemonic masculinity. I believe it is time for a changed perspective: It is time to see this specifically bourgeois-patriarchal dispositif as a loss on behalf of male identity as well. Private graphic sheets were the most likely medium for Rembrandt to experiment with alternative approaches of integrating male figures into erotic contexts. It is symptom­ atic that his erotic folios were mostly excluded from his oeuvre by 19th and sometimes even 20th century art historians. The discrepancy between possibilities in the private realm and in the public field, as well as the broadening of this gap as bourgeois society progressed, prove that the asymmetry between gender constructions with all their in­ clusions and exclusions cannot be solely ascribed to Rembrandt’s personality or biography, but are rather rooted in our culture.

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Naturalism in Dutch painting and Rembrandt’s work in particular produced effects of truth (Wahrheitseffekte): The idea was born that images of male and female figures are depictions of natural reality and that differences between genders are natural. These images have played a pivotal role in creating gender-specific identity. Consciously dealing with the inclusions and exclusions that take place may help us cross these limits. Finally, I would like to note a methodological aspect: The issue of gender construc­ tion in Rembrandt’s oeuvre is not and cannot be apparent as long as only the depicted subject is addressed. Quite to the contrary, we are spellbound by his empathetic and compassionate portrayals of female characters such as Bathsheba, Susanna, Danaë and Lucretia as well as his distinct and detailed rendering of male figures. When compared to visual traditions and contemporary works, the differences strike us positively. The pro­b ­ lem does not come into focus until we go beyond analyzing what is represented and start asking about what is not visible. This is an unusual approach. Because the other is not depicted, the resulting difference (produced by this void) is not apparent. Difference is not represented as such, it is not named, not recognizable and thus not consciously detectable. This ‘strategy’ is not limited to visual art or gender issues, it can be expanded to include all constructions of difference and exclusion, particularly in regard to social status and ethnicity. Media politics in our day and age follow this pattern. They rather resort to rendering issues invisible than openly defaming them. Others simply do not find their way into the image, do not have a voice — they are invisible; neither seen nor heard: they simply do not ‘exist.’ This is why I plead for an art history of invisibility that always asks who or what in which context is not part of representation. Who has no voice, who is made invisible?

455 X-ray images have revealed that Flora from 1635 at the National Gallery in London was originally planned as Judith. 456 English by translator. “De man heeft niet te dencken dat hy over sijn vrouwe gestelt is als een heerschende Prince over sijn onderdanen; ofte gelijck een rauwe schaep-wachter over het vee, maer gelijck de siele over het lichaam, die onderlinge door een onverbrekelijcken bant van natuerlijcke vrientschap verbonden zijn.” German quote after Loonen 1987, p.  34.

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Rembrandt, Self-Portrait c. 1657, panel, 49.2 /41 cm Vienna, Kunsthistorisches Museum 161

Part I: Plates 1– 8

Rembrandt Harmensz. van Rijn:



Bathseba, 1654



A Woman in Bed, c. 1645 – 49



Susanna, 1636



Diana and her Nymphs Bathing, with Actaeon und Callisto, 1634



Lucretia, 1664



Lucretia, 1666



De Staalmeesters (The Syndics), 1662



Danaë, 1636 and 1643 – 49

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Plate 1: Rembrandt, Bathseba, 1654 canvas, 142 / 142 cm Paris, Louvre

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Plate 2: Rembrandt, A Woman in Bed, c. 1645 – 49, canvas, 81.1 / 67.8  cm Edinburgh, National Gallery of Scotland

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Plate 3: Rembrandt, Susanna, 1636, panel, 47.5  / 39 cm The Hague, Mauritshuis

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Plate 4: Rembrandt, Diana and her Nymphs Bathing, with Actaeon and Callisto, 1634 canvas, 73.5  / 93.5 cm, Anholt, Museum Wasserburg Anholt

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Plate 5: Rembrandt, Lucretia, 1664, canvas, 116  / 99 cm, Washington, D. C., National Gallery of Art

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Plate 6: Rembrandt, Lucretia, 1666, canvas, 110.17 / 92.28 cm Minneapolis, Institute of Arts, The William Hood Dunwoody Fund

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Plate 7: Rembrandt, De Staalmeesters (The Syndics), 1662, canvas, 191 / 279 cm Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum

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Plate 8: Rembrandt, Danaë, 1636 and 1643 – 49, canvas, 185  / 203 cm St. Petersburg, Hermitage

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Part II: Invisible becomes Visible

Painting, not Mimesis

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1 Mirror, Mirror on the Wall … Woman before the Mirror by Frans van Mieris A (painted) picture is like a mirror of nature: Sentences like this have been used to characterize Dutch painting and its alleged primarily mimetic relation to nature since the 17 th century. In the following chapter, the use of mirrors in Dutch painting and their function in the interpretation of the relation between painting and reality will be discussed exemplarily by explorinng one specific art work. While the example is a somewhat ‘extreme’ case, it is also one that has scarcely been scholarly acknowledged to its full extent. I am talking about a panel painting by Frans Mieris called Woman before the Mirror, dated 1670 (plate 9). 457 A rich blue curtain draped to the side reveals a view onto a dimly lit interior. We see a woman standing slightly diagonally in back view, with lost profile, her left arm akimbo as she looks at herself in a large flat wall mirror. Her gaze in the mirror is not directed at herself, but at the viewer. On the right edge of the image there is a small red armchair and in the back — barely visible, even in the original — a lute and a book rest on a small table. The wall to the right is covered with a heavy tapestry, depicting a hardly discernable pattern with a horse and rider and a resting stag. Van Mieris was one of the most respected genre painters of his time, best known for his exquisitely detailed painting. The illusion 457 The painting is an oak panel of 43/31.5  cm. It is part of the collection of Alte Pinakothek in Munich. I would like to thank Dr. Dekiert for allowing me to view the documentation. The painting was obviously never examined for restoration. It is generally in good condition, but has slight abrasions in the first layer of painting and the varnish has darkened a bit; the paint­ing was originally arched and was supplemented to make it rectangular. Otto Naumann, Frans van Mieris (1635 – 1681) the Elder, Doornspijk 1981, vol.  I, p.  78, 82; vol.  2, no.  76; Peter C. Sutton, Christopher Brown (eds.), Masters of Seventeenth-Century Dutch Genre Painting, exh.  cat. Gemäldegalerie Berlin, Royal Acad­emy of Arts, London, Philadelphia Museum of Art, Philadelphia, Berlin 1984, no.  76; Eddy de Jongh, Ger Luijten (eds.), Mirror of Everyday Life. Genreprints in the Netherlands 1550 – 1700, exh.  cat. Rijksmuseum Amsterdam 1997, p.  3 42; Stoichita 1998, p.  216  f.; Wayne Franits, Dutch Seventeenth-Century Genre Painting, New Haven, London 2004, p. 127  f.; Quentin Buvelot (ed.), Frans van Mieris. 1635 – 1681, exh. cat. Mauritshuis The Hague, National Gallery Washington, D. C. 2005/06, p.  3 4, 134, 157; Alte Pinakothek, Holländische und deutsche Malerei des 17. Jahrhunderts, col. cat., text by Marcus Dekiert, edited by Bayerische Staatsgemäldesammlungen, Munich 2006, p. 126, ill.: p. 127.

of materiality and his detailed color palette also mark the painting at hand. How he plays with color shades of blue, red and green refracted in the woman’s clothing is much more apparent in the original than in reproductions: The deep blue of the curtain is refracted in the silvery satin of her skirt, the red of the arm chair’s cushion in the loosely painted blouse and the green of her slippers in the yellow-green shimmer of the feathers in her headdress. The image follows the tradition of domestic scenes displaying women looking at themselves in mirrors, such as the well-known painting by van Mieris’s teacher Gerrit Dou from 1667 (fig. 80). The female back figure in satin is a free paraphrase of Ter Borch’s invention

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Pl. 9 + Detail: Frans van Mieris, Woman before the Mirror, c.  1670, panel, Munich, Alte Pinakothek

(fig. 137, p. 287), which will be discussed in great detail later on. Van Mieris himself had

already used the motif of a woman looking into a mirror a few years earlier, but the woman was depicted in profile and without her image reflected in a mirror mounted sideways. 458 Let us take a closer look at the woman and her reflection. Her nonchalant pose with her hand on her left hip, the elbow pointing out of the picture and toward the viewer, is quite unusual. In 17 th century Holland, this gesture of confidence was reserved exclusively for men. Herman Roodenburg discusses the fundamental meaning of welstand for the bourgeois elite in his book The Eloquence of the Body. He analyzes how certain physical practices were acquired with the aim of molding (what seemed like) a perfectly ‘natural,’ highly cultivated body in order to differentiate oneself from lower social classes. 459 Etiquette manuals (particularly Castiglione’s), art theories (Hoogstraten, Lairesse), theater and visual art created the ideals for the upper bourgeoisie’s selffashioning. Poses and gestures were distinguished according to gender. Thus many Dutch portraits show men with arms akimbo — a sign of confidence — but no women. Van Mieris also produced several depictions of men using this gesture, but not a single other one of a woman. 460 The use of the gesture here is therefore an unmistakable reference to insolence and an appropriation of male self-determination. The velvet beret is a motif borrowed from Rembrandt’s circle. The feathers are not necessarily a symbol of personified unchastity and lust, as claimed in the Munich catalog. In fact, van Mieris’s oeuvre includes several instances of women wearing feathered berets in clearly nonsexual scenes such as the painting of a letter-writing woman in a melancholic gesture

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Fig. 80 + Detail: Gerrit Dou, Lady at Dressing Table, 1667, panel, Rotterdam, Museum Boijmans van Beuningen

from the same time. 461 However, feathers were most commonly used in vanitas images. The beret definitely contributes to the sense of masquerade, since headdresses of this sort were usually not used for portraits. The highlight of this painting is the divergence between the female figure and her reflection in the mirror. Some sort of almost paradox ‘miracle’ changes her pose in the looking glass. Instead of her hand on her hip, both arms are now folded around her body (detail plate 9). It is astonishing that the striking difference between the woman and her reflection has gone almost completely unnoticed in literature and that the painting itself has never been discussed in greater detail. This phenomenon of divergence, which forms the core of the fascination and suspense the image exudes, is neither mentioned in the collection catalog from 2006, nor in the catalog from 2005/06, nor in Franits’s text from 458 Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, Gemäldegalerie; see exh. cat. The Hague, Washington, D.  C . 2005 /06, cat.  no. 31, p. 157 – 159, ill.: p. 158. 459 Herman Roodenburg, The Eloquence of the Body. Perspectives on Gesture in the Dutch Republic, Zwolle 2004. 460 See Portrait of a Man, 1659, Turin, Gal. Sabauda, Naumann 1981, fig.  26; Rauchender Soldat, ca. 1655 – 57, Naumann 1981, fig. 13; Man in Oriental Costume, 1665, The Hague, Naumann 1981, fig.  61; Soldier, 1667, formerly Dresden, destroyed, Naumann 1981, fig.  68. 461 Zurich, private collection, Naumann 1981, fig.  82. 462 Only Stoichita (1998, p.  216  f.) points out the ‘false re­ flection’ in a few sentences in the context of discussing the semiotic dimension of mirrors and their use as signs and instruments of meta-painting. 463 Franits 2004, p. 127  f. 464 Dekiert, coll.  cat. Munich 2006, p. 126.

2004. 462 It is not surprising that the painting’s interpretations are accordingly banal: The woman is a whore trying to gain men’s desire for beauty 463, she “stands in a long tradition of portrayals of vice and can be counted as a warning against a sinful lifestyle.” 464 In the only existing monograph on the artist, Nauman ack­ nowledges, yet attempts to deny the difference by reinterpreting it as factually possible:

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Fig. 81 + Detail: Jan Vermeer, The Music Lesson, c. 1662 – 64, canvas, London, The Royal Collection Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II

It has been remarked privately to this writer that the ‘portrait’ in the mirror cannot truthfully represent the pose of the standing woman. While it is possible that van Mieris intentionally arranged the mirror image in a Mona Lisa-like composition, he did not violate the laws of reflection in doing so. By coincidence another Dutch artist, Emmy Andriesse, photographed a similar subject in the late 1940s (fig. C 76, Amsterdam 1975). The photograph shows that a reflected image can appear quite different from its source, depending on the observer’s angle of view. 465 (Is it really necessary to clarify that van Mieris’s work is a painting and not a photo­­ graph and that the gesture of the hand on the hip could never be reflected the way it is re­gardless of the angle?) In my opinion this grotesque misjudgment is symptomatic for the still pervasive opinion on Dutch painting in the field of art history: Dutch genre pain­ting (in the style of van Mieris) is illustrative, descriptive, creates the illusion of reality, or simply put, is ‘like a mirror.’ Thanks to Eddy De Jongh’s seminal iconological studies, many art historians (but far from all) at least admit that motifs can bear emblematic or symbolic meaning.466 Perhaps this is the right moment to explicitly emphasize that it is indeed a reflection in the mirror and not a painted portrait of the woman. Van Mieris did everything to emphasize this point, particularly with the reflection of the pale blue ribbon attached to the top of the mirror (probably for this reason) and the bluish reflection of the curtain on the left. In several images of women and mirrors, the mirror does not reflect the image of the figure as exactly as the angle would require. Often the figure is turned directly to the

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viewer, like in the painting by Dou mentioned earlier (fig. 80, p. 177). Only in very few cases does the mirror reflect an explicitly diverging pose. One rare example is the mirror above the virginal in Vermeer’s Music Lesson from 1662 – 64 (fig. 81). The artist not only inscribed himself into the image by picturing the foot of his easel, which is not visible in the main image, but also significantly altered the degree to which the woman’s head is turned. We see the woman from behind, her head seemingly in line with her body’s axis as the black trimming of her yellow dress emphasizes. In the reflection, however, she is turned to the man standing next to the virginal. The 465 Naumann 1981, vol.  II, p.  92. 466 On the methodological debate between art histo­ rians, see below. 467 Gustav F. Hartlaub, Zauber des Spiegels. Geschichte und Bedeutung des Spiegels in der Kunst, Munich 1951; Heinrich Schwarz, The Mirror in Art, in: The Art Quarterly 15, 1952, p.  97 – 118; W. M. Zucker, Reflections on Reflections, in: The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism, 1961 – 62, p.  239 – 250; J. Bialostocki, Man and Mirror in Painting. Reality and Transience, in: Studies in Honour of Millard Meiss, New York 1977, p.  61 – 72; Jurgis Baltrusaitis, Le miroir, essai sur une légende scientifique, révélations, science fiction, Paris, 1978; Theresa Georgen, Das magische Dreieck. Über Blickkontakte in Spiegelbild-Darstellungen neuzeitlicher Malerei, in: Judith Conrad, Ursula Konnertz (eds.), Weiblichkeit in der Moderne. An­ sätze feministischer Vernunftkritik, Tübingen 1986, p.  2 44 – 269 (reprinted in Farideh Akashe-Böhme, see below p.  67 – 90); Nico J. Brederoo et al., Oog in oog met de spiegel, Amsterdam 1988, especially the essay by Eric J. Sluijter, “Een volmaekte schildery is als een Spiegel van de natuer”: spiegel en spiegelbeeld in de Nederlandse schilderkunst van de zeventiende eeuw, p. 146 – 163; Rolf Haubl, “Unter lauter Spiegelbildern …” Zur Kulturgeschichte des Spiegels, 2 vols., Frankfurt a. M. 1991; Farideh Akashe-Böhme (ed.), Reflexionen vor dem Spiegel (series: Gender Studies. Vom Unterschied der Geschlechter), Frankfurt a. M. 1992; Friederike Seidl, Zur Bedeutung des “Spiegels” in der niederländischen Malerei und Graphik (15. bis Anfang 17. Jahrhundert), master thesis, Vienna 1997; Mark Pendergast, Mirror, Mirror. A History of the Human Love Affair with Reflection, New York 2004; Koen Vermeir, Mirror, Mirror on the Wall. Aesthetics and Metaphysics of 17 th Century Scientific Artistic Spect­ acles, in: kritische berichte, “Spiegel und Spiegelungen,” 2004 /2, p.  27 – 38. For further philosophy and critical theory on mirrors and reflection, see, a. o.: Jacques Lacan, The Mirror Stage as Formative of the Function of the I as Revealed in Psychoanalytic Experience (Seminar I, 1953 – 5 4), in: Écrits, English by Bruce Fink, New York 2002, p.  75 – 81; Umberto Eco, Sugli specchi e altri saggi: Il segno, la rappresentazione, l’illusione, l’immagine, Milan 1985; Michel Foucault, Des espace autres, in: Architecture, Mouvement, Continuité 5 (1984), p.  46 – 49. 468 Especially see Baltrusaitis 1986, Vermeir 2004. 469 English by Edward Peter Nolan (after Baltrusaitis 1986), Now Through a Glass Darkly. Specular Images of Being and Knowing from Virgil to Chaucer, Ann Arbor 1990, p.  291.

(painted) mirror thus does not reflect visible reality. It rather reveals the invisible, the inner affection this woman feels for the man next to the virginal. The mirror here is also a reflection of her soul. Mirror semantics I would like to (very briefly) outline the symbolic meaning of mirrors from the Middle Ages to the early modern period as our starting point for the interpretation of Woman before the Mirror. 467 Mirrors are symbols for different, at times even opposing meanings. They represent a pure reflection of the truth as much as decep­tive illusion, wisdom and knowledge as well as vanity, self-recognition as well as self-miscon­ception. Mirrors were used in science, particularly in optics, while also finding use in magical prac­ tices. Sorcery, the demonic and the divine all come together in the mirror. 468 The preca­rious ambiguity of mirrors was pointed out time and again, for example by Raphael Mirami in 1582: For some, mirrors constitute a hieroglyph of truth in that they uncover everything that is presented to them […] Others, on the contrary, hold mirrors for a symbol of falsity because they so often show things other than they are. 469

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Fig. 82: Hieronymus Bosch, Superbia (detail from the Table with the seven Deadly Sins), c. 1485, panel, Madrid, Prado Fig. 83: Paulus Moreelse, Young Lady with a Mirror, 1627, canvas, Cambridge, Fitzwilliam Museum

Nothing demonstrates the meaning of the mirror as an allegory of pure, untainted truth as clearly as the use of the term speculum (mirror) for many medieval texts such as Speculum maius by Vincent de Beauvais (d. 1264): the largest and most important encyclopedia, divided into four specula (wisdom, history, nature, morality); speculum sapientiae; speculum virginum; speculum humanae salvationis (one of the most significant typological bible interpretations of the late Middle Ages) and many more. The term speculum was used to verify the perfection of what was represented. The book is a written representation of God’s truth without human intervention. It is in this sense that the term speculum sine macula describes Maria as a pure image of God. The mirror metaphor was not only used in spiritual contexts, it was also applied in secular and courtly writing. Books function as mirrors for our mind, showing the ideal of virtuous (holy, courtly) behavior. By mirroring the (imagined) other we are supposed to recognize our self and follow the presented example. 470 This tradition continued well into the 17 th century, as many Dutch books on moralizing or didactic subjects with spiegel in their title prove. Prudentia (prudence) is the attribute given to mirrors. Reflectere, to reflect, is used both for the mirroring effect and contemplation. Reflection, or self-knowledge, was already considered the basis of wisdom in Antiquity. 471 Terms like speculation or to speculate, meaning to think about God and the world, are derived from speculum. 472 This is telling as it refers to the function of the mirror metaphor as a source of imagination. The myth of Narcissus points out the deceitful (and at times deadly) effect of the reflected image. In Peter Bruegel’s etching Elck (Everyman), Nemo looks at himself in his convex hand mirror. The pessimistic caption “niemat en kent he selv” (No one

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knows himself) highlights the impossibility of self-knowledge; the mirror becomes a metaphor for self-misconception. In medieval allegorical portrayals of vice, Superbia (Pride) usually holds a mirror in her hand. Like Augustine before him, Gregory the Great particularly defined superbia as the worst of the seven deadly sins. Because humilitas (humility) before God and subsequently before church and authority is considered the highest of all virtues in Christianity, superbia — describing individualism, self-assertion and selfishness — must be the worst of all sins. 473 The mirror in Superbia’s hand is thus not merely an attribute of primping, but primarily symbolizes self-obsession and with it paying more attention to one’s self than to God. Images by Hieronymus Bosch (fig. 82), Memling, Bruegel and others show women with mirrors as images of pride and vanity. The ephemerality of a reflected image additionally wakes associations to vanitas or tran­ sience. Vanitas is the personification of people’s tendency to tie their hearts to trivial mundane things instead of preparing for eternal salvation. Vanitas themes are reminders of humans’ mortality, such as the figure of Lady World, a beautiful woman from the front and a rotten, infested corpse from the back. This allegory gathers Superbia, Vanitas, Venus and Luxuria in one figure. Next to globes, world maps and jewelry, mirrors are one of Lady World’s most common attributes in Dutch painting and graphic art. 474 Unsur­pri­s­ ingly, this world of sinful temptation is imagined as female. In the early modern period, a close, yet precarious relationship developed between painting and mirror (image). Is painting and its attempt to emulate nature a mirror of nature? For Leonardo da Vinci the mirror is a teacher for artists; for Alberti, Narcissus, in love with his reflection, is the actual inventor of painting. 475 During the second half of the 16th century, representations of the five senses became popular among the circles of Frans Floris and Cornelis Cort and later of Hendrick Goltzius. Visus, or the sense of sight, is portrayed as a woman holding a mirror. 476 Already in 1600 the meanings of Venus, Visus and Vanitas were fused into the representation of a female figure holding a mirror. This fusion was perpetuated by artists like 470 On the meaning of the metaphor of the mirror in the Middle Ages see the chapter Spiegel und Spiegelungen in: Horst Wenzel, Spiegelungen. Zur Kultur der Visualität im Mittelalter, Berlin 2009. 471 Laertius, Sokrates und Seneca advised their students to observe themselves in the mirror. Baltrusaitis 1996, p.  9. 472 Wenzel 2009. 473 Particularly see Haubl 1991, vol.  2, p.  523 – 651. 474 Eddy de Jongh, The Changing Face of Lady World, in: de Jongh, Questions of Meaning. Theme and Motif in Dutch Seventeenth-Century Painting, Leyden 2000, p.  60 – 82. 475 Schwarz 1952, p. 110. 476 Sluijter 2000, p.  86 – 159. 477 Sluijter 1988. To elaborate on the meaning of mir­ rors and reflections for still lifes and self-portraits in Dutch painting would surpass the scope of this work. For a discussion of these topics, see ibid.

Paulus Moreelse and Jan van Bijlert, with Venus gradually taking the form of a contemporary seductress (fig. 83). The abundant and conflicting semantics of the mirror were fully present in cultural mem­ ory in 17 th century Holland. 477 A mirror, espe­ cially in the hands of a woman, was a popular metaphor in Dutch literature, where it was used to convey different meanings: sometimes an

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emblem of beauty and eroticism, sometimes a sign of vanity, illusion and transience. 478 ‘Theoreticians’ like Van Mander, Philips Angel 479 or Hoogstraten apostrophized the proximity of painting and reflected image in several ways. Van Mander names the ‘positive’ and ‘negative’ connotations of the mirror metaphor. On one hand he uses it as the highest praise for Jan van Eyck’s art: T’sijn spieghels, spieghels zijnt, neen t’zijn geen Tafereelen (They are mirrors, mirrors are they, not paintings) 480 On the other hand, he is aware of the mirror’s ambivalence between knowledge and deception: Den Spieghel houden wy veel voor de kennis onses self: doch wort hy van outs ghehouden voor valsheyt, vertoonende slechts den schijn van t’waer wesen, maar de waerheyt selfs niet. (We often believe the mirror to be knowledge of our selves: yet it has been known to be false for a long time; it only reflects what seems like true nature and not the truth itself.) 481 He also warns that mirrors falsify because they reflect inverted images of objects before them: […] doch wort hy [de spieghel] van outs gehouden voor valsheyt, vertoonende slechts den schijn van t’waer wesen, maer de waerheyt selfs niet: want al wat rechts is, toont hy op slincks, en wat slincks is, rechts. 482 Identifying parallels between image and mirror does not necessarily mean that painting is a pure mimesis of nature, since the mirror’s multiple layers of meaning are also implied. Both painting and reflection share the fascination of illusion and apparent reality: schijn sonder sijn (seeming without being). J. de Brune d. J. describes attraction to the power of artistic illusion in his work published in 1665: […] want aan dingen, die niet en zijn, zich zo te vergapen, also ofze waren, en daar zoo van geleit te worden dat wy ons zelve, sonder schade, diets maken datze zijn; hoe kan dat tot de verlusting onzer gemoederen niet dienstigh wezen? Zeker, het vervroolikt yemand buite maat, wanneer hy door een valsche gelikenis der dingen wort bedrogen.

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([…] to admire things that do not exist as if they indeed existed and to be seduced to convince ourselves that they exist — without damaging us —  how should this not aid brightening our mood? It is surely exceedingly delightful to be fooled by the false likeness of things.) 483 This is also how we can read Hoogstraaten’s famous dictum: Want een volmaekte Schildery is als een spiegel van de Natuer, die de dingen, die niet en zijn, doet schijnen te zijn, en op een geoorlofde, vermakelijke en prijslijke wijze bedriegt. (For a perfect painting is like a mirror of nature that makes things which are not there appear to be there, and it deceives in an acceptably pleasant and praiseworthy manner.) 484 The link between mirror image and painting was so special in 17 th century Holland be­cause of the generally eminent meaning of vision and all visual phenomena. 485 Alpers demonstrates in great detail how this applies to all of Dutch culture at the time (the development of optics, the invention of the telescope and microscope, cartography, etc). 486 478 De Jongh 1976, p. 192. 479 Philips Angel was the least innovative and theoretical of the three. He indeed preferred painting that reflects nature like a mirror, without any interference by the artist-subject. Consequentially he preferred the Leydener Fijnschilders, most of all Gerrit Dou, van Mieris’s teacher. See: Eric Jan Sluijter, In Praise of the Art of Painting: On Paintings by Gerrit Dou and a Treatise by Philips Angel of 1642, in: Sluijter 2000, p. 199 – 263. 480 Karel van Mander, Het schilder-boeck, Haarlem 1604, p. 2011, quoted here after Sluijter 2000, p.  338, note 169. English by translator. 481 Quoted after Sluijter 1988, p. 150. English by trans­ lator. 482 Karel van Mander, Wtlegghingh op den Metamorphosis Pub. Ovidii Nasonis, in: van Mander, Het schilderboeck, Haarlem 1604, p. 133v, quoted after Sluijter 2000, p.  310, note 75. 483 J. de Brune d. J., Alle volgeestige werken, Harlingen 1665, p.  317. See Sluijter 2000, esp. p. 13; De Jongh 2005, p. 47. English by translator. 484 Samuel van Hoogstraten, Inleyding tot de hooge schoole der schilderkonst, anders de zichtbaere werelt, Rotterdam 1678, reprint 1969, p.  25. English by translator. 485 One example is the meaning and epistemological dimension of the trompe l’oeil in Dutch painting. 486 Svetlana Alpers, The Art of Describing. Dutch Art in the Seventeenth Century, Chicago 1983. 487 For example an engraving by Jacob de Gheyn II from ca. 1600, Jan Miense Molenaer 1633, ill.: Sluijter 1988, p. 158, 159. 488 On the erotic connotation of shoes, see note 627. On dogs, see below.

For some, seeing and visual perception were not only a source of knowledge, but also symbolized danger, deception, a gateway to seduction and desire, or distraction from religious devotion. Ambiguity In Dutch genre paintings from the time, the multiple layers of meaning ascribed to mirrors are implicitly present. There are many versions, especially from the first half of the century, that include references to transience such as skulls, monkeys or other symbols of vanitas. 487 In works from the latter half of the century by artists such as Dou, Ter Borch or Vermeer, these allegorical references disappear. We also cannot find any distinctly moralizing symbols in van Mieris’s image. The woman’s shoes, the lute, the little dog and the hunting scene rather bear a hint of eroticism. 488

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Fig. 84: Leonardo da Vinci, Mona Lisa, 1503 – 05, panel, 77 /53 cm, Paris, Louvre Pl. 9 — Detail: Frans van Mieris, Woman before the Mirror, c.  1670, panel, Munich, Alte Pinakothek

Perhaps we could read the feathers on the beret as a subtle reference to vanitas. Because there are no explicit allegorical symbols, all possible meanings of the reflection are evoked in all their contradiction and without any clear direction. That this is not just a genre painting of a vain lady in front of the mirror is made clear by the mirror’s odd positioning. The flat mirror juts into the room considerably — an inconceivable thing in any realistic domestic scene. The three-quarter profile of the female figure on the projection plain becomes part of the mirror’s surface. The fact that her ‘real’ left elbow covers her right elbow in the mirror further accentuates the tight linking of the female figure and her reflection. Of course the left elbow is the cause for controversy, because in ‘reality’ it points at the viewer in its bold and improperly masculine attitude. In the reflection, however, this offence against proper social decorum is ‘corrected.’ Thanks to the elbow’s formal inclusion into the figure’s whole silhouette, the gesture becomes a bit subtler. These technical tricks as well as the big blue curtain framing the scene clearly mark the mirror image as the focus of the painting. In some works, in which the mirror does not reflect what is in front of it, the face looking out of the mirror is a grimace or a skull; think of Lucas Furtnagel’s double por­ trait of the Burgkmairs from 1529, where skulls stare out of the mirror in the wife’s hand; or Bruegel’s Superbia, whose reflection in the mirror is distorted into an amphibious grimace. Both reveal the true face of superbia, or pride. Van Mieris, however, reverses the relationship between (ideal) image and distorted reflection. The face of our female figure, who we only see in lost profile, is complete and immaculate in the mirror. It not only alters the unflattering, partial view of her face, but also ‘corrects’ the pose of her body that seemed so dowdy and rude according to the times’ standards of femininity.

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The mirror image goes even further: Instead of merely ‘correcting’ her pose, the woman is inscribed into a triangular composition as a bust, thus conforming to female ideals from the high Renaissance. It is a structure found in female portraits by Raphael, or in Leonardo’s Mona Lisa (fig. 84): a female bust, positioned slightly diagonally into the pictorial space, both arms resting on a balustrade, her gaze directed out of the image and at the viewer — a fully serene composition exuding harmony and poise. Thus we can ascertain that the pose of the woman in the mirror cites the Renaissance ideal of femininity. What does this mean? Let us revisit the hard facts: We have a disparity between the image of the woman and her (idealized) reflection in the mirror; we know about the different meanings of mirror images and are aware that the artist simultaneously keeps different readings open by foregoing any clear symbols. The effect of this aesthetic staging is the evocation of manifold, partially opposing associations, feelings and thoughts in the audience. The picture is like a painted commentary on the debate of painting’s mimetic character. Van Mieris was one of the so-called fijnschilders (literally fine painters), a group of artists famous for their special painting technique that made surfaces completely smooth and showed no visible traces of brush strokes. Thus their images did not seem like painting, but rather like mirrors of nature. Could painting mimic nature like a mirror after all? The answer, of course, is no. Painting is not mimesis. Painting can create the illusion of reality, but it always also reflects its artistic character. Schijn sonder sijn. In general Dutch opinion of the time, a good image was painted so realistically that it seemed like reality while also giving the impression of being art. It is always a game of seeming and being. 489 Painting can make the invisible visible. Associations on the relationship between the lady and her reflection likely diverged in different directions in van Mieris’s time, de­ pending on gender, education and individual imagination. If we assume that the reflection represents the inner self of the woman — similar to Vermeer’s Music Lesson (fig. 81, p. 178) — and simultaneously keep in mind that the mir­ ror represents both self-knowledge and self-misconception, or truth and deceit, we can conclude the following possible interpretations: The woman sees a reflection of herself and not herself. She perceives and misconceives herself. She sees her ideal self. Her bold, defiant gesture concurs with this form of hubris. We, as second-order observers, see both her and her reflection, which enables us to recognize the difference between the two. Therefore the image grants us a certain form of insight, a recognition of the boundaries of self-knowledge. It is the understanding that the image we form of ourselves is always already an image and that this image is marked by certain codes and traditions. I believe 489 See Sluijter 2000 and Stoichita 1998, particularly p.  209 – 223.

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Fig. 85: Edouard Manet, Bar aux Folies-Bergère, 1881 /82, canvas, London, Courtauld Institute Galleries

that this is a visualization of a concept of human being that anticipates modern subject conceptions. Freud and Lacan later analyzed and conceptualized these ideas. This per­ tains particularly to the phantasma of unity, coherence and ideal that Lacan addresses in his metaphor of the mirror. 490 Due to progressive developments in society, the bourgeois elite in Holland in the latter half of the 17 th century was able to gain new forms of subject experience (Subjekterfahrung), which paid more attention to psychological matters. Even if the negatively connoted late medieval motif of superbia/vanitas is still present (which is why the figure is female), the painting’s meaning goes beyond moralization on the visual level. Here, superbia versus humilitas is not the actual issue; the problem is not the mere fact of self-reflection. It has become an intrapsychic problem, lying in the encounter of the self with its own image in the mirror and all the (mis)conceptions that come with it. On the level of visibility, a (modern) concept of the subject is created, prefiguring future wordings such as Lacan’s saying “I is an Other.” One could also express this in reversal: Lacan’s mirror metaphor and the eminent relevance of the gaze and vision for the formation of the subject stand in a long tradition that includes an image tradition and a culture that put visus, the sense of sight, above others. 491 An interesting point of further investigation would be to ask if the relevance of the mirror and the mirror image in the formation of a child’s ego in Lacan’s psychoanalytical theory, alongside the corres­ ponding fundamental misconception of the subject that comes with it, was inspired by old semantics of the mirror. What I mean is the inseparable unity between knowledge and misconception, between truth and deceit. Because I find it enlightening for our selfunderstanding to comprehend the origins of our images and discourses on one hand, and their respective changes on the other, I would like to point out a dialog between

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Socrates and Alcibiades in Plato’s Alcibiades. In it, Plato describes how the reflection in the eye and thus in the soul of the other is the basic condition for self-knowledge. 492 Even though the idea of the importance of being mirrored in the other for self-recognition is similar, the basic tenor is a different one. In Plato’s writing the belief in self-knowledge and the discovery of one’s own soul is still intact. It is also interesting to compare the meaning of the mirror in Woman before the Mirror with the mirror metaphor used in medie­ val writing. Here mirrors are also used to reflect an other in whom the person is suppo­sed to reflect and recognize him/herself. Here, however, the reflection is the norm or model not be questioned and not the internalized and conflicted (super)­ego as in psychoanalytic theory. The discrepancy between the female figure and her reflection can also be examined in relation to the audience’s perception. After all, her gaze is directed at them and not directly at herself. This creates a triangular relation between female figure, her reflection in the mirror and the viewer. The mirror-gaze of the female beauty (primarily directed at a male viewer) can also be found in Dou’s painting (fig. 80, p. 177). The triad of gazes can be traced back to a painting of Venus by Titian from 1555 that was varied multiple times by Rubens and others. 493 Perhaps the reflection in van Mieris’s painting reflects the viewer’s desire for, and fantasy of, an ideal 490 Lacan 2002, p.  75 – 81. 491 Lacan uses the mirror as a metaphor, but not exclu­ sively. He indeed assumes that for a child between 6–18 months the experience of seeing itself in the mirror as a whole (contrary to the fragmented perception of the body, its ‘unfinished’ state and the fact that we cannot see all of ourselves without a mirror) is fundamental for a first sense of independence and the formation of the ego. Is this not an overrating of the sense of sight? Is not the development of motor skills, particularly walking, at least equally important for a child’s detachment from its mother? 492 “SOCRATES: And what are the objects in looking at which we see ourselves? ALCIBIADES: Clearly, Socrates, in looking at mirrors and the like. […] SOCRATES: Did you ever observe that the face of the person looking into the eye of another is reflected as in a mirror; and in the visual organ which is over against him, and which is called the pupil, there is a sort of image of the person looking? […]Then the eye, looking at another eye, and at that in the eye which is most perfect, and which is the instrument of vision, will there see itself […] Then if the eye is to see itself, it must look at the eye, and at that part of the eye where sight which is the virtue of the eye resides. […] And if the soul, my dear Alcibiades, is ever to know herself, must she not look at the soul; and especially at that part of the soul in which her virtue resides, and to any other which is like this?” Plato, Alcibiades I. English by Benjamin Jowett; www.gutenberg.org/files/1676/ 1676-h/1676-h.htm, retrieved Sept. 25, 2013. 493 Georgen 1986. 494 Bradford R. Collins (ed.), 12 Views of Manet’s Bar, Princeton 1996.

woman, while simultaneously pointing out the discrepancy to reality. The juxtaposition of reality and illusion, desire and wishful thinking, while simultaneously reflecting their imaginary character, evokes Manet’s Bar aux Folies-Bergère from 1881, where the male viewer has become a visible part of the representation (fig. 85). 494 Female viewers will probably have asso­ cia­ted the painting with other things, perhaps in the sense of a moralizing message from a written speculum, suggesting they follow the model of ideal reflected in the mirror. Corre­ la­t­ing the painting with the fairy tale of Snow White evokes a different set of associations. The mirror in the story reflects the queen’s jealousy and narcissistic slight by responding to her question “Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?” with “My Queen, you are the fairest here so true. But Snow White is a

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Fig. 86 + Detail: Frans van Mieris, The Cloth Shop, 1660, panel, Vienna, Kunsthistorisches Museum

thousand times more beautiful than you.” 495 Of course we could also solve the difference between image and mirror with an alternative idea: it could be read as a confident wo­man’s resistance against the pressure to conform to an ideal of femininity. I do not think it is possible to find a singular, unambiguous interpretation of the image; its central point is rather its semantic versatility/openness. The audience is con­ fronted with a contradiction between (painted) reality and its counter-reflection, and with the appellative structure created by direct eye contact to the reflected image. How we react, how deep we delve into the issues implied and, subsequently, what conclusions we draw, is not only subject to great variation today, but also was the case in van Mieris’s time. The painting definitely stimulates subjective thoughts, fantasies and imaginations. I believe that the production of subjectivity we can witness in this and related images is the eminent significance of Dutch painting, particularly from the third quarter of the 17 th century. However, scholars have yet to fully discover and examine it. 496 Some may not believe that van Mieris was capable of such intellectual depth and complexity because they think he was only a superficial society painter. However, he was one of the most renowned genre painters of his time. 497 I would like to counter this poten­ tial objection with the fact that, apart from Rembrandt, no other artist staged himself

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so often and with such irony. More remarkable than the sheer number of self-portraits is the performative character, the masquerade, of van Mieris’s self-portraits. He presents himself grinning, smoking, making faces, in disguise, in precarious erotic contexts. These portraits almost always include some form of ironic twist. 498 Both Rembrandt’s and his disguises seem like they followed Hoogstraten’s recommendation to painters studying their reflection to turn themselves into actors and thus become performer and audience at once. 499 We can detect a similar kind of staging in Woman before the Mirror, which leads to the question whether there is an ‘original’ hidden somewhere behind the masks in and in front of the mirror. Another painting demonstrating the multi-layered character of van Mieris’s work is A Cavalier in a Shop from 1660, in the KHM Vienna (fig. 86).500 Set in a luxurious draper’s shop (which never existed in this form; it rather resembles the apartment of a member of the bourgeois elite), an officer is choosing fabrics. With one hand he tests the quality of a swatch of fabric while touching the chin of the salesgirl with the other. An old man in the background is turned toward the couple; his pointing gesture could either refer to the couple or to the painting above him, depicting a rare scene of Adam and Eve commiserating Abel’s death. On the right side of the painting several bundles of fabric are 495 On psychoanalytic interpretations of Snow White, see Haubl 1991, vol.  I, p.  36 – 4 4. Includes further literature. 496 In the meantime, Eddy de Jongh (Questions of Understanding, in: exh.  cat. The Hague, Washington, D. C. 2005/06, p.  4 4 – 61, here: p.  51  f.) has at least recog­nized a certain ambiguity in Van Mieris’s work: “Is it possible that van Mieris deliberately composed his scenes, or some of them, so they could be read on more than one level? Did he anticipate that they would be subject to different perceptions? […] This view has emerged only recently, and the suspicion seems justi­ fied that certain postmodern ideas, together with the aesthetics of floating meaning in contemporary art (‘anything goes’), may have provided an added stimulus to help crystallize it.” De Jongh substant­ iates his statement by referring to contemporary texts by Adriaan Poirters and Jan de Brune d. J., who, in turn, offer several possible interpretations for the motif of dog and skull. 497 De Jongh (op. cit.) rightly defends van Mieris against purely formalist interpretations. 498 Exh.  cat. The Hague, Washington, D. C. 2005 /06, especially cat.  no. 25, fig. 15; also see De Jongh, op.  cit., p.  56  f f. 499 “Zich selven geheel in een toneelspeeler (te) hervormen […] te gelijk vertooner en aenschouwer te zijn.” Van Hoogstraten 1678, p. 109  f. 500 The painting was commissioned and enthusiastically received by Archduke Leopold Wilhelm of Austria, according to sources by Cornelis de Bie and Arnold Houbraken. See: de Jongh exh. cat. Amsterdam 1976, cat.  no.  4 2, p. 173 – 175. 501 It makes most sense to read this fragment as a pas­ sive form and interpret it accordingly. See De Jongh, op.  cit.

stacked and draped on a rug-covered table. The stack is topped with a flag made of luxurious material; alongside fragments of Holland’s and Leyden’s coat of arms we can make out the words COMPARAT(UR) CUI VULT (fig. 86, detail).501 Comparare is Latin for ‘to compare’

and ‘to buy.’ Thus, we could either translate the words as “There are comparisons for him who wants (to see) them” or “Who wants can buy.” We can find comparisons on several levels: The officer assesses the surface of the fabric and the girl — suggesting that he could buy both. A more complex referential system can be found in the constellation between the flirting couple and the tragic scene in the painting. De Jongh interprets it as a reference to the fall from grace and the sub­ sequent arrival of passions, violence and death. Franits, on the other hand, sees a connec­tion between the painting and the old man who is

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jealous of the young, successful man; jealousy was the cause of the fratricide.502 Despite its generally jovial tone, the painting offers a complex referential system and evokes varying associations and connections: comparatur cui vult. The little dogs in the paintings from Munich and Vienna could be twins.503 And yet they differ in their expression. While the dog in the shop fixes his gaze at the viewer, the dog in the picture from Munich just stares into space. His eyes are open, but his gaze is empty. This is the representation of animalistic vision, which, as opposed to human vision, cannot identify anything in the mirror. Contrasting human and animalistic vision was a popular comparison in the discourse on vision, art and recognition.504 The following quote is an example taken from Constantin Huygens’s text Mijn leven verteld an mijn kinderen: De vorming van de ogen, de volle zuster der poezie, de schilderkunst, [kan je] kortweg maar treffend betitelen als de kunst van het zien. Degenen die hierin niet thuis zijn, beschouw ik waarlijk amper als mensen die compleet mens zijn. Blinden noem ik ze, blinden die niet anders naar de lucht, de zee of de aarde kijken dan hun vee dat ze met de kop omlaag laten grazen. Zij kijken zonder ze te zien.505 (The ability of the eyes to create; the equal sister of poetry, painting, can briefly yet accurately be described as the art of vision. Those who do not have this knowledge I do not consider human, not fully human. I call them blind, the blind who do not view the air, the sea or the earth differently than the stock that they have graze with lowered heads. They look without seeing.)506 In reference to our painting one could say that a human, in the fullest sense of the word, is someone who, unlike animals, can see, compare and recognize. It could be interesting to compare Mieris’s representation of reflections and mirrors to the experiences with mirrors that were offered in Athanasius Kircher’s museum around the same time.507 A Jesuit and polymath, Athanasius Kircher presented a number of optical, technical and magnetic devices as well as rooms with mirrors in his museum at the Collegio Romano

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502 Franits (2004, p. 125  f f.), in reference to Hecht; in: Franits 1997, p.  221, note 8. 503 Dogs are a common sight in Dutch genre paintings; they do not have a fixed meaning: sometimes they symbolize loyalty; lap dogs often have an erotic connotation. De Brune d. J. (1681) already points out their manifold metaphorical meanings. See: de Jongh exh. cat. The Hague, Washington, D. C. 2005 /06, p.  50  f. 504 Hoogstraten used animals to mark awareness and recognition, for example in his perspective box (National Gallery, London) and corridor paintings. In these depictions, dogs and cats look directly at the viewer. Celeste Brusati, Artifice and Illusion. The Art and Writing of Samuel van Hoogstraten, The University of Chicago Press 1995, p.  311, note 50. 505 Quoted here after Thijs Weststeijn, De zichtbare We­ reld. Samuel van Hoogstratens kunsttheorie en de legitimering van de schilderkonst in de zeventiende eeuw, 2 vols., doctoral thesis, Amsterdam 2005, p. 60. 506 I would like to thank Gotthart Wunberg for his help with this quote. 507 Vermeir 2004.

in Rome. He describes the effects of his ingenious stagings in Ars Magna Lucis et Umbrae, published in Amsterdam in 1646. Visitors to the museum found themselves in all sorts of metamorphoses: altered, distorted, fragmented, multiplied thousand-fold, floating in the air, half human and half animal, or with a skull in place of the head. People were supposed to get lost in this maze of mirrors and to lose all sense of the reality of things and the space. Athanasius Kircher legitimized the derailed experience of the self by claiming that recognizing the world’s illusionary character lead people to God. Aside from the shared fascination with effects of mirrors, reflections and optical illusions popular at the time, there are clear distinctions between the painter in bourgeois Holland and the Jesuit in baroque Rome. In Kircher’s catoptric theater and the later courtly-baroque mirror mazes, the audience experiences reflections and distortions of their selves. In van Mieris’s work they can observe the figure’s self-misconception under the perspective of a second-order observer. The Dutch image enables the development of subjective imagination alongside its reflection.

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2 The Picture within the Picture or Conveying the world through media Woman Holding a Balance by Vermeer

Painting is not mimesis. Mirrors, whether in images or texts, are not depictions of visual reality. What are pictures within pictures? Of course there is no simple answer to this question, far too complex are the meanings and functions of pictures within pictures.508 In the Netherlands the practice of integrating images (miniatures, graphic works, paintings) into other images traces back to the 15th century. During the 17th century, we find this practice in a number of genre paintings and domestic scenes. Since paintings often adorned Dutch interiors, they are also repre­ sented in painted depictions of such interiors. Pictures in painted interiors, Stoichita rightly notes, reflect the new site of painting: the walls of private, bourgeois homes.509 As varied as their interpretations may be, most scholars agree that there is most often, but not always, a correlation between the contents of the main image and the integrated image.510 Pictures within pictures comment the main image. The types of image we find within images vary: they may be direct quotes of another artist’s work, paraphrases, varia­tions, or original inventions by the artist. 508 André Chastel, Le Tableau dans le tableau, in: Stil und Überlieferung in der Kunst des Abendlandes. Akten des 21. internationalen Kongresses für Kunstgeschichte in Bonn 1964, Berlin 1967, vol.  1, p. 15 – 29; also in: André Chastel, Fables, Formes, Figures II, Paris 1978, p.  75 – 98; Pierre Georgel, Anne-Marie Lecoq, La peinture dans la peinture, Dijon 1982; Hermann Ulrich Asemissen, Gunter Schweikhart, Malerei als Thema der Malerei, Berlin 1994; Stoichita 1998, especially p. 179 – 197; Gregor J.  M. Weber, “Om te bevestige[n] aen-te-raden, verbreeden ende vercieren.” Rhetorische Exempellehre und die Struktur des ‘Bildes im Bild’, in: Studien zur niederländischen Kunst. Festschrift für Justus Müller Hofstede, Wallraf-RichartzJahrbuch LV, 1994, p.  287 – 314; Gregor J. M. Weber, Vermeer’s Use of the Picture-within-a Picture: A New Approach, in: Ivan Gaskell (ed.), Vermeer’s Studies, New Haven, London 1998, p.  295 – 307; Dieter Beaujean, Bilder in Bildern. Studien zur niederländischen Malerei des 17. Jahrhunderts, Weimar 2001 (doctoral thesis, Berlin 1998). 509 Stoichita 1998, especially p. 180  f. 510 Beaujean (2001), for example, sees nothing more than decorative art objects in pictures within pictures and states that “there are no layers of meaning to be deciphered.” (p.  212) English by translator. Thus this doctoral thesis unsurprisingly provides no new insight. 511 On emblematic readings, see Eddy de Jongh, especially: On Balance, in: Gaskell 1998, p.  351 – 365. 512 Weber 1994, 1998.

The connection between the images can be affirmative or contrary. References can be of emblematic nature511 or more like exempla in a rhetorical sense.512 Pictures within pictures are almost exclusively from other genres: land­scapes or history paintings, portraits, occasionally still lifes, but almost never genre paintings or domestic scenes. Vermeer’s Woman Holding a Balance is not a randomly chosen example, it is a border­ line case which most radically tests the limits of pictures within pictures (plate 10). It is a pain­ter­ ly reflection of how paintings function as producers of meaning and as a medium conveying the world.

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Pl. 10: Jan Vermeer, Woman Holding a Balance, c. 1664, canvas, Washington, D. C., National Gallery of Art Fig. 89: Pieter de Hooch, Woman Weighing Gold, c. 1664, canvas, Berlin, Staatl. Museen, Gemäldegalerie

Commonly known as Woman Weighing Gold 513 in the past, this painting from around 1664 is also referred to as Woman Weighing Pearls today.514 The painting shows a fairly close-up view of a dimly lit interior where a woman standing at a table casts her eyes down on a balance in equilibrium that she is holding in her right hand. On the table we see a blue piece of cloth next to two jewelry boxes, gold and pearl necklaces and coins. A window can be assumed to the left, where light seeps into the room through a golden-orange curtain. Across from the woman a mirror hangs on the wall, but all we see is its frame and a narrow strip of silvery reflection. On the wall behind her there is a large painting of the Final Judgment. In our projected view, the female figure covers the middle of the painting: the traditional position of Archangel Michael weighing souls.

The Final Judgment as the norm? The Final Judgment, the picture within the picture, and its relation to the female protagonist has lead to a very wide range of interpretations of the panting. Already ThoréBürger, the enthusiastic rediscoverer of Vermeer’s artistic relevance, saw a correlation between the female figure and the depiction of the Final Judgment. In his catalog from 1866 he wrote on La Peseuse des perles: “Ah! tu pèses des bijoux? Tu seras pesée et jugée à ton tour!“ 515 In a commemorative publication for Wilhelm Pinder from 1938, Herbert Rudolph further evolved the idea and developed the first explicitly iconologically oriented

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interpretation of Woman Holding a Balance. He interprets the woman as a vanitas figure who pays attention to worldly riches instead of preparing for Judgment Day. Accordingly, he defines both the pearls and the mirror as symbols of vanitas. Rudolph’s moralizing interpretation determined future dealings with the painting. In his monograph on Vermeer from 1980, Albert Blankert, for example, sees a contrast between the woman turned to worldly goods and the Final Judgment. Thanks to microscopic examinations of the painting, however, Wheelock has been able to clarify beyond doubt that neither pearls nor gold are being weighed in the balance, because the scales are indeed empty.516 It is remarkable that it was necessary to conduct a scientific technical examination to establish this fact instead of relying on plain sight. Even 513 The title Woman Weighing Gold goes back to a description of the painting in an auction catalog from 1696, “A young woman weighing gold in a box by J. van der Meer from Delft, painted in an extraordinarily skillful and vigorous way,” doc.  62, Blankert 1978 (1975) p. 161. 514 Oil/canvas 42.5/38  cm, Washington, D. C., National Gallery of Art, Widener Collection. The painting underwent minor restoration in 1994 and is generally well preserved. Albert Blankert, Johannes Vermeer van Delft, Utrecht, Antwerpen 1975, English translation: Oxford, New York 1978; Albert Blankert, Gilles Aillaud, John Michael Montias, Vermeer, Paris 1987; Svetlana Alpers, Described or Narrated? A Problem in Realistic Representation, in: New Literary History VIII, 1976, p. 15 – 41, here: p.  25  f.; Ivan Gaskell, Vermeer, Judgement and Truth, in: Burlington Magazine, CXXVI, 1984, p.  557 – 561; Edward Snow, A Study of Vermeer, Berkeley 1994, p. 156 – 166; Arthur K. Wheelock (ed.), Johannes Vermeer, exh. cat. National Gallery of Art, Washington, D. C., Mauritshuis, The Hague, Zwolle 1995, cat.  no. 10, p. 140 – 145; Arthur K. Wheelock (ed.), Dutch Paintings of the Seventeenth Century, coll. cat. National Gallery of Art, Washington, D. C. 1995, p.  371 – 377; Daniel Arasse, Vermeer’s Ambition, Dresden 1996; Nanette Salomon, Vermeer and the Balance of Destiny, in: Shifting Priorities, 2004, p. 13 – 18 (originally printed in: Essays in Northern European Art Presented to Egbert HaverkampBegemann, Doornspijk 1983, p.  216 – 221); Eddy De Jongh 1998; Weber 1994; Weber 1998; Stoichita 1998, p. 181 – 190; Thierry Greub, Vermeer oder die Inszenie­ rung der Imagination, Petersberg 2004 (doctoral thesis Basel 2003), especially p. 106 – 115. For additional liter­ ature from before 1995, see Wheelock coll.  cat. 1995. 515 William Thoré-Bürger, Van der Meer de Delft, in: Gazette des Beaux-Arts 21, 1866, p.  555 – 556. 516 Exh.  cat. The Hague, Washington, D. C. 1995, p. 140, 142; coll. cat. Washington, D. C. 1995, p.  372. 517 Gaskell 1984; Blankert in: Aillaud, Blankert 1987. 518 Alpers 1976. 519 De Jongh 1998. 520 English by translator. Original German quote: “eine innere Entscheidung zu Gunsten eines Verzichts auf den weltlichen Tand stattgefunden,” in: Norbert Schneider, Vermeer 1632 – 1675, Cologne 1996, p.  56. 521 Eugène R. Cunnar, The Viewer’s Share: Three Secta­ rian Readings of Vermeer’s Woman with a Balance, in: Exemplaria 2, 1990, p.  501– 536.

more remarkable is the fact that this female figure was construed as a symbol of vanity. From that point on, interpretations of the image changed, but their basic pattern structurally remained the same: the employment of the Final Judgment was still considered a marker of religious and moral norm. Instead of regarding the woman in contrast to the picture within the picture, she was now seen as a corresponding figure. She no longer embodied vanity, but instead stood for true (Catholic) faith 517, Iustitia 518, or conscience519. In light of Judgment Day a fixation on worldly goods seems vain and futile, writes Norbert Schneider; considering the empty scales, he concedes, perhaps “an inner decision in favor of forgoing all mundane trumpery took place.” 520 Responsible and modest, she need not fear Final Judgment, for she carefully weighs her actions: this is how Wheelock describes it. Cunnar goes a step further in his religious interpretation, drawing a parallel to Ignatius of Loyola’s spiritual exercises, which encourage believers to examine their conscience and weigh their sins as if they stood before their Judge at Final Judgment. They are to choose a path of life that will lead to balanced scales on Judgment Day.521 Nanette Salomon also resorts to a strict Catholic reading. The

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Fig. 87: Petrus Christus, S. Eligius, 1449, panel, New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art Fig. 88: Quinten Massys, The Pawnbroker and his Wife, c. 1514, panel, Paris, Louvre

starting point of her interpretation is the assumption that the woman is pregnant. Accor­ ding to Salomon, the woman is weighing her unborn child’s fate, determined by Christian faith, the stars (constellation Libra) and free will.522 It is impossible to fully clarify whether the woman is indeed expectant, but comparison with Vermeer’s other works and the fashion of the time make it seem unlikely.523 As different as these iconological explanations may be, they all share a moralizing interpretation and assume the Final Judgment as an absolute norm and unchallenged authority. 524 The question of what the style of the picture within the picture is and how it relates to the main image is never asked; they all ignore the aesthetic staging. I believe the relation between the picture within the picture and the painting must be the starting point for all interpretation. Before we take a closer look at this relation­ship, we will examine two issues: the image tradition and the level of expectation or literacy of the painting’s recipients and buyers/owners.

The balance To Vermeer’s contemporaries, a domestic scene with a young woman holding an empty balance in front of a painting of the Final Judgment must have seemed new and unusual. While the elements on their own were not uncommon, their combination surely was. Weighing gold was a familiar theme since the motif had a long-standing tradition in the Netherlands. It traces back to the early 15th century, to a work by Petrus Christus

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from the mid-15th century, probably a paraphrase of an invention by Jan van Eyck (fig. 87).525 The painting shows a young couple in the shop of Saint Eligius, patron of goldsmiths. The origin of this motif carries no negative connotations; Eligius literally sanctifies the handling and weighing of gold, pearls and gems. Likely inspired by the same source —  van Eyck — comes a painting of a Moneylender and his Wife by Quinten Massys from 1514; it is a further step in secularizing the motif (fig. 88). The woman, watching her husband work, is leafing through a prayer book; the opened page, Mary with child — also a picture within the picture — serves as proof for the moneylender’s righteousness. In the course of the 16th century, the motif of the goldsmith or moneylender/pawnbroker was passed on, particularly by Marinus van Reymerswaele. In the late 16th and 17 th century, old men are the ones who most commonly weigh gold. It is likely that these depictions as well as respective emblems by Jan Harmensz. Krul in Pampiere wereld from 1644 and by Adriaen Poiters in Het masker van de wereldt afgetrocken from 1649 indeed imply notions of avaritia (avarice, greed) and vanitas. One example is The Gold Weigher by Salomon Konink from 1654, an old man in a domestic setting standing at a table with pieces of gold, masses and their case spread on it, holding a scale up to the light shining in through a window.526 It is rare that women are portrayed handling balances and money; one exception is a halflength by Gabriel Metsu depicting a woman sitting at a table with a balance. The work dates from ca. 1660, but definitely came before Vermeer’s version.527 The Gold Weigher by Pieter de Hooch (fig. 89, p. 194) is often rightly referenced in connection with Vermeer’s painting. Both paintings were made around the same time. Unlike before, scholars today 522 Salomon 2004. 523 On the pros and cons on this theory, see Wheelock in: coll.  cat. 1995, p.  374 and notes 12, 13; also: Marieke de Winkel, The Interpretation of Dress in Vermeer’s Paintings, in: Gaskell 1998, p.  327 – 339, here: p.  330 –  332. In the opinion of experts on costume history, this issue cannot be fully resolved, but the facts (contemporary fashion, almost nonexistent number of portrayed pregnancies) rather point against the pregnancy hypothesis. 524 On anti-iconological voices, see Stoichita 1998, p. 181 – 190 and below. 525 There are written sources (Marcantonio Michiel saw the painting in the early 16th century in Milan) on a now lost work by Jan van Eyck from around 1440, depicting a merchant settling accounts with his employees. Erwin Panofsky, Early Netherlandish Painting, Cambridge 1966, p.  354. This work is of exceptional importance for the development of genre painting. 526 De Jongh in: exh.  cat. Amsterdam 1976, cat.  no. 31, p. 138 – 141, fig.  138. 527 Private collection; ill.: exh.  cat. The Hague, Washington, D. C. 1995, p.  4 2, fig. 17. 528 Thus Wheelock 1995; others like Stoichita (1998, p. 181) consider de Hooch’s painting “undoubtedly inspired by Vermeer.” 529 Stoichita 1998, p. 181  f f. 530 In Christian iconography the pearl symbolizes Maria’s purity as well as salvation. There is no stringent connection to vanitas.

assume that de Hooch inspired Vermeer and not the other way around.528 Whatever the case, there is no doubt that these two paintings were conceived in close proximity. Stoichita emphatically notes that the picture within the picture turned de Hooch’s genre painting into an, as he calls it, “interpretable picture” that encourages the viewer to (emble­matic) inter­­pre­tation.529 The fact that Vermeer’s painting shows a young woman handling a balance for gold is therefore unusual, but not entirely unfamiliar. New and astonishing, however, is the fact that nothing is weighed: no object, no money, no gold, no pearls 530. A woman with an empty

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balance in her hands automatically triggers asso­ciations to Iustitia, or Lady Justice. In his Iconologia, translated into Dutch in 1644, Ripa labels the balance as an attribute of justice and in one of the most popular emblem books of the time, Roemer Visscher’s Sinnepoppen, the motif of the scale is described as stom en rechtveerdich (mute and just). However, Iustitia also carries a sword. It is remarkable what a long and abundant tradition the interpretation of Woman Holding a Balance as an allegorical figure of justice has.531 In the Middle Ages the symbol of iustitia as a woman with balance and sword was already common. A standing female figure holding a balance (but no sword) representing aequitas appeared on Roman coins. Aequitas, the careful weighing of opposing argu­ ments, can be considered a virtue belonging to the greater concept of justice.532 For our context, the relation between Lady Justice and Archangel Michael, who is responsible for weighing the souls at the Final Judgment, is particularly insightful. This notion can be traced back to Ancient Egypt and the myth of the goddess Maat. This goddess of good, harmonious world order, truth and justice weighed the hearts of the deceased. The heart, and with it all evil deeds, was not allowed to weigh more than Maat’s feather, which lay in the balance’s other bowl. The act of weighing souls is also mentioned in the Old Testa­ment, in the Book of Job: “Let me be weighed in an even balance, that God may know mine integrity.” 533 In Homer’s Iliad, Zeus weighs the deathless on a balance to determine their fate. Late Antiquity and early Christianity appropriated the originally ancient Egyptian idea of soul-weighing Maat and turned it into soul-weighing Archangel Michael.534 Is it not astonishing that in Ancient Egypt, Judaism and Christianity the moral judging of a person was symbolized with a scale which can only determine the physical weight of a good? Symbols like these can only develop in cultures based on the trade of goods, where a just act of trade is the epitome of a moral act. Notions of Iustitia and the Archangel were sometimes fused, for instance on a reliquary of the cross from the Maas region from 1170. The image adorning the reliquary shows the Final Judgment with Lady Justice taking Archangel Michael’s place as a soul weigher.535 The soul-weighing Archangel be­came an integral part of the Last Judgment from the high Middle Age onwards. Prominent examples by Netherlandish painters from the 15th century are Rogier van der Weyden’s and Hans Memling’s paintings of Judgment Day. A drop in depictions of the Final Judg­ ment with a soul weigher becomes noticeable in the 16th century, which can be linked to the Protestant concept of Christ as sole judge and savior.536 Generally, the radical rejection of images in Protestant churches in Holland caused what was the most popular theme of Christian art for centuries to slowly fade into irrelevance. In conclusion we can ascertain that the motif of the balance as a representation of moral judgment of a person’s life is an ancient element of our Vorstellungswelt, our cultural memory. Vermeer is the first to juxtapose the profane motif of weighing material goods with the celestial act of weighing souls.

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The individual pictorial elements were familiar to Vermeer’s contemporaries and most likely produced the respective associations; but they were immediately questioned: a genre painting with a woman weighing her jewels — but on closer inspection that is not what she is doing; elements of vanitas that are canceled out; what seems like Lady Justice is not because she is missing her sword; the Final Judgment with its clearly defined mean-­ ing, but only as a picture within the picture; the soul balance that is covered, maybe even substituted by a profane female figure. A difficult case to solve, surely not just for us.

A Catholic work of art? Scholars who assess the painting theologically, exclusively address the artist’s (alleged) Catholic confession. Why has nobody asked about the recipients’ confessions? After all, we are lucky enough to have a nearly complete provenance of the painting.537 We do not have any conclusive facts on Vermeer’s personal religious beliefs. The few conclusions that can be drawn from documents are that he was baptized in a reformed church and that he married Catholic Catharina Bolnes. Montias, who amassed the most 531 On the following, see: Wolfgang Pleister, Wolfgang Schild (eds.), Recht und Gerechtigkeit im Spiegel der europäischen Kunst, Cologne 1988, especially the essay by Wolfgang Pleister, Der Mythos des Rechts, p.  8 – 43. 532 Ill.: ibid., fig.  4 2  c. The term aequitas is minted on the coin. 533 Ibid., p.  36. Similarly, in Daniel 5, 27, Daniel says to Belshazzar, “Tekel: Thou art weighed in the balances, and art found wanting.” 534 In the Judeo-Christian apocryphal Testament of Abraham from the second century, which tellingly origi­ nated in Egypt, we find the first detailed description of souls being weighed during Last Judgment. See ibid., p.  40. Individually describing the plethora of sources would go beyond the scope of this book. In late Antiquity, Nemesis was the implacably just goddess responsible for equilibrium in human affairs. She was also the judge of the souls of the dead. Her attribute is a balance. Some of these traits influenced the notion of aequitas and the zodiac sign Libra. See ibid., p.  36. 535 Ibid. p.  43, fig.  60. The reliquary of the cross in the form of a tryptich is in a private collection in New York. Iustitia is named as such and is accompanied by Veritas and Judicium. 536 Pleister 1988, p.  4 2. 537 On its provenance, see Wheelock in: coll. cat. Wash­ ington, D. C. 1995 and exh. cat. The Hague, Washington, D. C. 1995. 538 John Michael Montias, Vermeer and his Milieu: A Web of Social History, Princeton 1989. 539 Paul H. A. M. Abels, Church and Religion in the Life of Johannes Vermeer, in: Donald Haks, Marie Chistine van der Sman (eds.), Dutch Society in the Age of Vermeer, Zwolle 1996, p.  68 – 77.

important original sources on Vermeer, assumes that since he married a Catholic woman whose mother was originally against the marriage, Vermeer must have converted to Catholicism.538 Paul Abels rightly doubts this in his in-depth study Church and Religion in the Life of Vermeer.539 There are no documents to confirm Vermeer’s alleged conversion; marrying a Catholic would have nonetheless been possible since neither he nor his parents were official members of any reformed church. Even if Vermeer indeed con­verted to Catholicism in order to marry Catharina Bolnes, we would still not know whether he was a convinced believer. If Woman Holding a Balance contains such a distinctly Catholic message, as many scholars assert, then it would be quite odd if non-Catholics had bought it. However, that is exactly what happened. The early owners of the

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painting have been identified: they were Protestants, Remonstrants 540, Mennonites 541 —  not one of them was Catholic. The first confirmed source we have on the panting is an auction catalog for the collection of Jacob Dissius from May 16, 1696, where it was sold together with twenty other paintings by Vermeer. In the catalog, the work is described as “Een Juffrouw die goud weegt in een kasje van J. van der Meer van Delft, extraordinaer konstig en kragtig geschildert.” 542 Jacob Dissius was a printer, his wife was Magdalena van Ruijven. An inventory of their collection made after her death already lists twenty paintings by Vermeer. Magdalena was the daughter of Pieter Claesz. van Ruijven, a wealthy patrician and art collector. Montias assumes that he was Vermeer’s patron and owned the greater part of his (very small) oeuvre. Van Ruijven was a Remonstrant, while his wife Maria Simonsdr. de Knuijt, who bequeathed Vermeer the handsome sum of 500 guilders, was a member of a reformed church. The person who purchased the painting at Dissius’s auction was Isaac Rooleeuw, a tradesman, artist and Mennonite. Contemporary owners of this and other works by Vermeer all had different confessions, but none of them was Catholic. This makes it very unlikely that Woman Holding a Balance conveyed a stringently Catholic message. We know that the first owners were all members of a small social elite. Whether van Ruijven truly collected Vermeer’s works or if the 21 paint­ ings — about half the oeuvre — did not come together until Dissius’s collected them: the painting was definitely always part of someone’s art collection, which in turn allows us to conclude that the recipients had at least some knowledge about art and were lite­r­ate enough to be familiar with Vermeer’s ‘world.’

Aesthetic staging In the following we shall take a closer look at the painting’s aesthetic structure and examine how it relates to the style of the picture within the picture. The composition is as simple as possible and remarkably rigorous. The painting’s vanishing point is practi­ cally at the center of the image, which means that the vanishing point and the geometric center basically coincide.543 This point is beneath the hand holding the balance, slightly beneath the beam, between the scale pans. Vermeer fixed the central point for the con­ struction of perspective with a nail; the puncture mark is still detectable.544 Not only ortho­gonals meet at this point. The beam of light seeping into the room through the curtain crosses the woman’s gaze here. The overall rigorous construction of the image is determined by horizontals (table, balance beam, lower part of the picture frame, the pinky of the right hand) and vertical lines (curtain, mirror frame and reflection, table leg, picture frame). Vermeer inscribes the female figure into this system of horizontal, vertical and diagonal lines. With her conic silhouette she almost seems like a stereometric figure:

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her uniformed and broadened shape, further accentuated by the fashion she is wearing, makes her appear static.545 Only the reflected light dancing on the gold and pearls on the table creates some sense of vivid movement. The slightly lowered viewpoint produces an effect of monumentality and distance. Vermeer’s slightly defused painting style furthers the feeling of distance. Even though we seem so close to this woman, she is withdrawn from us and seems distant. Together, the compositional lines, diagonal light beam and direc­tion of her gaze lead us to the center of the image, the (invisible) point between the scales. The composition’s centralized structure generates a feeling of tranquility and concen­tration, matching the female figure’s serene calmness. Balance both around and on the scales has become form. The sense of calmness described above is characteristic for Vermeer’s art. In our painting, this principle is perfected with a mathematically sound composition and com­ bined with a semantic culmination of the balance motif. There are several examples of paintings concentrating on a female figure in a fairly close-up view of an interior; the women are absorbed in their task, or are simply present and focused: Woman in Blue Reading 540 The conflict within the reformed church between Remonstrants and Counter-Remonstrants reached a crit­ical point before 1620, and at the Synod of Dord­ recht 1618 – 1619 the victory of the Counter-Remonstrants, or orthodox Calvinists, was established. Remonstrants proposed a more liberal form of worship, particularly in regard to the role of predestination and free will. They generally advocated more tolerance in religious issues. 541 Mennonites are a Christian group developed from Anabaptists; they are baptized as adults because they believe faith should be chosen consciously; Menno­ nites usually refuse all forms of public service. 542 “A young woman weighing gold in a box by J. van der Meer from Delft, painted in an extraordinarily skillful and vigorous way,” doc. 62, Blankert 1978 (1975) p. 161; exh. cat. The Hague, Washington, D. C. 1995, p. 143: “We know nothing about the case used to keep the painting, it could have been a sort of protective device to protect the fragile surface from light and dust.” 543 See the description in Greub 2003, p. 106 – 112. How­ ever, Greub does not address how the vanishing point and the geometric middle coincide. He describes the painting as if it did not have any perspective con­ struct­ion and thus compares it to a painting by Piet Mondrian. Greub relies on an analysis by Michel Serres (Peinture: Traduction et application: l’ambroisie et l’or. La Tour traduit Pascal. Turner traduit Carnot, in: La Traduction. Hermès III, Paris 1974). Serres sees the painting divided into four quadrants and therein finds a reference to Descartes’s analytical geometry and the development of the coordinate system. 544 Wheelock in exh.  cat. The Hague, Washington, D. C. 1995, p. 140. On Vermeer’s construction of perspec­tive with nails and string, see Jørgen Wadum, Vermeer und die Perspektive, in: ibid., p.  67 – 79. 545 This probably explains the shape of her body, which thus does not have to be ‘justified’ with pregnancy.

a Letter (plate 13, p. 202), Woman with a Pearl Necklace (fig. 90, p. 203), Woman with a Water Jug, The Milkmaid (fig. 91, p. 203). There is one striking difference between Woman Holding a Balance and these images: the walls behind the female figures are either completely empty (Woman with a Pearl Necklace, The Milkmaid) or partially covered with a map. The luminescence and the unbelievably rich detail of the wall’s surface or the map, respectively, intensify the impression of complete balance. The figures and the walls are in full harmony, unlike the woman and the painting behind her in Woman Holding a Balance. Here Vermeer stages a contrast that could not be more startling. Vermeer included a total sum of eigh­teen images in fifteen of his paintings. As far as model images can be ‘reconstructed,’ almost all are quotes of works by other artists and not original inventions. Most of them are landscapes; he

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Pl. 10: Jan Vermeer, Woman Holding a Balance, c. 1664, canvas, Washington, D. C., National Gallery of Art Pl. 13: Jan Vermeer, Woman in Blue Reading a Letter, c. 1662 – 64, canvas, Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum

incorporated a painting of the same Cupid three times; one portrait and, one still life and five history paintings. Among the history paintings are the Finding of Moses from the Old Testament (used in two paintings); the myth of Caritas Romana (fragmented almost beyond recognition) and two themes from the New Testament: a version of Jordaen’s Crucifixion in Allegory of Faith and, finally, Final Judgment in Woman Holding a Balance. All model images used are works by Dutch artists from Vermeer’s time or the 1620s. There is one exception: Final Judgment. Here Vermeer recourses to an older style from the late 16th century. The exact painting has yet to be identified, but is assumed to be closely related to similar works by Jacob de Backer, Crispin van den Broek, Frans Francken II (fig. 92, p. 204) and Maerten de Vos.546 Weber correctly pointed out that some elements, like the way Christ’s arms are bent in a right angle, seem to stem from older sources, namely the famous altar by Barent van Orley from 1525. Even if the explicit model cannot be identified, it is clear that the work is painted in the style of late Mannerism. The dramatic and overwrought pathos of the naked figures, their uncontrolled gestures and the hysteric atmosphere of the somber-ominous painting could not be in more striking contrast to Vermeer’s own work.547 If Vermeer had believed the Final Judgment to be a theological and moral authority, then why would he quote an artwork so contrary to his own work? Considering that this was the only instance he chose a work dating from before 1600, why did he not

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Fig. 90: Jan Vermeer, Woman with a Perl Necklace, c. 1664, canvas, Berlin, Staatl. Museen, Gemäldegalerie Fig. 9 1: Jan Vermeer, The Milkmaid, 1658 – 60, canvas, Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum

pick one of the famous Judgment Days by the likes of Roger van der Weyden, Petrus Christus, or Hans Memling? The subdued monumentality and venerability of form would have been more fitting for the religious content of the subject. A lot of elements in Vermeer’s art grew out of the work of his predecessors from the 15th century, partic­ ularly Jan van Eyck and Petrus Christus. And yet, he does not choose their work, but rather that most foreign to his own. The polarity that is noticed by many scholars is neither between vanitas and Final Judgment, nor between a vain woman and moral authority, nor simply between a secular and celestial sphere. It is the contrast between a harmonious, ordered (terrestrial) world — ‘Vermeer’s world’— and a picture in which all laws of temperance, peace and harmony are suspended in favor of an affectively moved and gesticulating mass. Even the most current scholarly findings that identify an analogous relationship between the woman (temperantia, truth, justice) and the Last Judgment miss the dif­ference. There is no 546 Weber 1994, p.  314, note 72. Maerten de Vos is point­ ed out in Beaujean 2001, p. 157. 547 The contrast was already established by several antiiconologists, but without further investigating the meaning. Thus Edward Snow (1994, p. 156 – 166) dis­misses any form of moralizing or emblematic read­ ing (p. 160): “The woman’s gentle force counters, perhaps overrules, the Christian schema depicted in her background.” The same applies to Bryan Jay Wolf, Vermeer and the Invention of Seeing, Chicago, London 2001, p. 174  f. Greub (2004, p. 106  f f.) focuses on the formal analysis of the painting’s structure as a whole, but ignores the stylistic polarity of painting and picture within the picture.

harmony. The disparity is not only one of form, but also one of content: the careful, temperate weighing of minimal differences in weight versus the dichotomous yes-or-no. Archangel Michael, rendered invi­sible as by the woman, points to heaven or hell — tertium non datur.

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Fig. 92: Frans Francken II, Last Judgement, 1606, copper, formerly Brussels, F. Franco Gallery

New views on Vermeer Fortunately, since the late 1990s we have seen a growing trend of leaving behind one-dimensional readings of Vermeer’s (and other Dutch artists’) works as moralizing or didactic. The scholars mainly responsible for this change are Daniel Arasse, Victor Stoichita and Jochen Becker.548 Even Eddy de Jongh began to openly consider the “ambiguity,” “multivalence” and “open semantics” of Vermeer’s oeuvre in his article On Balance from 1998.549 In regard to our painting, this means that a myriad of (partially contradictory) associations is evoked — what to make of them is up to the audience. We, the viewers, are called upon to judge, assess and evaluate as we see fit. In light of the stark contrast be­ tween the image and the picture within the picture, however, it is not enough to assert a multitude of possible meanings. There is more to it than a simple confrontation between secular and religious spheres and with it the question what a righteous life is. The se­man­ t­ic dimension that lies in the discrepancy between the aesthetic structure of Vermeer’s painting and the depicted Final Judgment must be taken seriously. My theory is that Vermeer drafts a concept of life, ethics and values that explicitly distances itself from Christian-Catholic doctrine. Even more so, he marks the Final Judgment as an outdated image. Of course a claim as bold as this one must be supported by a thorough analysis of the picture, comparison with other works by the artist, the religious beliefs of Vermeer and his customers.550 And by contextualizing the work within the mentalities and dis­ courses of the time.

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The observations made in the description regarding the fundamental contra­dic­ tion between the structure of the painting and that of the picture within the picture can be evolved even further. Time, for instance, plays a crucial role in Vermeer’s oeuvre.551 In his work, time seems frozen, there is only this one moment, now, the absolute present. There is no before, no after, no narrative, no looking ahead. It is not the fleeting moment, the moment of action, as we find it in works by Frans Hals. It is eternity captured in the present; a presence experienced as eternity and thus as meaning. It is being now (Sein   im Jetzt). Therefore it is the polar opposite of any eschatological concept, which automat­ ically encompasses a beginning and an end of time. Life is generally geared towards the future, namely the Final Judgment. We have two time models: the Christian idea of momento mori and Vermeer’s concept, which draws associations with Horace’s motto carpe diem.552 Vermeer himself seems to have reflected the fact that perception (and with it, interpretation) always depends on the respective position. What else could it mean that the female figure, who is so close to the viewer, is slightly out of focus while the back wall is not? The small nail on the wall is painted precisely, just like the tiny hole in the wall be­ side it; the view is almost like a camera focused on the left of the back wall. Thus Vermeer ad­ 548 Jochen Becker, Beholding the Beholder: The Reception of ‘Dutch’ Painting, in: Argumentation 7, 1993, p.  67 – 87; Arasse 1996; Stoichita 1998. See works by Gaskell from 1998, 2000. Wheelock (in: exh.  cat. The Hague, Washington, D.  C . 1995, especially the descriptions of Woman Holding a Balance, p. 154) at least pleads for a more open and ambiguous meaning; also: Weber 1998, especially p.  303. 549 De Jongh (1998, p.  353) sees these new approaches in connection with experiences of postmodern art and theory: “The hypothesis of Vermeer’s ambi­guity, or degree of incomprehensibility, may have been suggested partly by late twentieth-century aesthet­ ic notions of floating meanings. Might there not be connections with what we see in postmodern prose, film, and art: discontinuity, shattering the illusion of reality, resistance to causality, and the manifest tendency to throw the reader or viewer off balance? Might this partly color our view of Vermeer’s intentions?” How­ever he stays rigidly true to a fundamentally iconological interpretation; on this, see below, Chapter 3. 550 See above. 551 See especially Irena Netta, Das Phänomen Zeit bei Jan Vermeer van Delft, Hildesheim, Zurich, New York 1996 (doctoral thesis, Basel). 552 On the idea of two models of temporality see: Christiane Hertel, Vermeer. Reception and Interpretation, Cambridge 1996, p. 187 – 204 (the chapter Veritas filia temporis). 553 Sara Hornäk, Spinoza und Vermeer. Immanenz in Philosophie und Malerei, Würzburg 2004, p.  216 – 218. In her analysis of Vermeer’s Milkmaid, Hornäk draws similar conclusions. 554 On the semantics of mirrors, see the previous chapter.

dresses the subject of perception per se.553 He does not focus on the main protagonist, but on the wall behind her instead, giving it meaning as a painted surface (without meaning). The mirror is significantly placed where light falls into the room.554 A narrow beam of light reflected in the mirror is the most intensely illuminated part of the entire painting. Its massive frame corresponds to that of the Final Judgment. The female figure is framed doubly: in ‘reality’ her image should be reflected in the mirror. Instead we have a triangular constella­ tion, consisting of the woman, the picture within the picture and the mirror. As has been established, the mysterious connection between the figure weighing and the Last Judgment evokes different semantics in the audience. The mirror in the triangular constellation plays an

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Fig. 93: Pieter Aertsen, Still Life with Christ in the House of Martha and Mary, 1552, panel, Vienna, Kunst­ historisches Museum

eminent role. Because it does not reflect her image or anything else but light — the light (of knowledge!)555 — it becomes a space of reflection, an empty space that the viewers must fill as they wish. The mirror is a sign of reflection and knowledge. Vermeer does everything to ensure we can recognize the Last Judgment as a picture. His painting presents a domestic scene adorned with a religious artwork. The theme of the Final Judgment, however, is more fitting as an altarpiece. In fact, it was not a motif commonly found in Dutch homes. A foreign site. Quoting an altarpiece in a con­ text it does not belong in — alienation. The opposition of profane and religious scenes is already familiar from the works of Pieter Aertsen from the mid-16th century, for example in Still Life with Christ in the House of Martha and Mary from 1552 (fig. 93).556 This is not a random example, for the theme of Martha and Mary reflects the relation between the spiritual sphere (Christ’s words) and the mundane sphere of kitchen, food, drink and daily life.557 Velázquez later adapted the subject in his Christ in the House of Martha and Mary (fig. 94). Similar to Vermeer’s Woman Holding a Balance, the religious component becomes a picture within the picture; no longer another reality, it has become an image, an artwork in the profane world.558 Vermeer not only apostrophizes the artistic character by resorting to a mannerist model; he also emphasizes the frame of the painting instead of the picture of the Final Judgment itself. Light (a central category in his work) falls on the empty wall, the woman and — no, not on the picture — on the gold ledges of the picture frame. Vermeer meticu­ lously differentiates various shapes and combinations of light and color. The curtain’s yellow signalizes that the fabric itself is indeed yellow, but its ‘objective’ color cannot be determined: its color only exists in this light and would change if either the light or its angle changed. The yellow corresponds to the narrow strip of the woman’s yellow-orange

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Fig. 94: Diego Velazquez, Christ at the House of Martha and Mary, c. 1618, canvas, London, National Gallery

undergarment as well as to the golden aureole in the Last Judgment. The oval shape of said aureole, in turn, is repeated in the concentration of light at the top of the window. The yellow surrounding Christ does not seem like light, nor like color produced by break­ing light, it is merely the local color. In fact, the yellowish tint does not follow any color­ ation or lighting practices common in late-16th555 On the meaning of light as knowledge in Vermeer’s work, see below. 556 Daniela Hammer-Tugendhat, Wider die Glättung von Widersprüchen. Zu Pieter Aertsens ‘Christus bei Maria und Martha’, in: Peter K. Klein, Regine Prange (eds.), Zeitenspiegelung. Zur Bedeutung von Traditionen in Kunst und Kunstwissenschaft. Festschrift für Konrad Hoffmann zum 60. Geburtstag, Berlin 1998, p.  95 – 107. 557 Here we have a reflection of conflicts between a rising bourgeoisie, the unprecedented abundance of goods that were available to them, and the demands made by the reformatory movement as well as between Catholics and Protestants. The conflicts had many layers: commodities versus religious asceticism, vita activa versus vita contemplativa, the relation between religious and profane images. As tensions grew, the scene became particularly explosive when Calvin crit­ icized the deprecation of vita activa in Catholicism and defended the value of work. Calvin combined his re-evaluation with a critique of life in monasteries. 558 In one of his early works, Vermeer dealt with the theme of Christ in the House of Martha and Mary (c. 1655, National Gallery, Edinburgh). He overcomes the traditional opposition between Martha and Mary. Martha, laying a basket of bread on the table, pays as much attention to Christ as her sister. Christ, in turn, also looks at Martha. In regard to the painting’s composition, all three form a harmonious group: another instance of reconciliation instead of conflict. 559 Hertel mainly refers to Norman Bryson (Vison and Painting. The Logic of the Gaze, London 1983). I would also like to mention two doctoral theses mentored by Gottfried Boehm: Irene Netta on the phenomenon of time in Vermeer’s work and Thierry Greub on Vermeer or the staging of imagination.

century art, which the picture within the picture is supposed to represent. How the color is used here makes the image seem antiquated, even somewhat medieval. However, there is no gold ground, which marked the divine sphere in truly medieval paintings. The only gold we can find is in the frame. These observations are supported by fairly recent findings, especially those following Stoichita and Arasse. A solely emblematic reading of Vermeer’s work is replaced by an emphasis of the self-reflexive quality of the medium. I am thinking about Bryan Jay Wolf’s Vermeer and the Invention of Seeing from 2001, Ivan Gaskell’s Vermeer and the Limits of Inter­ pretation from 1998 as well as Vermeer’s Wager. Speculations on Art History from 2000 and Christiane Hertel’s Vermeer. Reception and Interpretation from 1996.559 The named scholars

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focus on other works by Vermeer, but their observations also prove relevant for our understanding of Woman Holding a Balance and support my reading of the work. Gaskell criticizes a purely emblematic reading of Young Woman Standing at a Virginal as exemplarily performed by Eddy De Jongh (fig. 95). Gaskell suggests an inter­pre­tation of the painting as beauty of the woman and art united in a metaphor of love, but also goes further. He refutes an emblematic meaning as proposed by De Jongh in recourse to an emblem with Cupid found in Otto van Veen’s Amorum Emblemata from 1608. The emblem shows a Cupid in profile (and not frontally) holding up a small plaque with laurels and the number 1 while stepping on a plaque with many numbers. The message, verbalized in a motto and epigram, “a lover ought to love only one” refers to the woman playing the vir­ gi­nal, according to de Jongh.560 Gaskell rightly opposes this opinion by pointing out that the plaque in Vermeer’s painting is in fact empty, a blank surface. We seek an explanation in the picture within the picture, but only draw a blank. The Cupid is thus a reminder to consciously see representation as representation. Gaskell contin­ues that Vermeer’s work was not about a clear-cut message, but rather about “conditions of the apprehension of pictorial fictions.” 561 If

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560 Eddy De Jongh, Zinne- en minnebeelden in de schilderkunst van de zeventiende eeuw, Amsterdam 1967, p.  49  f. De Jongh reacted to critics in his essay On Balance from 1998, in which he further differentiates his theory, yet ultimately adheres to his opinion that Vermeer used van Veen’s emblem. He concedes “The crucial question: how did the painter intend the inserted moral to function?” (p.  354). De Jongh can simply not fathom that the painting may not have a moral intention at all. 561 Gaskell 1998, p.  230: “I suggest that the structure and fiction of this painting are such that the attention of the viewer is drawn not to emblematic allusion as a principal means of establishing pictorial meaning, but rather to the condition under which such an allusion is created, and hence to the conditions of the apprehension of pictorial fictions.” (Ivan Gaskell, Ver­ meer’s Wager. Speculations on Art History, Theory and Art Museums, London 2000, p.  83  f.). 562 Wolf considers Vermeer the first modern painter. He contextualizes him within the visual culture of 17 th cen-

Fig. 95: Jan Vermeer, A Lady Standing at the Virginal, c. 1672 /73, canvas, London, National Gallery Fig. 96: Jan Vermeer, The Girl with the Wineglass, c. 1659 /60, canvas, Braunschweig, Herzog Anton Ulrich-Museum Fig. 97: Jan Vermeer, The Art of Painting, c. 1666 /68, canvas, Vienna, Kunsthistorisches Museum

we trans­late Gaskell’s methodological approach to our painting — a painting that not only deals with profane subjects like love, beauty and art, but with the relation between this profane world and the sacral one — we arrive at radical conclusions. The Final Judgment should not primarily be read according to its iconography or manifest content, but rather in regard to the effects of its representation. A related way of thinking can also be found in Jay Wolf’s Vermeer and the Invention   of Seeing.562 Wolf is not an art historian, but a professor for American Studies, which is likely the reason for his unprejudiced view and open-minded approach. In the introduc­tion to his analysis of The Girl with the Wine Glass563 (fig. 96) he writes the following, continuing Edward Snow’s thoughts564: tury Holland: “Seeing becomes, in the early modern period, a totalizing process […].” He asserts that aes­ thetics obtained a new meaning in modern culture, p. 168. “Vermeer’s paintings align themselves with the autonomy of the bourgeois subjects they record, and in the process they claim for themselves forms of independence, modes of interiority, that rebut the intrusions of either the viewer or the market.” 563 For literature on this painting, see Wolf and exh.  cat. The Hague, Washington, D.  C . 1995, cat.  no.  6, p.  114 – 119. The work is modeled after de Hooch’s Wo­ man Drinking with Soldiers from 1658 (Louvre, Paris). Wheelock (op.  cit.) believes the painting’s central message is a moralizing one: men lack restraint in everyday life and tobacco and alcohol undermine moral behavior. He bases his arguments on Rüdiger Klessmann’s finding that the colored window represents an allegory of temperantia (restraint) holding reins. 564 Snow 1994. 565 Wolf 2001, p. 112.

Vermeer takes Dutch domestic art and problematizes it. He cleanses it of its allegorizing tendencies, removes its latent didacticism, and substitutes a vision that is quietistic, self-reflexive, and often voyeuristic.  Vermeer is possessive of his subjects, self-effacing in his tone, and deconstructive of the very traditions that make his art possible.565

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Wolf argues that The Girl with the Wine Glass promises to tell a story of courtship and seduction, but fails to do so. The girl, whose function as a model is revealed, looks out of the picture at the viewer, thus transgressing the story within the painting and giving the scene a self-reflective tone. He sees the interruption as an opportunity to reflect representation. What if, he asks, representation per se becomes more important than moral content? According to Wolf, this is art that no longer stems from a realm of agency, desire, or sexuality, but is rather scopophilic, self-reflexive and thus postnatural.566 In regard to our context the function of the picture within the picture is particularly inter­ esting. On the wall in the back there is a large, upright rectangular, three-quarter-length portrait of a man. It is the only portrait in Vermeer’s pictures within pictures. The por­ trayed figure is wearing black clothing with a white lace collar and cuffs, a style popular in the 1630s. The man’s elegance is further emphasized by the glove he casually holds in his left hand. His upright, almost fully frontal pose, the outdated fashion, his admoni­­ tory gaze from the picture and finally the somber hues of the por­trait give the figure a significant amount of seriousness, which contrasts the relaxed atmosphere of the do­ mestic scene. The portrayed man has been assumed to be an absent husband 567 or one of the family’s ancestors568. Bryan Wolf comments: The figure within the painting thus introduces two functions of seeing: its work of surveillance and its work of disguise, both cast in the moralizing language of ‘thou shall’ and ‘thou shall not.’ Yet what is most interesting about this old-fashioned, morally righteous ancestor is not how he sees but the context of his vision: he sees from within a painting.569 He continues: His ‘obsolence’ binds him to that which is also obsolete in Vermeer’s canvas: the natural world, the place of agency and morality that Vermeer casts off — relinquishes — in the moment of interruption that marks the true starting point of the canvas.570 In The Girl with the Wine Glass a personalized super-ego has a function similar to that of the Final Judgment in Woman Holding a Balance. Both moral instances, however, are merely pictures within pictures; they are just paintings on the wall. When it comes to the possibilities of artistic reflection in Vermeer’s oeuvre, we immediately think of his explicit commentary on the meaning of painting: De Schilder­const (The Art of Painting) from 1666 – 68 (fig. 97, p. 209). I would diverge too far if I elaborated

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on this capital work and its respective literature in great detail. Therefore I will limit my comments to aspects that can be seen in analogy to Woman Holding a Balance. Ever since Karl Gunnar Hultén’s essay from 1949, most scholars seem to at least agree that the portrayed woman is not the goddess of victory, Fama (Fame), but rather Clio, the muse of history, as described in Ripa’s Iconologia from 1593, which was translated into Dutch in 1644: a woman wearing a crown of laurels, holding a book (Thukydides) and a trumpet.571 However, Vermeer does not present an allegory. The drawn-back rich tapestry rather opens into a bourgeois domestic setting; we see an unusually dressed painter572 sitting in front of a canvas and his model — a girl — dressed up as Clio. A glimpse of her regular clothes is visible beneath the antiquated blue cape. We do not see Clio, the muse of history, but a girl who is modeling her. It requires the art of Vermeer to turn this girl into a goddess. The (painted) painter, who has a different view than we do, is not painting the image we see. While we see the entirety of Vermeer’s concept of painting, he is indeed only painting Clio the allegory. The sketch on his canvas is only a bust-length portrait of Clio. A full portrait would not fit, and by painting nothing more than the bust, he really only depicts the ‘costumed’ part of his model, thus render­ ing invisible the part that reveals her as a model. Only the laurels are completed so far. Vermeer would have never begun a painting from the top with a laurel crown. We cannot even see the muse on the canvas, just her fame. I agree with Christiane Hertel and Bryan Wolf who argue, contrary to mainstream scholarly opinion, that Vermeer does not identify himself with the artist in the painting, but rather expresses ironic criticism against imitating and allegorizing art. The idea that 566 Ibid., p. 117, p. 119. 567 Pierre Desargues, Vermeer, Biographical and Critical Study, Geneva 1966, p. 128. 568 Wheelock in exh. cat. The Hague, Washington, D. C. 1995, p. 116. 569 Wolf 2001, p. 122. 570 Ibid., p. 123. 571 Karl Gunnar Hultén, Zu Vermeers Atelierbild, in: Konst­historisk Tidskrift 18, 1949, p.  90 – 98. 572 Marieke de Winkel (1998, p.  333  f.) was able to disprove the common theory that the costume is an old, unfashionable costume from Burgundy. The markedly slashed doublet and the wide boothose over red stockings were indeed quite an unusual choice of clothing in the 1660s and were only worn on certain special occasions. Bryan Wolf is mistaken when he describes the costume as not only out of fashion, but grotesque — particularly the slipped boothose (Wolf 2001, p. 194). 573 On the problematic relationship between femininity (female body) and allegory, see Wenk 1994; Schade, Wagner, Weigel 1994. 574 Walter Benjamin, The Origin of German Tragic Drama, translated by John Osborne, London, New York 1998 (1963). Also see Sigrid Weigel, Von der “anderen Rede” zur Rede des Anderen, in: Schade et al. 1994, p. 159 – 169.

mimetically painting a (costumed) model could adequately represent a theoretical concept (Clio and everything implied by the muse of history and thus most likely history painting as well) is ironically twisted. By marking the allegory, or rather personification, as masquerade, Vermeer makes the problematic dialectic of the concept visible. On one hand what does it mean when an abstract idea is embodied, in this particular case by a female figure?  573 On the other hand lies something that Walter Benjamin worked on in great detail: the disembodiment (Entleibung), the devaluation (Entwertung) of the world of objects and the fact that things are no longer signifiers of their own meaning.574 The young

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woman’s presence in Vermeer’s painting, however, insists on the resistance of materiality (Widerständigkeit des Materiellen). Vermeer uncovers the difference between signifier (the female model) and signified (history, history painting). Personified Clio thus cancels herself out, or as we say today: she is deconstructed.575 Herein lies further proof of Vermeer’s artistic reflection declaring the instruments and effects of visual staging as such. We have already established this in regard to the representation of the picture within the picture in Woman Holding a Balance. How allegory is dealt with is also similar. In Woman Holding a Balance, Vermeer disrupts a strictly allegorical reading with other means: he unsettles the dogma of allegory by disobeying the clarity of set codes. By evoking several, even contradictory meanings, he makes it impossible to identify a singular one. The subject takes the place of interpretation autho­rity and unequivocal allegorical relations.576 The generated sense of uncertainty is twofold. Is it really an allegorical image, or could it be a genre painting after all? The fact that nothing is weighed, that the scales are empty, the de-individualized features and finally that it is a female figure all contribute to the idea of an allegory. If it were a male figure, it would more likely be read as an actual person, an actual moneylender and not as an abstract idea.577 The allegorical elements, in turn, are countered by the domestic, bourgeois and realistically staged interior. Similar to The Art of Painting, Vermeer overcomes these polar positions as he turns against both abstract allegory and the idea of genre painting as the depiction of ‘reality’ or honestly mundane life. He rather demonstrates that there is a new way to convey fundamentally relevant meaning. It is a form that people already began to describe as modern at the time.578 Already van Mander used the term when describing Bloemaert’s merry companies. Gerard Ter Borch’s father wrote a letter to his son on July 3, 1635: “If you want to paint, make something in the modern style of figures of groups (ordonantsij van modarn).” The term applied to early genre painting and was a counterpoint to ‘antiek,’ which referred to everything related to history painting, religious, mythological or allegorical themes. Gerard de Lairesse retroactively devised a theory for the opposites of antiek en modern.579 As a proponent of classicism, Laraisse favored the antique mode, which he claims is legitimized because it draws from classic antiquity, the Renaissance and the bible and is thus of permanent and enduring value. Contrary, Laraisse argues, the modern style depends on fads and only deals with mundane, quo­ ti­dian subjects. Modern painting can only depict current states and thus has no lasting value. Vermeer, on the other hand, diametrically juxtaposes the two modes while mark­ing the antique style as outdated and obsolete. He thus elevates the relevance of profane (genre) painting to the level of history painting.580

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My proposition that Vermeer puts representation up for debate in Woman Holding a Balance is thus supported by comparisons with other works by him. Questioning the effect of the picture within a picture in this work is particularly charged because of its theological subject. The sacral painting in the painting is not an unquestioned author­ ity or commentary on the profane scene (neither in an affirmative nor an admonitory sense). Medieval thinking in analogies is presented, but no longer works.581 All icono­ logical interpretations, as myriad as they may be, still adhere to these analogies: you will be judged as you judge others, as in heaven so on earth, and so forth … The paradigm, the moral pattern we use to evaluate the scene is a picture on the wall that is explicitly marked as an outdated image. The picture within the picture does not function as ‘truth,’ nor as a frame for interpretation. The frame in the frame is rather revealed as the quote that it is. As I have pointed out, the frame of the 575 Christiane Hertel (1996, p.  205 – 229, here: p.  229) arrives at similar conclusions in her analysis (following Walter Benjamin) of Vermeer’s controversial late work Allegory of Faith: “Viewing Vermeer’s Allegory of Faith is painful because the event witnessed is the devaluation of allegorical authority as the threshold between the pastness of religion and the future of idealized secular woman. […] In each [The Art of Painting, Allegory of Faith, Woman Holding a Balance] the negativity of allegory is represented as an actual withdrawal within the painting. Clio, Christ and Divine Justice withdraw themselves in these works, leaving behind a vacuum of authority that continues to challenge their beholders.” 576 Weigel 1994, p. 166. 577 See note 573. 578 On the following see: Albert Blankert, Vermeer’s Modern Themes and Their Traditions, in: exh. cat. The Hague, Washington, D. C. 1995, p.  31 – 45; Lisa Vergara, Antiek and Modern in Vermeer’s Lady Writing a Letter with her Maid, in: Gaskell 1998, p.  235 – 255, especially p.  2 45  f f. 579 A seminal text still relevant for the principle discussion is Hans Robert Jauß, Schlegels und Schillers Replik auf die “Querelle des Anciens et des Modernes,” in: Hans Robert Jauß, Literaturgeschichte als Provokation, Frankfurt a. M. 1970, p.  67 – 106. I would like to thank Gotthart Wunberg for this recommendation. 580 Analog to Vermeer, Velazquez presented a profane subject with the poise and depth of a history painting in his Hilanderas from 1657 (Prado, Madrid). Velazquez not only juxtaposes a mundane scene with a picture within the picture depicting a mythological scene, but also creates four levels of reality: the spinstresses in the foreground, the ladies of the court in the background watching Athena and Arachne as a play and a tapestry on the back wall depicting the Rape of Europe — the tapestry Arachne wove in contest with the goddess, who later turned her into a spider as punishment. 581 Michel Foucault, The Order of Things: An Archaeology of the Human Sciences, New York 1970 (1966), especially the chapters 2 and 3. 582 On the meaning of frames as symbols of meta-paint­ ing, see Stoichita 1998.

painting, which also frames the figure, is what is highlighted and accentuated by the lighting scheme.582 The picture within the picture produces potential meaning that we are called upon to semanticize. The image of the Last Judgment ‘forces’ us to interpret the entire painting in its frame. It demonstrates what we all do all the time: interpret the world through images (concepts). Our perception is always framed. Vermeer shows us the frame that we see and think in. That sounds astonishingly modern. Some will say: unthinkable in Vermeer’s time. But did not Descartes make the same demand for philosophy, based on, among others, Kepler, who had begun to examine the instrument of sight itself, the eye, in his optics? Descartes’s radical doubt of all perception, of all common ways of thought led him to analyze the methods of thinking itself. Daily experience was to be overcome in favor of critical, self-reflective thought. Descartes de-naturalized knowledge. In analogy to Descartes, one could say that Vermeer explores the frame and instruments of thought on the visual level. The scales are empty. The tools of judgment are being examined.

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Vermeer juxtaposes two worlds in two modes, while abrogating all traditional anal­ogies. Thus, he illustrates the paradigm of modernity, the idea of individual auto­nomy and judgment in opposition to a theological world order. Individual judgment is not only the subject of representation in Vermeer’s painting. The aesthetic staging in fact produces individual judgment, evaluation, interpretation. The painting refuses a singular (moral) message — the mirror on the wall opposite the woman reflects nothing, it only reflects light, a metaphor for knowledge and self-knowledge.

Contemporary discourses — Spinoza In the 1660s, the time our painting was created, Cartesian influence culminated in the Netherlands.583 The new philosophy was no longer only discussed in academic circles at universities, but also by a broader public. Cartesianism was of eminent value as a referential frame for the natural sciences as well as theological and political debate. The new concept of Cartesian thinking became a top-notch cultural and social phenomenon. The plea against antiquated Aristotelian concepts and for the freedom of rationality and an unprejudiced analysis of nature was substantially furthered by the technological development of the microscope. Microscopic experiments conducted since the beginning of the century by Cornelis Drebbel were continued in the latter half of the century by Jan Swammerdam and Anthonie van Leeuwenhoek. Leeuwenhoek, the first to discover and examine male sperm under the microscope, lived in Delft.584 The point here is not to prove any definite influences on Vermeer, but rather to illustrate the climate that allowed for rational philosophy, mathematics and cartography as well as empirical sciences, particularly optics, and the experimentation they made possible. This ‘climate’ was able to develop thanks to the progressive nature of bourgeois society at the time. Despite the high level of tolerance, surely unique in Europe at the time, the process was also met with resistance and fierce struggle. In the sixties, some radical thinkers applied Descartes’s principles and methods to theology, or more specifically the bible, an obvious step, which Descartes himself had meticulously avoided. Van Velthuysen, Van den Enden, Balling, Meijer, Koerbagh and others called for critical studies of the bible, dismissed ‘implausible’ passages and advocated a separation of church and state, or rather, a submission of church to state.585 Koerbagh rejected all notions of supernatural phenomena, miracles and virtually all ‘facts of belief’ in his text Een bloemhof van   allerley lieflijkheid sonder verdriet geplant (A Flower Bed Containing All Sorts of Delights) from 1668. He demanded that the Revelation and all its contents should be examined rationally and that the bible should be read and understood like all other historical books.586 Koerbagh was arrested, convicted of blasphemy and sentenced to ten years

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incarceration and ten years of exile. The men named all belonged to a circle 587, the circle of 583 Wiep van Bunge, Philosophy, in: Frijhoff, Spies 2004, p.  281 – 346. Descartes (1596 – 1650) lived in the Netherlands, mostly in Amsterdam, from 1630 until shortly before his death. He was not the first to ques­ tion Aristotelian philosophy; his critique was based on work by Copernicus, Kepler, Galileo Galilei, Ramus, Gassendi and Bacon, a. o. 584 After Vermeer’s death, Leeuwenhoek was designated the executioner of his estate. 585 Lambertus van Velthuysen, medical doctor, eminent head of the WIC (West India Company) from 1665, and member of the city council of Utrecht, was an avid proponent of a division of church and state. This opinion was dominantly influenced by Hobbes, whose political ideas he brought closer to his Dutch peers. See ibid., p.  320  f f. 586 Ibid., p.  340: Quote by Koerbagh (p.  664): “Who the father of this Savior really was is not known, and for that reason some ignorant people said he was god, eternal god, and a son of eternal god, and that he was born in time of a virgin without the help of a man: but those propositions are also outside Scripture, and contrary to the truth.” 587 All except Velthuysen. 588 Baruch de Spinoza. Complete Works, ed. Michael Morgan, translated by Samuel Shirley, Indianapolis 2002; Gilles Deleuze, Expressionism in Philosophy: Spinoza, translated by Martin Joughin, New York 1990 (1968); Gilles Deleuze, Felix Guattari, What is Philosophy?, translated by Hugh Tomlinson and Graham Burchell, London, New York 1994 (1991); Susan James, Passion and Action. The Emotions in Seventeenth-Century Philosophy, Oxford 2003 (1997); Hornäk 2004. 589 Thus van den Wijngaerdt in his text Oogh-water voor de Vlaemsch doops-gesinde gemeynte tot Amsterdam, Amsterdam 1663, p. 19, see van Bunge 2004, p.  334; see below, Chapter 5. 590 The Ethics appeared under the title Ethica ordine geo­ metrico demonstrata and was divided into five books: part I: Concerning God, part II: On the Nature and Origin of the Mind, part III: On the Origin and Nature of Emotions, part IV: Of Human Bondage, or the Strength of the Emotions, and part V: Of the Power of the Understanding, or of Human Freedom.The work has a ‘geometrical structure,’ meaning that Spinoza aimed to develop his arguments according to logical criteria by using definitions, axioms, propositions and proof; www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3800, retrieved Oct. 11, 2013. 591 In Spinoza’s strictly causal thought, knowledge is only possible once we recognize the cause of a thing. The causal chain ends in the notion of a (divine) substance whose cause is in itself. Ethics I, Proposition 3: “By substance, I mean that which is in itself, and is conceived through itself: in other words, that of which a conception can be formed independently of any other conception.” 592 That “substance thinking and substance extended are one and the same substance, comprehended now through one attribute, now through the other.” Spinoza, Ethics II, note to Proposition 7.

Spinoza.588 These ‘naturalists,’ a contemporary source laments, were ridiculing religion, yes even the Holy Script and the Spirit of the Holy Script. They doubted whether God existed at all, or at least a God who paid attention to life on earth.589 Spinoza was not the isolated loner scholars assumed he was for so long. His life span (1632 –1677) is almost the same as Vermeer’s (1632 –1675). He was born in Amsterdam as the son of a Jewish-Portuguese family, but was expelled from the Jewish community in 1656. His first writing, Principia philosophiae Cartesianae, was published in 1663 by Jan Rieuwertsz. in Amsterdam, and his most important text, Ethics, was finished by 1675, but not published until after his death in 1677. Spinoza already revised Descartes’s philosophy in the early 1660s in his treatise Korte Verhandeling  over God, de Mensch en deszelvs Welstand. In it, he had already developed the basic ideas of his Ethics.590 Spinoza does not distinguish three substances like Descartes: God, thought (res cogitans, the mind) and matter (res extensa, the physical body). Spinoza considers them all attributes of a single substance: God. According to him, God is neither the creator nor cause for the substances that our world is made of. God is rather the substance that is unique, indivisible and infinite. God is the cause for himself and the immanent cause for everything.591 Thus Spinoza overcomes Descartes’s dualism. Mind (soul) and body are merely two aspects of a single substance.592 God needs neither words, nor miracles, nor anything else to reveal himself. God reveals himself solely through the order of nature. Self-knowledge thus is not substantiated

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in a forbearance of earthly things, but rather in embracing them, because God can only be recognized in concrete forms of expression. Spinoza and his peers dismissed the notion of God as a transcendent or anthro­ pomorphic creator.593 With this dismissal, the idea of a Final Judgment is also rejected. In his Ethics, Spinoza demonstrates the connection between (divine) immanence and humankind. The force of (godly) substance in humans, conatus, is the base of his theory of affect. Conatus is the striving to persevere. Recognizing and affirming one’s own capacity to act is what ultimately leads to happiness, according to Spinoza. The ethics of humankind are linked to happiness and are rooted in each person, since she or he is part of immanence. External values and moral concepts (e. g. Final Judgment) are superfluous. Spinoza dismisses the notion of a moral system based on reward and punish­ ment.594 It is about recognizing the full extent of one’s own responsibility without falling back on external moral authorities and about fore­ going personal advantages. Declaring morals as immanent is equal to declaring them auton­ omous. Determining one’s self as a rational being, existing as a cause in itself — this is what Spinoza bases his new form of ethics on. They are ethics that fundamentally differ from a moral system based on fulfilling duties.595 Therefore, he not only considers fear, but also hope as damaging and undesirable emotions.596 Positive affects are those that are in sync with reason and allow humans to be active agents.597 People experience blessedness in the knowledge of eternity — an eternity that is not conceived as a transcendent hereafter, but is rather immanent to life itself; it is the realization of eternity within the present time.598

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593 Meijer wrote an (anonymous) pamphlet in 1666, which was published in Dutch a year later: De Philoso­ phie d’Uytleghster der H. Schrifture: Een wonderspreu­ kigh Tractaet. In it, he explicitly calls for a Cartesian critique of the bible including doubting everything and allowing only what withstands all questioning. Van Bunge 2004, p.  338. 594 See esp., Spinoza, Ethics V, Proposition 41 and note. 595 Hornäk, p. 113, 114. 596 Spinoza, Ethics III, Proposition 18, note 2. 597 Spinoza, Ethics V, Proposition 42. “Blessedness is not the reward of virtue, but virtue itself; neither do we rejoice therein, because we control our lusts, but, contrariwise, because we rejoice therein, we are able to control our lusts. Proof–Blessedness consists in love towards God […] which love springs from the third kind of knowledge; […] therefore this love […] must be referred to the mind, in so far as the latter is active; therefore […] it is virtue itself. Again, in proportion as the mind rejoices more in this divine love or blessedness, so does it the more understand […] that is […] , so much the more power has it over the emotions, and […] so much the less is it subject to those emotions which are evil; therefore, in proportion as the mind rejoices in this divine love or blessedness, so has it the power of controlling lusts. And, since human power in controlling the emotions consists solely in the understanding, it follows that no one rejoices in blessedness, because he has controlled his lusts, but, contrariwise, his power of controlling his lusts arises from this blessedness itself.” 598 Hornäk, p. 134  f. She also quotes Yirmiyahu Yovel (Spinoza and Other Heretics. The Merrano of Reason, Princeton, Oxford 1989, p. 170.): “It is therefore not in immortality that metaphysical salvation consists, but in the realization of eternity within time. The third kind of knowledge helps me overcome my finitude, not my mortality. I am saved as long as I live.” 599 I generally agree with Sara Hornäk, who investigated this relationship on the basis of repeatedly voiced comments of a possible connection between the two (see Hornäk p. 192  f f. for the respective literature).

The Final Judgment as an outdated image I see an analogous thought pattern in Vermeer’s painting and Spinoza’s philoso­ 599

phy.

In the same country, at exactly the same time (the 1660s), coming from the same

social background and influenced by the same discourses, the painter Vermeer visualized a view of the world that the philosopher put into words. If it was possible to verbally formulate that Final Judgment was nothing more than an anthropomorphic concept, an image, then why should it not be possible to express the same thing in a painting? We will never be able to find out whether Vermeer consciously had this in mind. It looks like he did. Perhaps pictures like this one helped develop new and different views and experiences of the world, the self and being in the world. What Spinoza describes as the immanence of the divine in attributes Vermeer visualizes as the unfathomable beauty of things.600 The scales are empty. Only light lies on them. In her analysis of The Milkmaid, Sara

The only detailed work on this issue before Hornäk (Hubertus Schlenke, Vermeer mit Spinoza gesehen, Berlin 1998) is not very conducive. The only point by Hornäk that I find to adherent to a (bourgeois) notion of artistic autonomy is when Hornäk identifies immanence with the autonomy of the image, p. 189 (English by translator): “We are on the plane of immanence when authorities beyond the artwork stop ascribing meaning and the image becomes a reality of its own. It is a reality that creates its own meaning without re­ference to anything else. Self-referentiality takes place on many levels of Vermeer’s paintings and replaces the moment of representation.” I, on the other hand, assume that Vermeer represents immanence. Hornäk first places emphasis on Spinoza’s concept of immanence and then concentrates on the analysis of Vermeer’s Milkmaid. Woman Holding a Balance is only briefly touched upon in reference to equilibrium. 600 In De Schilderconst (The Art of Painting) Vermeer presented his understanding of painting (fig.  97). The drawn back curtain reveals the truth about painting. The motif of the curtain is semantically charged; on one hand it refers to the metaphor of the veil, which already illustrated the unveiling of truth in ancient Egypt and later in Jewish religion (curtains in Salomon’s temple, the Torah Ark curtain) and Christian tradition. Revelatio means revelation, unveiling. At the same time the curtain motif can be associated with the legend of Zeuxis and Parrhasius. In The Art of Painting, both sides of the unbelievably lavish curtain are visible. In fact, the tapestry is the most resplendent part of the interior. It thus not only serves as a reference to something else; it is per se part of the rev­ elation it reveals. This is visualized immanence. See below, notes 634 – 638. Daniela Hammer-Tugendhat, Arcana Cordis. Zur Konstruktion des Intimen in der Malerei von Vermeer, in: Gisela Engel, Brita Rang, Klaus Reichert, Heide Wunder (eds.), Das Geheimnis am Beginn der europäischen Moderne. Zeitsprünge, Forschungen zur Frühen Neuzeit, vol.  6, 2002, p.  234 – 256, here: p.  252 – 254. 601 Hornäk 2004, p.  211. English by translator.

Hornäk fittingly describes Vermeer’s use of light and what it means in his work: Beyond its natural and illustrative function, the light is purposely not used to indicate an authority beyond the image. It rather radiates from within things. It illuminates objects and figures from within, symbolizing a power that needs things in order to present itself in their form. […] Thus immanence finds its perfect medium in light. Vermeer’s visual world, which differs from our perceptible world and its ‘natural’ incidence of light, constitutes its own reality: a world that no longer depends on the polarity of inner and outer world or natural and supernatural.601

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The image of light as immanence can also be found in Spinoza’s work: Even as light displays both itself and darkness, so is truth a standard both of itself and of falsity.602 On the visual plane, Vermeer’s female figure embodies the ideal of inner calm and ba­lan­ce. This inner tranquility is also present in Spinoza’s concept of affect. He argues that the aim is not to suppress affects, but rather to encourage positive affects and retain inner equilibrium. This is called self-approval. Self-approval is pleasure arising from a man’s contemplation of himself and his own power of action.603 The specific representation of time in Vermeer’s oeuvre, the frozen moment, the experience of eternity in the present also finds its analogy in Spinoza’s work. Spinoza attempts to fathom eternity in temporality, the infinite in the finite. Vermeer and Spinoza share an understanding of eternity that is in stark contrast to the Christian teleological notion of eternity and the end of times. Spinoza the philosopher and Vermeer the painter each devised a view of the world: the idea of (divine) immanence in the world is tied to recognition and self-re­cog­nition, to a certain state of affect (inner balance) and new, self-determined ethics, dis­missing a moral system of reward and punishment and the notion of a hereafter and Final Judgment.

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3 Farewell to Lessing’s Laocoon: Leaving behind a methodological dispute Gabriel Metsu’s A Woman Reading a Letter As I have demonstrated in previous chapters, painting is not a ‘mirror,’ not a mimetic depiction of the world. Some paintings from 17 th century Holland reflect this fact and mark their own semiotic character, for example as a commentary picture within the picture. These images render visible how painting produces meaning — just like language. In the following I will examine the relation between image and language using the example of Gabriel Metsu’s A Woman Reading a Letter (plate 11).

(Love) Letters Between the thirties and seventies of the 17 th century, love letters became one of the most popular themes in Dutch painting.604 Almost all of them portray women in domestic settings as they read, receive and, in some cases, write letters. Dirck Hals, Willem Duyster, Pieter Codde, Gerard Ter 602 Spinoza, Ethics, II, Proposition 43, note. 603 Spinoza, Ethics, III, Definition 25. Hornäk (2004, p.   222) rightly describes the milkmaid’s affect as this form of self-approval and contrasts it with humility, a state Spinoza views critically. 604 Eddy de Jongh in exh.  cat. Amsterdam 1976, p. 121, 270 – 271; Alpers 1985, p.  321 – 342; Ann Jensen Adams, ‘Der sprechende Brief.’ Kunst des Lesens, Kunst des Schreibens. Schriftkunde und schoonschrijft in den Niederlanden im 17. Jahrhundert, in: Sabine Schulze (ed.), Leselust. Niederländische Malerei von Rembrandt bis Vermeer, exh.  cat. Frankfurt a.  M. (Schirn Kunsthalle) 1993, p.  69 – 92; Stoichita 1998, p. 166 – 173; Daniela Hammer-Tugendhat, Liebesbriefe. Plädoyer für ein neues Text-Bild-Verständnis der holländischen Malerei des 17. Jahrhunderts, in: Kunsthistoriker. Mitteilungen des österreichischen Kunsthistorikerverbandes, 10. Tagungsband, Vienna, 2000, p. 126 – 133; Daniela Hammer-Tugendhat, Der unsichtbare Text. Liebesbriefe in der holländischen Malerei des 17. Jahrhunderts, in: Horst Wenzel, Wilfried Seipel, Gotthart Wunberg (eds.), Audiovisualität vor und nach Gutenberg, Vienna 2001, p. 159 – 174; Peter C. Sutton, Lisa Vergara, Ann Jensen Adams with the assistance of Jennifer Kilian and Marjorie E. Wieseman (eds.), Love Letters. Dutch Genre Paintings in the Age of Vermeer, exh. cat. Bruce Museum of Arts and Science, Greenwich, National Gallery of Ireland, Dublin, London 2003. 605 The term was coined by Marshall McLuhan. The Gutenberg Galaxy, London 1962; also see: Norbert Bolz, Das Ende der Gutenberg-Galaxis, Munich 1995.

Borch, Pieter de Hooch, Frans van Mieris, Jan Steen — there is hardly a Dutch genre painter who did not deal with this theme intensively. Vermeer’s small oeuvre alone includes six letter scenes, Ter Borch even painted sixteen (plates 12, 13, figs. 100, 101, 102, 126, 140, 141, p. 220 – 223).

How the letter motif could reach such an extraordinary peak in image production only becomes clear in the context of the eminent im­ portance of written and printed text as a cultural practice in 17 th century Holland. Currently books and letters are of cen­tral concern to scholars. The reawakened atten­ tion paid to the Gutenberg galaxy was likely caused by the most recent media shift, which many believe signals the end of all printed media.605 Not only the end of the book, but

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also the end of letter writing has been proclaimed profusely. However, lamentations on the demise of letters date as far back as the 19th century and thus well before the electronic age. Theodor Adorno already mourned the looming obsolescence of the letter in 1962 and asserted that it was no longer possible to write letters.606 The question if and how electronic communication contributes to the demise of letter writing cannot be duly discussed here.607 Of course it is beyond doubt that the structure of private written communication has changed forever. These changes can be seen in analogy to the massive expansion of written correspondence during the 17 th century and its profound effect on the formation of identities and the structure of relationships between individuals.608 In fact, epistolary culture saw its first peak in the 17 th century, and not, as many, mostly German, scholars claim, in the 18th century. Holland is practically ignored in epistolary theory.609 Even Thomas Beebee, the first to present an explicitly pan-European outline in his study Epistolary Fiction in Europe 1500 – 1850, covers Britain, France, Germany, Italy and Spain, but fails to mention the Netherlands.610 The reasons may be manifold; next to the great national languages German, French and English, Dutch is often confined to the second row as it is rarely translated into other languages. Perhaps the Dutch language is subsumed under German — a fundamental mistake considering the highly different social, political and cultural situation of the two countries in the 17 th century. Perhaps Dutch (epistolary) literature was not relevant enough. We should, however, keep two aspects in mind when facing the issue from the perspective

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Pl. 11: Gabriel Metsu, Woman Reading a Letter, c. 1664  – 67, panel, Dublin, National Gallery of Ireland Pl. 12: Jan Vermeer, Woman Reading a Letter at an Open Window, c. 1657, canvas, Dresden, Gemäldegalerie Alte Meister Pl. 13: Jan Vermeer, Woman in Blue Reading a Letter, c. 1662 – 64, canvas, Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum

of cultural studies (Kulturwissenschaften): Firstly, 606 In the epilog to the 1983 German edition of Walter Benjamin’s German Men and Women (Deutsche Men­ schen. Eine Folge von Briefen), he writes: “It [the medium letter] is outdated […]. Those still in command of it possess an archaic skill; actually, it has become unfeasible to write letters.” English by translator. German quote after Christa Hämmerle, Edith Saurer, Frauenbriefe — Männerbriefe? Überlegungen zu einer Briefgeschichte jenseits von Geschlechter­dichotomien, in: Christa Hämmerle (ed.), Briefkulturen und ihr Geschlecht. Zur Geschichte der privaten Korrespondenz vom 16. Jahrhundert bis heute, Wien 2003 (L’Homme, Schriften 7), p.  8. The authors rightly note that Adorno laments the demise of an emotional culture specific to the bourgeois elite. 607 On diverging evaluations, see Hämmerle, Saurer 2003, p.  7 – 32, here: p.  8, with further literature. 608 Klaus Beyrer, Hans-Christian Täubrich (eds.), Der Brief. Eine Kulturgeschichte der schriftlichen Kommunikation, Heidelberg 1996; Rebecca Earle (ed.), Epistolary Selves. Letters and Letterwriters 1600  – 1945, Aldershot, Brookfield 1999; Hämmerle 2003. 609 A representative example for this is Regina Nörtemann, Brieftheoretische Konzepte im 18. Jahrhundert und ihre Genese, in: Angelika Ebrecht, Regina Nörtemann, Herta Schwarz with the assistance of Gudrun Kohn-Waechter and Ute Pott (eds.), Brieftheorien des 18. Jahrhunderts. Texte, Kommentare, Essays, Stuttgart 1990, p.  211 – 224. The ‘discovery of the German letter’ is assumed in the 18th century, predecessors from the 17th century are only identified in France and Britain (p.  213). 610 Thomas O. Beebee, Epistolary Fiction in Europe 1500 – 1850, Cambridge University Press 1999.

we have an incomparable abundance and quality of visualized letters in Dutch painting, which so far has only played an illustrative role in the grad­ually differentiating field of epistolary studies. Beebee pronouncedly asserts letters as a genre in its own right, constituting a spe­ci­fic discur­sive phenomenon. In reference to Foucault and Kul­turwissenschaften, he develops a broad approach to the meaning of letters, yet still fails to acknowledge the importance of images within this cultural field. Secondly, we must consider the fact that Holland was Europe’s most literate country in the 17 th century, which automatically makes letters immensely important. The high rate of literacy was based on the country’s expanding and increasingly international economy, making it an economic factor itself. In the 17 th century,

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Fig. 100 (detail): Dirck Hals, Woman Tearing a Letter, 1631, panel, Mainz, Mittelrheinisches Landesmuseum Fig. 101: Dirck Hals, Seated Woman with a Letter, 1633, panel, Philadelphia, Museum of Art Fig. 102: Vermeer, The Love Letter, c. 1669 – 72, canvas, Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum

more books were printed in the Netherlands than in all other European countries taken to­gether.611 Dutch printers and publishers not only printed for domestic use, but were also world leaders in publishing various spoken and dead languages for international audiences. The book was more than an economic factor; it played an eminent role in the young Dutch republic’s search for identity. Finally, literacy was advanced by Calvinists who, however, promoted reading more than writing. To get a feeling for the degree of literacy, we will take a look at the time’s ‘bestselling author,’ the moralist Jacob Cats: by 1655, more than 300  000 copies of his books had been printed. Divided among 1.9 million citizens that means that at least half of all households (assuming 3 – 4 people per household) had a copy of one of his works.612 Adriaen van Ostade painted farmers and other members of lower social strata engulfed in letters and thus literate.613 Letters were of central importance to the economy and politics, to scholarly, theological and private communication. We must keep in mind that approximately ten percent of men were not with their families, but at sea or in one of the colonies.614 Exchanges on ideas between scholars and scientists predominantly took place in letters; many were published. The representative portrait of Constantijn Huygens by Thomas de Keyser from 1627 shows the famous secretary of stateholder Prince William of Orange at his desk, on which we see an entire array of writing utensils, and in the process of han­d­ing a letter to a messenger (fig. 98, p. 224). Huygens is said to have written over 78 000 letters (sic!), on subjects ranging from politics and the organization of the general state to letters to scholars, friends and family members.615 One of the greatest Dutch poets, Pieter Cornelisz. Hooft (1581 – 1647), corresponded almost daily with nearly all Dutch

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Fig. 126: Gerard Ter Borch, Woman Sealing a Letter with a Maidservant, 1658 /59, canvas, New York, priv. coll. Fig. 140: Pieter Codde, A Woman Seated at a Virginal with a Letter, panel, early 1630s, Boston, priv. coll. Fig. 141: Willem Duyster, Woman with a Letter and a Man, early 1630s, panel, Copenhagen, Statens Museum for Kunst

scholars of the time and a large circle of friends on matters of literature, history, politics, science or the heart. Around 1630, the same time love letters became a popular painterly motif, the market for briefschryver, manuals on letter writing, exploded.616 These manuals not only included templates for various occasions in the fields of law, politics, economy, daily life and private correspondence, they also helped society become literate and, even more importantly, shaped a specific civilized norm in communication. Next to Dutch versions such as Heyman Jacobi’s Ghemeene Sendtbrieven from 1597 and Daniel Mostaert’s Neder­ duytsche Secretaris of Zendbriefschrijver from 1635, there were numerous Dutch trans­ lations of French and English epistolary manuals. Until 1800, 19 different briefschryver in 79 editions were published in Holland. The most popular was Jean Puget de la Serre’s Le Sécretaire à la mode from 1630. The Dutch translation was reprinted 19 times in Amsterdam until 1664 under the title Fatsoenlicke Zend-brief-schryver. It is particularly relevant in our context, because it includes the greatest number of model love letters. The sources for these letters were manifold; most of them drew from fiction and rhetoric 611 Jochen Becker, Die Buchdruckkunst — eine niederländische Erfindung? Notizen zu einem monumentalen Mythos, in: exh. cat. Frankfurt a. M. 1993, p. 106 – 125; exh.  cat. Dublin, Greenwich 2003, especially p.  26  ff. 612 M.  A. Schenkeveld-van der Dussen, Niederländische Literatur im Goldenen Zeitalter, in: exh.  cat. Frankfurt a. M. 1993, p.  55 – 68, here: p.  61  f. 613 Exh.  cat. Dublin, Greenwich 2003, p.  23, figs. 14, 15. 614 Exh.  cat. Dublin, Greenwich 2003, p.  27. 615 Ibid., p. 14  ff. 616 De Jongh in: exh.  cat. Amsterdam 1976, p.  37  ff.; exh. cat. Dublin, Greenwich 2003, p.  34   f.

literature: from letters between Abélard and Héloïse to Pertrarch, Bembo and Erasmus, all the way back to antique authors like Cicero and Ovid. Especially the latter’s Heroides, a fictional collection of letters by heroines of Antiquity,

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Fig. 98: Thomas de Keyser, Portrait of Constantijn Huygens and a Messenger, 1627, panel, London, National Gallery

was featured in Serre’s manual.617 This and similar epistolary manuals offered entire love letters for various situations and added the matching answers as well.618 Puget de la Serre sketched out the different directions a relationship could take, from the shy beginnings to various endings. It is remarkable how female respondents could choose from several roles and possible reactions, somewhere between dignified reser­vation and outraged rejection or between gradually giving in and passionately reciproca­ tion. Everyone was included: virgins as well as widows and even married women. Briefschryver were the direct source for the genre of episto­lary novel that emerged in the 1660s.619 Fic­ tional literature thus became a template for potential letters in epistolary manuals, which then once again were turned into fiction — now in the form of novels. The earliest epistolary novels were written in Britain and France: Les Lettres Portugaises (Letters of a Portuguese Nun) from 1669, whose author was recently confirmed to be the alleged translator GabrielJoseph de Guilleragues 620, and Aphra Behn’s Love-Letters between a Noble-Man and his Sister from 1684. Even earlier than the epistolary novel we can identify a genre of epistolary poems in Holland, known as the dichtbrief;

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617 Exh.  cat. Dublin, Greenwich 2003, p.  34 – 37. 618 For examples translated to English, see ibid. 619 Still fundamental: Bernard Bray, L’art de la lettre amoureuse. Des manuals aux romans (1550 – 1700), The Hague, Paris 1967. 620 The letters appear to be by the Portuguese Sor Mariana Alcoforado from Beja/Alentejo; they are love letters which she supposedly wrote to the French officer Marquis Noel Bouton de Chamilly. On the issue of authorship, see: Frédéric Deloffre, Guilleragues et les Lettres portugaises, in: Littératures classiques 15, 1991, p.  259 – 270; Martin Neumann, Die Aporie(n) leidenschaftlicher Liebe. Überlegungen zu den Lettres portu­ gaises, in: Dickhaut 2006, p.  85 – 98. 621 M. A. Schenkeveld van der Dussen, “Schrijven voor vrienden; lezen over de schouder,” in: W. van der Berg, J. Storten (eds.), Het woord aan de lezer. Zeven lite­ ratuurhistorische verkenningen, Groningen 1987, p.  110 – 126; exh. cat. Dublin, Greenwich 2003, p.  37  f. 622 Even though we know of no Dutch epistolary novels, the cultural elite was presumably familiar with the Lettres Portugaises and Aphra Behn’s novel. 623 On the invisible reaction and the psyche of readers, see last chapter. 624 For literature pertaining to this issue, see note 508. 625 National Gallery of Ireland, Dublin. oil/wood, 52.5/40.2 cm. Franklin W. Robinson, Gabriel Metsu, A Study of His Place in Dutch Genre Painting of the Golden Age, New York 1974, p.  59 – 61; de Jongh in: exh.  cat. Ams-

they are letters addressed to a friend written in verse and conceived with the public and possible publication in mind: published intimacy, as it were.621 Their unaffected and straightforward style clearly sets epistolary poems apart from the rest of Dutch literature, which was predominantly based on classic literature. What fascinated audiences about both epistolary novels and dichtbriefe was their apparent authenticity. This is likely why epistolary painting is so closely linked to realism.

Metsu’s  A Woman Reading a Letter I see an analogy between Dutch images of women with letters and dichtbriefe and epistolary novels.622 There is one fundamental difference, however: the paintings are silent. Letters, epistolary poems and novels — we can read what was written in them, we know the content, the story. The images are about letters, about written messages, but there is no language. The letters are only visible as white sheets of paper, we cannot make out any writing. The (painted) letter is invisible text. This invisible text is what allows us recipients to develop our own fantasies about the letter’s possible contents and the reactions of the woman reading it. We ‘write’ our own (epistolary) story. Yet there was one way to hint at the invisible words of the letter and the equally invisible reaction of its reader623, namely the picture within the picture.624 In Gabriel Metsu’s Woman Reading a Letter (ca. 1664 – 67), we see a bourgeois interior, with a young woman terdam 1976, cat.  no. 39, p. 165; Alpers 1985, p.  330  f.; Asemissen, Schweikhart 1994, p. 138; Stoichita 1998, p. 166 – 173; Marjorie E. Wieseman, Caspar Netscher and Late Seventeenth-Century Dutch Painting, Doornspijk 2002, p.  58, 60; exh.  cat. Dublin, Greenwich 2003, cat.  no. 19, p. 132  f. Based on the influence of the Delft school and Vermeer in particular, Robinson rightly concludes a later date, ca. 1664 – 67. Metsu, born 1629 in Leyden, lived in Amsterdam from 1657 until his death in 1667. There is a pendent painting with a male letter writer (also in Dublin). See Chapter 4. 626 Franits 1993; Rozsika Parker, The Subversive Stitch. Embroidery and the Making of the Feminine, London 1996 (1984). 627 On the erotic symbolism of shoes in Dutch images, see Aigremont, Fuß- und Schuhsymbolik und Erotik, Leipzig 1909; Handwörterbuch des deutschen Aberglaubens, vol. 7, 1987, cols. 1292 – 1354: Schuh (Jung­ bauer); de Jongh in: exh. cat. Amsterdam 1976, p.   259 – 261; Daniela Hammer-Tugendhat 2000 (Kunst der Imagination / Imagination der Kunst), p. 148. 628 Franits (1993, p.  77 – 79) interprets the removed shoes as a symbol for the virtue of the woman who stays in the house with recourse to Plutarch’s Conjugalia praecepta. As always, acknowledging the respective context is paramount. 629 A remainder of this symbolism continues in Grimm’s Cinderella.

sitting beneath a mirror as she reads a letter (plate 11).625 She devotes her full attention to the

letter, which she holds up to the light, while completely ignoring the needlework — the epitome of female diligence and virtue — that rests on her lap.626 The thimble that has rolled away pointedly marks how her concentration has shifted elsewhere. The single slipper at her feet is erotically connoted.627 Shoes slipped off are often ascribed to women in Dutch domestic scenes628, and there are numerous Dutch idioms, myths, fairy tales and wedding rituals where shoes or slippers are used as allusions to female genitalia.629 “Men moet zijn voeten niet in eens anders schoenen steken” (Don’t stick your

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Pl. 11: Gabriel Metsu, Woman Reading a Letter, c. 1664 – 67, panel, Dublin, National Gallery of Ireland Fig. 99: Jan Harmensz. Krul, Amor Presents a Letter to a Woman, emblem from Pampiere wereld, Amsterdam 1644, Amsterdam, Universiteitsbibliotheek

feet in another person’s shoes), for example, is a proverb about adultery.630 Next to the reading woman we see a maid pulling back a curtain from a painting, revealing a ship at stormy sea. She holds a sealed letter in her hand; it is no coincidence that this letter almost marks the center of the painting.631 The artist chose said letter for his signature: Metsu, tot Amsterdam Poort (Metsu, at the Amsterdam port), thus, as Stoichita writes, declaring himself the sender and originator of “the whole communication dramaturgy.” 632 His eye-catching, semantically charged signature, integrated into the image, is the only occurrence of ‘real’ words in the painting.633 The pail the maid holds propped on her hip is marked with large arrow-like decorations — an undoubtedly unique embellishment for this sort of vessel. We can read the arrows as symbols for Cupid’s love arrows. In emblems, Cupid was often used as a messenger for love letters (fig. 99). It is distinctive for the age of letters that Cupid now aims at the heart of lovers with letters instead of arrows. The maid therefore is the carrier of the love message in multiple ways; she is also

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630 De Jongh 1976, p.  259. 631 It is very unlikely that this is the envelope the letter was sent in, because letters at the time were usually only folded and sealed and very rarely put into envelopes. 632 Stoichita 1998, p. 173. 633 On the semantics of artists’ signatures in Dutch painting, see: Karin Gludovatz, Die Signaturen Jan van Eycks. Autorschaftsnachweis als bildtheoretische Stellungnahme, master thesis, Institute of Art History at the University of Vienna, Vienna 1999; Karin Gludovatz, Der Name am Rahmen, der Künstler im Bild. Künstlerselbstverständnis und Produktionskommentar in den Signaturen Jan van Eycks, in: Wiener Jahrbuch für Kunstgeschichte LIV, 2005, p.  59 – 72; Karin Gludovatz, Fährten legen, Spuren lesen. Die Künstlersignatur als poietische Referenz, Munich 2009. 634 Jan Assmann, Das verschleierte Bild zu Sais — griechische Neugier und ägyptische Andacht, in: Aleida und Jan Assmann (eds.), Schleier und Schwelle, vol.  3: Geheimnis und Neugierde, Munich 1999, p.  45 – 66. 635 Moshe Barasch, The Veil: Representations of the Sec­ ret in the Visual Arts, in: The Language of Art. Studies in Interpretation. New York, London 1997, p.  266 – 287. 636 This theme continues into the early modern period, for example in Hugo van der Goes’s depiction of the birth of Christ, which shows two prophets drawing back a curtain to reveal the miracle of birth and with it — 

the one who pulls back the curtain before the nautical painting. The motif of the drawn back curtain is also symbolically laden. The curtain (or veil) is the ultimate symbol of revelation. Already in Antiquity, in Plutarch’s writing, the Parting of the Veil at Sais became the epitome of the dialectics of truth and concealment.634 The Egyptian inscription at the shrine of Neith-Isis-Minerva says: “I am all that hath been, and is, and shall be; and my veil no mortal has hitherto raised.” The veil / curtain became the metaphor for secrets, in Greco-Roman Antiquity as much as in Judaism and Christianity.635 The curtain conceals and reveals what is holy. Solomon’s Temple, the curtains of the Torah shrine and the curtains in medieval depictions of the Apocalypse all come to mind.636 At the same time our painting refers to actual curtains like they were used in Holland to protect paintings.637 Moreover, the trompe-l’oeil effect of the curtain is reminiscent of the painting contest between Zeuxis and Parrhasius — a clear and irrefutable signal that we have a picture, an artificial scene before us.638 The maid in back view is not only a doubling of the reading female figure, but also of the viewer’s position. She is like a guideline for the viewer to read the painting like the woman is reading the letter. A complex web of reciprocal references marks the painting: two female figures, one in frontal, the other in back view; the opened letter/the unopened letter; the viewing of a text/ the viewing of an image; the sense of sight as rational recognition/the animalistic sense of sight represented by the dog.639 The pairing of mirror and painting is another instance of semantically laden juxtaposition.640 The mirror only reflects a fraction of the window’s mullion. It does not even reflect the reading woman’s back, and even less the text of the letter in her hands. It is the painting on the wall that reveals the meaning of the letter to us. typologically speaking — the fulfillment of their prophecies. Raphael’s Sixtine Madonna also includes a curtain drawn back to reveal the divine sight. 637 Kemp 1986. 638 Pliny the Elder described (in Naturalis Historia, book 35/65) the late classic painter Parrhasius’s painting contest with Zeuxis. While Zeuxis’s painting of grapes attracted birds that pecked at his canvas in vain, Parrhasius managed to fool his competitor. Zeuxis did not realize that the curtain seemingly covering Parrhasius’s work was in fact painted until he tried to draw it back. This anecdote has served as a metaphor for art as a deceptive mimicry of nature for centuries. On the meaning of curtains in Vermeer’s oeuvre, see note 600. 639 On the difference between human (aware) sight and animalistic sight, see Part II, Chapter 1. 640 On the meaning of mirrors, see ibid. 641 The exceptional importance of the sea for Dutch society is reflected in the manifold use of sea, ships and sailors for different contexts. See Lawrence Otto Goedde, Tempest and Shipwreck in Dutch and Flemish Art. Convention, Rhetoric, and Interpretation, University Park, London 1989. 642 De Jongh in: exh.  cat. Amsterdam 1967, p.  50 – 55; de Jongh in: exh.  cat. Amsterdam 1976, p.  270.

What is being covered, hidden from our eyes, yet also (at least partially) revealed? The painting in gray tones shows two unrigged sailing ships at stormy sea. Ships at sea were a popular motif in Holland’s love discourse; mostly the ship and the sailor represented the lovers, while the sea was love.641 Eddy de Jongh has compiled this imagery from poetry and emblematics, I will quote a few in the following.642 Cornelis Pietersz. Biëns compares suitors with ships sailing the abyssal sea:

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Fig. 100: Dirck Hals, Woman Tearing a Letter, 1631, panel, Mainz, Mittelrheinisches Landesmuseum Fig. 101: Dirck Hals, Seated Woman with a Letter, 1633, panel, Philadelphia, Museum of Art Fig. 102: Vermeer, The Love Letter, c. 1669 – 72, canvas, Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum

Even als de Scheepjes varen / In het grondeloose Meer […] Zijn de Vryers te ghelijcken.643 Otto van Veen, in turn, equates unrequited love with a ship that does not arrive, while fulfilled love is a ship sailing in full wind. Jacob Westerbaen describes suitors as ships: Vryers gelijck de Schippers, die de baeren / Van ’t ongestuyme diep des hollen Meyrs bevaeren’, en is het ’vryen een Zee, waer in men storm, en wind, / En stille kalmt, so wel als in de golven, vindt’. The accompanying text to an emblem in the Minne-beelden by Jan Harmensz. Krul from 1634 states: Wel te recht mach de Liefde by de Zee vergeleecken werden aenghesien haer veranderinge die d’eene uyr hoop d’ander uyr vreese doet veroorsaecken: even gaet het met een Minnaer als het een Schipper doet de welcke sich op zee beghevende d’eene dagh goedt we’er d’ander dagh storm en bulderende wint gewaer wort.644

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An emblem from Krul’s Pampiere Wereld, depicting a Cupid delivering a love letter to a lady (fig. 99, p. 226) also resorts to a picture within the picture, a nautical scene with a man at shore, to emphasize the amorous character of the scene. In this context it becomes clear why so many paintings of women reading letters include pictures within pictures of seascapes and nautical scenes (figs. 100 and 101): they are what marks the (silent) letters as love letters. In early versions by Dirck Hals from the 1630s, the mood in the seascape corresponds with the women’s emotional state. While a stormy sea in the painting on the wall in Woman Tearing a Letter emphasizes the dramatic and grim atmosphere, Hals’s painting from 1633 suggests the opposite. Here a plump, contently smiling woman sits before a harmonious seascape showing a calm sea during lovely weather. Vermeer also incorporated nautical scenes into his paintings of women reading letters (fig. 102).645 Metsu did not include a random seascape in his painting, but rather a stormy sea. It is reminiscent of an epigram by Jan Harmensz. Krul printed in his popular emblem collection Minne-belden from 1640. It shows a sailing ship with a Cupid at the billowed sails and a man at the forecastle, while a woman 643 Handt-boecken der christelijcke gedichten, Hoorn 1635, p. 188 – 189, Quoted here after de Jongh 1976, p.  270. 644 Jan Harmensz. Krul, Minne-beelden: Toe-ghepast de lievende Ionckheyt, Amsterdam 1640. Quoted here after exh.  cat. Amsterdam 1976, p. 121. 645 On this, see Part II, Chapter 5, on Dirck Hals. Also see Metsu’s Woman Writing a Letter from ca.  1665, which shows a large seascape with a ship behind the fig­ure. (private collection, ill.:   exh.  cat. Dublin, Greenwich 2003, cat.  no.  20, p. 135).

waits at distant shore (fig. 103, p. 230). The motto of the picture is “Al zijt ghy vert, noyt uyt het Hert” (Even though you are far away, you are never out of my heart), followed by the epigram:

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Fig. 103: Jan Harmensz. Krul, emblem from Minne-beelden, Amsterdam 1640 Fig. 104: Heerman Witmont, Ships in a Storm, pen on wood, private collection

[…] de ongebonde Zee, vol spooreloose baren Doet tusschen hoop en vrees, mijn lievend’ herte varen: De liefd’ is als een Zee, een Minnaer als een schip, U gonst de haven lief, u af-keer is een klip; Indien het schip vervalt (door af-keer) komt te stranden, Soo is de hoop te niet van veyligh te belanden: De haven uwes gonst, my toont by liefdens baeck, Op dat ick uyt de Zee van liefdens vreese raeck. (On the unbounded sea of trackless waves, My amorous heart sails between hope and fear: Love is like the sea, a lover like a ship, Your favor a safe harbor, your rejection a rock; If the ship were to run aground, All hope of a safe return would be dashed; Show the harbor of your favor, by a beacon of love, So that I may escape the sea of love’s fear.)646 The rough sea carrying the rocking ship in our picture stands for the dangers and emotions of love; the picture within the picture represents the contents of the letter, or rather the storm of emotions taking place inside the woman who, on the outside, is calmly reading the letter.

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The idea of love as the sea and of lovers as sailors or ships are metaphors, or imagery in language. Dutch painters then translated the imagery into their pictures. The metaphors are not simply visualized, but rather represented as pictures within pictures.647 Thus the image of the ship in a sea storm as an image, as a metaphor, is clearly marked as a frame of interpretation. What seems like ‘pure’ painting is in fact a reference to the realm of love letters, to written and read texts, to words. Seeing this kind of painting invokes possible letters, memories of letters written or received, various letter writers and epistolary poems. In order to understand 646 Jan Harmenszoon Krul, Minne-beelden, Amsterdam 1634, p.  2 – 3, quoted here after de Jongh, exh. cat. Amsterdam 1976, p.  270. 647 There are a few rare exceptions of panel paintings where the metaphor fills the entire image. One case is a painting by an anonymous Dutch painter showing a stormy sea with a ship in distress; at shore we see three couples. This is a visualization of the epigram of the dangers of love, represented by the sea storm, in the medium of panel painting. (ill.: Goedde 1989, p. 134  f., fig.  88). 648 I would like to thank Karl Schütz, head of the Gemäldegalerie at KHM Vienna for his tip. Jeroen Giltaij and Jan Kelch (eds.), Lof der Zeevaart. De Hollandse Zeeschilders van de 17e Eeuw, exh.  cat. Museum Boymans van Beuningen Rotterdam and Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, Gemäldegalerie im Bodemuseum 1997. In his article (p.  408, cat.  no.  96) on Witmont, Friso Lammert­se already suggests that Metsu may have wanted to allude to a penschilderij in his Dublin painting, but does not consider the implications that come with it. The painterly style in Metsu’s seascape, however, speaks against this theory. 649 Calligraphy was so highly esteemed that folios with handwriting were hung on walls next to paintings. Four main styles were dominantly taught, chosen according to subject and addressee. The style could change within one text. Ornaments, figures and all sorts of decorations were incorporated — relics from medieval illumination. Calligraphy reveals the close link be­tween script and image, but also that between script and voice. (Vondel, for example, uses different types scripts in his tragicomedy Het Pascha from 1612 to dis­tinguish the choir.) See: Ann Jensen Adams, Disci­plining the Hand, Disciplining the Heart: Letter-Writing, Paint­ ings and Practices in Seventeenth-Century Holland, in: exh.  cat. Dublin, Greenwich 2003, p.  63 – 76, espec­ ially p.  67. On the programmatic representation of the pictoriality of script in Dutch still lifes of books, see: Heike Eipeldauer, “books are different.” Holländische Bücherstillleben im 17. Jahrhundert am Beispiel von Jan Davidsz. de Heem: Zum Verhältnis von Bild und Text, Sehsinn und Tastsinn, master thesis, University of Vienna 2007. On general issues on Schriftbildlich­ keit: Sybille Krämer, ‘Schriftbildlichkeit’ oder: Über eine (fast) vergessene Dimension der Schrift, in: Sybille Krämer, Horst Bredekamp (eds.), Bild, Schrift, Zahl, Munich 2003, p. 157 – 176; Sybille Krämer, Operationsraum Schrift: Über einen Perspektivwechsel in der Betrachtung der Schrift, in: Gernot Grube, Werner Kogge, Sybille Krämer (eds.), Schrift. Kulturtechnik zwischen Auge, Hand und Maschine, Munich 2005, p.  23 – 57.

the painting, viewers must be familiar with the culture of love letters. The imagination aroused when viewing the painting feeds off the knowledge of the genre, but the reference to language remains indeterminate and purely associative. The image is not an illustration of any specific text; it refers to language without becoming absorbed in language. The letter’s contents (the words) appear as a picture within the picture, while the picture refers to language, which in turn refers to images: image and lan­ guage merge in dialectic unity. The continuous (‘colorless’) gray scale of the seascape, finally, is reminiscent of mari­ time pictures drawn on wood panels or canvas with pens. They are known as pen paintings (penschilderij) and were pioneered by Willem van de Velde the Elder or Heerman Witmont (fig. 104).648 It seems plausible that the proximity

of image and writing were supposed to be pointed out. Writing is written and thus visual­ ized language. Like an image, language in written form is perceived through the eye. Calligraphy played an eminent role in the Netherlands; it was an essential element in the art of letter writing.649 Moreover, (real) letters were produced with the same tools as penschilderij: with pens and ink.

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Language and images — a methodological dispute among art historians Metsu’s Woman Reading a Letter exemplarily demonstrates the close connection between image and language through the medium of painting. It is exactly this relation­ ship between image and language that lies at the center of a long-lasting methodological dispute among art historians dealing with Dutch painting: the dispute between iconolo­ gists and anti-iconologists. The controversy revolves around the fundamental question of how image and language relate to visual reality, or rather social reality. Is realist Dutch painting a depiction of the visual world, a mirror of social reality, an ode to the beauty of the world, art for the sake of art, or are there symbols and hidden (moralizing) messages hidden beneath the visible surface? Eddy de Jongh’s texts and exhibitions brought fundamental change to the re­­search scene on Dutch painting in the 1960s — changes that continue to mark research to this day. De Jongh rejected the hitherto accepted opinion that Dutch genre painting was a depic­tion of Dutch society.650 De Jongh applied Panofsky’s iconological method, particularly the concept of disguised symbolism, to Dutch genre painting and interpreted its realism as seeming realism which concealed the actual, symbolical and most often moralizing meaning.651 The basis of his interpretation was mainly emblematic art, which indeed played a crucial role in 17 th century Holland. De Jongh was able to offer plausible interpretations of singular motifs in Dutch genre painting — including seascapes with sailing ships as metaphors for love. Scholars, particularly those in the Netherlands, largely followed de Jongh, even though various iconological analyses often led to contrary interpretations. The most prominent opposition to de Jongh’s approach came from Svetlana Alpers in her book The Art of Describing from 1983. Alpers aims her critique at de Jongh’s application of iconologist methods to Dutch painting. She argues that tracing visual art back to texts is a method devised for Italian Renaissance art and thus not an adequate tool

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650 De Jongh 1967; de Jongh 1976; fundamental text: Realism and Seeming Realism in Seventeenth-Century Dutch Painting, in: Franits 1997, p.  21 – 56, Dutch original: Realisme en schijnrealisme in de Hollandse schilderkunst van de zeventiende eeuw, in: exh. cat. Rembrandt en zijn tijd, Brussels 1971, p. 143 – 194. However, de Jongh was not the first to dispute the general understanding of Dutch genre painting as a depiction of nat­ ural reality. The new approach was initiated by Hans Kauffmann, Die Fünf Sinne in der niederländischen Malerei des 17. Jahrhunderts, in: Kunstgeschichtliche Studien für Dagobert Frey, Breslau 1943, p. 133 – 157. This was followed by works on individual issues such as Panofsky’s study on Rembrandt’s Danaë, Herbert Rudolph’s on vanitas, Ingvar Bergström’s on the still life and Konrad Renger’s Lockere Gesellschaft. For a short overview of research since Hegel and Bohde, see: Möbius, Olbrich 1990, p.  7 – 45. 651 Erwin Panofsky, Jan van Eyck’s Arnolfini Portrait, in: Burlington Magazine 64, 1934, p. 117 – 127; Erwin Panofsky, Early Netherlandish Painting. Its Origin and Character, 2 vols., Cambridge 1953. 652 See especially Wayne Franits’s volume “Realism Reconsidered” from 1997; W. Franits, The Relationship between Emblems and Dutch Paintings of the 17th Century, in: Marsyas. Studies in the History of Art, 22, 1983 – 1985, New York 1986, p.  25 – 32; Peter Hecht, The Debate on Symbol and Meaning in Dutch Seventeenth-Century Art: An Appeal to Common Sense, in: Simiolus 16, 1986, p. 173 – 187; Jochen Becker, Der Blick auf den Betrachter: Mehrdeutigkeit als Gestaltungsprinzip niederländischer Kunst des 17. Jahrhunderts, in: L ’ Art et les révolutions, Section 7, XXVIIe congrès international d’histoire de l’Art, Strasbourg 1989, p.  76 – 92; Jochen Becker, Are these Girls really so neat? On Kitchen Scenes and Method, in: Freedberg/ Vries, p. 138 – 173, especially p. 139  f.; Eric Jan Sluijter, Didactic

for interpreting Dutch painting. She sees the latter’s significance in the description of surfaces and in obtaining knowledge of the world through optical perception. This, Alpers states, is in harmony with the enormous importance of contemporary insights into the field of optics (Kepler, Descartes). Alpers takes the realism of Dutch painting seriously. She does not misconceive it as an immediate reflection of natural or social truth, but rather in the sense of Roland Barthes’s ‘effect of reality’ (effet de reel) as a specific form of representation in sync with scientific discourses of the time. In more recent years, the absolute prevalence of iconological approaches has been questioned from numerous points of view.652 Even de Jongh himself revises the fixation on emblematics and the absolutization of one specific meaning in his more recent work, for example in his essay On Balance from 1998.653 The 1990s fortunately saw a surge in texts that refuse to adhere to the polarized view and instead call for the synthesis of different approaches.654 Even though the polarity is still persistent in interpretations of Dutch painting, I find it obsolete, in light of more recent developments, to revisit and extensively discuss the opposing positions. What research has missed, however, is that in spite of their con­trasting views, both sides are determined by the same structural dichotomy: the separation of word and image. The relation between and Disguised Meanings? Several Seventeenth-Century Texts on Painting and the Iconological Approach to Dutch Paintings of this Period, in: David Freedberg, J. de Vries (eds.), Art in History, History in Art. Studies in Seventeenth-Century Dutch Culture, 1991, p. 175 – 207, reprinted in: Franits 1997, p.  78 – 87; Weber 1994. 653 De Jongh 1998; de Jongh in: exh.  cat. The Hague, Wash­ington, D. C. 2005/06. 654 See especially: Goedde 1989; Norman Bryson, Looking at the Overlooked. Four Essays on Still Life Painting, London 1990, especially p. 120  ff. on vanitas; Celeste Brusati, Artifice and Illusion. The Art and Writing of Samuel van Hoogstraten, Chicago 1995; Honig 1997; Kettering 1993 (1997); Stoichita 1998, especially p. 166 – 173; the essays in Franits 1997; Gaskell 1998 and 2000, works in which he distances himself from his earlier iconological approach; Elizabeth Alice Honig, Desire and Domestic Economy, in: Art Bull. 83, 2001/2, p.  294 – 315. A balanced view can be found in the text by Peter C. Sutton in exh. cat. Philadelphia, Berlin, London 1984. 655 Arthur Henkel, Albrecht Schöne, Emblemata. Handbuch zur Sinnbildkunst des XVI. und XVII. Jahrhunderts, Stuttgart 1967, cols. 1462 und 1467 – 1468; Al­ brecht Schöne, Emblematik und Drama im Zeitalter des Barock, Munich 1968 (2nd edition); Peter M. Daly, Emblem Theory. Recent German Contributions to the Characterization of the Emblem Genre, Wolfenbütteler Forschungen, vol.  9, Nendeln/Liechtenstein 1979; Carsten-Peter Warncke, Sprechende Bilder — sichtbare Worte. Das Bildverständnis in der frühen Neuzeit, Wolfenbütteler Forschungen, vol.  33, Wiesbaden 1987, p. 161 – 192; Thomas Cramer, Fabel als emblematische Rätsel. Vom Sinn der Illustrationen in den Fabelsammlungen von Posthius und Schopper, 1566. Ein Beitrag zur Kulturgeschichte des nichtlinearen Lesens, in: Wenzel 2001, p. 133 – 157.

word and image is exactly at the center of debate today. In other words: the underlying problem is indeed quite topical and its relevance goes beyond the methodological debate on Dutch painting between art historians. In the following I will elaborate and historically con­textualize my theory that iconologists and their opponents base their arguments on the same paradigm. Eddy de Jongh tirelessly points out that Dutch painting is not l’art pour l’art, but has a deeper meaning. This is undoubtedly true. However, meaning for de Jongh is tied exclusively to words. He has a foreshortened view of the relation between text and image and assumes images are illustrations of words. Even in the field of emblematics research it has been asserted that pictura (the image) is not the illustration of a motto and the epigram is not an explanation of the riddle between motto and pictura.655 The three elements of the emblem

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are rather connected in a flexible, yet tension-laden relationship. Each one elucidates the other in the name of a shared idea. The image here is quite equal to text. In other words: Even in emblems, where the relationship between image and text is extremely close, the image is not dissolved in text. Moreover, images alone cannot make up an emblem book. De Jongh defends his approach in the catalog to the exhibition Leselust in Frankfurt from 1993: My emphasis of language by no means intends to relativize the significance of formal aspects such as composition, coloring, form and rendering of the material. […] I find both aspects equally important, form and content, which I believe have lost balance in our perception due to recent debate. Now that the polemics have been subdued, there is no doubt in my mind that language plays a decisive role, despite what has been vehemently contested. Of course the amount of language is not the same in each art work. It can easily be demonstrated that throughout the 17th century […] there were artists who lacked the esprit to bestow significance to their pictures through real or visualized words.656 De Jongh is equally interested in form and content. He thus only sees form as something formal, like a costume, but never as a bearer of content. According to him, if there is no text illustrated by visual motifs, then these pictures lack esprit, spirit, sense. Therefore, de Jongh believes that meaning can only be carried by those motifs, which explicitly refer to words and thus to language, while form itself (the aesthetic structure, the staging) can never bear meaning. Svetlana Alpers rightly criticizes the hierarchy of text as superior to image within the text-image relation. However, she absolutizes the autonomy of the visual and minimalizes the relevance of words for images. In her analysis of inscriptions in Dutch paintings, she comments on Metsu’s quotes on virginals: “The inscription, in other words, does not seem to be providing an interpretive key to the painting.” 657 Alpers even denies the meaning and significance of text in still lifes of books, letters and other written media, which explicitly address the relationship between text and image, by simply ignoring their content.658 In her opinion, the depiction of letters signals “visual attention without deeper meaning” 659 and the texts in many Dutch paintings “[…] extend [what to look at] without deepening the reference of the works.” 660 When describing Metsu’s Woman Reading a Letter, she ignores the motif of the picture within the picture. Alpers follows a cultural studies approach and thus considers images as representations. It is difficult to understand why she defends images against words; perhaps her fervid

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opposition to iconologists is the reason. Next to Alpers there are anti-iconologists whose arguments are not even remotely as differentiated: they contrast the meaning of images with the meaning of language, or, in the sense of l’art pour l’art, reject that images carry any deeper meaning at all.661

The dichotomy of language and image As opposing as these positions may seem, they are structurally connected in their joint dissociation of language and image. Iconologists assume a hierarchy which considers language superior; images can only carry meaning and significance if they refer directly to language, if they illustrate words; only their decidedly lingual content, attestable in specific motifs, refers to meaning. How something is depicted is considered an exclusively formal matter that has nothing to 656 De Jongh, Die “Sprachlichkeit” der niederländischen Malerei im 17. Jahrhundert, in: exh.  cat. Frankfurt a. M. 1993, p.  23 – 33, here: p.  27. Alpers (1985, p.  376 – 381) rightly points out that in Dutch emblem literature, especially by its most prominent author, Jacob Cats, meaning is usually conveyed in a visually easy to comprehend visual language and not in secret, difficult to understand messages. 657 Alpers 1984, p. 186. 658 It is astonishing that during the methodological dispute, so little attention was paid to still lifes of books, because this genre is the painted commentary on the relationship between image, (hand)writing, print and text. Eipeldauer (2007) breaks down polar interpretations in her analysis, which includes the materiality of painting into the process of meaning production. She demonstrates that “in their promise of encompassing sensuality, still lifes of books thwart the traditional dualism of transparent spirit and meaning on one hand and materiality and sensuality on the other: They exhibit ‘meaning as sensually embodied meaning’ through the depiction of books, which are commonly connected to the idea of being bearers of immaterial thought.” (p. 10) English by translator. 659 Alpers 1984, p. 192. 660 Ibid., p. 187. 661 For example Peter Hecht, Dutch Seventeenth-Century Genre Painting. A Reassessment of Some Current Hypotheses, in: Franits 1997, p.  88 – 97. 662 Gotthold Ephraim Lessing, Laocoon. An Essay upon the Limits of Painting and Poetry (translated by Ellen Frothingham), Boston 1874 (1766). Lessing had not planned a systematic aesthetic; his text was a polemic against Winckelmann’s dictum on the “noble simplicity and quiet grandeur” of Greek art. Lessing disagrees with Winckelmann and asserts that Laocoon’s scream was subdued by reasons of aesthetics and not ethics. See, a. o. the discourse-analytical analysis by W. J. Thomas Mitchell, Iconology. Image, Text, Ideology, The University of Chicago Press 1987, chapter 2/4: Space and Time. Lessing’s Laocoon and the Politics of Genre, p.  95 – 114.

do with content. For Alpers, on the other hand, words are insignificant for the interpretation of images. For those who see a depiction of reality in Dutch painting, or even interpret it as l’art pour l’art, there is also a stringent difference between image and language, since they would not deny the semantic dimension of language. The polarization of word and image, engrained in both contrary positions, is neither natural, nor inherent to the respective medium, but rather a historical paradigm. It was Gotthold Ephraim Lessing who most precisely defined and lastingly established the difference between image and language in his work Laocoon. An Essay Upon the Limits of Painting and Poetry from 1766.662 His observations were internalized so thoroughly that they determined thought until at least the early 20th century and, to a certain extent, continue to resonate to this day. Lessing’s Laocoon signals the final break between poetry and painting. According to Lessing, poetry (language) can represent time, while painting (visual art) can only represent

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space.663 He explains that the theme of visual art is the body and not actions, which are reserved to poetry.664 The invisible — and thus the realm of ideas — can only be represented by poetry, not by painting.665 Visual art does not serve the truth like science, but only exists for pleasure 666, its only aim is (‘pure’) beauty 667 and not meaning. Lessing states that knowledge is only possible by means of language. Despite contrary assurances, he hierarchizes the relationship between poetry and painting in favor of poetry or language. Of course, Lessing is not the only one who proclaimed this radical separation of poetry and painting. His theory is rooted in a tradition of aesthetics which goes back to Edmund Burke and Du Bos. 668 At the same time as Lessing, Diderot developed similar theories.669 However, the difference between painting and poetry Lessing postulates in his text is unparalleled in its extensive argumentation and long-lasting influence. His theory prevailed, even though some of his contemporaries, among them Herder, emphasized the proximity of these art forms.670 The separation of language and image was codified in aesthetics, but it was not an invention of aesthetic theory. An entire host of reasons lead to the paradigm of difference. Before becoming a discourse of its own, a different perception of the relation between image, writing and language developed. From a media theory point of view, the invention of the printing press is the first step to be mentioned. The media turn it caused dissolved the intrinsic connection between image and writing in medieval illumination.671 In medieval initials, writing and images melt into one as letters turn into ornaments, animals and human forma­tions (fig. 105, p. 238). The word is looked at (fig. 106, p. 238) and writing is integrated into images (fig. 107, p. 238). Even spoken words are visualized,

often as empty banderoles (fig. 108, p. 239).672 The invention of printing ultimately destroyed the symbiotic relationship between image and writing, even though the symbiosis at first continued in block books and single leaf prints.

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663 Lessing speaks of painting and poetry, but subsumes visual art under painting and includes under poetry “those other arts whose imitation is progressive,” p.  VI. 664 Lessing 1874, p.  90  f.: “[…] there is this essential differ­ ence between them: one is visible progressive action, the various parts of which follow one another in time; the other is a visible stationary action, the development of whose various parts takes place in space. Since painting, because its signs or means of imita­tion can be combined only in space, must relinquish all representations of time, therefore progressive actions, as such, cannot come within its range. It must content itself with actions in space; in other words, with mere bodies, whose attitude lets us infer their action. Poetry, on the contrary […] Objects which exist side by side, or whose parts so exist, are called bodies. Consequently bodies with their visible properties are the peculiar subjects of painting. Objects which succeed each other in time, are actions. Consequently actions are the peculiar subjects of poetry.” p. 109: “The rule is this, that succession in time is the province of the poet, co-existence in space that of the artist. To bring together into one and the same picture two points of time necessarily remote, as Mazzuoli does the rape of the Sabine women and the reconciliation effected by them between their husbands and relations; or as Titian does, representing in one piece the whole story of the Prodigal Son — his dissolute life, his misery, and repentance — is an encroachment of the painter on the domain of the poet, which good taste can never sanction.” 665 Lessing 1874, p.  77  ff. 666 Ibid., p. 10: “[…] for the object of science is truth. Truth is a necessity of the soul; […] The object of art, on the contrary, is pleasure, and pleasure is not indispensable.” 667 Lessing 1874, p. 11, 13, 18, 41, 142. Lessing argues against Winckelmann that Laocoon’s cry was not depicted as drastically and pain-stricken because the ancients rightly favored beauty over expression (p. 13). Of course Lessing’s plea for autonomy of art must be seen within the art historic context as a bourgeois statement against nobility and religion: “[…] we should discriminate and call only those works of art which are the handiwork of the artist, purely as artist, those

A further premise for Lessing’s theory is linear perspective; it assigns the viewer’s gaze to a single moment. It is on the basis of images organized in linear perspective that Lessing determines painting as the fruitful moment (den fruchtbaren Augenblick) and thus denies its ability to represent time.673 In medieval and early modern art a veritable range of possibilities was available to describe temporal sequences. Continuous narrative cycles in illuminations and wallpaintings developed as early as the Roman Trajan’s Column and structurally still present in today’s comic strips (fig. 109, p. 238) are one example that comes to mind. In these media, time could also be experienced on the level of reception, indeed in analogy to reading. A temporal sequence could also be represented in a single painting, like in Memling’s Seven Joys of Mary or Scenes from the Passion of Christ, in which episodes taking place at different times come together in one pictorial space (fig. 110, p. 240). Early Netherlandish painters from Van Eyck’s circles knew how to convert

pictorial space into temporal space, into a where he has been able to make beauty his first and last object. All the rest, all that show an evident religious tendency, are unworthy to be called works of art. In them art was not working for her own sake, but was simply the tool of religion, having symbolic representations forced upon her with more regard to their significance than their beauty.” (p.  63) On banishing the fear of images through beauty, see Mitchell 1987, p.  95 – 114. 668 Warncke 1987, p.  28. 669 Ibid., p.  61. 670 Johann Gottfried Herder, Treatise on the Origins of Language (1772), in: Michael N. Forster (ed.), Herder: Philosophical Writings, Cambridge 2002, p.  65 – 164. For Herder the connection of the senses, particularly the senses of sight and sound, is a prerequisite for knowledge and reflection. 671 On the interconnection of image and script during the Middle Ages, see: Wenzel 1995; Wenzel, Repräsentation und Wahrnehmung. Zur Inszenierung höfisch-ritter­ licher Imagination im ‘Wellschen Gast’ des Thomasîn von Zerclaere, in: Gerd Althoff (ed.), Zeichen — Rituale — Werte. Internationales Kolloquium des Sonderforschungsbereichs 496, Universität Münster, Münster 2004, p.  303 – 325; Wenzel, Visio und Deixis. Zur Interaktion von Wort und Bild im Mittelalter, in: Mitteilungen des Deutschen Germanistenverbandes: Sprache und Bild II, vol.  2, 2004, p. 136 – 152; Wenzel, Mediengeschichte vor und nach Gutenberg, Darmstadt 2007; Wenzel, Die Beweglichkeit der Bilder, in: Asymmetrien. Festschrift zu Ehren von Daniela Hammer-Tugendhat, edited by the University of Applied Arts Vienna, Vienna 2008, p.  91 – 98. On structural similarities between the reading of images and the reading of text, see: Sabine Groß, Schrift-Bild. Die Zeit des Augen-Blicks, in: Christoph Tholen et al. (eds.), Zeit-Zeichen, Weinheim 1990, p.  231 – 246. 672 Meyer Schapiro, Words, Script and Pictures: Semiotics of Visual Language, New York 1996. 673 Lessing 1874, especially p. 16  f. On this see: Groß 1990, especially p.  240. 674 Wolfgang Kemp, Die Räume der Maler. Zur Bilderzählung seit Giotto, Munich 1996. 675 Hammer-Tugendhat 2008, p. 177 – 189.

chronotope, where past, present and future become legible in one image (fig. 111, p. 240).674 (The procession of Christ bearing the cross proceeds from Jerusalem in the background, repre­senting the past; the foreground renders the present, while in the left background Golgotha, the site of execution, refers to the future.) Re­presentations of time do exist in post-medieval and linear perspective images, especially from the Baroque. Here we encoun­ ter a completely different type of temporal experience. It is less about narrating events in sequence but rather about transience. In Caravaggio’s paintings the light shaft, seemingly emitted from a source outside the scene, suggests how what we see before us could look completely altered in a different light, perhaps be even invisible or disappear completely (fig. 112, p. 241).675

An image organized in linear perspec­­ tive also produces the illusion of being a ‘natural’ depiction of apparent reality. It some­ what denies its semiotic character. This under­ standing of the image is what makes it possible for Lessing to confine it to a merely depicting

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Fig. 105: Book of Kells, Chi Rho, c. 800, Dublin, Trinity College Library, Ms. 58, fol. 34r Fig. 106: Drogo Sacramentary, Te Igitur, Metz, c. 823 – 855, Paris, Bibl. Nat., Cod. lat. 9428, fol. 15v Fig. 107: Folkunge Psalter, Annunciation, Northern England, second half of the 12th century, Copenhagen, Kongelige Bibliotek, Hs. Thott 143, fol. 8

function; he despises allegorical representations.676 Works that do not predominantly aim at beauty, but rather at reli­gious meaning are excluded from the realm of ‘art’ in this bourgeois concept of auto­nomous art. Visual art, which (like poetry) aims at meaning and expression is also not art, according to the concept. Lessing’s theory is based on the privileging of word over image instated during Reformation. What is a bit unsettling, however, is the double-tracked development in Calvinist Holland. If religion was paramount, then one could expect visual art to be of less importance. We know the opposite is true — painting was the number one medium. Nonetheless, reformers undoubtedly contributed to the more aggravated separation of word and image.677 Even more than religion, the development of the natural sciences contributed to the dissociation of word and image. In early modern science, beginning in the Renaissance, the proximity of visual art and science, of image and language, was still intact: both shared an interest in perception, description, empiricism and the idea that the world could be explained with geometric-mathematical laws. The problems of modern science most often lay well beyond description. In logocentric discourse the laws of nature only seemed apprehensible in seemingly neutral language; images were excluded as merely mimetic or imaginary. We must keep in mind that any statements on the relationship between image and text are always linguistic. Authors tend to favor their own medium — language — over visual media. This is an important point to keep in mind when reading the abundance of treatises, essays and theories on text and image.

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Fig. 108: Moralia in Job of S. Gregory, title page of the Engelberg codex 20, c. 1143 – 78, Cleveland, The Cleveland Museum of Art Fig. 109: Trajan’s Column, detail, Rome, AD 113

The dispute on the relationship between image and text can be traced back as far as Antiquity, when different opinions on the status of the image and its role in capturing the truth were already propagated. Plato was skeptical toward images because they could only reflect things incompletely; things, which were only poor reflections of ideas. Plato’s disdain for art and images is countered by Aristotle’s view, according to which the development of thought is based on perception. Mimesis does not merely mean imitating nature, but imitation of its inherent essence. Following Aristotle, this means that sight and art works directed at the sense of sight are adequate ways of gaining know­ledge.678 The early modern period saw a continuance of the medieval idea of en­ twining and joining text and image while maintaining a connection to Neo-Platonic and Aristotelian concepts.679 An understanding of images analogous to that of words — often times described in the phrase ut pictura poesis — became constitutive. Instead of Horace’s original call for using a lot of imagery 676 Lessing 1874. 677 On the reformers’ concept of images, see Stoichita 1998, especially p.  89 – 102; Häslein 2004, especially p.  23 – 53. It is surprising that Alpers does not address the meaning of the word in Calvinism. This is symp­ tomatic of her denial of language’s relevance for Dutch painting. 678 Warncke 1987, p.  21  ff. 679 Unlike Plato, Neo-Platonism deems it possible to obtain knowledge through images with the help of reason and imagination. See Warncke 1987, p.  23  f., On the interconnection between text, script and image in the Middle Ages, see Wenzel 1995. 680 Warncke 1987, especially p.  24  ff.; Rensselaer W. Lee, Ut pictura poesis: The Humanistic Theory of Painting, in: The Art Bulletin 22, 1940, p. 197 – 269; Rensselaer, Ut Pictura Poesis. The Humanistic Theory of Painting, New York 1967.

in language, the phrase was employed as a demand for the equality of image and word. The prevalent idea was speaking images as visible words, as ist were.680 However, this meant that images were subject to literary esthetics. Rhetoric, the prevailing communica­tion theory of the time, was now also applied to images, including its demand for imitation, invention and decorum. This began with Alberti’s

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Fig. 110: Hans Memling, The Passion of Christ, end of 15th century, panel, Turin, Galleria Sabauda Fig. 111: After the Master of the Turin-Milan Hours (Jan van Eyck?), Christ Carrying the Cross, 16th century, panel, Budapest, Szépmu˝veszéti Múzeum

De pictura from 1435 and found repetition, in different variations, in treatises on painting lasting well into the 17 th century.681 It was not until the logocentric discourse of the 18th century — Lessing’s time — that essential differences were ascribed to the two media. Verbal signs were explicitly regarded as superior to iconic signs in regard to their content of truth and knowledge. Logos, intellect and reason were now only linked to language, while images were connected with the senses and affects.682 Painting and literature drifted apart. No other culture has ever conceived word and image as separately as European modernity after the 18th century.683 Aesthetic theory became so engrained that all art before modernity seemed forgotten. The schism was furthered by institutionalizing the respective disciplines, with literary studies and linguistics on one hand and art history on the other. This even led to grotesque situations such as the artificial separation of medieval illuminations into text and image. Even though their meaning can only be understood when analyzed together, each discipline applied its respective methods to describe and interpret the ‘fragment’ in isolation.684 The discipline of art history followed two basic trends: one was the path of complete isolation in the sense of an autonomous history of styles; the other was to identify with the hegemony of language — allegedly the sole representation of intellect and mind — and to only acknowledge an image as a carrier of meaning and relevance if it illustrated language. Losing memory of the once so intimate relationship between the two media even went so far that pertinent literature on the image-text relationship spotted a revolution in early 20th century avantgarde art. In his seminal book Worte werden Bilder from 1977, Wolfgang Max Faust describes the iconization of literature and the lingualization of visual art, the crossing

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Fig. 112: Caravaggio, The Calling of St. Matthew, 1600, canvas, Rome, San Luigi dei Francesi, Contarelli Chapel

of boundaries between the two media and their reciprocal permeation as the core subject of the European avant-garde since the 1920s. An exhibition on the subject, Die Sprache der Kunst, curated by Toni Stooss at Kunsthalle Wien in 1993, reflected Faust’s findings.685 Descriptions of various image-word relations in Cubism, Futurism, Dadaism, Constructivism, Surrealism and abstract art 686, in literature, in Duchamp’s work, in Klee’s oeuvre and in art after 1945 are exceptional and enlightening in their analysis and differentiation. However, it is incorrect to celebrate the overcoming of the separation of word, image and writing as an invention of 20th century art. Cubists like Braque, Picasso 681 Warncke 1987, p.  24  ff.; Klaus Dirscherl, Elemente einer Geschichte des Dialogs von Bild und Text, in: Dirscherl, Bild und Text im Dialog, Passau 1993, p. 15 – 26, especially p. 18 – 22. 682 On this especially see Mitchell 1987. 683 Moritz Wullen with Andrea Müller, Anne Schulten and Marc Wilken (eds.), Das abc der Bilder, exh.  cat., Staatliche Museen zu Berlin in co-operation with Hermann von Helmholtz-Zentrum für Kulturtechnik, Berlin 2007, p. 10. 684 For fundamental work on this, see Horst Wenzel (see note 671). 685 Eleonora Louis und Toni Stooss (eds.), Die Sprache der Kunst. Die Beziehung zwischen Bild und Text in der Kunst des 20. Jahrhunderts, exh. cat. Kunsthalle Wien, Vienna 1993. 686 Faust plausibly demonstrates how language also plays a role in abstract art, namely in the form of the commentary necessary for its understanding. There are few other artists who wrote as much on their work as Kandinsky, Mondrian and Malevich. 687 On the relationship between modern art — particularly Lissitzky — and modern typography: Johanna Drucker, The Visible Word: Experimental Typography and Modern Art 1909 – 1923, Chicago 1994.

and Gris were not the first to integrate writing into their images. The technique can be found throughout the Middle Ages and early modern period (fig. 107, p. 242). Calligrams by Lissitzky (and later on, in commercial graphic design) have ancestors in medieval illuminations and late medieval figurative alphabets (fig. 113, p. 242; fig. 114, p. 243).687 The iconization of writing,

beginning with Mallarmé’s Un coup des dés or Apollinaire, which led to visual poetry in the 1960s, has a longstanding, almost uninterrupted tradition, reaching from the figurative and visual poems of Antiquity, to the Middle Ages

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Fig. 107: Folkunge Psalter, Annunciation, Northern England, second half of the 12th century, Copenhagen, Kongelige Bibliotek. Hs. Thott 143, fol. 8 Fig. 113: Master E. S., Figure Alphabet, c. 1466, engraving, Washington, D. C., National Gallery of Art Fig. 114: El Lissitzky, Figure Alphabet, design for a children’s book, calculating: 1 worker + 1 farmer + 1 soldier in the red army = 3 comrades, 1928, watercolor, coll. Sophie Lissitzky-Küppers

well into the early modern period (figs. 115 – 119, p. 244 f.).688 Vilém Flusser pointedly and slightly provocatively apostrophizes this convergence: The structure of our communication, developing all around us, is clearly similar to the one prevailing before the invention of printing, in the Middle Ages. Our present communication revolution is thus basically a return to the initial situation, interrupted and disrupted by printing and general alphabetization. We are returning to an original state, which was only interrupted by a 400-year exception called the ‘modern period.’ 689 Of course I am not proposing to equate the specific text-image connections from the avant-garde with works of medieval or early modern art. Moreover, audio-visuality in predominantly oral medieval culture differs significantly from audio-visuality as we expe­ rience it in the age of new media. However, in the Middle Ages and early modern period, images were also not received as direct de­pictions of visual reality, but rather as signs —  quite similar to the avant-garde.690 In prescientific times the entire world appeared to be a book, a text: meaning was ascribed to all sorts of phenomena. Language and images

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688 Klaus Peter Dencker, Text-Bilder. Visuelle Poesie international. Von der Antike bis zur Gegenwart, Cologne 1972; Ulrich Ernst, Carmen figuratum. Geschichte des Figurengedichts von den antiken Ursprüngen bis zum Ausgang des Mittelalters, Cologne, Weimar, Vienna 1991; Ulrich Ernst, Von der Hieroglyphe zum Hypertext. Medienumbrüche in der Evolution visueller Texte, in: Horst Wenzel, Wilfried Seipel, Gotthart Wunberg (eds.), Die Verschriftlichung der Welt. Bild, Text und Zahl in der Kultur des Mittelalters und der Frühen Neuzeit (Schriften des Kunsthistorischen Museums Wien, vol. 5), Vienna 2000, p.  213 – 239. 689 Vilém Flusser, Kommunikologie, edited by Stefan Bollmann and Edith Flusser, Frankfurt a.  M. 1998, p.  53. English by translator. 690 On semiotics in the Middle Ages, see Winfried Nöth, Handbuch der Semiotik, Stuttgart, Weimar 2000, especially p.  9 – 14. Further literature is also noted. 691 This was explicitly reflected by René Magritte, for example, in the famous ceci n’est pas un pipe. Dated as early as 1926, the drawing juxtaposes a ‘realistically’ depicted pipe with an abstract rendition and the word pipe. The oil painting La trahison des images (The Treachery of Images) followed in 1929, depicting a pipe and the words ceci n’est pas un pipe (this is not a pipe).

were equivalent paths for getting from visible things to invisible truths. The meanings obtained, however, were not understood as culturally encoded, but rather as manifest and sanctioned by God. The central aim of avant-garde art was to point out just that: the depiction of signs as signs. Integrating language into Cubist paintings and graphic works reveals them as signs. Cubist images intended not to be seen as iconic depictions, but rather as sign systems, like language. When we speak of lingual and iconic signs as signs, we can detect an analogy to the development of semiotics by Saussure and Pierce. It is remarkable that both science and art worked on similar issues while remaining completely detached from one another. Delving deeper into this question would go beyond the scope of this book, but I He concluded the series in 1966 with Les deux mystères: La trahison des images is depicted resting on an easel with another pipe hovering above it. Margritte explores the differences between the point of reference and its respective iconic and verbal sign. Michel Foucault reacted to these works in his seminal essay ceci n’est pas un pipe from 1973. On the analogy between Magritte and Wittgenstein’s philosophy on language, see: Suzi Gablik, Magritte, Munich, Vienna, Zurich 1971. 692 Marianne Vogel, Zwischen Wort und Bild. Das schriftliche Werk Paul Klees und die Rolle der Sprache in seinem Denken und in seiner Kunst, München 1992; Rainer Crone, Paul Klee und die Natur des Zeichens, in: Rainer Crone, Joseph Leo Koerner, Alexandra Stosch, Paul Klee und Edward Ruscha. Projekt der Moderne  — Sprache und Bild, Munich 1998, p.  25 – 72; Joseph Leo Koerner, Paul Klee und das Bild des Buches, in: ibid., p.  89 – 136. Foucault deemed Klee the epitome of modern painting. He explains how Klee abolished the hierarchizing order of verbal and visual signs. His work is the first where the system of representation, through similarity, intersects with the system of reference, through signs. See: Michel Foucault, This Is Not a Pipe. Edited by James Harkness, Quantum books 2008.

would like to add one comment: In the art of the avant-garde an interpictorial reflection took place on the status of iconic and lingual signs and on their relationship with each other and (non-artistic) reality.691 One example is Paul Klee, who had a very particular way of poetically combining figural and non-figural (entirely painterly) elements with graphic characters (fig. 120, p. 245).692 In Legend of the Nile Klee spells

out various re­presentational systems and points out their similarities and differences. We are made aware that we can only recognize and interpret single elements as such because

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Fig. 115: Simias of Rhodes, visual poetry, 300 BC (reconstruction by G. Wojacek 1969) Fig. 116: Visual poetry, Cygnus, 14th century, abbey of Göttweig, Ms. 7 Fig. 117: Johann Leonhard Frisch, Berlin Bear, 1700

of their reciprocal contextualization. We can only decipher abbreviated signs on blue surfaces as a boat at sea and the sky because they reciprocally create their context. The seeming opposition between graphic characters, which signal meaning, and the painterly background of blue surfaces, which we are prone to perceive as ‘pure’ painting (void of meaning), is completely erased. The title Legend of the Nile points to the origins of writing in Egyptian hieroglyphs and the unity of image and writing in pictograms. It is no coincidence that the rowing figures are reminiscent of musical notes: they evoke the rhythmical beat of oars hitting the water, which, together with the dancing pose of the figure standing beside the boat, incorporates the sister arts of music and dance into the painting. Klee demonstrates the inseparable link between iconic and lingual signs in the generation of meaning — also in a semiotic sense. However — and this is something only art can achieve — despite its analytical reflection, the painting is able to maintain a sense of poetry, cheerfulness and emotion. The art of the avant-garde found numerous ways to address the relationship between word and image and the surmounting of their separation, while the discipline of art history needed more than a century to accomplish the same. And yet, to this day the equality of word and image and the reciprocal crossing of their respective boundaries is only conceded to the art of the avant-garde, but not to art prior to the 20th century. Especially art between the Renaissance and the early 20th century is most often deemed mimetic or purely depictive, or, diametrically, as focused solely on language. It is this division that we find reflected in the scholarly debate on Dutch painting.

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Fig. 118: Guillaume Apollinaire, Horse, 1917 Fig. 119: Claus Bremer, Pigeon, 1968 Fig. 120: Paul Klee, Legend from the Nile, 1937, pastel on cotton and jute, Bern, Kunstmuseum

Not only in art history (regarding 17 th century Dutch painting in particular as well as art in general), but also in cultural studies (Kulturwissenschaften), current discussions on the relationship between word and image continue to adhere to the polarity of an essential difference between word and image. This is truly astonishing, especially since Kulturwissenschaften are based on semiotics, Foucault’s discourse theory and transdisciplinarity. All of these concepts assume that the world is only relayed to us through signs and that semiotic systems cannot be reduced to verbal language. The main point is the interconnectedness of different symbolic systems and social practices. Next to a greater distinction of semiological and discourse-analytical approaches, the most recent media shift and the new audio-visuality it introduced have changed the perception of text and image and have promoted the formation of new theory. Nonetheless, the discourse of differentiating word and image has persisted in manifold ways. Even though visual art after the avant-garde is often acknowledged as bearing semantic potential, the same cannot be said of art before the 20th century. I will quote Klaus Dirscherl as a representative example for this belief.693 In his introduction to the volume Bild und Text im Dialog, which he edited and published in 1993, Dirscherl writes: 693 This is a randomly chosen, yet symptomatic quote for the still prevalent understanding of the relationship between image and text. This also includes experts from the field of text-image research. For example, Wendy Steiner writes (in her preface to “The Colours of Rhetoric. Problems in the Relation between Modern Literature and Painting,” The University of Chicago Press 1982, p.  XI): “As I see it, this importance lies in the fact that painting has until very recently been taken as mimetic, a mirror of the world.”

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The hierarchal subordination of the image to text was a given in the illustration of great literature and not questioned until the 20th century […]; the marking of images through texts was prevalent in painting far beyond the Renaissance. […] In the 17th, 18th and even 19th centuries we are still a far cry from a mimetic image continuum that offers the viewer a quasi-realistic view of the world that is no longer dependent on text, as, for example, the impressionist landscape will a bit later. […] The mimetic medium of paint­ ing seems to not have won principal autonomy — at least for a while —  until 19th century Realism and Impressionism.694 I oppose with the following: The hierarchization of painting and language in favor of language is false. (Dutch) painting was quite independent in the 17 th century and not only served as an illustration of text. It is foolish to propose mimesis as the only alternative to text-dependent images. Just because an image is independent of text does not mean it is mimetic or ‘true-to-nature.’ There is no such thing as a fully mimetic, ‘true-to-nature’ image. There is also no such thing as an image that is entirely independent of any text or language. Metsu’s Woman Reading a Letter is not the illustration of any specific text, and yet the painting is embedded in the realm of love letters and thus language. The picture within the picture is a direct reference to metaphors from the love discourse and as a tableau is only conceivable within the context of Holland’s culture of writing and reading in general, and epistolary culture in particular. In the preceding chapter I have demonstrated how Vermeer lead a pictorial discourse in Woman Holding a Balance, using only painterly means to reflect the possibilities and conditions of meaning production. Vermeer does not illustrate a given text; nor does he strive for a ‘true-to-nature’ depiction (of a woman holding a balance in a domestic setting). An exclusive choice between language dependence (and meaning) or mimesis makes no sense. In fact, images always produce meaning, analogous to language; they are closely tied to language, but function with their own, medium-specific means. Another variation of the reductionist model of the relationship between text and image is the limitation to image and script. The point can surely not just be to demonstrate the interconnection between image and script like the exhibition and eponymous catalog Das abc der Bilder postulated in 2007. Even in this catalog, which presents itself as innovative and calls for the rejection of the traditional separation of image and script, we can find the following remark:

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It seems that humankind can only tolerate image without text information in small doses.695 The division of the universe of communication into separate galaxies of text and image, the catalog continues, is artificial and unrealistic. Image culture since the early modern period supposedly only reflected itself and exclusively dealt with its own differentiation and refinement. Even though 694 Klaus Dirscherl 1993, p. 15 – 26, here: p.  20  f. English by translator. 695 Exh.  cat. Berlin 2007, p. 10. Introduction by Moritz Wullen. English by translator. 696 Ibid., p. 10. English by translator. 697 Ibid., p.  8. 698 Within Bildwissenschaften there are manifold, at times contrary currents. In this case I am not referring to explicitly inter- and transdisciplinary studies aimed at visual culture, which investigate non-artistic images. Within the discipline of art history, the term was also established, particularly by Hans Belting, who de­fines the image from an anthropological perspective; see Hans Belting, Bild-Anthropologie. Entwürfe für eine Bildwissenschaft, Munich 2001; Hans Belting (ed.), Bilderfragen. Die Bildwissenschaften im Aufbruch, Munich 2007. By conjuring an ostensible iconic turn, Gottfried Boehm attempts to rescue the autonomy of the image and to wipe out all questions of meaning beyond the iconic (lingual, discursive, social); see Gottfried Boehm, Die Wiederkehr der Bilder, in: Gottfried Boehm (ed.), Was ist ein Bild, Munich 1994, p. 11 – 38; Gottfried Boehm, Jenseits der Sprache? Anmerkungen zur Logik der Bilder, in: Christa Maar, Hubert Burda (eds.) Iconic Turn. Die neue Macht der Bilder, Cologne 2004, p.  28 – 43. I cannot fathom how this iconic turn could become such a rage. Boehm conceived it as the diametrical opposite to the linguistic turn he misunderstood as pertaining only to (verbal) language. What is known as the pictorial turn, pro­ claimed by the US English and art history scholar W. J. T. Mitchell, refers to the fairly new and growing relevance of visuality in social communication and new media. (W. J. T. Mitchell, Picture Theory. Essays on Verbal and Visual Representation, Chicago 1994; Christian Kravagna (ed.), Der Pictorial Turn, in: Privileg Blick. Kritik der visuellen Kultur, Berlin 1997, p. 15 – 40. For a critique on the absurdity of turns see the analysis by Sigrid Schade, in which she suggests reinstating the term semiotic inquiry coined by Norman Bryson (Bal, Bryson 1991). Sigrid Schade, Vom Wunsch der Kunstgeschichte, Leitwissenschaft zu sein. Pirouetten im sogenannten ‘pictorial turn,’ in: Jürg Albrecht, Kornelia Imesch (eds.), horizonte. Beiträge zu Kunst- und Kunstwissenschaft, 50 Jahre Schweizerisches Institut für Kunstwissenschaft, Stuttgart 2001, p.  369 – 378; Sigrid Schade, What do “Bildwissenschaften” Want? In the Vicious Circle of Iconic and Pictorial Turns, in: Kornelia Imesch, Jennifer John, Daniela Mondini, Sigrid Schade, Nicole Schweizer (eds.), Inscriptions / Transgressions. Kunstgeschichte und Gender Studies, Bern 2008, p.  31 – 51. See also: Maar, Burda 2004, especially the essay by Willibald Sauerländer, Iconic turn? Eine Bitte um Ikonoklasmus, p.  407 – 426.

results of this specialization, such as the development of linear perspective, chiaroscuro, etc., garnered worldwide admiration, it cannot be denied that […] it is in fact a somewhat overdrawn form of communication, only sustainable and tolerable for humankind in the safe confines of a museal setting.696 Despite criticizing semiotics and modern communication theories such as system theory or constructivism for their “policies of separation” 697, the author dismisses images’ genuine semantic potential. Consequently, we can see an adherence to the traditional disregard for the pictorial medium despite opposite claims and despite the exhibition’s ambitious demand for a reformulation of the relationship between text and image. The dichotomization of word and image paradoxically finds continuance in part of the newly established image studies (Bildwissen­ schaften) — but in reverse. Sigrid Schade rightly dismisses the pirouettes of iconic, pictorial, performative, etc. turns and, in reference to Norman Bryson, instead suggests speaking of semiotic inquiry.698

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Farewell, Laocoon … Cultural studies have seen a surge in research on the relationship between text, script, image and number in recent years and decades.699 This growth is mostly due to experiences and developments in new media. My investigation is part of the discussion aimed at overcoming the dichotomy of text and image. I want to explicitly stress that feminist art theory and gender studies significantly contributed to this because of their early reception of semiotic theory, Foucault, Barthes, Lacan and Derrida.700 Theories articulated in cultural studies on the interconnectedness of image and language have been confirmed in recent years by researchers from the fields of sign language, primate research, neurology and perception theory.701 Spelling out the reciprocal linking of image and language is necessary, but not enough. The persistent hierarchy between language and image does not have to take on the form of a discourse of difference. Equally common is the ostensible equality of image and language expressed in the idea of reading images like texts. When dealing with this discourse we often (not always) find that the materiality of culture and particularly the materiality of signs is neglected.702 Meaning is always attached to a medium. There is no such thing as knowledge of reality detached from media, no para-media thought and no pure image of the world without media. We cannot have meaning without medium and thus without materiality of the sign. Different kinds of meaning are closely linked to their respective material semiotic substrate, they are not pre­ceded by any ‘neutral’ cognitive form.703 Therefore meaning / content is tied to the specific materiality of the medium. Language and images are media 704; they are not neutral representations of reality, but rather generate their own specific semantics. Being a medium is not only the condition for their transferability, but for the formation of meaning itself, argue Peter Koch and Sybille Krämer.705 The aim is to revalue the status of a sign’s materiality:

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699 See, a. o. (with further literature): Roland Barthes, Rhetoric of the Image. Semiotics. An Introductory Reader, London 1985; Roland Barthes, Is Painting Language? In: Roland Barthes, The Responsibility of Forms, New York 1985, p. 149 – 152; Mitchell 1987; Oskar Bätschmann, Bild-Text: Problematische Beziehungen, in: Kunstgeschichte — aber wie? Edited by the faculty Munich, Berlin 1989; Volker Bohn (ed.), Bildlichkeit, Frankfurt a. M. 1990; Martin Heusser et al. (eds.),Word & Image Interactions. A Selection of Papers Given at the Second International Conference on Word and Image, Zurich University 1990, Basel 1993; Ulrich Weisstein, (ed.), Literatur und bildende Kunst, 1992; Mitchell 1994; Boehm 1994; Nelson Goodman, Languages of Art —  An Approach to a Theory of Symbols, London 1969; Wenzel 1995; Wenzel 2001, further literature by Wenzel see note 671; Dirk Matejovski, Friedrich Kittler (eds.), Literatur im Informationszeitalter, Frankfurt, New York 1996; Bredekamp, Krämer 2003; Barbara Naumann, Edgar Pankow (eds.), Bilder-Denken. Bildlichkeit und Argumentation, Munich 2004; Maar, Burda 2004. 700 In the German-speaking countries, see works by Sigrid Schade and Silke Wenk. 701 Primates already have a neurological point of convergence for somaesthetic, visual and auditive information. Recent research on primates and on sign language has revealed that communication with gestures most likely preceded and/or coincided with verbal communication. We can assume today that language was audio-visual from the beginning. It was already a visual medium before it was set in writing. See: Ludwig Jäger, Sprache als Medium. Über die Sprache als audio-visuelles Dispositiv des Medialen, in: Wenzel, Seipel, Wunberg 2001, p. 19 – 42, includes further liter­ ature. On the issue of whether images can be read like texts, see Groß 1990; on neuro-physiological findings that images, like language, are not depictions, but rather neurological constructions, see: Wolf Singer, Das Bild in uns — Vom Bild zur Wahrnehmung, in: Maar, Burda 2004, p.  56 – 76. 702 On the meaning of material in visual art, see: Monika Wagner, Das Material der Kunst. Eine andere Geschichte der Moderne, München 2001. 703 Ludwig Jäger, Text-Bild-Verständnisse, in: Asymme­trien.

Their [the signs’] function can no longer be limited to the representation, transport or conveyance of contents, because they are constitutively involved in the genesis of these contents. 706 I find the theory of transcription (Transkription) developed by the linguist and cultural theorist Ludwig Jäger can help us grasp on a theoretical level both the inter­ connectedness of different media and the autochtonous inherent semantics of media (for example image and language). Semantic and aesthetic effects do not derive from — Jäger elaborates —  the reference or different kinds of references by symbolic systems Festschrift zu Ehren von Daniela Hammer-Tugendhat, edited by the University of Applied Arts Vienna, Vienna 2008, p.  35 – 44, here: p.  38. 704 Jäger rightly criticizes that current debates on media often fail to acknowledge that language is a medium, or actually the archmedium. Instead, a definition of media reduced to newer technologies is often as­ sumed. Media are not technical means of conveying information. Jäger argues that complaints by media critics, such as Baudrillard, often still adhere to the Cartesian fiction that there is a way to gain knowledge without obstruction and without the interference of media; he asserts that there is no crisis, just a growth in complexity of media-related and symbolic semantics. See: Ludwig Jäger, Transkriptivität. Zur medialen Logik der kulturellen Semantik, in: Ludwig Jäger, Georg Stanitzek (eds.), Transkribieren. Medien/Lektüre, Munich 2002, p. 19 – 42; Ludwig Jäger, Transkription. Überlegungen zu einem interdisziplinären Forschungs­ konzept, in: Rolf Kailuweit, Stefan Pfänder, Dirk Vetter (eds.), Migration und Transkription — Frankreich, Euro­­pa und Lateinamerika, Berlin 2010; Ludwig Jäger, 2001, p. 15 – 35 . 705 Peter Koch, Sybille Krämer, Introduction, in: Peter Koch, Sybille Krämer (eds.), Schrift, Medien, Kogni­ tion. Über die Exteriorität des Geistes, Tübingen 1997, p.  9 – 26, here: p. 12. 706 Jäger, Transkription, 2010, p.  26. English by translator. 707 Jäger, Asymmetrien, 2008, p.  39. English by translator. 708 Ibid., p. 38. English by translator. 709 Ludwig Jäger, Transkriptive Verhältnisse. Zur Logik intra- und intermedialer Bezugnahmen in ästhetischen Diskursen, in: Gabriele Buschmeier, Ulrich Kon­rad, Albrecht Riethmüller (eds.), Transkription und Fassung in der Musik des 20. Jahrhunderts. Beiträge des Kolloquiums in der Akademie der Wissenschaften und der Literatur, Mainz 2004, Stuttgart 2007, p. 103 – 134; Ludwig Jäger, Transcriptivity Matters: On the Logic of Intra- and Intermedial References in Aesthetic Discourse, in: Ludwig Jäger / Erika Linz / Irmela Schneider (eds.), Media, Culture, and Mediality. New Insights into the Current State of Research, Bielefeld: transcript 2010, p.  49 – 76. Also see Mitchell 1994, p.  94  f.: “All media are mixed media.”

to a pre-symbolic world […]. One could say that they derive from the kinds of reference […] that do not primarily take place — in an epistemological sense — between symbolic systems and the world, but rather at first between different symbolic systems (of media) and then also within these symbolic systems themselves. 707 Thus, references can take place within the medium (intramedia) or as a translation between two media (intermedia). These forms of reference, the recursive, intramedia self-reference of media and the intermedia connection of different media scripts is what, according to Jäger, “keeps the symbolic world production process in motion.”  708 Cultural semantics do not produce reality through a singular medium, but rather through continuous processes of interaction between media. Thus, the aim is to examine the performative practices of communicative cultures from the perspective of their intermedia logic of difference. 709 For our context, the establishment of media-specific

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inherent semantics is essential: it is the fact that specific types of meanings are closely tied to their material semiotic substrates: This is why the semantics of non-lingual media — such as images — does not lie in the fact that they express something through images, which could also be expressed through language or other means. Neutral contents/ information, which seem to be transferred untainted (‘orginaliter’) between different media are unconceivable because only media-based variations of contents exist. There is no such thing as a pre-media original. Every form of trans­ferring content from one medium into another thus inevitably takes the form of transcription (Transkription), or, in other words, of a reconstitution conditioned by the media shift. 710 Every theory that denies non-lingual media their own genuine semantics simultaneously attacks their aesthetic form. 711 Thanks to the differentiation of theories in cultural studies, semiotics and discourse analysis, in historical and (neuro-)psychological research as well as changes introduced through media shifts and new audio-visuality, we are now able to comprehend image and language as interconnected, reciprocal referential structures and bearers of inherent semantics. We can thus easily leave art-historical disputes on the subject behind us. Histor­ ians, cultural and literary scholars, on the other hand, would profit immensely from abandoning their fixation on language in favor of a (frequently invoked, yet rarely truly implemented) interdisciplinary perspective. Visual sources are as equally important as lingual ones. 712 The inclusion of non-lingual media, in our case painting, could potentially lead to drastic shifts in historical views: Perhaps the culmination of epistolary culture already took place as early as the latter half of the 17th century and not in the 18th as previously proposed. In Holland, bourgeois culture reached its first heights at the time in the medium of painting. 713

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710 Jäger, Transkription, 2010, p.  27. English by translator. 711 Jäger, Asymmetrien, 2008, p.  38. English by translator. 712 The paragone between text and image also took place in Holland (on the close link between image and lit­ erature in the Netherlands, see Schenkeveld van der Dussen 1991 and 1993). I would like to quote one example that illustrates how a writer and a painter argued whether painting could depict the invisible. Joost van den Vondel, the most prominent dramatist of his time, wrote the following verses in response to an etching by Rembrandt (1641), portraying the Mennonite priest Cornelis Anslo: “Ay Rembrant, maal Cornelis stem Het zichtbre deel is ’tminst van hem: ’t Onzichtbre kent men slechts door d’ooren Wie Anslo zien wil moet hem hooren.” (O Rembrandt, paint Cornelis’s voice, The visible part is the least of him: The invisible can only be known through the ears. Who Anslo wants to see must hear him.) (Dutch quote: Schenkeveld van der Dussen 1993, p.  66; English quote: Martha Gyllenhaal, Rembrandt’s Artful Use of Statues and Casts, doctoral thesis, Temple Uni­ versity, 2008, p. 124). The etching only shows Anslo, gesturing towards a book. In his later painting of Anslo, Rembrandt included his wife as a listening figure and changed the pointing gesture into a speaking gesture (figs. 121, 122). Vondel’s verses are written on the back of a red chalk sketch of Anslo, made by Rembrandt in preparation of the oil portrait. His answer to the writer’s criticism is that he, Rembrandt, can depict word, speech, the invisible — with the means of painting. See the chapter Die Stimme malen in: Pächt 1991, p. 173 – 188. Pächt also points out that Rembrandt held a type of sermon with his Hundred Guilder Print. 713 I will elaborate on this in the final chapter. 714 On Ter Borch: S. J. Gudlaugsson, Gerard ter Borch, 2 vols., The Hague 1959 – 60; Arthur K. Wheelock (ed.), Gerard ter Borch, exh. cat. National Gallery of Art, Washington, D. C., American Federation of Arts, New York, New Haven, London 2005. Also see exh. cat. Dublin, Greenwich 2003, p.  90 – 107; Alison McNeil Kettering, Gerard ter Borch’s Military Men: Masculinity Transformed, in: Wheelock, Seeff 2000, p. 100 – 119. Like no other Dutch artist, Ter Borch extensively dealt with members of the military and the new situation after the peace of 1648. He depicts soldiers and officers unheroically, in private situations, at times revealing their loneliness and dislocation. Both his birth town Zolle and the town where he later lived, Deventer in Overijssel, were garrison towns. Experiences he made there may have sparked his interest in the subject. Ketter­ing rightly emphasizes that the peace of 1648 made the new alternative and peaceful character of military members found in Ter Borch’s art possible. The oddity that only military men and no civilians are involved in his images of letter writing is not addressed. 715 Detroit, Institute of Arts, from ca. 1680; ill.: exh.  cat. Washington, New York 2005, cat.  no. 50, p. 180.

4 The Gender of Letters The primary characteristic of letters is

that they are means of communication. We write them, we receive them and we reply to them. In a private context, especially in a romantic one, it could happen that one person always writes the letters and the other only receives and reads them. Surely this type of imbalance would be the exception rather than the norm. Fact is, a person reading a letter means that someone has written a letter. A look at Dutch genre painting, however, could create the paradox impression that only women receive and read love letters (and in rare cases) write them. Men, on the other hand, never seem to receive or write them. In works by Dirck Hals, Pieter Codde, Pieter de Hooch, Jan Steen, Frans van Mieris, Jan Vermeer and others, women are the only ones who re­ ceive, read and in rare cases write private letters. We only know of four paintings of men reading or writing letters by Ter Borch (figs. 123, 124, p. 253). These men are all officers or other members of the military. 714 Only two paintings allow us to assume a romantic context because of an ace of spades playing card on the floor. In the painting of a young officer reading a letter, the context remains unclear. None of the men are alone; they are all surrounded by other men. We know of one image by Ter Borch depicting a man reading a letter alone, but in this case it is not a love letter; in fact, it is not a letter at all, but rather a leaflet, a means of public communication. 715 Caspar Netscher, one of Ter Borch’s students, painted one picture of a single man, dressed in bourgeois civilian clothes,

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Fig. 121: Rembrandt, Portrait of Mennonite Preacher Cornelis Claesz. Anslo, 1641, etching Fig. 122: Rembrandt, Portrait of Mennonite Preacher Cornelis Claesz. Anslo and his Wife Aeltje Gerritsdr. Schouten, 1641, canvas, Berlin, Staatliche Museen, Gemäldegalerie

writing a letter (fig. 125). 716 This painting is truly an exception. Portrayed in a melancholy gesture, with his head resting in his hand, the man seems to pause from writing the letter for a moment; his gaze drifts into the distance. The intimate setting suggests that his letter is private, perhaps even a love letter, even though there are no definite attributes marking it as such. The first mentioning of the work in an inventory from Dresden for August the Strong (1772) describes the man as “a scholar writing a letter.” Gender roles in letter writing were apparently already so set in the 18th century that an interpretation of the image as private or even romantic was automatically dismissed. Even though letters are a medium of reciprocal communication, there is only an exceedingly small number of companion paintings portraying this aspect. Scholars generally agree that there must have been a companion painting to Ter Borch’s Officer Writing a Letter (fig. 123): Woman Sealing a Letter (fig. 126, p. 254). 717 We only know of two further

instances of pendant paintings, both by Gabriel Metsu, who adopted Ter Borch’s invention. 718 His painting Man Writing a Letter (fig. 127, p. 254) is the companion piece to Woman Reading a Letter (plate 11) discussed in the previous chapter. 719 The letter writer’s room is much more lavish, with its lush Persian rug and massively gilt picture frame. The opened

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716 Wieseman 2003, cat.  no. 11, p. 108  ff. 717 Exh.  cat. Dublin, Greenwich 2003, cat.  nos. 8, 9, p.  99 – 104. 718 Man Writing a Letter, Musée Fabre, Montpellier, Girl Receiving a Letter, Timken Museum of Art, San Diego, both ca. 1660; ills.: exh.  cat. Dublin, Greenwich 2003, cat.  nos. 16. and 17, figs.  p. 124 and 125. 719 The pendant theory is supported by the fact that next to stylistic similarities, the paintings have the same size and were first mentioned together at a sale by Hendrick Sorgh on March 28, 1720, in Amsterdam. See Robinson 1974, p.  39 – 41; exh. cat. Dublin, Greenwich 2003, cat. nos. 18 und 19, p. 128 – 133. The only odd thing is that neither the composition nor the colors are coordinated. 720 In the mentioned example by Ter Borch, the man is also the one writing the letter while the woman is just sealing her letter.

Fig. 123: Gerard Ter Borch, Officer Writing a Letter, c. 1658 /59, canvas, Philadelphia Museum of Art Fig. 124: Gerard Ter Borch, Officer Reading a Letter with a Trumpeter, c. 1657 /58, canvas, Dresden, Staatliche Kunstsammlungen, Gemäldegalerie Fig. 125: Caspar Netscher, Man Writing a letter, 1664, panel, Dresden, Staatl. Kunstslg., Gemäldegalerie

window, which the man is turned to, and the globe both point to his worldliness, while his female pendant is more secluded in her domestic setting. Here, the heavy curtain separates her from the outside world, and the laundry basket and needlework characterize the space as feminine. In both companion pieces by Metsu the men are the ones writing the letters while the women are the ones receiving and reading them. 720 The world was divided in two. Men used letters to correspond, as I elaborate further in the final chapter, about matters such as science, education, religion, economic and political organization and, as mentioned before, private issues. Women, on the other hand, were reduced to private matters. 721 In art, letters were a popular male attribute in both genre paintings 722 and portraits. Letters mark the portrayed men as well-read, well-educated and of public importance. If, however, the theme is applied to women, the letters are marked as bearers of a different meaning, namely as love letters. It is not surprising that letters are absent in female 721 There is still only a small number of works on how many women were literate in 17th century Holland. Compared to other European countries the percen­ tage was surely quite high. However, we must assume that many women could read, but not write. It was common to have letters, including private ones, written by scribes. Maids, as they were often depicted in the love letter paintings, were rarely able to read, even less so to write. Calvinists encouraged women and girls to learn reading (the bible), but not writing. See: Adams in: exh.  cat. Frankfurt a.  M. 1993, especially p.  70  ff.; Adams in: exh.  cat. Dublin, Greenwich 2003, p.  64. 722 See, for example, portrayals of old men and notaries with letters by Adriaen van Ostade, exh.  cat. Dublin, Greenwich 2003, cat.  nos. 28 – 30, p. 155 – 161.

portraits, yet extensively present in genre paintings of women in domestic settings. Therefore, these women are not portrayals of actual (female) personalities, but rather im­ aginary images of femininity. The invention of the letter trope coincided with the depiction of women in private, bourgeois homes: Dirck Hals, one of the pioneers of genre painting,

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Fig. 126: Gerard Ter Borch, Woman Sealing a Letter with a Maidservant, 1658 /59, canvas, New York, priv. coll. Fig. 127: Gabriel Metsu, Man Writing a Letter, 1665 – 67, panel, Dublin, National Gallery of Ireland Pl. 11: Gabriel Metsu, Woman Reading a Letter, c.1664 – 67, panel, Dublin, National Gallery of Ireland

began depicting women with children or letters (figs. 100, 101) in the early 1630s. Interior space was defined as the site of femininity. 723 The male authors of these letters, however, remained invisible — with the exception of the few instances mentioned above. They must have existed; after all, this form of communication would have been impossible without them. Scholars have registered this asymmetry. Ann Jensen Adams, for example, notes in the catalog to the exhibition Leselust from 1993 that men writing letters are an exception and thus concludes: “Special attention should be paid to the numerous letterwriting women in 17th century Dutch painting.” 724 I believe we must go further than merely acknowledging this paradox phenomena. One of the conclusions I draw from the analysis in the first part of this book is the basic question of what is not represented. What or who is made invisible in a specific context and what real consequences does the act of rendering someone invisible have? First we will examine the literary treatment of letters as a subject. Briefschryver, letter-writing manuals written by male authors, were predo­mi­nantly aimed at male recipients. Only men were entitled to initiate amorous pen friendships, while it was only deemed seemly for women to respond. 725 The cover image of Puget de La Serre’s Dutch Secretaris d’A le mode

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723 In contrast to public space, which was dominated by group portraits and history paintings with almost exclusively male figures (see Part I, Chapter 2), private space was decisively marked by genre paintings and still lifes. Within the field of genre painting, domestic scenes make up the largest group. Domestic scenes reflect, among other things, the new site of bourgeois art: the private interior. See: Imagination, note 866 (Stoichita 1998, p. 158). Interiors in im­ages are connoted as feminine; see: De Mare 1992; Honig 1997; Mariet Westermann (ed.), Art and Home. Dutch Interiors in the Age of Rembrandt, exh. cat. Denver Art Museum and The Newark Museum, Zwolle 2001; Marta Hollander, An Entrance for the Eyes. Space and Mean­ing in Seventeenth-Century Dutch Art, Berkeley 2002. The demarcation between public, male-dominated space and female social space is created, in part, by differences in public and private images. We basically see women with children or maids, doing housework or reading letters. Men, even though they lived in the exact same spaces, are barely ever represented. In the few cases they are present, they are usually depicted

Fig. 100: Dirck Hals, Woman Tearing a Letter, 1631, panel, Mainz, Mittelrheinisches Landesmuseum Fig. 101: Dirck Hals, Seated Woman with a Letter, 1633, panel, Philadelphia, Museum of Art

door de Heer van de Serre, published 1652 in Amsterdam, shows a male letter writer contemplating over a blank sheet of stationary (fig. 128, p. 256). In cases of social practice, of actual authorship, men writing letters were still visible. The genre of epistolary novels related to this image is revealing: with very few exceptions, epistolary novels were written by men who give women a chance to ‘speak.’ In the visual arts, we also mostly find male artists who envision women with love letters. Thus it is remarkable that we do not know of one single artwork on the subject by Haarlem genre artist Judith Leyster. 726 One prominent literary example are the Letters of a Portuguese Nun from 1669, one of the first and most famous examples of the genre. Today’s scholars agree that the apparent translator Joseph Gabriel de Guilleragues also authored the letters. 727 By using the form of letters, he suggests authenticity, which makes as visitors. On the precarious role of women in public space, at the market, see the excellent essay by Honig 2001, p.  294 – 315. 724 Exh. cat. Frankfurt a.  M. 1993, p.  89. In her later article in the catalog Dublin, Greenwich 2003, Adams emphasizes the fictional character of images of women reading letters. 725 Women respond, are receptive, listen; men hold the power over the word. Notice how this idea is consistently present in Rembrandt’s oeuvre, where the word is of particular importance. The portrait of Anslo and his Wife (fig. 122, p. 252) is one example. 726 On Judith Leyster: Frima Fox Hofrichter, Judith Leyster. A Woman Painter in Holland’s Golden Age, Doorn­spijk 1989. Judith Leyster excelled in genre portraits and laug­ hing figures, particularly musicians. As a student of Frans Hals in Haarlem, she was surely familiar with the theme of letters, developed by Frans’s brother Dirck Hals. 727 See note 620. 728 Anette C. Anton, Authentizität als Fiktion. Briefkultur im 18. und 19. Jahrhundert, Stuttgart, Weimar 1995, especially p. 1 – 32.

up the fascination of the genre. 728 The fiction of authenticity found here corresponds with the realism of Dutch painting. They share similar effects: as recipients, we feel as if we are observ­ ing a true depiction of genuine femininity, or as if we are reading their own, authentic words. The most prominent figures of 18th century British epistolary literature, Samuel Richardson’s Pamela and Clarissa, became icons of femininity; their male author virtually disappeared behind their ostensible authenticity. In his novella The Misused Love Letters from the collection The

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Fig. 128: Title page from Jean Puget de La Serre’s Secretaris d’A le Mode door de Heer van der Serre, Amsterdam 1652, The Hague, Koninklijke Bibliotheek

People of Seldwyla (1874), Swiss author Gottfried Keller exaggerates the figment of female authorship to a point where its fictionality becomes clear: Successful businessman Viggi Störteler feels a higher calling to poetry, with which he wishes to rise to fame. He decides to travel for an extended period and forces his wife Gritli to answer his love letters — all with a future publication of the amorous correspondence in mind. Gritli does not feel capable of adequately responding to her husband’s highbrow letters and resorts to a ruse. She fools her neighbor Wilhelm, a schoolteacher infatuated with her, into believing the feeling is mutual and gets him to write love letters to her. Subsequently, both men send amorous letters to Gritli, who copies them in her own hand before she sends them on to the other man. In the end two male authors correspond under the fictitious premise of a female addressee. So why are all the “great letter writers who are remembered to this day all female?” 729 Just think of Madame Sévigné, Lady Montagu, Rahel Varnhagen and Jane Carlyle. Was and is there a specifically female competence in letter writing after all? Indeed women’s writing has been synonymous with letter writing since the early 18th century. The genre was defined as feminine. Christian Fürchtegott Gellert, one of the most influential scholars on epistolary literature at the time, declares women’s style of

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letter writing an ideal in his works Gedanken von einem guten deutschen Briefe (1742) and Briefe, nebst einer praktischen Abhandlung von dem guten Geschmacke (1751). He argues that the naturalness of the female gender is congruent with the naturalness of a (good) letter. 730 The downside of this seemingly positive ascription was the confinement of female writing to the private sphere. 731 Letter writing was the only lingual activity in media that was deemed acceptable for women. 732 Defining private letters as a genuinely female form of communication excluded women from any kind of public writing, whether in poetry or science. The actual position of author was denied to them. However, many women em­ braced the option of letter writing and successfully used it to gain a bit of emancipation, reflection and self-authorship. 733 Conclusion: During the 17 th century, a visual discourse began in Dutch painting, which was verbally consolidated in the 18th century, gradually defining letter writing as a genuinely feminine genre. 734 In social practice — at least in the 17th century Nether­lands —  this ascription was not yet fully established. Men of high standing such as Huygens, Hooft and others still excelled in private correspondence, including love letters. Private and public correspondence were not clearly demarcated yet. 735 I also know of no written text from the time that apostrophizes the genre as feminine. Thus we can trace how supposedly ‘genuine’ female letter writing was gradually produced. Around the early 18th century, letters actually became a productive field for women. Painted fictions on this subject played a crucial role in forming this discourse. ‘Realist’ Dutch painting from the 17 th century is not a reflection of the times’ social reality. It is exactly this realism that 729 This question is asked by literary scholar Karl Wagner in: Konstanze Fliedl, Karl Wagner, Briefe zur Literatur (Ein Briefwechsel), in: Hämmerle 2003, p.  35 – 53, here: p.  36. 730 Hämmerle, Saurer in: Hämmerle 2003, p.  7, 20. 731 It goes without saying that the subject of letters is a deeply bourgeois discourse, which principally identifies femininity with privacy, domesticity, love and the entire realm of emotion. 732 Hämmerle 2003; Elizabeth Goldsmith (ed.), Writing the Female Voice. Essays on Epistolary Literature, Boston 1989; Earle 1999. 733 Birgit Wagner, Briefe und Autorschaft. Suor Maria Celestes Briefe aus dem Kloster, in: Hämmerle 2003, p. 71 – 86; Wagner, Laferl 2002. 734 In Dutch painting from the last quarter of the 17th century, we can still detect a faint tendency to depict male protagonists writing private or even love letters — at least in Ter Borch’s and Netscher’s work. Unlike the many paintings of women and letters, these attempts never came to fruition. 735 Many letters, often quite private, were published. It was common to read them out loud. Hämmerle 2003, especially p.  23 – 26; see Adams in: exh.  cat. Dublin, Greenwich 2003, especially p.  64  f.

makes gender-specific asymmetries appear as natural order instead of as the social construc­ tions they are. Painting has contributed to produce certain gender identities and ‘realities.’

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5 Affect / Emotion / Imagination It is, as we have seen, significant that the figures represented in paintings with love letters are almost exclusively female, since the subject is about private correspon­ dence, about love, about emotion. The topic of this final chapter is the representation of emotions, their relationship to cultural codes and the production of imagination in the viewer. As the opposite of reason, feelings were 736 See the argument for a study of the emotions from the perspective of Kulturwissenschaften put forward by Thomas Anz: Zur Resonanz von Daniel Golemans ‘Emotionale Intelligenz’ und aus Anlass neuerer Bücher zum Thema ‘Gefühle,’ in: literaturkritik.de, no.  2, 3, March 1999; http://www.literaturkritik.de/txt/199902-03.html, retrieved June 8, 2012. 737 Wiebke Ratzeburg (ed.), Aufruhr der Gefühle, exh. cat. Museum für Photographie Braunschweig, Kunsthalle Göppingen, 2004. Symptomatic is the “Languages of Emotion” cluster of excellence, one of the very few humanities research projects currently funded in German universities, which began its interdisciplinary work under the direction of Winfried Menninghaus in autumn 2008 at the Free University of Berlin. Ute Frevert has established the new “History of Emotions” Research Center at the Max Planck Institute for Human Development in Berlin, where she is a director. 738 See esp., each with further reading: Catherine Lutz, Lila Abu-Lughod (eds.), Language and the Politics of Emotion, Cambridge 1990; Florian Rötzer (ed.), Große Gefühle, Kunstforum 1994; W. Gerrod Parrott (ed.), The Emotions. Social, Cultural and Biological Dimensions, London 1996; Hartmut Böhme, Gefühl, in: Christoph Wulf (ed.), Vom Menschen. Handbuch. Historische Anthropologie, Weinheim, Basel 1997, p.  525 – 548; Claudia Benthien, Anne Fleig, Ingrid Kasten (eds.), Emotionalität. Zur Geschichte der Gefühle, Cologne, Vienna et al. 2000; Oliver Grau, Andreas Keil (eds.), Mediale Emotionen. Zur Lenkung von Gefühlen durch Bild und Sound, Frankfurt a. M. 2005; Rom Harre, Antje Krause-Wahl, Heike Oehlschlägel, Serjoscha Wiemer (eds.), Affekte. Analysen ästhetischmedialer Prozesse, Bielefeld 2006; Katharina Sykora (ed.), Fotografische Leidenschaften, Marburg 2006. For film studies, see especially: Gertrud Koch (ed.), Auge und Affekt, Frankfurt a. M. 1995; Hermann Kappelhoff, Matrix der Gefühle: Das Kino, das Melodrama und das Theater der Empfindsamkeit, Berlin 2004. 739 Antonio R. Damasio, Descartes’ Error. Emotion, Reason and the Human Brain, New York 1994; The Feeling of What Happens: Body and Emotion in the Making of Consciousness, Harcourt 1999; Looking for Spinoza. Joy, Sorrow and the Feeling Brain, Harcourt 2003. Brain research has been able to show that the cortical structures responsible for cognition are closely linked to the subcortical systems, the limbic system, so that rational and non-rational, emotional processes converge.

for a long time taboo within the academic discourse; perceived as irrational, subjective and therefore ‘unscientific,’ they were considered to lie outside the bounds of serious scholarship. 736 This was and in part still remains true for art history, which thereby ignores fundamental aspects of its objects. The tabooing of the emo­tional applies to representation as well as pro­ duction and reception. Today, however, emotion is very much back on the agenda. Affects and emotions are being talked about everywhere, and exhibitions, lectures, publications and re­ search projects on the subject are in vogue. 737 This recent turn was initiated not by the human­ ities or cultural theorists, but by neuroscience. Ever since the early 1990s, when neurobiologists Antonio Damasio, Joseph LeDoux, Wolf Singer and others demonstrated the close connection between thinking and feeling in the human brain, sociologists, philosophers, cultural theo­rists and experts in the fields of media, com­ mu­nication and film studies have been turning their attention to emotions. 738 Antonio Damasio, in particular, has helped popularize brain re­ search with his writings. 739 Although I find it irritating and strange that it took brain research to be able to finally overcome the dichotomy

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deeply anchored in the hegemonic discourse, of reason versus emotion, we may nevertheless also see this as a profound opportunity to re­flect critically upon our Western thought struc­ tures. A certain euphoria can be observed in cultural studies (Kulturwissenschaften) over the fact that it might be possible, within the discourse on affects, to establish a link with the natural sciences, and in particular with bioscience. 740 Skeptical voices have also been raised, however, pointing out the irreconcilable differences between Kulturwissenschaften and / or psychoanalysis and the natural sciences. 741 In particular the phantasm of a direct and language-independent knowledge about the truth of feelings has been rightly criticized. The desire for affect, the dispositive of the affective, whose potency shows itself not only in sciences but also in art and media, might be analyzed as an illusionary yearning for immediate experience and as a denial of the split of the subject. 742 The parallelism between the current affect eupho­ria and the strategies of manipulation by modern-day politics should likewise make us suspicious. 743 The appeal to neurobiology becomes problematic when it is associated — as is generally the case — with the idea that emotions are anthropological constants: natural, ahistorical and equally characteristic of everyone. In the following discussion I start from the viewpoint that emotions, even if they undoubtedly have biological compo­ nents, are also always culturally coded, have changed over the course of history and can

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740 For example: Gerhard Roth, Das Gehirn und seine Wirklichkeit. Kognitive Neurobiologie und ihre philosophischen Konsequenzen, Frankfurt a. M. 1997 (1994). For Roth, “cognition is not possible without emotion” (p. 178). 741 On criticism on the part of Kulturwissenschaften, see, among others: Sigrid Weigel, Pathos — Passion — Ge­ fühl, in: ead., Literatur als Voraussetzung der Kultur­ge­ schichte. Schauplätze von Shakespeare bis Benjamin, Munich, Paderborn 2004, p. 147 – 172. On the incomp­ atibility with psychoanalysis: Edith Seifert, Seele — Sub­jekt — Körper: Freud mit Lacan in Zeiten der Neuro­wis­ senschaft, Gießen 2007. 742 Marie-Luise Angerer, Vom Begehren nach dem Affekt, Zurich, Berlin 2007. Angerer’s book undoubtedly represents one of the best analyses and critiques of the current affect discourse. From the standpoint of a psychoanalytical and poststructuralist theory of the subject, she argues against contemporary trends, in particular in media and film theory and cyber-feminism, which — based on Bergson, Deleuze and Tomkins — wish to dismiss, through their immersion in supposedly basal affects, language, representation, all forms of medial communication and hence (cultural) meaning. Angerer interprets this as an attempt at a radical departure from the (incorrectly understood?) linguistic turn, as an attempt to switch off language in order to arrive at an immediacy between body and feel­ ing. On the historical genesis of this yearning for language-independent knowledge of the truth of feelings, see Weigel 2004. In my view, the current discourse on evidence is heading in the same direction. See the conversation between Ludwig Jäger and Helmut Lethen: “There are not two classes of worlds this side and that side of the semiotic demarcation line, but many worlds, all of them medially coloured.” The linguist Ludwig Jäger talks with Helmut Lethen about the turns in Kul­ turwissenschaften and why there is such a turn toward substance, presence and reality, in: IFKnow, issue 2, 2008, p.  3  f (summary) and in: Zeitschrift für Kulturwissenschaften 2009/1. 743 In addition to Angerer 2007, see: Ute Frevert, Auch Gefühle haben ihre Geschichte. Über die Emotionalisierung des öffentlichen Raums und einige verwandte Phänomene, in: NZZOnline, July 26, 2008. 744 After the seminal works by Aby Warburg on the revival of antique pathos formulae in the Renaissance, the discipline has long shied away from closer investigation of the field of emotions. Aby Warburg, Gesammelte Schriften, edited by Gertrud Bing with the assistance of Fritz Rougemont, Leipzig, Berlin 1932. On Warburg see in this regard esp.: Ilsebill Barta Fliedl, Christoph Geissmar (eds.), Die Beredsamkeit des Leibes. Zur Körpersprache in der Kunst, exh. cat. Albertina Wien, Salzburg, Vienna 1992; Ilsebill Barta Fliedl, KokuritsuSeiyo¯ -Bijutsukan (eds.), Rhetorik der Leidenschaft: Zur Bildsprache der Kunst im Abendland. Meisterwerke aus der Graphischen Sammlung Albertina und aus der Portraitsammlung der Österreichischen Nationalbibliothek, exh. cat. National Museum of Western Art, Tokyo, Museum für Kunst and Gewerbe, Hamburg, 1999. See also: Fritz Saxl, Die Ausdrucksgebärden der bildenden Kunst, in: Bericht über den XII. Kongress der Deutschen Gesellschaft für Psychologie in Hamburg 12. – 16. April 1931 [Report on the 12th Congress held by the German Society of Psychology in Hamburg, April 12 – 16 1931], Jena 1932, p. 13 – 25, reprinted in: Aby M. Warburg, Ausgewählte Schriften and Würdigungen, edited by Dieter Wuttke, Baden-Baden 1979; Michael Baxandall, Painting and Experience in 15th-century Italy,

Oxford 1988, esp. the chapter “The body and its lan­­guage,” p.  56 – 70. The interdisciplinary research program for PhD students Psychische Energien bildender Kunst [Psychological energies of visual art] under the direc­tion of Klaus Herding at Frankfurt University has devot­ed itself to the subject on a broad basis, as did the inter­dis­ciplinary conference and its resulting publica­tion: Klaus Herding, Bernhard Stumpfhaus (eds.), Pathos, Affekt, Gefühl. Die Emotionen in den Künsten, Berlin, New York 2004. Thomas Kirchner, L’Expression des passions. Ausdruck als Darstellungsproblem in der fran­zösi­schen Kunst und Kunsttheorie des 17. und 18. Jahrhunderts, Mainz 1991; Freedberg 1989; Richard Meyer (ed.), Representing the Passions. Histories, Bodies, Visions, Getty Research Institute, Los Angeles 2003. On Nov. 17 and 18, 2006 the conference “The Passions in the Arts of the Early Modern Netherlands” was held in Kingston under the direction of Franziska Gottwald. The results were only recently published in book form (Nederlands Kunsthistorisch Jaarboek 60, 2010). On specific areas of enquiry relating to the portrayal of affects, see below. 745 Peter N. and Carol Z. Stearns, Emotionology: Clarifying the History of Emotions and Emotional Standards, in: The American Historical Review 1985, 90, p.  813 – 836; Rüdiger Campe, Affekt und Ausdruck. Zur Umwandlung der literarischen Rede im 17. und 18. Jahrhundert, Tübingen 1990; Volker Kapp (ed.), Die Sprache der Zeichen und Bilder. Rhetorik und nonverbale Kommunikation in der frühen Neuzeit, Marburg 1990; James 2003; Stephen Gaukroger (ed.), The Soft Underbelly of Reason: The Passions in the Seventeenth Century, London et al. 1998; Albrecht Koschorke, Körperströme und Schriftverkehr. Mediologie des 18. Jahrhunderts, Munich 1999; Querelles. Jahrbuch für Frauenforschung vol. 7: Kulturen der Gefühle in Mittelalter und Früher Neuzeit, 2002; Barbara H. Rosenwein, Worrying about Emotions in History, in: The American Historical Review 107/3, 2002, p. 821 – 845; Gerhard Jaritz (ed.), Emotions and Material Culture, Vienna 2003; Stephen Jäger, Ingrid Kasten (eds.), Codierungen von Emotionen im Mittelalter/Emotions and Sensibilities in the Middle Ages, Berlin, New York 2003; J.  A. Steiger et al. (eds.), Passion, Affekt und Leidenschaft in der Frühen Neuzeit. 11th annual meeting of the Wolfenbüttel work­ ing group for Baroque research, Herzog August Bibliothek, Wiesbaden 2004; Rüdiger Schnell, Historische Emotionsforschung. Eine mediävistische Standortbestimmung, in: Frühmittelalterliche Studien 38, 2004, p. 173 – 276; Gail Kern Paster, Katherine Rowe, Mary Floyd-Wilson (eds.), Reading the Early Modern Pas­sions. Essays in the Cultural History of Emotion, University of Pennsylvania Press, Philadelphia 2004; Kirsten Dickhaut, Dietmar Rieger (eds.), Liebe und Emergenz. Neue Modelle des Affektbegreifens im französischen Kulturgedächtnis um 1700, Tübingen 2006; Christina Lutter, Geschlecht, Gefühl, Körper — Kategorien einer kulturwissenschaftlichen Mediävistik? In: L’HOMME. Europäische Zeitschrift für feministische Geschichtswissenschaft (Geschlechtergeschichte, gegenwärtig) vol. 18, issue 2, 2007, p.  9 – 26; see also the literature cited in notes 738, 741 and 742. 746 Hartmut Grimm, Affekt, in: Karl-Heinz Barck et al. (eds.), Ästhetische Grundbegriffe, vol. 1, Stuttgart, Weimar 2000, p. 16 – 49. 747 WNT (Woordenboek der Nederlandsche Taal) 1889, vol.  IV. In his 1678 theoretical treatise on painting, Inleyding tot de Hooge Schoole der Schilderkonst, Hoogstraten uses the following terms: driften des gemoeds, lijdingen der  ziele, hartstochten (p. 109), see: Weststeijn 2005, ch. IV: “De uitbeelding der hartstochten,” p. 137 – 174, here p. 138.

only be communicated via language and re­ presentations, by which they are also shaped. I am interested in the discourses on the mean­ ing, function and evaluation of emotions and their relationship to the aesthetic forms in which these are articulated. I thereby base myself not solely upon art-historical scholar­ ship 744, but also — and above all — upon his­ torical and cultural studies published in more recent years. 745 I restrict myself essentially to the motif of the woman reading a letter. I am not writing a history of the representation of the emotions in Dutch art of the 17 th century. This chapter is intended simply as a contribution in that direction. There is nothing fortuitous about my choice of focus, however: the pic­torial theme of the woman reading a letter is a characteristic one. In the variations and changes this motif underwent in the period from approximately 1630 to 1670, we can also follow the profound shifts that took place in the conception of the emotions. A brief clarification, first of all, of the terms I employ; terms that will assume greater substance as we go on. I write about affects 746, passions and ‘movements of the soul’ (gemoedsbewegingen) — terms that were common in Holland in the 17 th century. Drawing upon Greek and Latin, the Dutch spoke of hartstocht (and its synonym, passio) and affect, of gemoedsaandoening and gemoedsbeweging. 747 The term emotion (émotion) was first used by Descartes in his Traité sur les passions de l’âme of 1649. I avoid the word feeling; it corresponds to the Dutch gevoel and came into widespread use only in the 18th century, having appeared at the end

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Fig. 129: Dirck Hals, Woman Tearing a Letter, 1631, panel, Mainz, Mittelrheinisches Landesmuseum Fig. 130: Dirck Hals, Seated Woman with a Letter, 1633, panel, Philadelphia, Museum of Art

of the 17 th century. It points to a different and new ‘dispositive of emotion’ in the direction of sensibility, in which the passions are sooner excluded. 748

Affects: Dirck Hals The earliest secular representations of women with letters we know of were executed by Dirck Hals. 749 A painter in Haarlem and the brother of Frans Hals, Dirck Hals (1591– 1656) was one of the pioneers of genre painting and was known for his Merry Company scenes in interior and outdoor settings and for small, intimate genre scenes of everyday life. 750 Three versions of women with letters are accepted as autograph and a further two are attributed to his hand. 751 In the two autograph versions of 1631 and 1633, the emotional atmosphere is described as precisely as possible and in a way that is clearly comprehensible to the viewer (figs. 129, 130). This affective atmosphere is characterized by the following pictorial elements: by the corresponding gestures and facial expression of the figure portrayed, by the picture within the picture, and by the aesthetic structure of the scene, in particular the use of light and shadow and the choice of palette. What is crucial is that all these pictorial elements concur and mutually contextualize and enhance each other. In the earlier version (fig. 129), the woman is tearing up the letter; the iconography points to a dramatic narrative. Corresponding to this sense of drama is the placing of the figure — asymmetrically on the far left of the picture and thus brought into the light, thereby making palpable the

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yawning emptiness of the gloomy room. The exaggerated diagonal slant of the white apron apostrophizes the movement of the figure as inner agitation. The woman gives the impression that she is standing or tipping sideways rather than actually sitting on the chair. Her face turned towards the window and her eyes raised heavenwards reinforce her abrupt movement, as does her raised foot with its slipper threatening to fall off. The almost empty room with its deep shadows underlines the desolate, eerie mood. The only other item of furnishing is a second chair, whose position — so prominent and yet so isolated — beneath the painting of a storm at sea, points to someone absent. The final accent 748 James (2003) translates Descartes’s émotion with “emotion.” Descartes often writes of “émotion de l’ame or émotion interieur.” In contrast, Stephen H. Voss in the lexicon of French terms accompanying his translation of René Descartes, The Passions of the Soul, Indianapolis 1989: “Descartes uses émotion extremely broadly, to refer to a disturbance or commotion or excitation, in soul or body.” Voss translates émotion as “excitation” throughout and stresses that the English word “emotion” is never right. Descartes 1989, p. 138. WNT, vol. IV: At the end of the 17th and beginning of the 18th century, the Dutch gevoel was understood to mean the sense of touch, feeling in the sense of sentiment, and opinion. On the semantics of the German word Gefühl and the difficulties that arise from an unreflected use of this historically highly charged concept in brain research, see Weigel 2004. See also: Brigitte Scheer, Gefühl, in: Karl-Heinz Barck et al. (eds.), Ästhetische Grundbegriffe, vol. 2, Stuttgart, Weimar 2001, p.  629 – 660. 749 On the paintings of women with letters produced only shortly afterwards by Pieter Codde and Willem Duyster, see below. 750 Britta Nehlsen-Maarten, Dirck Hals 1591 – 1656. Oeuvre und Entwicklung eines Haarlemer Genremalers, Weimar 2003; Franits 2004, p.  31 – 34; Peter C. Sutton, Dutch Genre Paintings in the Age of Vermeer, in: exh. cat. Dublin, Greenwich 2003, p. 16 and ibid. the catalog entries on p.  79 – 84. 751 The third autograph painting (formerly Kiev, Khanenko Collection) of this subject likewise dates from 1631 and roughly corresponds with the Mainz panel in its dimensions (47/57  cm). Its composition, too, is related. The woman is seated at a table and rests one arm upon it, while her other arm hangs down at her side, holding the letter. Her eyes seem to be gazing into the distance with a questioning and yearning look. I have not been able to decipher the motif in the picture within the picture from the reproduction. Nehlsen-Marten p. 180  ff., cat. no.  360, p. 313, fig. 206. The other two versions that are attributed to Hals show a young girl seated by candlelight; in the Amsterdam version she is evidently reading a letter aloud. See: Nehlsen-Marten, p. 183, cat. nos.  363 and 364; only the version held by the former Muller’s auction house in Amsterdam is illustrated (fig. 209); for the work in the Accademia Carrara, Bergamo, see exh. cat. Dublin, Greenwich 2003, cat.  no.  1, p. 79  ff., ill.: p.  81. 752 See Chapter 1, in which I analyze the aesthetic means and structures with which Rembrandt produces effects of interiorization and pychologization.

is provided by the picture within the picture: a raging tempest. How different the picture in Philadelphia (fig. 130): a figure seen frontally in the center of the room and filling it almost entirely. She is seated on her chair in a relaxed fashion, one arm draped over the back, her foot firmly on the footwarmer. Here the second chair has been brought close to her, so that she seems to embrace it. She looks out of the picture with a smile on her moon-shaped face. This cheerful figure is gaily dressed in gold skirts and a pale blue jacket with a large white collar. The painted seascape behind her could hardly be more harmonious and calm. Naturally we do not know the contents of either letter, but we see that in one case it bears bad and in the other good tidings of a loved one.

Emotion: Rembrandt Let us return once more to Rembrandt’s Bathsheba (plate 1). 752 It goes without saying that this work derives from a different, religious iconography. The versions by Dirck Hals — and this is what makes them new — are secular paintings of women with letters. The epistolary culture in Holland had an impact upon art: it changed the iconography of the biblical

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Pl. 1: Rembrandt, Bathsheba, 1654, canvas, Paris, Louvre Fig. 131: Rembrandt, Haman Recognizes his Fate, c. 1665, canvas, St. Petersburg, Hermitage

Bathsheba motif and produced corresponding innovations in the unfolding sphere of secular painting. Symptomatic of this development, as we saw in Part I, Chapter 1, is the fact that Bathsheba is no longer fetched by a messenger as described in the bible, but that communication is established by a letter. It is equally indicative of the blossoming of letter writing in Holland during this period that the motif of the love letter should now find its way into secular art. These secular versions are no longer rooted in a sanctioned story with traditional iconography. In the case of Rembrandt’s Bathsheba, we know the biblical episode and consequently the approximate contents of the letter. This knowledge and hence the associations triggered by the motif are lacking in the case of the secular picture, since there is no authorized narrative. Rembrandt thus has no need of allegorical accessories (such as a picture of a storm at sea) in order to convey the contents of the letter we cannot read. It was also characteristic of Rembrandt, it should be said, to avoid allegorical references. Like the women visualized by Dirck Hals, Bathsheba has already read the letter; what we are shown is her reaction to its contents. The two artists differ, however, in the way they portray the affective reactions of their respective figures. In contrast to Hals, Rembrandt conveys Bathsheba’s psychological reaction via her face. Her countenance becomes the dominant vehicle of expression. Her ambivalent feelings and her meditative state are mirrored in her face. Nothing of them can be read in her body or in her physical gestures. The new and unusual combination of a desirable naked female body with an individualized, pensive face in Bathsheba is discussed in Part I, Chapter 1. To put it simply: within this iconography, one would traditionally expect to see a different head

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on such a body — a head that is only beautiful, not individualized, one that does not radiate this form of subjectivity. Hence our eyes are invariably drawn back to Bathsheba’s face as the heart of the composition. Joseph Leo Koerner aptly apostrophized this as the “epiphany of the face.” 753 Koerner has expounded, in exemplary fashion, the eminent significance of the face in Rembrandt’s oeuvre. He rightly draws attention to the privileged position of the face in northern art 754 and to the pioneering role played by Alois Riegl in researching this specifically Dutch solution to the representation of “interiority.” 755 Riegl also pointed out the discrepancy frequently seen in northern European art between the movement of the body and the direction in which the figures are looking. It is this dis­ crepancy that first creates the form of attentiveness (Aufmerksamkeit) that evokes the idea that the figures have a psychological inner life. 756 It goes without saying that Rembrandt also uses physical gestures and poses to portray specific affects and emotions, but we may nevertheless speak of a shift of significance away from the body to the face. 757 There are many works in Rembrandt’s oeuvre in which the privileging of the face at the expense of the body and allegorical symbols is even more extreme. One example is the painting known under the title Haman Recognizes his Fate and dated to around 1665 (fig. 131). Significantly, art historians have been unable to agree either upon a title for the picture or indeed upon its subject. It seems to me entirely plausible that the figure in the foreground with his hand pressed to his heart 753 Joseph Leo Koerner, Rembrandt and the Epiphany of the Face, in: RES 12, 1986, p.  5 – 32. 754 Ibid., p. 12, note 21: “[…] all represent aspects of the face’s privileged position in northern art, a phenomenon whose character and significance remains largely unexplored.” 755 Ibid., p. 12: “Riegl refuses, that is, to indulge in that peculiar art historical habit of trying to read into the represented face the sitter’s thoughts and feelings.” p. 13: “Thus shifting attention away from guesswork about character and thought, Riegl sets the stage for an enquiry into the invention and uses of interiority as it is conveyed by the represented face.” 756 Riegl 1902. See also Koerner 1986, esp. p.  25  ff. 757 The phenomenon of a discrepancy between facial expression and physical movement can also frequently be observed, see Koerner 1986, p.  25  ff. On the emin­ ent significance of the face in cinema: Gilles De­leuze, Cinema I. The Movement-Image. Translated by Hugh Tomlinson and Barbara Habberjam, Minneapolis, 1986; Koch 1995; Christa Blümlinger, Karl Sierek (eds.), Das Gesicht im Zeitalter des bewegten Bildes, Vienna 2002. 758 Haman’s plot against the Jew Mordecai was discov­ ered by Esther, the Jewish wife of King Ahasuerus; this led to the fall of the grand vizier and the salvation of the Jewish people. Rembrandt treated themes from the Book of Esther on several occasions. See Part I, Chapter 1, note 26.

should be intended to represent Haman; the figure with the crown on the right would then be King Ahasuerus and the old man Mordecai. 758 Rembrandt scholars are misguided, however, when they attempt to identify the scene as a specific point in the narrative, such as the mo­ ment when the King commands Haman to lead Mordecai in a triumphal procession around the city. Mordecai was not present in that scene, and the worried look on his face would therefore be hard to explain. It is significant that it seems impossible to elicit the concrete textual basis, the specific narrative, from the painting. This is due not only to the gap in time between then and now (the subject was probably difficult to decipher even for Rembrandt’s contemporaries),

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but also to the elimination of all recognizable action and surroundings, and the restriction of the protagonists to three figures, themselves no more than fragmentary and reduced almost wholly to their faces. Only in the figure of Haman does Rembrandt introduce the additional gesture of the hand. Indeed, hands as vehicles of expression play a major role in Rembrandt’s oeuvre. The deep shadow that falls like a blindfold over Haman’s lowered eyes reminded Otto Pächt of the figure of speech “He veiled his head in shame.” This sentence from the Book of Esther, Pächt suggests, may have provided the inspiration for Rembrandt’s picture. 759 The veiling of the head as a way of representing the unportrayable is an antique topos; it goes back to the myth of the Greek painter Timanthes of Kythnos, transmitted to the Renaissance and the Baroque via the writings of Pliny and Cicero. 760 Rembrandt knew the myth from van Mander, who recounts the episode in his Schilder-Boeck. 761 The story tells of Timanthes’s attempt to paint the Sacrifice of Iphigenia. Timanthes wanted to communicate the drama and anguish of the scene in the faces of those in attendance. He despaired of being able to portray the face of Agamemnon, however, since this was t o convey not just the father’s infinite grief over the loss of his daughter, but also his awareness of his own guilt. Such a complex task exceeded the possibilities of representa­ tion, and so Timanthes came up with an ingenious solution: he shrouded Agamemnon’s face beneath a veil. Rembrandt, it seems to me, took up the challenge of rendering anguish and a sense of guilt visible at the same time — and in the face, no less. The challenge of making visible what cannot be represented and what cannot be seen. Just as in Bathsheba, all action has ceased and the drama has been entirely inter­ nalized. Thus it is not one specific moment within the narrative that is being presented; rather, the profound meaning of the whole story is being invoked or, more accurately, generalized as a human situation of conflict. We are not offered a piece of Baroque the­a­ ter in which the bodies act out their passionate affects; we are shown no affects that can be clearly read as spontaneous and which would be comprehensible to the viewer as a reaction to an external event. Through his privileging of the face as a vehicle of expression of the affective inner life, Rembrandt distinguished himself (in his late works) not only from Dirck Hals but also — and far more significantly — from the whole Italian tradition of the Renaissance and from Baroque contemporaries such as Rubens. There, the inner workings of the human soul are declared by the body and its gestures. This approach derives from a dispositive that the Renaissance adopted from Antiquity. 762 It was based on the notion that affective processes within a person manifest themselves in outward physical signs that can be read. A quasi-natural relationship was thereby posited between outward

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appearance (physical movements, gestures and facial expression) and the human psyche. 763 The foundations for these ideas can be found in humoralism, with its theory of the four bodily fluids and their corresponding temperaments, and in the rhetoric that went with it. Most influential of all were the rhetorical treatises of Aristotle, Cicero and Quintilian. For the fine arts (as for the dramatic arts), the canon of actio acquired particular relevance: the practice of non-verbal communication. Speech was thus to be accompanied by appropriate body language. According to Quintilian, silent gestures in a picture are capable of stirring the heart so powerfully that they seem even to surpass the force of oratory. Leon Battista Alberti reclaimed the principles of rhetoric for the fine arts under the motto ut pictura poesis. 764 In his treatise Della pittura from 1435 he called not only for imitatio, inventio and the three duties 759 Pächt 1991, p. 161. 760 C. Plinius Secundus, Naturalis Historiae, Book 35, p.  72  f., in: Naturkunde, edited by R. König, Munich 1987, p.  60  f.; M. T. Cicero, Orator, 22, 74, edited by B. Kytzler, Munich 1980, p.  60  f., cited here from: Ralf Konersmann, Der Schleier des Timanthes. Perspektiven der historischen Semantik, Frankfurt a. M. 1994, esp. p. 13; Claudia Benthien, Schweigen als Pathosformel in der Frühen Neuzeit, in: Steiger 2005, p. 109 – 144. 761 Karel van Mander, Schilder-Boeck, edited and translated by Rudolf Hoecker, Quellenschriften zur holländischen Kunstgeschichte, 1916, p. 134 – 167 (Dutch original text with German translation), commentary: p.  334 – 336, here fols. 26r, 40 – 43. 762 Medieval art, in particular from Giotto onwards, of course also had the ability to communicate mental and emotional states via physical gestures, facial expressions, animated draperies, etc. The theory of emotion is based on Augustine and Thomas Aquinas, both of whom drew in turn upon antique tradition, in particular upon Aristotle and Cicero. Grimm in: Barck 2000, p.  21 – 25; J. Schmidt in: Historisches Wörterbuch der Rhetorik, vol. I, edited by Gert Ueding, Darmstadt 1992, p.  224 – 226. 763 Kapp 1990; Campe 1990. 764 Lee 1940; id. 1967. 765 “Il bono pittore a da dipingere due cose principali, cioè l’homo e il concetto della mente sua, il primo è facile, il secondo difficile perché s’ha á figurare con gesti e movimenti delle membra.” Leonardo da Vinci, Della pittura, part II, fol. 60v. Cited here from: Martin Kemp (ed.), Leonardo on Painting, English by Martin Kemp and Margaret Walker, New Haven, London 2001, p. 144. 766 Baxandall 1984 (1977), p.  76 – 93. 767 On the use and meaning of the term pathos formula by Warburg and his followers: Martin Warnke, Pathosformel, in: Werner Hofmann, Georg Syamken, Martin Warnke, Die Menschenrechte des Auges. Über Aby Warburg, Frankfurt a. M. 1980, p.  61 – 67. See also: Fritz Saxl, Die Ausdrucksgebärden der bildenden Kunst, in: Bericht über den XII. Kongress der Deutschen Gesellschaft für Psychologie in Hamburg, 12. – 16. April 1931 [Report on the 12th Congress held by the German Society of Psychology in Hamburg, April 12 – 16, 1931], Jena 1932, p. 13 – 25, reprinted in: Aby M. Warburg, Ausgewählte Schriften and Würdigungen, edited by Dieter Wuttke, Baden-Baden 1979, p.1 – 6419 – 431.

of the orator, docere, delectare and movere, but also for the appropriate representation of the affects via corresponding gestures and movements of the body. For Leonardo, the expression of human feelings through the pose and movement of the body was the foundation of fine art: The good painter has to paint two principle things, that is to say, man and the intention of his mind. The first is easy and the second difficult, because the latter has to be represented through gestures and movements of the limbs. 765 Leonardo thereby recommended study­ ing not only the art of Antiquity but also sources outside the sphere of art, such as the gestures made by orators and the mute. 766 There was no lexicon of gestures and their meaning, but a traditional understanding of pathos formulae. 767 In 16th century literature on decorum, and first and foremost in Casti­ g­li­one’s Il Cortegiano, the rhetorical rules of actio were transformed into practical rules of

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Fig. 132: Rembrandt, Self-Portrait with a Cap and Eyes Wide Open, 1630, etching, Vienna, Albertina Fig. 133: Rembrandt, Self-Portrait, c. 1657, panel, Vienna, Kunsthistorisches Museum (see also plate p. 161)

behavior: the perfect courtier was to make his whole body an instrument of language. 768 Physiognomics in turn sought to identify the ‘true nature’ of the individual behind what were possibly acquired affectations and disguises. 769 Thus the famous physiognomist of the Renaissance, Giambattista della Porta, wrote in 1586: Physiognomics is an almost divine science. […] For through the outer signs that can be observed on the human body, it reveals [a person’s] morality and character; it seems to penetrate to the most secret parts of the soul, to the most intimate places of the heart. 770 The physiognomic discourse thus served not just the recognition of a person’s ‘inner truth,’ but the classification and standardization of outer signs for the purposes of clear legibility. Rembrandt shared this interest in the significance of the face as a means of understanding what goes on inside the human individual with the physiognomists. But in diametric opposition to their efforts at categorization and simplification, Rembrandt showed the elusiveness and ambiguity of the human countenance. 771

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The privileging of the face, and in particular of the eyes as the windows to the soul, finds a theoretical parallel in Karel van Mander. 772 In his didactic poem Den grondt der edel vry schilder-const, published as part of his Schilder-Boeck (1603), van Mander builds upon the views of his teacher de Heere in arguing against the thesis of ut pictura poesis. 773 In the sixth chapter, devoted to the Depiction of the affects, emotions, desires and passions of people 774, van Mander distances himself from his Italian sources. 775 The manner in which affects are to be externalized is new: the secrets of the soul are revealed not by the movements of the body but solely by the signs in the face and in particular in the eyes. In a dismissal of physiognomics, however, van Mander rejects the notion of specific facial types and indeed refutes the belief that facial features can be clearly read and allow conclusions to be drawn about the character of the person in question. 776 The eyes are the messengers of 768 Kapp 1990, esp. p.  44  ff. 769 Jean-Jacques Courtine, Claudine Haroche, Histoire du visage. Exprimer et taire ses émotions (XVIe-début XIXe siècle), Paris 1994 (1988); Rüdiger Campe, Manfred Schneider (eds.), Geschichten der Physiognomik. Text, Bild, Wissen, Freiburg im Breisgau 1996. 770 Giambattista Della Porta, De humana physiognomonia Libri IIII, Vici Aequensis 1586. Courtine, Haroche 1994, p.  43. 771 Koerner 1986. 772 Van Mander 1916; Karel van Mander, Den grondt der edel vry schilder-const, edited by Hessel Miedema, 2 vols., Utrecht 1973, with scholarly commentary. Walter S. Melion, Shaping the Netherlandish Canon. Karel van Mander’s Schilder-Boeck, Chicago, London 1991. The idea that the eyes are the gateway to the soul is a topos that can be traced right back to Antiquity and is also found in medieval literature. The privileging of the eyes as vehicles of expression over the body as a whole played a particular role in Netherlandish tradition. 773 Melion 1991, p. 136  f. 774 Wtbeeldinghe der Affecten, passien, begeerlijckheden, en lijdens der Menschen. 775 Van Mander 1916, fols.  22v – 29r; van Mander 1973, p.  492  ff.; Melion 1991, p.  66 – 69. 776 Van Mander fols.  25v, 33 – 34. He cites the example of the Greek statesman Phocion, who successfully deceived his compatriots by concealing his tendency to erupt into sudden rages and so “brought sorrow to those who believed the nonsense of Trogus, Adamantus and Aristotle.” 777 Van Mander fols.  24v, 26 and 25r, 26. Van Mander is interested above all in the direction of the gaze, both that of the protagonists in the picture and that of the viewer. He illustrates this with the story of Paris and how he signaled his love to Helen during Menelaus’s banquet not through his body language, which was bound by convention, but solely by casting her lustful looks — a clandestine message that Helen immediately understood. Van Mander, fols.  24r, 20. See also Melion 1991, p.  67. 778 Hannah Baader, Das Gesicht als Ort der Gefühle. Zur Büste eines jungen Mannes aus dem Florentiner Bargello von ca. 1460, in: Querelles 2002, p.  222 – 240, esp. p.  226.

the heart (boden des herten), the seat of desire as well as of pure virtue (De ooghen den legher der begeerlijckheyt oock nieuwers degher) and the mirror of the mind (spieghelen des gheests).777 An area of common ground can thus be seen between the Dutch theoretician van Mander and the painter Rembrandt with regard to the unique significance of the face and eyes for the representation of a complex inner life. How emotions were represented varies between genres and media and must therefore be evaluated in correspondingly differentiated terms. In contrast to history painting, portrai­ ture and self-portraiture were not supposed to demonstrate strong emotions, since the sitter was to be presented as an individual who kept his or her affects under control. 778 In the early 1630s, Rembrandt nevertheless made several self-portraits that record him in temporary affective states — angry, melancholy, startled (fig. 132).

Here he still stands firmly within Italian Baroque tradition. These self-portraits are etchings, not oil paintings; nor are they simply

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Fig. 134: Rembrandt, Judas Returning the Pieces of Silver, 1629, panel, England, private collection

drawings and studies for history paintings. Rather, the resulting prints were also intended for sale. Tronies, but with an intrinsic artistic value. 779 It is thus remarkable that Rembrandt should portray himself in a state of powerful emotion. He transferred the mode of re­pre­ sentation employed to portray affects in histo­r y painting to the genre of the self-portrait. Through this transfer process, or more accurat­ ely through this fusion of pathos figures with portraiture, affect types became individualized persons. These early etchings show clearly de­ finable, momentary facial expressions and gestures that can be read as a reaction to an external event and whose emotional correlative (anger, fear) can be recognized and named. A development can be observed within Rem­ brandt’s oeuvre that leads from these Baroque, expressive studies of affects to a different

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779 Ernst van de Wetering, Rembrandt’s Self-Portraits. Problems of Authenticity and Function, in: RRP, vol.  4, Ernst van de Wetering (ed.), The Self-Portraits 1625 – 69, 2005, p.  89 – 317; on the expression studies in the mirror p. 170  f., on the tronies p. 172  ff. 780 On the interiorization of emotion in the case of artists of the second half of the 17th century, see below. 781 Koerner (1986, p.  25): “Rembrandt’s study of the face is bound up with his own transformation as an artist. […] Coming to portraiture from history painting, Rembrandt is able to infuse the physiognomic likeness with a sense of movement, expressivity, and plot that were totally lacking in, say, the mannerist portraits of Goltzius. On the other hand, in his history paintings, Rembrandt exploits the privileging of the face as it occurs in portrait­ ure, in order to internalize all events and texts into the drama of an active and legible physiognomy.” 782 Hoogstraten 1678, p.  75, see: Weststeijn 2006, p. 171  f. 783 Arnold Houbraken, De groote schouburgh der neder­ lantsche konstschilders en schilderessen 1753: Große Schouburgh der niederländischen Maler and Malerinnen, trans. into German by Alfred von Wurzbach, vol. 1, in: Quellenschriften für Kunstgeschichte and Kunsttechnik des Mittelalters und der Renaissance, 24, Vienna 1880, p. 112 – 113: “[…] he was inexhaustible, both regarding facial features and pose, and in terms of costume. In this respect he is to be praised above all others, but especially vis-à-vis those who always use the same physiognomies and costumes in their pictures, as if all people were twins. Yes, in this he surpassed everyone, and I know none who could have varied their sketches of one and same object in such a manifold way. This was the result, however, of detailed observations of the most manifold emotions that were necessarily occasioned by a certain event, and which reveal themselves in people’s facial features, especially through a particular expression, and through body movements of all different kinds.”

conception in his late work. 780 No specific affects are presented in the late self-portraits; rather, the face mirrors, as it were, the sum of life — an intangible psychological com­ plexity, a multiplicity of thoroughly contradictory emotions (fig. 133, p. 268). In his history paintings, too, such as Bathsheba and Haman Recognizes his Fate, outer movement ceases and the narrative is shifted into the physiognomic expression and thus into the interior of the figure. The drama is presented as a psychological drama. 781 In his treatise on painting, van Hoogstraten highlighted the particular qualities of famous artists. When it came to the most convincing portrayal of affects, first place went to Rembrandt, the undisputed master of the representation of the lijdingen des gemoeds (passions of the soul). 782 For Arnold Houbraken, too, Rembrandt — an artist he did not hesitate to criticize for other things — remained unsurpassed in his depiction of emotions. 783 Rembrandt’s ability to represent emotions was likewise greatly admired by Constantijn Huygens, secretary to Frederick Hendrick, Prince of Orange, and himself a poet and one of the most erudite men of his day. In his autobiography (1629), Huygens delivered a eulogy on Rembrandt’s early work Judas Returning the Thirty Pieces of Silver (fig. 134):

The picture of the penitent Judas, and the pieces of silver, the price of the betrayal of our innocent Lord to the high priest, I would have stand as the example par excellence of all his works. Summon all Italy, summon whatever remains from remotest antiquity that is beautiful or wonderful, the portrayal of the despairing Judas alone, leaving aside so many other stupendous figures in this one single work, the figure of Judas only, I repeat, a Judas demented, wailing, beseeching foregiveness but not hoping to receive it or displaying any hope in his features, the awful face, the torn hair, the clothes rent to shreds, the twisted limbs, the hands clenched so hard that they bleed, the knee outstretched in an impulsive surge forward, the entire body contorted in pitiable anguish, I set against all the elegance of the ages, and I am eager that even those most unenlightened should know it, those men who (and I have attacked them for it elsewhere) reckon that nothing can be either done or said today which antiquity has not already said or done before. For I maintain that nobody, not Protogenes nor Apelles nor Parrhasius, ever conceived, or if they returned to life ever could, the things which (I am struck dumb as I tell of them) a mere youth, a Batavian, a miller, a beardless boy has brought together one by one in a single human being and given expression to as a universal unity. In truth, friend Rembrandt, honour is yours: the bringing of Troy, of all Asia Minor

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to Italy had not such importance as the fact that the highest honour which belonged to Greece and Italy has now been carried off for the Dutch by a Dutchman who has still hardly ever left the confines of his native town. 784

Affect awareness (Affekt-Wissen) Rembrandt was and still is considered the painter of emotions. In general this was attributed simply to Rembrandt’s genius. Art history has personalized this form of representation of emotion and pronounced it a specific characteristic of Rembrandt’s art, often accounting for it in terms of his biography and discussing it at most within the medium of painting. As one step toward a better understanding of the history of affect discourses from the perspective of Kulturwissenschaften, it seems to me necessary to contextualize artistic representations within contemporary literary and theoretical discourses. This gap in current scholarship could only be filled within the framework of a broad-based research project. I would nevertheless like to offer a few thoughts and observations that strike me as relevant in this context. For Huygens, the ability to express emotion could only be the decisive criterion that elevated Rembrandt beyond even the best artists of Antiquity, because the passions and emotions were the principal topics of the day. In the 17 th century, the concept of affect became a key facet of the understanding of the world and the self. To put it another way: the discussion on emotions reached its high point in that time. 785 In theology this applied not only to the rhetoric of the Catholic Counter-Reformation but likewise to the Protestant Reformers, who although claiming to speak only the ‘objective truth’ nevertheless also operated with rhetorical means. In the secular, political field, it was true not only of moralist thought at court but also of the ethics and theory of state developing amongst the bourgeoisie. 786 The Dutch Calvinist theologian and scholar Gerhard Johann Vossius praised not only the affects that obeyed reason but considered that the affects constituted a virtue in themselves. 787 For the jurist and philosopher Christian Thomasius, writing a little while later, knowledge of the affects was the “most necessary science,” without which it was “impossible for a person to advance in the world,” be it in the sphere of hermeneutics, moral didactics, rhetoric, therapeutic medicine or ethics. 788 The representation of the affects determined not only the Baroque theater of the CounterReformation and the court, but also bourgeois Holland. The writer Daniel Heinsius described the theater as palaestra affectuum, as a school of the affects. 789 Jan Konst has emphatically indicated how individual experience flowed into the Dutch literature of the 17 th century and how the representation of emotions played a new and eminent role. In

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784 Cited here from: David Bomford, Rembrandt, Yale 2006, p. 56. The original Latin quotation: Strauss / van der Meulen 1979, p.  68. 785 Grimm 2000, p.  29  f. 786 Grimm, ibid., with further reading. Norbert Elias, The Civilizing Process, 2 vols., trans. by Edmund Jephcott, New York 1978 (vol. 1, The History of Manners) and 1982 (vol. 2, Power and Civility). On the specifics of Jesuit affect theory, see inter alia: Barbara MalmannBauer, Nicolas Caussinus’ Affekttheorie im Vergleich mit Descartes’ Traité sur les passions de l’âme, in: Steiger 2005, p.  353 – 390. On the significance of the affects in the Protestant discussion: Ralf Georg Bogner, Bewegliche Beredsamkeit, passionierende Poesie. Zur rhetorischen Stimulierung der Affekte in der lutherischen Literarisierung der Leidensgeschichte Jesu, in: Steiger 2005, p. 145 – 165; Bernd Wannenwetsch, Affekt und Gebot. Zur ethischen Bedeutung der Leidenschaften im Licht der Theologie Luthers und Melanchthons, ibid., p.  203 – 215. 787 “Jam quam praeclara res sunt affectus, si non modo rationi possunt obedire, sed in eo ipso consistit virtus.” Gerhard Johann Vossius, De theologia gentili, et physiologia Christiana (1641), in: Vossius, Opera, vol.  5 (Amsterdam 1700), 334, cited here from: Grimm 2000, p.  25, note 49. 788 Christian Thomasius, Die neue Erfindung einer wohlgegründeten und für das gemeine Wesen höchstnötigen Wissenschaft das Verborgene des Herzens anderer Menschen auch wider ihren Willen aus der täglichen Konversation zu erkennen (1692), cited here from: Grimm 2000, p. 30. 789 Grimm 2000, p. 26. 790 Jan Konst, review of Frijhoff / Spies 1999; http://web. archive.org/web/20021027061027/http://www.leidenuniv.nl/host/mnl/, retrieved June 12, 2012. Konst rightly criticizes the prevailing opinion, recently reiterated by Frijhoff and Spies following on from W. A. P. Smit, that this literature should be considered as primarily didactic. 791 We might mention here Jephthah (1659), Lucifer (1654) (a play that characterizes even the figure of Lucifer as more than just a wicked devil), and Joseph in Egypt (1640), in which the inner conflict experienced by Potiphar’s wife is conveyed with great understanding, see above Part I, Chapter 2 The impossible reversal 1 — women as ‘rapists’ or Potiphar’s Wife. Jan Konst, Woedende wraakghierigheidt en vruchtelooze weeklachten. De hartstochten in de Nederlandse tragedie van de zeventiende eeuw, Assen 1993; Konst 1997; Konst 1999; Langvik-Johannessen 1963. 792 Schenkeveld 1991, p. 124. 793 Leuker 1992. 794 Nevitt 2003. We should also mention the poems of Tesselschade Roemers: De gedichten van Tesselschade Roemers, edited by A. Agnes Sneller, Hilversum 1994; Sneller 2001. 795 Anthony Levi, French Moralists. The Theory of the Passions. 1585 to 1649, Oxford 1964; Campe 1990, esp. p.  304 – 400; James 2003; Gaukroger 1998; David Summers, Cogito Embodied: Force and Counterforce in René Descartes’s Les passions de l’âme, in: Meyer 2003, p. 13 – 36. 796 All quotations here are taken from René Descartes, The Passions of the Soul, trans. by Stephen H. Voss, Indianapolis 1989.

his view, the primary concern of playwrights and poets Joost van den Vondel, P. C. Hooft, Six van Chandelier, Jeremias de Decker, Constantijn Huygens and Bredero was less to instruct their readers than to move and emotionalize them. 790 It would be revealing to compare the figures by Rembrandt with the portrayal of contradictory and ambivalent emotions in Vondel’s dramas 791; likewise with the plays Aran and Titus (1641) and Medea (1667) by Jan Vos, a great admirer of Rembrandt and an opponent of Andries Pels (who around 1670 orchestrated the shift toward Calvinist classicism and championed theater as a moral institution). These plays saw Vos bol­dly staging a deliberate chaos: theater like life, against classical rules. 792 It would also be inter­esting to examine the relationships with kluchten — come­ dies and farces 793 — and song. 794 Noteworthy, however, is not just the importance of the passions in the fine arts, literature and theater, but the manner in which passions were discussed and in particular the intellectual fields within which affects were now treated. The area of competence changed: affects were no longer primarily the concern of theology and rhetoric, but of philosophy, where they were addressed above all by Descartes and Spinoza, Mallebranche in France and Hobbes in England. 795 In other words, the emphasis shifted away from a moralizing of the affects as in theology, and away, too, from a rhetorical use of affects, toward the investigation and analysis of affects, their causes and concatenations and their relationship to the body and soul. The focus now fell upon affect awareness (AffektWissen). Descartes postulated in his treatise Les passions de l’âme (1649) 796 that he was

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writing en physicien. 797 The philosopher deliberately disassociated himself from scho­ lastic moral theology 798 and from the ancients, in other words from Aristotelian and Stoic tradition. 799 Les passions de l’âme (1649) by Descartes is of particular relevance in my view. This fundamental and enduringly influential treatise was composed in Amsterdam and thus in the same city and at the same time that Rembrandt was working there. We do not know whether the artist and the philosopher ever met, whether Descartes ever saw Rembrandt’s pictures or whether Rembrandt was familiar with the writings of the philosopher.800 The following thoughts should not be misinterpreted as implying any direct influence of one upon the other. The humanities, including art history, often tend to abbreviate the relationship between artistic products and (normative) texts to one of direct dependence. I see analogous structures between Rembrandt’s artistic statements and Descartes’s theoretical formulations. This inner kinship was founded upon a common world of experience and life in middle-class Amster­ dam, at that time probably the most liberal city in the western world. The artist and the philosopher translated and portrayed these experiences each in his own specific manner. Contrary to the frequently erroneous reception of Les passions, upon reading the treatise it is clear that Descartes perceived the affects as an integral, necessary and meaningful part of man 801; his division of body and soul by no means implied a division of reason and emotion.802 According to Descartes, affects are a threshold phenomenon: they mediate between body and soul. This takes place via the spiritus (esprits animaux, animal spirits) in the pineal gland in the brain — structurally a notion wholly

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797 “Mon dessin n’a pas été d’expliquer les passions en orateur, ni même en philosophe moral, mais seulement en physicien.” Cited here from James 2003, p.  95. Stephen H. Voss (Descartes 1989, p. 17) translates this as: “[…] my purpose has not been to explain the Passions as an Orator, or even as a moral Philosopher, but only as a Physicist.” Descartes refers in particular to the discovery of the circulation of the blood by William Harvey, which abrogated the old notion of humoral pathology. See, among others, Summers 2003, p. 13  f. 798 It is interesting to compare Descartes’s theory of the affects with that of the Jesuit Nicolas Caussin: Des­ cartes is concerned with identifying the causes of affects in terms of a medical natural philosophy, and with the precise relationship between physical and emotional reactions. Caussin, on the other hand, still wholly in the rhetorical tradition, attempts to manipulate people via the affects. In contrast to Caussin, Des­ cartes starts from the conviction that people can cont­ rol their affects for the good out of their own common sense. See: Barbara Malmann-Bauer, in: Steiger 2005, p.  353 – 390. Links naturally exist with theological tradi­ tion nonetheless, for example with Juan Luis Vives, De anima et vita, Basel 1555, reprint London 1994, on which see: Campe 1990, p.  313 – 323. 799 Descartes begins his treatise thus: “The defectiveness of the sciences we inherit from the ancients is nowhere more apparent than in what they wrote about the Passions. […] nevertheless what the Ancients taught about them is so little, and for the most part so little believ­ able, that I cannot hope to approach the truth unless I forsake the paths they followed. For this reason I shall be obliged to write here as though I were treating a topic which no one before me had ever described.” (Des­ cartes 1989, Art. 1). This dismissal of Aristotle is aston­ ishingly abrupt, in particular when one bears in mind that Descartes remains structurally indebted to Aristo­ telian thinking in his basic models of passivity and activity. He reverses the relationship between the body and the soul, however: the object producing the pas­ sion acts primarily upon the body; this reacts automat­ ically and acts upon the soul. For Descartes, in other words, the soul is not responsible for the production of passion, but is responsible for what it makes of the passions. See: Carole Talon-Hugon, Vom Thomismus zur neuen Auffassung der Affekte im 17. Jahrhundert, in: Jean-Daniel Krebs (ed.), Die Affekte und ihre Repräsentation in der deutschen Literatur der Frühen Neuzeit, Bern et al. 1996, p.  65 – 71. On the roots in natural philosophy: Michaela Boenke, Körper, spiritus, Geist. Psychologie vor Descartes, Munich 2005. 800 On the parallels between Rembrandt and Descartes

in line with the current neurobiological concept of physical and psychological connectivity within the nuclei of the brain. Descartes was interested first and foremost in ethical issues. He was anxious to show that humans are able to control, with their will, the affects, fantasies and drives involuntarily created by the spiritus. Humans can deliberately change their own disposition.803 This theme plays no particular role in the context of this book. Descartes’s attempts to overcome the division that he postulates between body and soul, and the difficulties this causes when it comes to defining with regard to their understanding of color and light, see: Hammer-Tugendhat 2008, p. 177 – 189. 801 Descartes 1989, Art.  211: “And now that we understand them [the passions] all, we have much less reason to fear them than we had before. For we see that they are all in their nature good and that we have nothing to avoid but misuses or excesses of them […].” 802 One proof of the close relationship between affect and reason is the fact that Descartes makes admiration the first of his six basic affects. The French admiration may be translated as wonder, which for Plato and Aristotle represented the starting point of philosophy. (Des­ cartes 1989, Art.   53, Art.  70; Hammacher in: Descartes 1996, p.  LI f.) 803 See esp. Boenke 2005, p.  359  f. 804 Benedict de Spinoza, Ethics, transl. by Edwin Curley, London 1996. Spinoza’s Ethica, ordine geometrica demonstrata was published shortly after his death in 1677. 805 Ancient affect theory may only be understood in the context of Aristotelian philosophy and its theory of hylomorphism, i. e. the interaction of matter (materia prima), which is entirely passive, and form (morphe), which is conceived as active. The soul-body composite has the ability to feel and judge external sensations, for example as pleasurable or painful. Affects, too, are always judgments: my anger, for example, is a desire for revenge, directed at a particular person, on the grounds that he has insulted me (James 2003, p.  37 – 44). 806 Descartes 1989, Arts.  1, 17. “For Descartes, suffering is always something other than mere effect, whereby action and suffering are reversible, because passive perception is at the same time a mental activity in the same way as thinking, wishing and wanting, and is indeed self-perception, i.e. it contains an idea that is none other than this activity itself […].” (Hammacher in: Descartes 1996, p.  L). James 2003, esp. p.  86 – 108; Boenke 2005, esp. p.  356; Summers 2003, p. 14  ff. For Spinoza, who does not start from the principle of the division of body and spirit, the soul has both passive and active faculties. In his view, affects can only be altered by other affects. 807 Summers 2003, p. 18: “For Descartes, sensations, appetites, and passions are ‘subjective’ in a modern sense of that modern word. In fact, the very idea of the subjective as feeling in contrast to the physical-mathematical ‘objective’ is taking shape in Descartes’s writ­ ing: what we call subjective experiences ‘arise from the close and intimate union of soul and body,’ they are for a consciousness and, taken together, constitute an individual life.”

the affects, likewise lie outside our present remit. From the point of view of a connection with Rembrandt, what interests me about Descartes, as about the Ethics published a little later by Spinoza 804, are certain statements that describe emotions as an internal, subjective and complex phenomenon and thus reveal a new understanding of psychological processes. In the Aristotelian tradition, affects were always a passive reaction to a stimulus coming from outside. Affects had objects and reasons in the outside world and were consequently viewed as passio, as something passively suffered.805 Despite distancing himself vehemently from the “Ancients,” Descartes adhered to the fundamental notion of active and passive powers of the soul, although he also accorded the soul an active faculty with regard to the affects.806 According to Descartes, however, how things affect us depends not on their properties but on the meaning we give them. The grounds for certain emotions are relocated into the interior of the subject; indeed, this consciousness of one’s own feelings is what characterizes subjectivity in the modern sense.807 Descartes distinguished between three types of passions of the soul: perceptions that arrive from outside, sensations caused by the body, and emotions which are produced only

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within the soul itself.808 The notion of émotions that were rooted within the soul was new, and paved the way for the development towards psychology.809 “The new, Cartesian man must become able to consider his perceptions as representations of his own mental operations and not as consequences of physical causes,” as Carter aptly puts it.810 This study of the soul is a secularized form of introspection that is no longer conducted with reference to a divine authority in the tradition of medieval Christianity. For Descartes as also for Spinoza, our imagination, thoughts and memories can call forth the same affects as things that are concrete and present. What originally excited a certain affect often escapes our consciousness or more accurately our memory, since it occurred in early childhood. Descartes offers two examples: […] I shall content myself with repeating the principle on which everything I have written about them [the passions] is based: namely, that there is such a connection between our soul and our body that when we have once joined some bodily action with some thought, one of the two is never present to us afterwards without the other also being present to us; and that the same actions are not always joined to the same thoughts. […] It is not difficult, for example, to think that some people’s unusual aversions, which make them unable to tolerate the smell of roses or the presence of a cat or similar things, come only from having been badly shocked by some such objects at the beginning of life […]. The smell of roses may have given a child a severe headache when he was still in the cradle, or a cat may have frightened him badly, without anyone having been aware of it and without him having had any memory of it afterwards, though the idea of the aversion he had then for the roses or the cat may remain imprinted in his brain to the end of his life.811 Descartes’s physiological explanation of the “spirits” that bury themselves in a fold of the brain is one we cannot go along with today. But his articulation of the ex­ perience — registered subjectively by the individual but at the same time inexplicable —  of uncon­scious emotions whose origins go right back to childhood, this experience we share. Sigmund Freud later interpreted these phenomena from a psychoanalytical perspective. The budding discourse on the psyche, the formulation of its enigmatic, complex and contradictory nature, in my opinion links Descartes, and also Spinoza, with Rembrandt. Descartes and Spinoza recognize, despite their enumeration of basic affects, that the emotions intermix and hence that countless emotional states can arise 812, and that an individual — and this to me seems particularly significant — can experience wholly conflicting emotions at once. Descartes explains this as follows:

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And although these excitations (émotions) of the soul are often joined with the passions that are like them, they may also frequently be found with others, and may even originate from those that are in opposition to them. For example, when a husband mourns his dead wife, whom (as sometimes happens) he would be upset to see resuscitated, it may be that his heart is constricted by the sadness which funeral trappings and the absence of a person to whose company he was accustomed excite in him; and it may be that some remnants of love or pity, presented to his imagination, draw genuine tears from his eyes — in spite of the fact that at the same time he feels a secret Joy in the innermost depths of his soul.813 In Rembrandt’s work, both in his self-portraits and in his history painting, we can observe a development from the (Baroque) representation of concrete affects towards 808 Descartes 1989, Arts.   25 – 29. 809 Descartes 1989, Art.  147, About the inner Excitations of the soul (Des emotions interieurs de l’âme): “I shall add but one further consideration here, which seems to me to be very good for keeping us from suffering any distress from the Passions: our good and our ill depend principally on inner excitations, which are excited in the soul only by the soul itself — in which respect they differ from those passions that always depend on some motion of the spirits […] And when we read of unusual adventures in a book or see them represent­ed on a stage, this sometimes excites Sadness in us, sometimes Joy or Love or Hatred, and in general all the Passions, according to the diversity of the objects offered to our imagination; but along with this we have the pleasure of feeling them excited in us, and this plea­ sure is an intellectual Joy, which can originate from Sadness as well as from any of the other Passions.” Spinoza writes in a very similar vein: “Man is affected with the same affect of joy or sadness from the image of a past or future thing as from the image of a present thing.” (Spinoza, Ethics, Part III, Proposition 18) Cf. Campe 1990, esp. p.  332  ff. According to Joan Dejean (Mapping the Heart, in: Querelles 2002, p.  72 – 84), this is the first occasion on which Descartes uses the term emotion. She rightly points out the eminent signif­icance of the invention of new terms and sees in this an entirely new approach to the subject of the affects. 810 Richard B. Carter, Descartes’ Medical Philosophy. The Organic Solution of the Mind-Body-Problem, Baltimore and London, The Johns Hopkins University Press 1983, p. 72. 811 Descartes 1989, Art.  136. 812 Spinoza, Ethics, Proposition 57 (1996, p. 101): “Each affect of each individual differs from the affect of an­other as much as the essence of the one from the essence of the other.” Ibid., Proposition 59 (p. 103): “[…] it is clear […] that the various affects can be compound­ed with one another in so many ways, and that so many variations can arise from this composition that they cannot be defined by any number.” 813 Descartes 1989, Art. 147. 814 Campe 1990, p.  331  f. English by translator.

complex emotional states, as illustrated for example by Bathsheba and Haman Recognizes his Fate (plate 1, figs. 131– 133, p. 264, p. 268). I see a kinship between the artistic representations by Rembrandt, in particular in his late oeuvre, and the writings of the two philosophers. This kinship lies firstly in the fundamental importance accorded to the emotions, and secondly in the acknowledgement that emotions can be diverse, can overlay each other and hence be contradictory. It lies in the recognition that emotions differ from person to person and often remain unconscious. The working of the philosophers “back into the invisible and dark is unmetaphorical and analytical in contrast to the old working from the inside out.”814 Campe’s apt characterization also fits Rembrandt’s attempt to visualize the indivi­d­ ual’s invisible inner self. Both Descartes’s and Spinoza’s theories and Rembrandt’s pictures resulted from human experiences of ambivalent states of emotion, which were now greeted with particular attention and an analytical attitude. The differences between their philosophical

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Pl. 11: Gabriel Metsu, Woman Reading a Letter, c.1664 – 67, panel, Dublin, Nat. Gallery of Ireland Fig. 140: Pieter Codde, A Woman Seated at a Virginal with a Letter, panel, early 1630s, Boston, private collection

and artistic articulations are also clear, however, along with their respective impact upon and relevance for the reception of their day. Descartes, for example, recognizes that emo­ tional reactions vary from one individual to the next. Thus he writes: The same impression that the presence of a frightful object forms on the gland which causes fear in some men may excite courage and boldness in others. The reason for this is that all brains are not disposed in the same manner […].815 This apposite observation of the differences in our individual emotional makeup is given a biological explanation, which, in its specific historical details, is no longer acceptable to us. A corresponding artistic differentiation between individual characters, each exhibiting specific emotional reactions, can be seen in Rembrandt. Here, however, the differences in their emotional reactions can be explained in another way, namely as dependent upon the differences in their social class, age and gender.816 This is most telling with regard to the relationship between the artistic portrayal and the theoretical justification of certain phenomena perceived — on account of their common cultural disposition — by both painter and philosopher. Art is evidently in a better position to convey these experiences to us today, in a way we can comprehend, than the explanations of theory.

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Fig. 141: Willem Duyster, Woman with a Letter and a Man, early 1630s, panel, Copenhagen, Statens Museum for Kunst Fig. 135: Gerard Ter Borch, Curiosity, c. 1660, canvas, New York, The Metropolitan Museum of Art

Interiorization: Vermeer Let us return to a painting already discussed in Part II, Chapter 3, Metsu’s Love Letter (plate 11), but now consider the work in terms of its representation of affects. The picture follows the iconography of portrayals of women with love letters in domestic scenes. Still wholly in the tradition of Dirck Hals (p. 262), the picture within the picture illuminates the nature of the letter. In contrast to Dirck Hals, however, neither the body nor gestures of the female figure, nor the aesthetic structure of the scene as a whole, point to the storm of emotions that is signaled by the picture within the picture. In contrast to Hals, and even more so to Rembrandt, the reader’s face likewise reveals nothing of what is going on inside her. The storm of emo­ 815 Descartes 1989, Art.  39: “[…] and that the same movement of the gland which in some excites fear, in others makes the spirits enter the brain’s pores that guide part of them into the nerves that move the hands for self-defense, and part of them into those that agitate the blood and drive it toward the heart in the manner needed to produce spirits suitable to continue this defense and sustain the volition for it.” 816 Take Rembrandt’s history paintings, for example, such as Samson Posing the Riddle to the Wedding Guests (1638, Dresden, Gemäldegalerie), in which several fig­ ures react differently to one and the same event. 817 Gudlaugsson 1959 – 60; Gerard Ter Borch, Zwolle 1617 – Deventer 1681, exh.  cat. Landesmuseum Münster 1974; Kettering (in: Franits) 1997; exh.  cat. Dublin, Greenwich 2003, p.  90 – 107; Sutton in: ibid., p. 17 – 22; Adams in: ibid., p.  63  ff.; exh. cat. Washington, D. C., New York 2005.

tions is articulated purely metaphorically in the painted storm at sea. Metsu was by no means the first to erase the portrayal of (strong) affects. He was thereby following a trend that had been pursued by prom­ inent Dutch genre painters since the middle of the 17 th century and whose introduction is linked to Ter Borch.817 It was Ter Borch who made the letter a central motif within his oeuvre,

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Pl. 12: Jan Vermeer, Woman Reading a Letter at an Open Window, c. 1657, canvas, Dresden, Gemäldegalerie Alte Meister Fig. 136: X-ray photograph: Jan Vermeer, Woman Reading a Letter at an Open Window

painting no less than sixteen variations on the theme from the late 1640s onwards and popularizing the genre. At the same time — and this is significant — it was Ter Borch who, taking up from the late work of Rembrandt and from Pieter Codde and Willem Cornelisz. Duyster (figs. 140, 141, p. 278  – 279), began portraying his figures in an affective state that remained

non-specific or, more accurately, impossible to determine.818 This is frequently true of several figures within the same picture, as in Curiosity (fig. 135, p. 279) and The Letter, works in which the relationship between the figures also remain enigmatic. Narratives are suggested that nevertheless remain untold; it is left up to the viewer to invent a story. Take the standing female figure in Curiosity: although placed prominently in the foreground and looking out at the viewer, her function within the scene is impossible to fathom. Her upright pose and the absence of all expression on her face are characteristic of Ter Borch. Strong or clear affects are never to be read from his figures of women reading or writing  819; we are left in the dark as to the psychological mood of those portrayed. I shall examine this new form of representation in two works by Vermeer.820 Vermeer’s small oeuvre includes six paintings of women 821 with love letters. This is

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a remarkable number: apart from motifs related to music, the artist explored no other theme in such depth. The earliest version, dating from around 1657, is the Young Woman Reading a Letter at an Open Window (plate 12). 818 On the new significance of privacy and its visualization in Rembrandt’s etching Jan Six Standing at a Window Reading (1647), in which the link between reading in private and introspection is first addressed: David Smith, I Janus: Privacy and the Gentleman Ideal in Rembrandt’s Portraits of Jan Six, in: Art History 11, 1988, p.  42 – 63. Smith starts from the assumption that Rembrandt’s invention influenced Ter Borch, Pieter de Hooch and Vermeer. On the significance of Carel Fabritius in this process: David R. Smith, Carel Fabritius and Portraiture in Delft, in: Art History 13, 1990, p. 151 – 174. On the relationship to the two Amsterdam painters Codde (1599 – 1678) and Duyster (1598/99 – 1635): exh.  cat. Dublin, Greenwich 2003, esp. p. 16  ff., p.  84 – 89. 819 Ter Borch was also the first to represent women not just receiving or reading letters, but also actively engaged in writing them, as in his 1655 Woman Writing a Letter (The Hague, Mauritshuis; exh.  cat. Dublin, Greenwich 2003, cat.  no.  5). 820 Hammer-Tugendhat 2002, p.  234 – 256. 821 Male protagonists with love letters are strikingly absent in Vermeer’s oeuvre. He painted two works showing male individuals in an interior: The Astronomer (1668, Paris, Louvre) and The Geographer (1669, Frankfurt a.  M., Städelsches Kunstinstitut). They are not writ­ing or reading love letters, however, but conducting their research. The interior is a studiolo. 822 As seen in the chapter on Vermeer’s Woman Holding a Balance [Part II, Chapter 2], Vermeer certainly integrated paintings within his pictures, albeit in a relationship to the main scene that is in most cases complex and not simply illustrative. I would like to recall the disp­ute that I outlined in the chapter Farewell Laocoon … According to de Jongh, Young Woman Reading a Letter may strictly speaking signify nothing, since it contains no unequivocal references to literary sources. 823 The picture of Cupid evidently goes back to an original by van Everdingen that was probably in Vermeer’s col­ lection. Vermeer integrated this painting into his own compositions on several occasions: in Girl Interrupted at her Music (New York, Frick Collection), A Young Wo­ man Standing at a Virginal (London, National Gallery) and, albeit fragmented to the point of unrecognizability, A Maid Asleep (New York, Metropolitan Museum). On the various significances of Cupid in Vermeer’s pic­ tures within pictures: Gaskell 1998, p.  225 – 233. 824 See: “Inversions: Woman in Bed” in Part I, Chapter 1, and notes 600, 634 – 638 in Part II. 825 The curtain here reveals not the holy or the divine as in a longstanding tradition, but rather the visible world. This secularization becomes all the more potent when we consider that one iconographical source for the motif of a woman reading a letter was the Annunciation. In the late Middle Ages, the Virgin was often depicted reading. Horst Wenzel (1995, p.  287 – 291) has drawn attention to representations in which Archangel Gabriel hands Mary an epistle. In Vermeer, the rays of divine light correspondingly become real sunlight streaming in through the open window.

Like Ter Borch before him, Vermeer here omits the allegorical reference provided by the motif of the picture within the picture.822 The knowledge that pictures of women with letters were about love was already firmly anchored. Vermeer’s decision to erase all allegorical symbols can be seen in the actual production process itself. X-rays have revealed that a large painting of Cupid — a picture that Vermeer integrated within several of his other works — originally hung on the rear wall (fig. 136).823 Vermeer sub­ sequently painted over this Cupid and literally hid it behind a curtain. We have already men­ tioned the eminent significance and multiple meanings of the curtain in Dutch painting and within Vermeer’s oeuvre.824 Here Vermeer has consciously played with its placing within the composition: is the curtain part of the room in the painting, or does it fall in front of the pic­to­rial plane, as it were? Whatever the case, it conceals part of the interior and makes us aware that we are unable to see everything there is. The curtain conceals and reveals.825 The curtain drawn to one side exposes an interior in which a young woman is seen standing in front of a window, immersed in reading a letter. The open window provides no view of what lies beyond, but simply signals the outside world from where the letter has arrived. With this aesthetic setting, Vermeer succeeds in simultaneously evoking a sense of near and far, of intimacy and distance, and thus in visualizing an essential aspect of epistolary culture. Reading a (love) letter signifies communication with someone absent, but communication that is

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Pl. 13: Jan Vermeer, Woman in Blue Reading a Letter, c. 1662 – 64, canvas, Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum

nonetheless intimate. This is a new form of communication, one made possible by the letter.826 It is about love, but the beloved is not there; instead of a body there is writing, instead of an embrace a fantasized relationship.827 Near and far at the same time. The view into a private interior is an intimate view that suggests physical proximity. The sense of proximity is heightened by the fact that the viewer imagines him or herself in the same room as the female figure — an impression created by the omission of floor, ceiling and enclosing side wall. Yet the female figure is at the same time distanced by her smallness within the large room. The table with the carpet bunched up for no apparent reason and the tilting fruit bowl literally form a barrier.828 The young woman is reading with the greatest attention, as conveyed by her down­cast eyes and slightly parted lips. Of the content of the letter and her concrete feelings, however, we learn nothing. Her upright body, and the strict right angle of her arms bent at the elbows, signal control. Neither through gestures nor facial expression does she betray what is going on inside her. It is precisely because no specific affect is shown that we are made aware of the invisible, intimate location of emotion. The staging of near and far, of intimacy and remoteness reinforces this impression. The effect of this contradictory tension between the articulation of emotion and the non-definition of this emotion, and the exclusion of the viewer from this staged intimacy, is the recog­nition that emotions occur inside the individual and are invisible. The inaccessibility of this inner realm is further apostrophized via the young woman’s reflection in the open window. Ever since the paragone of the Renaissance (i. e. the rivalry between the media, here the competition between painting and sculpture regarding the overall representation

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of a subject), reflections have served amongst other things as a means of capturing the human body and face from all sides, as it were. The window’s lead glazing in turn prompts associations with the squared grid used by artists since the Renaissance, with whose aid the human body could be drawn to exact scale. In Vermeer’s painting, however, the reflection functions in the opposite way: the window grid breaks up the face and mirrors only blurred fragments. This blurred reflection underlines the inner inaccessibility of the young woman reading. Scientific instruments, mathematical per­ s­pective, laws of optics, camera obscura — all the tools of knowledge of which Vermeer was a virtuoso master evidently reflect only the presence of phenomena, but without being able to capture their substance. In the terms of Daniel Arasse: “With extreme precision, Vermeer worked in certain places to blur or prevent the identification of what he depicts.” 829 These observations are confirmed by the other versions of this theme in Vermeer’s oeuvre. In his Woman Reading a Letter 830 (c. 1662– 64), Vermeer concentrates the interior setting even more rigorously upon its ‘interior’ quality (plate 13). This interior room be­ comes the interior of the figure, as it were. There are no boundary side walls, no floor and no ceiling. The composition is presented slightly from below with a high horizon line, so that as viewers we effectively find our­ selves in the same room and very close to the 826 Although the private letter played a certain role even in the Middle Ages, the enormous spread of letter writing in 17th century Dutch society, in the wake of increased literacy, nevertheless signified a qualitative leap forward. See, among others: Karen Cherewatuk, Ulrike Winthaus (eds.), Dear Sister. Medieval Women and the Epistolary Genre, Philadelphia 1993. 827 The world of the love letter is an imaginary one. This also implies a sublimation of feelings, something rec­ ognized and appreciated by contemporaries. As James Howell observed in his book ‘Instructions for Forraine Travell’ published in 1642 in England: “And of all kind of Humane Meditations, those of ones absent Friends be the pleasingist, specially when they are endeared and nourished by correspondence of Letters, which by a Spirituall kind of power do enamour, and mingle Soules more sweetly than any embraces.” (cited here from: James Howell, Instructions for Forreine Travell, edited by E. Arber, London 1868, p.  28) 828 The fruits — apples and peaches — stand for fertility and eroticism; the bowl is tipped towards her womb. 829 Daniel Arasse, Vermeer. Faith in Painting, trans. by Terry Grabar, Princeton 1994, p. 73. 830 Exh.  cat. The Hague, Washington, D. C. 1995, cat.  no.  9, p. 134 – 139, with further reading. 831 On the significance of maps in Vermeer and in Dutch painting: Richard Helgerson, Genremalerei, Landkarten and nationale Unsicherheit im Holland des 17. Jahrhunderts, in: Ulrich Bielefeld, Gisela Engel (eds.), Bilder der Nation. Kulturelle und politische Konstruktionen des Nationalen am Beginn der europäischen Moderne, Hamburg 1998, p. 123 – 153; Alpers 1985, p.  213 – 286; Stoichita 1998, p. 173 – 184.

figure in the picture. The rear wall seals the pictorial space and we are unable to see into other rooms. The outside world is no longer represented even by a window and penetrates this private sphere only at second hand, com­ municated by the light and by the map 831, which indicates the distant regions from where the letter has arrived. The sense of proximity created in this way is nevertheless contrasted here, too, by the blocking of the foreground with the table draped in a dark cloth and the chair, and by the woman’s absorption in her letter. The ‘interior of the interior’ that is suggested and at the same time denied to us is restated in the jewelry box, which is open but faces away from us behind its raised lid, so that we cannot see inside. We participate in the presence and absolute

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concentration of the female figure but we know nothing about the object of her attention, the contents of the letter and her accompanying emotions. We realize that intense emo­ tions are at play even though we learn nothing at all from this monumental female figure in her upright pose. The severity of this pose is underlined by the composition: the objects frame the woman and incorporate her into a system of coordinates, so to speak. This form of representation corresponds to the prac­tice of reading: reading absorbs the atten­ tion, stills bodily movements and centers com­munication inside the individual. To put it another way: as a pictorial theme, the letter is a motif ideally suited to convey this notion of the psychological dimension.832 Emotions are thus represented in Ver­ meer’s paintings as private, intimate and not to be read by others.833 Edward Snow describes this as “inaccessible otherness” in his Vermeer monograph.834 This corresponds, in my view, to the incommunicability that Niklas Luhmann described as the discovery of the 18th century.835 Luhmann draws exclusively from literary sour­ ces, however, and in particular from French literature. The characterization of this new form of literature can equally well be applied to the pictures of Vermeer, Ter Borch and other contemporary Dutch artists: It was not possible to fully convey the complex psychic reality of the participants within a message […].836 The experience of incommunicability is one aspect of the differentiation of social systems for intimacy. It does not contradict intimacy, but corresponds to it […].837 The problem in question is far more radical in form and centers on whether

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832 This interpretation of emotion as individual and not legible for others is also found in other themes in Ver­ meer’s painting, for example in A Maid Asleep (c. 1657, New York, Metropolitan Museum). See: Hammer-Tugendhat, Arcana Cordis, 2002, p.  234 – 256. 833 Nevitt (2001, p.  89 – 110) and Adams (2003, p.  63 – 76) reach very similar conclusions. See also: Wolf 2001, esp. p. 143 – 188. It is symptomatic that the letter theme is absent in Vermeer’s early oeuvre and that in paint­ ings such as The Procuress of 1656 (Dresden, Gemäldegalerie), human communication is still portrayed in a direct and physical manner. 834 “And although a core of human inwardness holds the world of Woman in Blue in place, what Vermeer stresses is the private, inaccessible nature of that experience, constructing a veritable force field around its otherness.” Snow 1994, p.  6. Snow’s description of this picture is so fitting that it may be cited here: “The letter, the map, the woman’s pregnancy, the empty chair, the open box, the unseen window — all are intimations of absence, of invisibility, of other minds, wills, times and places, of past and future, of birth and perhaps loss and death. Yet with all these signs of mixed feelings and a larger context, Vermeer insists on the fullness and sufficiency of the depicted moment — with such force that its capacity to orient and contain takes on metaphysical value.” (p.  4) “But if we attempt to force a story out of Woman in Blue, we violate our agreement with the painting and become voy­ eurs peering into a world that our own gaze renders distant and superficial.” (p.  6) Whether the woman is pregnant is a question that remains unresolved. For arguments for and against this hypothesis, see: Winkel 1998, p.  330 – 332. 835 Niklas Luhmann, Love as Passion. The Codification of Intimacy, trans. by Jeremy Gaines and Doris L. Jones, Cambridge (Mass.) 1986, p. 121 – 129. Luhmann ac­know­ledges that this tendency had its origins in the 17th  century: “During the seventeenth century the great heroic adventures — particularly with respect to love — had already started to be internalized.” (p. 121) 836 Ibid., p. 121. 837 Ibid., p. 123. 838 Ibid. 839 Adams in: exh.  cat. Dublin Greenwich 2003, p.  63 – 76, here: p.  64. 840 For a monographic and thereby more detailed discussion of this picture: Daniela Hammer-Tugendhat, Kunst der Imagination / Imagination der Kunst. Die Pantoffeln Samuel van Hoogstratens, in: Klaus Krüger, Alessandro Nova (eds.), Imagination und Wirklichkeit. Zum Verhältnis von mentalen and realen Bildern in der Kunst der frühen Neuzeit, Mainz 2000, p. 139 – 153. Le Siècle de Rembrandt, exh. cat., Petit Palais, Paris 1970, no. 117, p. 110 – 111 (detailed description of the

there is not meaning — especially in intimate relationships — that is destroyed by virtue of being made the object of an utterance.838 The relevance of this convergence of 18th century literature and 17 th century painting is a subject to which we shall return later on.

picture’s provenance and attributions); Sumowski vol.  2, 1983, p. 1304, no.  894 (with extensive bibliography); Georgel, Lecocq 1983, p. 158, 169, 242; Daniel Arasse, Le Détail. Pour une histoire rapprochée de la peinture, Paris 1992, p. 145 – 148; Bettina Werche in: exh. cat. Frankfurt a. M. 1993, p.  228, no.  47; Stoichita 1998, p.  48   f.; Brusati 1995, esp. p.  83 – 86, 204; Michiel C.  C. Kersten and Danielle H. A. C. Lokin (eds.), Delft Masters, Vermeer’s Contemporaries. Illusionism through the Conquest of Light and Space, exh. cat. Stedelijk Museum het Prinsenhof, Delft, Zwolle 1996, p.  201; J. Foucart, Le tableau du mois no.  29: Les Pan­ toufles par Samuel van Hoogstraten (Louvre handout, see documentation in the Louvre), September 1996; Svetlana Alpers, Picturing Dutch Culture, in: Franits 1997, p.  64; Innenleben. Die Kunst des Interieurs. Vermeer bis Kabakov, exh.  cat., Städelsches Kunst­ institut, Frankfurt am Main, Ostfildern-Ruit 1998, esp. the essays by Sigrid Metken and Wolfgang Kemp. The work was mentioned for the first time in 1842, in the Catalogue raisonné of the works of the most eminent Dutch, Flemish and French painters (supplément, 9, London 1842, p.  569, no.  20) compiled by John Smith, who described it as unsigned and undat­ ed and presented it as a work by Pieter de Hooch. W. Bürger-Thoré (Van der Meer de Delft, in: Gazette des Beaux-Arts 21, 1866, p.  22) also described the picture, which he brought to Paris for an exhibition, as a work by Pieter de Hooch, basing himself on a signature that had meanwhile appeared on the picture and a dating to 1658. By 1883, the signature PDH had once more vanished. The picture was subsequently attributed to a number of different artists: Pieter Janssens Elinga? (Hofstede de Groot, De Schilder Janssens, een navolger van Pieter de Hooch, in: Oud Holland 9, 1891, p.  292 f.); circle of Vermeer around 1660 (Clotilde Brière Misme, Au Musée du Louvre. La donation de Croy. Les tableaux hollandais, in: Gazette des Beaux Arts 1933, p.  231 – 238); Hendrik van der Burgh (G. Bazin, see documentation in the Louvre). Only in 1956 did E. Plietzsch (Randbemerkungen zur holländischen Interieurmalerei am Beginn des 17. Jahrhunderts, in: Wallraf-Richartz-Jahrbuch 18, 1956, p. 175, note 1) ascribe the work to Samuel van Hoogstraten, an at­ tribu­tion that was generally accepted — rightly, in my view. The painting must have been produced after 1655 — the year in which Ter Borch painted the original whose paraphrase was in turn copied by Hoogstraten — and before the View of a Corridor (Dyrham Park, Gloucestershire, National Trust) painted in England in 1662, which already signals Hoogstraten’s embrace of classicism. From a stylistic point of view, The Slippers can be linked most closely with Hoogstraten’s Peep­ show with Views of the Interior of a Dutch House in the National Gallery in London.

Imagination: Hoogstraten Ann Jensen Adams describes the private letter of the early modern period as “something of an oxymoron”: supposedly “a written record of the spontaneous production of the innermost reaches of the soul,” in practice “both the form of letters and the scripts in which they were written were increasingly codified […]” 839 The letter-writing handbooks of the epoch represent simply the forms of address, stylized into lin­guis­tic formulae, of a wider dispositive. This dual structure of the culture of writing love letters —  the unfolding of subjective, individual utterances on the one hand, and their conventionality and fixing in cultural codes on the other — shows itself in exemplary fashion in a picture attributed to Samuel van Hoogstraten, dated to the late 1650s (plate 14).840 In his version of the love-letter theme, Hoogstraten depicts no human figures at all. Instead he shows us three empty rooms. The letter motif exists only as a picture on the wall. The woman reading the letter in this picture within the picture is seen, moreover, in rear view. No affects whatsoever are represented; nevertheless I argue that these are evoked in the recipient. Hoogstraten initiates imagination with his picture. The picture is simultaneously a self-reflection on the medium of painting and its affective power.

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Pl. 14: Samuel van Hoogstraten, The Slippers, 1658 – 60, canvas, Paris, Louvre Fig. 139: Samuel van Hoogstraten, The Slippers, detail (see Pl. 14)

From our position on a threshold, our eyes travel across three successive rooms, each seen through a door standing wide open. A broom leans against the opposite wall of the first room, a large towel hangs down beside it from a wooden shelf higher up, and flax has been draped over the door frame — all signs of female domestic industry. Through a door hinged on the left, we look into a corridor; the light falling from the right points to a fourth door that we cannot see but which evidently leads outside. In this brightly lit hallway, nothing is to be seen but a round mat bearing two greenish wooden clogs. The viewer ‘trips’ over these shoes; as we look into the room we are forced to stop and reflect upon their semantic meaning. Discarded shoes are frequently found in Dutch genre paintings — we might think of Metsu’s Love Letter. Their iconology has been interpreted in different and conflicting ways. Countless figures of speech, myths, fairy tales and marriage rites, for example, testify to the significance of discarded shoes as erotic allusions.841 On the other hand, the same motif has been interpreted — with reference to Plutarch — as a symbol of virtue. The only conclusion that may be drawn is that the symbol of discarded shoes in Dutch genre pieces is semantically laden but can prompt various associations (at once). The shoes in Hoogstraten’s picture do not lie in the first room alongside the unmistakable attributes of female industry, nor do they stand in the third, intimate room. Their place is in the space between. The impossibility of determining the semantic fixing of the shoes could not be illustrated more clearly than through their situation between the rooms. This corridor has no other characterization

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Fig. 137: Gerard Ter Borch, The Gallant Conversation (‘The Paternal Admonition’), c. 1654, canvas, Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum Fig. 138: Caspar Netscher, Woman Reading a Letter (paraphrase after Ter Borch), after 1655, location unknown

than that of being a space in between. Shoes and intermediate space mutually interpret themselves as openness and indeterminateness. A third door with a massive bunch of keys opens onto the last room, whose auratic lighting is intensified by the gold damask that is draped over the table and in which the chair is also upholstered. Mounted on the wall near the picture is a framed mirror, which — significantly — reflects nothing.842 The view through the open doors into the furthest chamber is a view into an intimate, feminine sphere. This intimacy, this sense of privacy and seclusion is exposed to the eye of the viewer. The key, which stands out meaningfully against the bright background, is inserted into the keyhole directly beneath the woman in the picture within the picture. The key not only alludes to the woman’s power within the home but also takes up a sexual symbolism familiar since the Middle Ages. In the Emblemata Amatoria by Pieter Corneliszoon Hooft of 1611, for example, Cupid holds a lock with a key in his hand; the title Een die my past (One that fits me) makes the message clear. The key is employed as a sexual metaphor in numerous Dutch genre paintings, in particular within the work of 841 See above Part II, Chapter 3, notes 627 – 630. 842 The motif of the mirror radicalizes the question of the meaning and function of the picture; see Part II, Chapter 1, Mirror, Mirror on the wall … 843 Malcolm Jones, Sex and Sexuality in Late Medieval and Early Modern Art, in: Erlach, Reisenleitner, Vocelka 1994, p. 187 – 304, here: p.  219 (the key that fits the lock as a metaphor for coitus); Peter L. Donhauser, A Key to Vermeer?, in: Artibus et historiae 14, no.  27, 1993, p.  85 – 101; ill. of Hooft’s emblem: p.  94, fig. 10; ills. of the corresponding pictures by Steen: p.  96, 97, figs.  14, 15.

Jan Steen.843 But the key also serves as a clavis inter­pretandi. In Holland in the 17 th century, the key (sleutel) was a common metaphor for unlocking the truth. The key opens the door (the picture), but what we see is again just a picture.

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The actual narrative and the actors themselves are found only in the painted picture on the wall. Hoogstraten makes the motif of the picture within the picture — just one pictorial element amongst many in the work of his colleagues — the true subject of his painting. What, then, is the picture to which Hoogstraten has assigned such a central function? The painting shows a woman wearing a silvery satin dress in the style of Ter Borch, seen standing in rear view in front of a red four-poster bed. Behind a chair on the left is a small boy, also dressed in red and holding a large hat in his hand. Art historians originally assumed that Hoogstraten had here copied an original by Ter Borch, namely the so-called Paternal Admonition (Väterliche Emahnung) of which versions are housed in Berlin and Amsterdam (fig. 137, p. 287). Since the copy made by Caspar Netscher, Ter Borch’s pupil, is dated 1655, the original is assumed to have been completed around 1654.844 In 1765 the German engraver Johann Georg Wille reproduced Ter Borch’s painting in the form of a print, to which he gave the title Paternal Admonition. Subsequently extended to the painting itself, this title stipulated how the scene was to be read: it became an anecdotally flavored picture about decorum. In the 20th century, a quite different reading was proposed: Ter Borch’s composition was interpreted as a moralizing picture warning against the selling of love for money.845 The father was thereby transformed into an officer, the daughter into a prostitute and the mother into a procuress. A gold coin was imagined between the man’s fingers, although this is visible neither in the Berlin, nor in the Amsterdam version, nor in the copy by Netscher. That the same picture can be read in such a contrary fashion is due not just to its changing reception over the course of time, but to the ambivalence of the picture itself, which provokes these subjectively different reactions. More recent research has shown that the quintessence of Ter Borch’s female figures lies precisely in their ambiguity. Alison Kettering has described Ter Borch’s ladies in white satin as the ultimate in feminine ideality: in their beauty, passivity and genteel reserve, they corresponded both to moral­ izing etiquette books and to the Petrarchan poetry of the day. At the same time, how­ ever, the author draws attention to the confusion that the painting’s ambivalent con­tex­ tualization must have caused contemporaries.846 Its ideality coupled with its indefinability ensured this rear-view female figure an unparalleled career. The very fact that she was not defined by a specific narrative allowed her to be contextualized in different ways. Thus she was cited in the shape of a lady alone in an interior, at her toilette, or making music, or combined with other figures such as an African maid.847 She could likewise be employed, in the same form and pose, as a woman reading a letter. Hoogstraten copied one of these copies (fig. 138, p. 287).848 He thereby caused the letter — visible as no more than the white corner of a piece of paper even in the paraphrase upon which he based himself — to vanish. How is it, then, that

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we are able to interpret this scene as a woman reading a letter? The answer lies with the small boy, who is characterized as a messenger by his (waiting) pose and by the large hat that he has taken off: in the context of the woman seen from behind, the boy’s presence semanticizes her neutral figure and thus the scene as a whole. We recognize the letter theme not because we see it, but because we know it. Hoogstraten cites an image from a well-rehearsed and well-known pictorial tradition; one he could assume would be correctly picked up by suitably (visually) literate recipients. Hoogstraten could of course have invented his own version of the letter theme; instead, however, he quotes — and he quotes a quotation, a copy. He thereby makes the quotation recognizable as such. Hoogstraten thus places himself within the context of a tradition, allows pictures to be experienced as cultural codes. We are looking at an interpictorial discourse, or as Ludwig Jäger puts it, an intramedia transcription.849 As already discussed, pictures with 844 Gudlaugsson 1959 – 60, vol. 1, p.  97, and vol.  2, cat.  no. 110. The copy by Netscher is housed in the museum in Gotha, ibid., cat.  no. 110 II a, pl. 12, fig. 1. 845 For the first time in W. Drost, Barockmalerei in den germanischen Ländern (Handbuch der Kunstwissenschaft), Potsdam 1926, p. 187; Jan Kelch, catalog entry in: exh. cat. Philadelphia 1984, cat.  no. 9, p. 144 – 145; J. P. Guépin, Die Rückenfigur ohne Vorderseite, in: exh.  cat. Münster 1974, p.  31 – 38. Also Gudlaugsson 1959 – 60. 846 Kettering (1997, p.  98 – 115) considers that more than one reception would have been possible: contempo­ raries could have read the painting as a scene in which an officer is courting a young woman, in the sense of a marriage proposal. 847 On the copies: Gudlaugsson 1959 – 60, 1, p.  97 and 2, cat.  no.  110; Barbara Weber, Im Spannungsfeld von Subjektivität und Kommerz. Die Kopien der Rückenfigur aus Gerard Ter Borchs “Die Väterliche Ermahnung,” thesis, Vienna 2008. I should mention for the record the dissertation by Fatma Yalçin, Anwesende Abwesenheit. Untersuchungen zur Entwicklungsgeschichte von Bildern mit menschenleeren Räumen, Rückenfiguren und Lauschern im Holland des 17. Jahrhunderts, Munich, Berlin 2004. (The dissertation falls short of even the minimum standards of a scholarly piece of work; poor-quality copies whose attribution to Ter Borch had already been dismissed by Gudlaugsson and which in some cases date from the 18th  century are presented without discussion as originals by Ter Borch.) 848 Whereabouts unknown, last documented: N. Katz art dealers, Basel 1948. Gudlaugsson (1959 – 60, 110 IIn) attributes the work to Netscher and dates it to the period 1656 – 69. On Netscher: Wieseman 2002. 849 See, among others: Jäger 2008, p.  35 – 44. 850 Adams 2003. Adams rightly refers to the research by Norbert Elias, The Civilizing Process (New York 1978 and 1982; see note 786 and to Herman Rooden­burg’s more recent investigation into comportment. We might also mention the works by Luhmann and in particular by Foucault. On calligraphy, see also note 649.

letters allude to epistolary culture and hence to language. Analogous to pictures, letters —  affecting to be the expression of the most pri­vate, authentic emotions — were likewise struc­ tured by conventions. Letter-writing manuals with their standard turns of phrase not only provided a language through which lovers could express their feelings, but indeed created this specific form of ‘feeling’ in the first place. The practice of calligraphy, in Dutch schoonschrift (literally ‘beautiful writing’), reached a high point in Holland in the 17 th century; manuals became popular on how to write in different scripts for different languages and above all for different purposes. Here, too, the dialectic of cultural disciplining and subjectivity makes itself apparent: handwriting was seen quasi as the outflowing of a person’s nature, yet the letterwriter was required to practice at enormous length and in an extremely regulated manner.850 The ‘most personal’ is artificial. The woman seen in rear view, too, cor­­responded to an ideal that was no less firmly prescribed, both in her pose, which commu­-

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ni­cates sophistication at the same time as passivity, and in her white satin dress, in turn signaling purity and wealth in equal measure. Roodenburg shows how the elite of Dutch society — not just the nobility but also, to a growing extent after 1650, the upper middle class — consciously demarcated itself from the lower classes by selffashioning.851 The foundations for this trend were laid by books of conduct, starting with Castiglione’s Il Cortegiano (1528) and Erasmus’s De civilitate morum puerilium (1530) and followed by Stefano Guazzo’s La Civil Conversatione (1574) and still later works such as Willem Goeree’s Natuurlyk en schilderkonstig ontwerp der menschkunde (Amsterdam 1682).852 The rules laid down by these advice and etiquette manuals should be seen as linked not only with related discourses such as the writings of Jacob Cats and treatises on physiognomics and painting (Van Mander, Hoogstraten, Lairesse), but in particular with body practices, which led as a whole to a certain habitus.853 The language of the body was considered natural and hence a guarantee of truthfulness.854 A central concept was welstand, which might be translated as ‘upright conduct.’ It is illuminating to note the gender-specific differentiations that were made between poses: a head inclined to one side was inappropriate in a man855 but desirable for a woman as a sign of feminine grace and humility. The slightly inclined head of Ter Borch’s female figure in rear view corre­ s­ponds to this ideal, as does her upright pose as a whole. She is effectively a drapery figure who allows nothing to be seen of her body other than a tiny glimpse of neck above her high black collar. Her satin dress with its flowing silhouette is intended to betray as little wilfulness as pos­ sible. The white of the satin did not correspond to the actual fashion of the day, however. In por­ traits, including those by Ter Borch, the white fabric is visible only through a slit in a black over­dress.856 Altogether, in other words: an ideal shell of femininity. Despite its inscription within traditions and codes (governing the pictures, letters and female figure), Hoogstraten’s picture stimulates the imagination of the viewer and awakens multiple associations.

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851 Herman Roodenburg, On ‘Swelling’ the Hips and Crossing the Legs: Distinguishing Public and Private in Paintings and Prints from the Dutch Golden Age, in: Wheelock 2000, p.  64 – 84; Roodenburg 2004. Rood­ enburg shows this in the concrete example of Con­ stantijn Huygens, who, as a poet from the intellectual elite and secretary to the Orange court, was a figure on the border between aristocracy and the upper middle class. As well as his biography and many letters, Huygens left behind a diary in which he writes above all on the education of his children. 852 Guazzo’s book was translated into Dutch in as early as 1603, Il Cortegiano not until 1652. See also Nevitt 2003, p.  71  ff. 853 Roodenburg deliberately employs this term by Bour­ dieu in order to demonstrate how, through discourses and performative acts, certain poses and gestures become internalized and thereby indeed part of our nature, as it were. 854 See also Kapp 1990, esp. p.  47. 855 Huygens was prepared to submit his son Constantijn, whose neck had grown at a crooked angle, to a danger­ous operation. See: Roodenburg 2000, p.  64  f.; id., 2004, p.  78. 856 Kettering 1997, p. 103. 857 Figures in rear view are a favorite theme of Netherlandish painting: from the small figures looking out into the landscape in Jan van Eyck’s Rolin Madonna and the people inside the church in the Requiem Mass in the Turin Book of Hours, to Pieter Bruegel the Elder and the church interiors of de Witte, among others. 858 Johann Wolfgang Goethe, as is well known, incorporated Wille’s engraving after Ter Borch into his Elec­ tive Affinities, where it is performed as a tableau vivant. (J. W. Goethe, Werke, Hamburg edition, edited by E. Trunz, Munich 1982, vol.  6, part 2, ch.  5, p.  393  f.). One of the spectators calls out: “Tournez s’il vous plaît!”

This is achieved first of all through the conception of the female figure. Her upright pose conveys no affects of any kind, even though we know (from the love letter theme) that affects are in play. Through the elimination of the letter, indeed, Hoogstraten demands that we exercise our imagination in order to ‘see’ the woman as reading a letter at all. A figure in rear view, moreover, is a figure of projection par excellence.857 Denied all sight of her facial expression, viewers can place their own fantasies upon this empty shell of femininity. A figure seen from behind is also one that arouses our curiosity and our desire 858, in particular since we know that the invisible letter is a love letter. The viewer’s imagination is also set in motion by the configuration of the picture as a whole. We project our own thoughts and emotions into these empty rooms and onto the picture within the picture. The many moralizing interpretations that read the work as a warning against erotic excess and as a call to virtue mirror the fixations of certain art historians.859 Depending on how we perceive the relationship between the three rooms and semanticize the objects portrayed (shoes, closed book 860, extinguished candle 861, etc.), multilayered axes of meaning arise. We can sense a dangerous tension between the first room, devoted to housework, (“Please turn round!”), documenting both the fascination of the rear view and at the same time the awareness that the fulfilment of this request would destroy the illusion. On the topicality of this problem: Klaus Krüger, Der Blick ins Innere des Bildes. Ästhetische Illusion bei Gerhard Richter, in: Pantheon 53, 1995, p. 149 – 166. 859 Thus Gerhard Langemeyer (exh. cat. Stillleben in Eu­ ropa, Westfälisches Landesmuseum Münster 1979), Vanessa Betinck (portfolio on the picture Dutch Interi­ or by C. Bisshop, attributed by her to Hendrik van den Burgh, Berlin 1982), Bettina Werche (exh.  cat. Frankfurt a. M. 1993) and Jacques Foucart (in a Louvre handout of 1996). On the discussion of these moralizing interpretations: Hammer-Tugendhat 2000 (Kunst der Imagination), esp. p. 139 – 141. 860 The book is not further specified, neither as a bible, a scholarly tome, nor as light reading; in addition, it is shut. I have suggested (2000, p. 148  f.) reading it in terms of a paragone between painting and poetry: the book remains closed, the letter invisible, whereas the picture is open, the picture speaks: ut pictura poesis. 861 To interpret the extinguished candle exclusively as a vanitas symbol, as a reference to a wanton lifestyle, seems dubious. Extinguished candles are found in countless Dutch genre paintings which may certainly not be read as allusions to unchastity. I know of no lit candles in pictures set in daylight. 862 Illustrating antitheses via the semantics of things is typical of Hoogstraten. We might consider his 1654 Trompe-l’oeil Still Life with Letter in Kromeriz, in which the objects depicted contrast the liturgical with the secular sphere, or more accurately the vita contemplativa with the vita activa. Hana Seifertová, Augenbetrüger und ihre Motivation im 17. Jahrhundert. Zur Ausstellung ‘Das Stillleben und sein Gegenstand,’ in: Dresdner Kunstblätter 1984, 1, p.  49 – 56.

and the last, the room of love, seduction and desire; we can read the spatial segments and the corresponding objects as antitheses.862 The rooms can also be interpreted as portraits of real rooms, as those of a bourgeois home in which a picture with an erotic subject hangs and lends the interior new meaning. Another way of reading the composition is to see it as a stepby-step initiation from the space occupied by the viewer into the realm of art, from the banal to the ‘sublime’ and to love. Our imagination may tempt us to suspect that the ‘real’ scene lies behind the door, perhaps in the form of a bed in which the anticipated prospect suggested by the painting on the wall is actually taking place — but this we can neither see nor know. Perhaps the picture is about a seduction. Not a seduction through the amorous petitions of a man who is physically present, however, but through a letter. Seduction through a text, through words. A woman is being wooed in the

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picture, while at the same time the viewer is also being seduced, not by words but by the picture.863 Hoogstraten has thus done his utmost to trigger different associations. At the same time, however, he reflects the imaginary and affective power of painting with pictorial means. Stoichita has described the door as a symbol of the self-reflection of Dutch inte­rior painting. In painting as in artistic theory, the doorkijkje — the view through a doorway — became a metaphor of painting.864 The art of painting opens doors, allows the invisible to become visible — this is what Hoogstraten’s painting shows. But what we see is again ‘merely’ a picture. The viewer, looking into the picture from the threshold, is simultaneously inside and outside the picture. Moreover, the fragmentation of almost every object makes us conscious that we cannot see everything. The picture also reflects its own ‘outside’: the light streaming in from outside the picture points to a real world beyond the canvas. Through all these artistic strategies, viewers are made aware that they are looking at a picture and hence that all their imaginings are their own imaginings. The mirror beside the picture reflects nothing; it is we who semanticize it. Hoogstraten would have been perfectly capable of such a reflection upon his medium. He was one of the few Dutch artists who wrote a treatise on painting: Inleyding tot de Hooge Schoole der Schilderkonst: Anders de Zichtbaere Werelt (‘Introduction to the academy of painting, or the visible world’) (1678). In the first book of his treatise, in a chapter on the aim of painting (“What it is and what it produces”), he defines painting thus: De Schilderkonst is een wetenschap, om alle ideen, ofte denkbeelden, die de gansche zichtbaere natuer kan geven, te verbeelden: en met omtrek en verwe het oog te bedriegen. (Painting is a science, in order to depict all the ideas, or mental images, that the whole of visible Nature can give; and to deceive the eye with contours and colours.)865 Hoogstraten does not speak of all the phenomena or objects in nature, but of ideas and mental images. The Slippers is also a reflection upon art’s new location: the private home.866 It is more than just another painting of a Dutch interior: insofar as Hoogstraten re­ duces his composition to rooms devoid of human occupants and to a panel picture on the wall, he addresses the new location and the function of bourgeois painting per se. The panel picture in the private sphere allows a new quality of reception: an entirely

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personal one. This reception can be compared with that of reading a novel. In the case of 18th century literature, Koschorke argues that absorption in reading a novel was the most private, most personal and also the most isolating form of reading and served to heighten the individual’s powers of imagination.867

Coda In hindsight, we can observe an evolution in the representation of emotions: starting with the Baroque versions of the love-letter theme by Dirck Hals, in which — still in the tradition of rhetoric — the body voices what is taking place in the soul, affect representation becomes concentrated within the face in the work of Rembrandt. Via the interiorization of emotion in the paintings of Metsu, Ter Borch and Vermeer (the latter two largely renouncing even the alle­go­ rical device of the picture within the picture), 863 Dutch texts of this same period describe how sensual feelings and lust are aroused via the eye — an effect admired by some and condemned as immoral by others. As Sluijter writes in his analysis of 17th century Dutch treatises on painting (1991, p. 188, 204  f., note 74), this issue arose in particular in the context of pictures of seduction scenes which usually center upon a young woman. Sluijter (ibid.) quotes van der Venne: “The eye is never satisfied, desire never quenched, as long as one is involved in art and love.” This analogy between love and art with regard to desire was thus also contemplated at the intellectual level. 864 Stoichita (1998, p.  5 4) refers to the title page of Philip Angel’s 1642 Lof der Schilder-Konst, in which the personification of Pictura holds a panel showing a dorkijkje (ill.: ibid., p.  54). 865 Hoogstraten 1678 (1969), p.  24 – 25. Hans-Jörg Czech, Im Geleit der Musen. Studien zu Samuel van Hoog­ stratens Malereitraktat Inleyding tot de Hooge Schoole der Schilderkonst: Anders de Zichtbaere Werelt, Münster 2002 (Niederlande-Studien 27); Hans-Jörg Czech, Klassizismus mit niederländischem Antlitz. Fundierung und Propagierung im kunsttheoretischen Werk von Samuel van Hoogstraten, in: Ekkehard Mai (ed.), Holland nach Rembrandt. Zur niederländischen Kunst zwischen 1670 und 1750, Cologne, Weimar, Vien­ na 2006, p.  97 – 118; Weststeijn 2006. 866 Stoichita 1998, p.  44 – 53 and p. 159  f. Pictures of in­te­ riors were created for interiors and reflected the interior. See Part II, Chapter 4, note 723. 867 Koschorke 1999, esp. p. 169  ff. 868 Both artists lived in Amsterdam. Duyster died young of the plague (1589/99 – 1635) and left behind only a small oeuvre (approx. 35 paintings). Codde (1599 – 1678), although he lived to a greater age, also produced his best works in the 1630s and 1640s. He was also active as a poet. Both painted primarily small-figural genre scenes, Codde chiefly Merry Com­ panies with music and dance, Duyster guardroom scenes (cortegaardjes). The only monograph on these two highly interesting artists of which I am aware

the path leads to Hoogstraten, who portrays no people at all and thus no affects. Emotions become invisible, they get internalized and ultimately migrate into the recipient. Emotions can thus be represented in manifold ways and not just, as one might per­ haps assume, through physical gestures and facial expressions. Rather, emotions can also be represented, or more accurately evoked, via allegorical references such as pictures within pictures, via semantically charged objects and appropriate aesthetic structures. This development could not be re­ver­s­ed. To compress it into a concept of linear progression, however, would be an injustice to the artistic complexity of its forms of expression. Barely later than Dirck Hals, and most likely influenced by him, Pieter Codde and Willem Cornelisz. Duyster produced their own loveletter pictures, in which they appear to anticipate the ideas of the second half of the century.868

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Fig. 140: Pieter Codde, A Woman Seated at a Virginal with a Letter, panel, early 1630s, Boston, priv. coll. Fig. 141: Willem Duyster, Woman with a Letter and a Man, early 1630s, panel, Copenhagen, Statens Museum for Kunst

The notion of employing a figure seen in rear view for the love-letter theme was one that Codde conceived in the early 1630s (fig. 140). The woman is seated motionless at the virginal, her body at an angle to the keyboard, the letter she has clearly just read held in the hand hanging down by her side. We are given no information as to the contents of the letter or her emotional state. But her pose, with her head slightly bowed, the painting on the wall of a pallid landscape disappearing into nothingness, the viola da gamba set to one side with a black, almost transparent veil draped over the carved boss at its upper end, and the dark, eerie shadow on the far wall, seem to promise nothing good. The affectively charged but unexplained scene in Duyster’s version (fig. 141) can be seen in turn as a step towards Ter Borch’s psychologically complex paintings. This ‘simultaneity of the nonsimulta­­neous’ (Die Gleichzeitigkeit des Ungleichzei­ti­ gen)869 is also true of the age of Vermeer and the late 17 th century. Here we find different and

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is the dissertation by Caroline Bigler Playter, Willem Duyster and Pieter Codde: The ‘Duystere Werelt’ of Dutch Genre Painting, c. 1625 – 1635, Harvard Univer­ sity 1972; unfortunately, I have not had access to this work. See also: exh.  cat. Dublin, Greenwich 2003, p.  84 – 89; Franits 2004, p.  57 – 64. In this context we must also mention Esaias van de Velde, who — even if his surviving oeuvre contains no paintings of letters — developed complex psychological relationships between the figures in the Merry Companies in open-air settings which he produced as early as the 1620s, years during which he was based in Haarlem. See: Nevitt 2003, esp. p.  57 – 65. Nevitt has rightly described the artist as a source for Ter Borch. 869 See especially Reinhart Koselleck, Vergangene Zukunft. Zur Semantik geschichtlicher Zeiten, Frankfurt a. M. 1979, esp. p. 125  f., 132, 137, 154, 323  ff., 336, 367. 870 Jennifer Montagu, The Expression of the Passions. The Origin and Influence of Charles le Brun’s Confé­ rence sur l’expression générale et particulière, New Haven, London 1994; Thomas Kirchner, L’expression des passions: Ausdruck als Darstellungsproblem in der

Fig. 142: Charles Le Brun, Conférence sur l´expression générale et particulière des passions, 1687

indeed contradictory representations of the affects, albeit not under the same conditions in the same country. Alongside its Dutch versions, Baroque affect rhetoric continued to flourish in particular in the Catholic countries of the Counter-Reformation, namely Italy, Germany and Austria. In France, meanwhile, Charles le Brun, court artist and director of the Académie Royale, in 1668 presented his theories on the passions and their expression, which he illustrated with drawings of the human face exhibiting a range of different affects (fig. 142).870 The facial expressions corres­ französischen Kunst und Kunsttheorie des 17. und 18. Jahrhunderts, Mainz 1991; Lars Olof Larsson, Der Maler als Erzähler. Gebärdensprache und Mimik in der französischen Malerei und Kunsttheorie des 17. Jahrhunderts am Beispiel Charles Le Bruns, in: Kapp 1990, p. 173 – 189. 871 Politicians, as well as the Catholic Church, deliber­ ately used a strategy based on rhetoric to control the affects of their subjects. Thus Jean-François Senault, for example, in the dedication to Richelieu accompanying his book De l’usage des passions (1641), wrote: “But what I particularly admire about your conduct, and what renders it closer to the resemblance of that of God, is that, captivating men by their passions, you make them serve your own designs, without their real­ izing it.” Translated here from Thomas Kirchner, ‘De l’usage des passions.’ Die Emotionen bei Künstler, Kunstwerk und Betrachter, in: Herding, Stumpfhaus 2004, p.  357 – 377, here: p.  364. Closely related, too, are the writings of the Spanish Jesuit Baltasar Gracián: Oráculo manual y arte de prudencia (1647), see ibid. p. 364.

ponding to each human passion were to be systematized. But this fixing of emotion led to its stylization and extinction: frozen masks appear in place of powerfully expressive faces. The aim was clear: the human passions were to be banished by reason. Speaking here is the power discourse of the French court.871 Le Brun drew extensively upon Descartes’s Passions of the Soul in his characterization of the individual affects. Decartes’s ideas were subsequently re­ ceived for the most part in this same sense and consequently misunderstood. But Descartes had

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expressly pointed out the problematic relationship between the human interior and its exterior.872 He was fundamentally skeptical about the metaphor of the ‘mirror’ and about the idea that perception could be identified with objective being.873 Le Brun’s theories, on the other hand, belonged to the discourse on physiognomics.874 The physiognomic discourse sought to recognize, name, codify, typologize and standardize a person’s inner truth from his or her outward appearance. Le Brun is closer to Giambattista della Porta — the most important physiognomist of the Renaissance, whose own book on the subject brought together older writings from Antiquity, Arab tradition and the Middle Ages — than to Descartes. The phantasm of control, and the desire to know what goes on inside another person, make themselves felt, too, in Le Brun’s systematic drawings. These faces each visualize one affect, and one affect only, which is clearly defined by means of specific elements (movement of the eyebrows etc.). As such, they could not be further from Rembrandt’s late portraits, which seek to convey the depth, complexity and indefinability of human emotion. They are equally far removed from the approach adopted by Ter Borch and by Vermeer. Vermeer seems to me the antithesis, so to speak, of this physiognomic discourse. His art stands for the affirmation of the individual, whose presence is made tangible simply as pre­sence, but whose secrets are not named and hence not divulged. Perhaps the poetry of Vermeer’s pictures also lies in this acceptance of the pri­ vacy of the human psyche. Through his artistic articulation of this withholding of information, Vermeer bestows privacy, intimacy and subjectivity.875 The aforementioned positions are the various, conflicting responses and attitudes to one and the same phenomenon: to individualization and privatization, within which the face stands at the center of observation by the self and by the other.876 The question of the relationship between inside and outside, between soul  / mind / psyche and body, between inner ‘truth’ and deceptive appearance — this question was not new. It has been asked since Antiquity, for example, by Euripides’s Medea:

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872 Descartes 1989, Art.  113 (About actions of the eyes and face): “But although these actions are easily perceived, and what they mean is known, that does not make it easy to describe them, because each of them is composed of many changes taking place in the movement and shape of the eyes, so singular and slight that there is no perceiving each of them separately, even though what results from their conjunction may be quite easy to recognize. Almost the same can be said of the actions of the face […] they differ so little that there are men who have almost the same look when they cry as others when they laugh. It is true that there are some that are quite recognizable, like a wrinkled forehead in anger and certain movements of the nose and lips in indignation and mockery, but they do not seem to be natural so much as voluntary. And in general all the actions of both the face and the eyes can be changed by the soul, when, willing to conceal its passion, it forcefully imagines one in opposition to it; thus one can use them to dissimulate one’s passions as well as to manifest them.” 873 Here we may name first and foremost Descartes’s studies on optics (La dioptrique); Summers 2003, esp. p.  21 – 26. 874 On physiognomics: Courtine, Haroche 1994; Claudia Schmölders, Das Vorurteil im Leibe. Eine Einführung in die Physiognomik, Berlin 1995; Campe, Schneider 1996 (with extensive bibliography); Claudia Schmöl­ ders (ed.), Der exzentrische Blick. Gespräch über Physiognomik, Berlin 1996; Petra Löffler (ed.), Das Gesicht ist eine starke Organisation, Cologne 2004. 875 Aleida and Jan Assmann write in the introduction to their book Geheimnis und Öffentlichkeit (Schleier und Schwelle, vol. 1, Munich 1997, p.  8), with reference to Georg Simmel: “People use withheld knowledge to dis­tance themselves from each other; this applies not just to individuals — without this principle of withheld

O Zeus! why hast thou granted unto man clear signs to know the sham in gold, while on man’s brow no brand is stamped whereby to gauge the villain’s heart? 877 The reliability of signs had likewise been discussed in the Middle Ages, too; here the debate concerned primarily the contradiction between the Christian theological belief the outer is the opposite of the inner and the courtly motto the outer is the re­ flection of the inner.878 In the early modern period, however, these questions were asked afresh and with greater urgency within an altered framework. If we are to come closer to writing a history of emotions 879 from the point of view of Kulturwissenschaften, what we need here is a broader-scale interdisciplinary research project. It would explore, among other things, how affect and body are experienced and interpreted in the fields of medicine, philosophy, didactics (didaxis) and theology as well as the arts and social and economic developments. Such a project would need to consider, as already indicated, the differ­­-  ences in the media and discourses of the day. knowledge, there would be no intimacy, no privacy and no personality based upon them […].” 876 Courtine, Haroche 1994, e. g. p. 10: “To express oneself, to keep silent, to discover oneself, to mask oneself: these paradoxes of the face are those of the individual […].” 877 Euripides, Medea II, 516 – 519. Cited here in the English translation by E. Coleridge; http://classics.mit.edu// Euripides/medea.html, retrieved June 14, 2012. 878 Horst Wenzel, ‘Des menschen muot wont in den ougen.’ Höfische Kommunikation im Raum der wechselseitigen Wahrnehmung, in: Campe, Schneider 1996, p.  65 – 98. See also: Caroline Walker Bynum, Did the Twelfth Century Discover the Individual?, in: Walker Bynum, Jesus as Mother: Studies in the Spirituality of the High Middle Ages, Berkeley 1982, p.  82 – 109; Barbara Rosenwein, Y avait-il un ‘moi’ au haut Moyen Age?, in: Revue historique CCCVII/1, p.  31 – 51. 879 It goes without saying that this could only be a history of discourses and representations on emotions; it is impossible to reconstruct the feelings of the people of earlier times. 880 As regards the Middle Ages, the differences and the overlaps in the way emotions are evaluated within one society, e. g. between Christian-theological and aristocratic court circles, have been spotlighted above all by Barbara Rosenwein. See also: Lutter 2007; Christina Lutter, ‘Wunderbare Geschichten’. Frömmigkeitsvorstellungen und -praxis in miracula des 12. Jahrhunderts, in: Jörg Rogge (ed.), Religiöse Ordnungsvorstellungen und Frömmigkeitspraxis im Hoch- und Spätmittelalter, Memmingen 2008, p.  41 – 61. 881 See Bachorski’s observations on the literature of the 16th century (1991, p.  528): “What, for example, appears in treatises simply as an expression of sexual drive that needs to be quelled, takes center stage in countless numbers of farces as Lust, who triumphs over all the laws of the Church, Judiciary and State.”

It should address the contradictions that arose out of the different heritage of classical medicine and philosophy on the one hand, and the Christian theological concept of the body and soul on the other, and examine the consequences of these contradictions for their evaluation of affects. It would need to devote greater study to the various topoi, i.e. the places where affects were discussed, within which framework and with what moral and ideological concepts.880 In theological treatises, books of conduct, and indeed in writings by philosophers concerned with reason and knowledge, emo­ tions were of course talked about in a different, more moral, normative fashion than was the case in art.881 The fine arts would in turn need to be given proper consideration in terms of their own semantic potential and not — as is almost exclusively the case among art histo­ rians — explained through linguistic discourses, normative writings, rhetorics and treatises

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on art. Indeed, the respective tensions and areas of overlap between the fields and disciplines could be precisely where important insights are to be gained. In the case of the arts, it would be imperative to include music and dance as well as the visual and linguistic media.882 The differences and interdependences between the courtly discourse and the discourse starting at that time within the upper middle class would also need to be investigated. Outward self-representation indisputably began to be doubted even within the aristocratic milieu, too 883 ; on the other hand, the bourgeois discourse cannot be characterized simply as the search for the inner self and for ‘natural’ feelings. The Dutch bourgeoisie appropriated books of courtly etiquette; the ‘naturalness’ of feelings was based on codifications and — as we have seen — was indeed only brought forth by corresponding discourses and acquired by education. The influence of Protestantism on the affect discourse in contrast to Counter-Reformationist Catholicism would similarly need to be analyzed. In order to comprehend the specific nature of Dutch pictures, Dutch contemporary literature should also be incorporated within the field of study, and it goes without saying that the investigation into painting should be broadened to include other motifs, themes and artists. It is nevertheless possible to identify a number of aspects that deserve closer investigation. Within the changes that took place in the framework, there are two in par­ ticular that link the 17 th century with our own and which offer a parallel, as it were, to our situation today. These changes concern medicine/neurobiology and media tech­nology, and they shed light on the interplay between the emotional and other areas and social practices, and likewise on the ways in which emotions are culturally shaped. In the 17 th century, the discovery of the circulation of the blood by William Harvey (1628) delivered a fundamental blow to the medical thought that had informed the view of the workings of the human body ever since Antiquity, the Middle Ages and the Renaissance. This new medical knowledge cast into question not just the humoral pathology of the past, but also the entire system of analogies built up around it — the analogies between humans and other living creatures and between humans and the stars — and the notion of the mirroring relationship between the inner and outer self. With its correspondences, the astro-biological paradigm had linked medicine with affect theory, rhetoric, physiogno­mics and morality. With the emergence of a medicine oriented toward the natural sciences, the body was divorced from the soul, despiritualized, demystified. Descartes incorpo­ rated Harvey’s discoveries into his philosophy and firmly separated body and soul. The relationship between inner and outer, between individual psyche and visible and legible bodily signs now assumed a different and more complex form and had to be defined anew. In our own day, new medical findings within neurobiology are radicalizing the discussion about the relationship between physis and psyche and hence about emotions.

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The effects of media revolutions upon the psyche are probably no less farreaching. The impact of the end of rhetoric and of increased alphabetization upon the change in the culture of emotion, and the emergence of sensibility over the course of the 18th century, have been described by numerous authors.884 Currently, new media with their technologies and overpowering strategies are transforming not only communication, but indisputably, too, the affective life of the individual. Research in the sphere of neurobiology and the revolutionizing of media technologies have probably contributed to the fact that the affect discourse (after a long hiatus) is today once again flourishing so vigorously. To understand and make a critical assessment of the current situation, it would be illuminating to compare today’s discourse with the discourses of the 17 th century. It is thereby particularly revealing to identify their differences: thus in the 17 th century, for example, the affects were always discussed in conjunction with ethical questions. We, on the other hand, talk about whether and how feelings are culturally coded and shaped — questions that were quite literally inconceivable in the anthropological discourse of the 17 th century. Looking at the past in this cultural-historical light makes it possible for us to see our own present in sharper outline, to grasp more clearly the possibilities and limits of our current debates, and to identify which disciplines are currently considered competent to concern themselves with the emotions, and with what paradigms.885 It is my plea that cultural studies (Kultur­ th

882 In the 17 century, too, music was considered a powerfully affective artistic genre. See Grimm 2000. It is significant that musical instruments should make a prominent appearance in so many Dutch genre pictures. 883 Explicitly, for example, in La Rochefoucauld, see: Manfred Schneider, La Rochefoucauld: Die Lesbarkeit des Trugs, in: Campe, Schneider 1996, p.  267 – 281. The experience of the human interior as “closed, inaccessible and unfathomable,” however, is already found in Shakespeare’s Hamlet, there as the painful opposite to the court persona; see: Aleida Assmann, ‘An we had the trick to see’t.’ Geheimnis and Neugierde in Shakespeares Hamlet, in: Aleida and Jan Assmann (eds.), Geheimnis und Neugierde (Schleier und Schwelle, vol.  3), Munich 1999, p.  210 – 221. Klaus Reichert (Hamlets Falle. Das Paradox der Kultiviertheit, in: Klaus Reichert, Der fremde Shakespeare, Munich, Vienna 1998, p.  57 – 86) has shown that Hamlet had still found no language to articulate his private feelings. It might be said that, half a century after Shake­speare, Vermeer and his artist colleagues found a ‘lang­uage’ for this in Dutch culture, where the bourgeois private sphere was already clearly defined. 884 Campe 1990; Koschorke 1999; Roger Chartier, Lesen und Schreiben in Europa, Munich 1999, all with extensive bibliographies. 885 The frameworks stipulated by certain disciplines vary greatly and to a large extent determine the ways that feelings can be talked about. In place of philosophy, first amongst these disciplines today are neurobiology, psychology, sociology and media studies.

wissenschaften), centered upon language and literature, should finally embrace the visual media within their research horizons. In the present case, this visual medium is painting. In Dutch painting in the second half of 17 th century, forms of representation were developed that describe emotions as complex, individual and invisible and transpose them into the inner subject. Scholars in the sphere of literature, sociology and the humanities usually date this withdrawal into the inner self to the 18th century and thereby concentrate primarily upon France, Germany and England. Holland is disregarded. The new inwardness and sensibility went hand in hand with the development of the bourgeoisie, which was demonstrably most advanced in Holland in the 17 th century. Forms

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of interiority, only palpable in literature from the beginning of the 18th century, can already be found in the late paintings by Rembrandt and in the works of Ter Borch, Vermeer and Hoogstraten. The paintings of women reading love letters in interior settings make visible what scholars 886 describe as the interrelation between bourgeois privacy, epistolary cul­ ture, intimacy and affect modeling.887 Hoogstraten in turn reflects this interplay in the medium of painting. Dutch painting, which seems so mimetic, is neither the mere description of visible reality nor the reflection of social reality. Instead, it opens up new possibilities and spaces of affective culture and imagination. Dutch painting of the 17 th century thus made an active contribution to the formation of modern subjectivity.888

886 See above all Koschorke 1999, who considers the change in the culture of feeling to be “linked with the spread of a standard of literacy that had a previously unattained depth of impact” (p. 12) and identifies a new code of intimacy “whose technical prerequi­ site is the written form of communication: the letter.” (p. 175) Through private absorption in reading (letters, novels), the power of imagination is increased (see p.  298, for example). 887 Since the motif of reading a love letter is symptom­ atic, it seems to me legitimate to raise the question of affect modeling in the example of this — admittedly limited — theme. 888 On the difficult definition of the term ‘subjectivity,’ on the question of a history of the self and of the percep­ tion of the self as an individual, and on the relationship between subjectivity and the imaginary: Charles Taylor, Sources of the Self. The Making of the Modern Identity, Cambridge 1992; Reto Luzius Fetz (ed.), Geschichte und Vorgeschichte der modernen Subjektivität, Berlin 1998, esp. the essay by Roland Hagenbüchle, Subjektivität: Eine historisch-systematische Hinführung, p. 1 – 79; Hans-Georg Soeffner, Thomas Luckmann, Die Objektivität des Subjektiven. G. Ungeheuers Ent­wurf einer Theorie kommunikativen Handelns, in: Ronald Hitzler (ed.), Hermeneutische Wissenssoziologie: Stand­punkte zur Theorie der Interpretation, Constance 1999, p. 171 – 185; Rudolf Behrens (ed.), Ordnungen des Imaginären. Theorien der Imagination in funktionsgeschichtlicher Sicht. Beiheft der Zeitschrift für Ästhetik und allgemeine Kunstwissenschaft, Hamburg 2002.

Part II: Plates 9 –14

Frans van Mieris Woman before the Mirror, c. 1670



Jan Vermeer Woman Holding a Balance, c. 1664



Gabriel Metsu Woman Reading a Letter, c. 1664 – 67



Jan Vermeer Woman Reading a Letter at an Open Window, c. 1657



Jan Vermeer Woman in Blue Reading a Letter, c. 1662 – 64



Samuel van Hoogstraten The Slippers, 1658 – 60

301

Plate 9: Frans van Mieris, Woman before the Mirror, c. 1670, panel, 43 / 31.5  cm Munich, Alte Pinakothek

302

Plate 10: Jan Vermeer, Woman Holding a Balance, c. 1664, canvas, 42.5 / 38  cm Washington, D. C., Widener Collection, National Gallery of Art

303

Plate 11: Gabriel Metsu, Woman Reading a Letter, c. 1664 – 67, panel, 52.5 / 40.2  cm Dublin, National Gallery of Ireland

304

Plate 12: Jan Vermeer, Woman Reading a Letter at an Open Window, c. 1657, canvas, 83 / 64.5  cm Dresden, Gemäldegalerie Alte Meister

305

Plate 13: Jan Vermeer, Woman in Blue Reading a Letter, c. 1662 – 64, canvas, 46.5 / 39  cm Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum

306

Plate 14: Samuel van Hoogstraten, The Slippers, 1658 – 60, canvas, 103 / 70  cm, Paris, Louvre

307



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Agnes A. Sneller, “Passionate Drama. Coster’s Polyxena re-read,” in: Dutch Crossing 25/1, 2001, p. 78 – 88 Edward Snow, A Study of Vermeer, Berkeley 1994 Marijke Spies, “Charlotte de Huybert, en het gelijk. De geleerde en de werkende vrouw in de zeventiende eeuw,” in: Literatuur 1986/6, p. 339 – 350 Marijke Spies, Rhetoric, Rhetoricians and Poets, Amsterdam 1999 Baruch de Spinoza. Complete Works, edited by Michael Morgan, translated by Samuel Shirley, Indianapolis 2002 Baruch Spinoza, A Theologico-Political Treatise [Tractatus Theologico-Politicus], translated by R. H. M. Elwes, London 1891 Baruch Spinoza, A Political Treatise [Tractatus Politicus], translated by R. H. M. Elwes, London 1891 Wolfgang Stechow, “Lucretiae Statua,” in: Beiträge für Georg Swarzenski, Berlin 1951, p. 114 – 124 J.A. Steiger et al. (eds.), “Passion, Affekt und Leidenschaft in der Frühen Neuzeit.” 11th annual meeting of the Wolfenbüttel working group for Baroque research, Herzog August Bibliothek, Wiesbaden 2005 Victor I. Stoichita, The Self-Aware Image. An Insight into Early Modern Meta-Painting, Cambridge, New York 1997 Walter L. Strauss, Marjon van der Meulen (eds.), The Rembrandt Documents, New York 1979 David Summers, “Cogito Embodied: Force and Counterforce in René Descartes’s Les passions de l’âme,” in: Meyer 2003, p. 13–36 Werner Sumowski, Gemälde der Rembrandt-Schüler, 5 vols., Landau / Palatinate 1983 – 1990 Bette Talvacchia, “Figure lascive per trastullo de l’ingegno,” in: Giulio Romano, exh. cat. Milan 1980, p. 277 – 287 Charles de Tolnay, “The Syndics of the Drapers Guild by Rembrandt,” in: Gazette des Beaux-Arts 85, 1943, p. 31 f. Charles de Tolnay, “A Note on the Staalmeesters,” in: Oud Holland 73, 1958, p. 85 f. Sylvana Tomaselli, Roy Porter, Rape. An Historical and Cultural Enquiry, Oxford, New York 1989 (1986) Christian Tümpel, “Studien zur Ikonografie der Historien Rembrandts. Deutung und Interpretation der Bildinhalte,” in: Nederlands Kunsthistorisch Jaarboek, vol. 20, 1969, p. 107 – 198 Christian Tümpel, Rembrandt. Mythos und Methode, Antwerpen 1986 Jlja M. Veldman, “Lessons for Ladies: A Selection of Sixteenth and Seventeenth-Century Dutch Prints,” in: Simiolus 16, 2/3, 1986, p. 113 – 127 Lisa Vergara, “Antiek and Modern in Vermeer’s Lady Writing a Letter with her Maid,” in: Gaskell 1998, p. 235 – 255 325

Koen Vermeir, “Mirror, Mirror, on the Wall. Aesthetics and Metaphysics of 17th Century Scientific /  Artistic Spectacles,” in: kritische berichte: “Spiegel und Spiegelungen” 2004/2, p. 27 – 38 Henry van de Waal, “De Staalmeesters en hun legende,” in: Oud Holland 71, 1956, p. 61 – 105 (English summary p. 105 – 107) Henry van de Waal, “The Mood of the ‘Staalmeesters.’ A Note on Mr. De Tonlnay’s Interpreta­ tion,” in: Oud Holland 73, 1958, p. 86 – 89 Willi Walter, “Gender, Geschlecht und Männerforschung,” in: Braun, Stephan 2005, p. 97 – 115 Aby Warburg, Gesammelte Schriften, edited by Gertrud Bing with the assistance of Fritz Rougemont, Leipzig, Berlin 1932 Carsten-Peter Warncke, Sprechende Bilder — sichtbare Worte. Das Bildverständnis in der frühen Neuzeit (Wolfenbütteler Forschungen, vol. 33) Wiesbaden 1987 Gregor J. M. Weber, “‘Om te bevestige[n] aen-te-raden, verbreeden ende vercieren.’ Rhetorische Exempellehre und die Struktur des ‘Bildes im Bild,’” in: Studien zur niederländi­ schen Kunst. Festschrift für Justus Müller Hofstede, Wallraf-Richartz-Jahrbuch LV, 1994, p. 287 – 314 Gregor J. M. Weber, “Vermeer’s Use of the Picture-within-a Picture: A New Approach,” in: Gaskell 1998, p. 295 – 307 Sigrid Weigel, “Von der ‘anderen Rede’ zur Rede des Anderen,” in: Schade et al. 1994, p. 159 – 169 Sigrid Weigel, “Pathos — Passion — Gefühl,” in: ead., Literatur als Voraussetzung der Kul­ turgeschichte. Schauplätze von Shakespeare bis Benjamin, Munich, Paderborn 2004, p. 147 – 172 Petra Welzel, Rembrandt’s Bathseba — Metapher des Begehrens oder Sinnbild zur Selbsterkenntnis? Eine Bildmonographie (European University Studies, Series 28: History of Art, vol. 204) Frankfurt a. M., Vienna, et al. 1994 Silke Wenk, Versteinerte Weiblichkeit. Allegorien in der Skulptur der Moderne, Cologne 1996 Edith Wenzel, “David und Bathseba. Zum Wandel der Weiblichkeit im männlichen Blick,” in: Bulletin des Zentrums für interdisziplinäre Frauenforschung der Humboldt-Universität Berlin Brandenburg, vol. 11, 1995, p. 41 – 55 Horst Wenzel, Hören und Sehen. Schrift und Bild. Kultur und Gedächtnis im Mittelalter, Munich 1995 Horst Wenzel, Wilfried Seipel, Gotthart Wunberg (eds.), Die Verschriftlichung der Welt. Bild,   Text und Zahl in der Kultur des Mittelalters und der Frühen Neuzeit (Schriften des Kunst­ historischen Museums Wien, vol. 5), Vienna 2000 Horst Wenzel, Wilfried Seipel, Gotthart Wunberg (eds.), Audiovisualität vor und nach Gutenberg (Schriften des Kunsthistorischen Museums Wien, vol. 6), Vienna 2001 Horst Wenzel, Spiegelungen. Zur Kultur der Visualität im Mittelalter, Berlin 2009

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Mariët Westermann, Von Rembrandt zu Vermeer. Niederländische Kunst des 17. Jahrhunderts, Cologne 1996 Thijs Weststeijn, De zichtbare Wereld. Samuel van Hoogstratens kunsttheorie en de legitimering van de schilderkonst in de zeventiende eeuw, 2 vols., Amsterdam 2006 Ernst van de Wetering, Het formaat van Rembrandt’s Danaë, in: Met eigen ogen. Opstellen   aangeboden door leerlingen en medewerkers aan Hans L.C. Jaffé, Amsterdam 1984, p. 67 – 72 Ernst van de Wetering, Rembrandt: The Painter at Work, Amsterdam 1997 Ernst van de Wetering, “Rembrandt’s Bathsheba: the object and its transformations,” in: Adams 1998, p. 27 – 47 Ernst van de Wetering, “Rembrandt’s Self-Portraits. Problems of Authenticity and Function,” in: RRP, vol. 4, Ernst van de Wetering (ed.): The Self-Portraits 1625 – 1669, 2005, p. 89 – 317 Arthur K. Wheelock Jr., George Keyes, Rembrandt’s Lucretias, exh. cat. The Minneapolis Institute of Arts, Washington, D.C. 1991 Arthur K. Wheelock Jr., Dutch Paintings of the Seventeenth Century (The Collection of the National Gallery of Art. Systematic Catalogue), Washington, D.C., New York, Oxford 1995 Arthur K. Wheelock Jr., Adele Seeff, The Public and the Private in Dutch Culture of the Golden Age, Newark, London 2000 Christopher White, Rembrandt as an Etcher: A Study of the Artist at Work, 2 vols., London 1969 (1999) Marjorie E. Wieseman, Caspar Netscher and Late Seventeenth-Century Dutch Painting, Doorn­ spijk 2002 Marieke de Winkel, “The Interpretation of Dress in Vermeer’s Paintings,” in: Gaskell 1998, p. 327 – 339 Tibor Wittmann, Das Goldene Zeitalter der Niederlande, Leipzig 1975 (1965) Bryan Jay Wolf, Vermeer and the Invention of Seeing, Chicago, London 2001 Diane Wolfthal, “‘Douleur sur toutes autres.’ Revisualizing the Rape Script in the Epistre Othea and the Cité de Dames,” in: Marilynn Desmond (ed.), Christine de Pizan and the Categories of Difference, Minneapolis 1998, p. 41 – 70 Diane Wolfthal, Images of Rape. The ‘Heroic’ Tradition and its Alternatives, Cambridge 1999 Christopher Wright, Rembrandt, Munich 2000 Heide Wunder, Gisela Engel (eds.), Geschlechterperspektiven. Forschungen zur Frühen Neuzeit, Königstein/Taunus 1998 Margarete Zimmermann, “Vom Streit der Geschlechter. Die französische und italienische Querelle des Femmes des 15. bis 17. Jahrhunderts,” in: exh. cat. Düsseldorf 1995, p. 14 – 33

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Exhibition catalogs

Exh. cat. Amsterdam 1976: Tot lering en vermaak. Betekenissen van Hollandse genrevoorstellingen uit de zeventiende eeuw, edited by Eddy de Jongh, Rijksmuseum Amsterdam Exh. cat. Amsterdam 1997: Mirror of Everyday Life. Genreprints in the Netherlands 1550 – 1700, edited by Eddy de Jongh, Ger Luijten, Rijksmuseum Amsterdam Exh. cat. Amsterdam, London 2000: Rembrandt the Printmaker, edited by Erik Hinterding, Ger Luiten, Martin Royalton Kisch, Rijksmuseum Amsterdam, British Museum London Exh. cat. Berlin 1991: Rembrandt. Der Meister und seine Werkstatt, edited by Christopher Brown, Jan Kelch, Pieter van Thiel, Gemäldegalerie Berlin Exh. cat. Berlin 2006: Rembrandt. Ein Virtuose der Druckgraphik, edited by Holm Bevers, Jasper Kettner, Gudula Metze, Kupferstichkabinett Staatliche Museen Berlin Exh. cat. Berlin 2006: Rembrandt. Genie auf der Suche, edited by Ernst van de Wetering, Jan Kelch, Gemäldegalerie Staatliche Museen zu Berlin Exh. cat. Berlin 2007: Das abc der Bilder, edited by Moritz Wullen in collaboration with Andrea Müller, Anne Schulten and Marc Wilken, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin in collaboration with the Hermann von Helmholtz-Zentrum für Kulturtechnik Berlin Exh. cat. Berlin, London, Philadelphia 1984: Masters of Seventeenth-Century Dutch Genre   Painting, edited by Peter C. Sutton, Gemäldegalerie Berlin, Royal Academy of Arts, London, Philadelphia Museum of Art, Philadelphia Exh. cat. The Hague, Washington, D. C. 1995: Johannes Vermeer, edited by Arthur K. Wheelock, Mauritshuis, The Hague, National Gallery of Art, Washington,t D. C. Exh. cat. The Hague, Washington, D. C. 2005 /06: Frans van Mieris. 1635 – 1681, edited by Quentin Buvelot, Mauritshuis, The Hague, National Gallery of Art, Washington, D. C. Exh. cat. Denver, Newark 2001: Art and Home. Dutch Interiors in the Age of Rembrandt, edited by Mariet Westermann, Denver Art Museum, The Newark Museum Exh. cat. Dublin, Greenwich 2003: Love Letters. Dutch Genre Paintings in the Age of Vermeer, edited by Peter C. Sutton, Lisa Vergara, Ann Jensen Adams in collaboration with Jennifer Kilian and Marjorie E. Wieseman, Bruce Museum of Arts and Science, Greenwich, National Gallery of Ireland, Dublin Exh. cat. Düsseldorf 1995: Die Galerie der starken Frauen. Die Heldin in der französischen und   italienischen Kunst des 17. Jahrhunderts, edited by Bettina Baumgärtel and Silvia Neysters, Kunstmuseum Düsseldorf, Hessisches Landesmuseum Darmstadt Exh. cat. Edinburgh, London 2001: Rembrandt‘s Women, edited by Julia Lloyd Williams, National Gallery of Scotland, Edinburgh, Royal Academy of Arts London, Munich, London, New York Exh. cat. Frankfurt a. M. 1993: Leselust. Niederländische Malerei von Rembrandt bis Vermeer, edited by Sabine Schulze, Schirn Kunsthalle, Frankfurt a. M. 328

Exh. cat. Frankfurt a. M. 1998: Innenleben. Die Kunst des Interieurs. Vermeer bis Kabakov, Städelsches Kunstinstitut, Frankfurt a. M. Exh. cat. Haarlem 1988: Schutters in Holland: Kracht en zenuwen van de stad, edited by M. Carasso-Kok, J. Levy-van Halm, Frans Hals Museum, Haarlem Exh. cat. London, The Hague 1999: Rembrandt by Himself, edited by Christopher White, Quentin Buvelot, National Gallery, London, Royal Cabinet of Paintings, The Hague Exh. cat. Melbourne, Canberra 1997 – 1998: Rembrandt. A Genius and his Impact, edited by Albert Blankert, National Gallery of Victoria, Melbourne, National Gallery of Australia, Canberra Exh. cat. Minneapolis, Washington, D. C. 1991: Rembrandt’s Lucretias, edited by Arthur K. Wheelock Jr., George Keyes, The Minneapolis Institute of Arts, National Gallery of Art, Washington, D. C. Exh. cat. Münster 1974: Gerard Ter Borch, Zwolle 1617 — Deventer 1681, Landesmuseum Münster Exh. cat. Nijmegen 1985: Tussen heks en heilige. Het vrouwbeeld op de drempel van de moderne tijd, 15de / 16de eeuw, edited by Petty Bange, Nijmeegs Museum Commanderie van Sint-Jan, Nijmegen Exh. cat. Tokyo, Hamburg 1999: Rhetorik der Leidenschaft: Zur Bildsprache der Kunst im Abendland. Meisterwerke aus der Graphischen Sammlung Albertina und aus der Portraitsammlung   der Österreichischen Nationalbibliothek, edited by Ilsebill Barta Fliedl, Kokuritsu-Seiyo-Bijutsukan, National Museum of Western Art, Tokyo, Museum für Kunst und Gewerbe, Hamburg Exh. cat. Washington, D. C., New York 2005: Gerard ter Borch, edited by Arthur K. Wheelock, National Gallery of Art Washington, D. C., American Federation of Arts, New York Exh. cat. Vienna 1992: Die Beredsamkeit des Leibes. Zur Körpersprache in der Kunst, edited by lsebill Barta Fliedl, Christoph Geissmar, Albertina Vienna, Salzburg, Vienna Exh. cat. Vienna 2004: Rembrandt, edited by Klaus Albrecht Schröder, Marian Bisanz-Prakken Albertina, Vienna



Collection catalogs

Coll. cat. Munich 2006: Alte Pinakothek. Holländische und deutsche Malerei des 17. Jahrhunderts, text by Marcus Dekiert, edited by Bayrische Staatsgemäldesammlungen Munich Coll. cat. Washington D. C. 1995: Dutch Paintings of the Seventeenth Century (The Collection of the National Gallery of Art. Systematic Catalog), edited by Arthur Wheelock, National Gallery of Art Washington, D. C.

329

Illustrations

S. 161: Rembrandt, Self-Portrait, c. 1657, panel, 49.2 /41 cm, Vienna, Kunsthistorisches Museum Pl. 1: Pl. 2: Pl. 3: Pl. 4: Pl. 5: Pl. 6: Pl. 7: Pl. 8: Pl. 9: Pl. 10: Pl. 11: Pl. 12: Pl. 13: Pl. 14:

Rembrandt, Bathsheba, 1654, canvas, 142  /142 cm, Paris, Louvre, bpk Bildarchiv Preußischer Kulturbesitz Rembrandt, A Woman in Bed, c. 1645 – 49, canvas, 81.1 /67.8 cm, Edinburgh, National Gallery of Scotland, photograph: Antonia Reeve Rembrandt, Susanna, 1636, panel, 47.5 /39 cm, The Hague, Mauritshuis, akg-images Rembrandt, Diana and her Nymphs Bathing, with Actaeon and Callisto, 1634, canvas, 73.5 /93.5 cm, Anholt, Museum Wasserburg Anholt Rembrandt, Lucretia, 1664, canvas, 116 /99 cm, Washington, D. C., National Gallery of Art Rembrandt, Lucretia, 1666, canvas, 110.17 /92.28 cm, Minneapolis, Institute of Arts, The William Hood Dunwoody Fund Rembrandt, De Staalmeesters (The Syndics), 1662, canvas, 191 /279 cm, Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum, akg-images Rembrandt, Danaë, 1636 and 1643 – 49, canvas, 185 /203 cm, St. Petersburg, Hermitage, akg-images Frans van Mieris, Woman before the Mirror, c. 1670, panel, 43 /31.5 cm, Munich, Alte Pinakothek, bpk Bildarchiv Preußischer Kulturbesitz Jan Vermeer, Woman Holding a Balance, c. 1664, canvas, 42.5 /38 cm, Washington, D. C., Widener Collection, National Gallery of Art Gabriel Metsu, Woman Reading a Letter, c. 1664 – 67, panel, 52.5 /40.2 cm, Dublin, National Gallery of Ireland, akg-images Jan Vermeer, Woman Reading a Letter at an Open Window, c. 1657, canvas, 83 /64.5 cm, Dresden, Gemäldegalerie Alte Meister, akg-images/Erich Lessing Jan Vermeer, Woman in Blue Reading a Letter, c. 1662 – 64, canvas, 46.5 /39 cm, Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum, akg-images Samuel van Hoogstraten, The Slippers, 1658 – 60, canvas, 103 /70 cm, Paris, Louvre, akg-images/Erich Lessing

Bible Moralisée, David and Bathsheba, 15th century, Paris, Bibl. nat. de France, Ms. 166, fol. 76 v Fig. 2: Adam Elsheimer, Bathsheba, 1600 – 1610, gouache, 9.1 /8.4 cm, Vienna, Albertina Fig. 3: Cornelis Cornelisz. van Haarlem, Bathsheba, 1594, canvas, 77.5 /64 cm, Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum Fig. 4: Peter Paul Rubens, Bathsheba, drawing, 1613 /14, 19.2 /26.2 cm, Berlin, Staatliche Museen, Kupferstichkabinett Fig. 5: Simon Bening, Bathsheba, Hennessy Book of Hours, early 16th century, Brussels, Bibliothèque Royale, Ms. II, 158 Fig. 6: Peter Paul Rubens, Bathsheba, c. 1635, panel, 175 /126 cm, Dresden, Staatliche Kunstsammlungen, Gemäldegalerie Fig. 7: Jan Lievens, Bathsheba, c. 1631, canvas, 135 /107 cm, Studio City (Cal.), Coll. Mr. and Mrs. Cooney Fig. 8: Willem Drost, Bathsheba, 1654, canvas, 103 /87 cm, Paris, Louvre Fig. 9: Govert Flinck, Bathsheba, 1659, canvas, 116.8 /88.6 cm, St. Petersburg, Hermitage Fig. 1:

330

Fig. 10: Pieter Lastman, Tobias and Sarah, 1611, panel, 41.2 /57.8 cm, Juliana Cheney Edwards Coll., Boston, Museum of Fine Arts Fig. 11: Rembrandt, Girl at a Window, 1645, canvas, 81.6 /66 cm, London, Dulwich Picture Gallery Fig. 12: Samuel van Hoogstraten, Young Woman at an Open Door, c. 1645, canvas, 102.5 /85.1 cm, Chicago, Art Institute Fig. 13: Gerrit van Honthorst, The Merry Violinist, 1623, canvas, 108 /89 cm, Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum Fig. 14: Rembrandt, The Holy Family, 1646, panel, 46.8 /68.4 cm, Kassel, Schloss Wilhelmshöhe, Gemäldegalerie Alte Meister und Antikensammlung Fig. 15: Francesco Colonna, Hypnerotomachia Poliphili, Nymph and Satyr, Venice 1499, woodcut Fig. 16: Pablo Picasso, Faun Revealing a Sleeping Woman, 1936, lithograph /aquatint, 31.7 /41.7 cm, Canberra, National Gallery of Australia Fig. 17: Lorenzo Lotto, Susanna and the Elders, 1517, panel, 50 /66 cm, Florence, Uffizi Fig. 18: Capitoline Venus, Roman copy after Greek original, Rome, Museo Capitolino Fig. 19: Tintoretto, Susanna and the Elders, c. 1555 – 1557, canvas, 146.5 /193.6 cm, Vienna, Kunsthistorisches Museum Fig. 20: Govert Flinck, Susanna and the Elders, c. 1640, panel, 47 /35 cm, Berlin, Staatliche Museen, Gemäldegalerie Fig. 21: Pieter Lastman, Susanna and the Elders, 1614, panel, 47.2 /38.6 cm, Berlin, Staatliche Museen, Gemäldegalerie Fig. 22: Jan Jorisz. van Vliet after Jan Lievens, Susanna and the Elders, c. 1629, etching, 57.4 /45.2 cm Fig. 23: Jan van Neck, Susanna and the Elders, canvas, 123 /167 cm, Copenhagen, Statens Museum for Kunst Fig. 24: Cavaliere d’Arpino, Susanna and the Elders, c. 1607, panel, 53 /37 cm, Siena, Pinacoteca Nazionale Fig. 25: Jan van Noordt, Susanna and the Elders, 1670, canvas, 124.5 /89.3 cm, San Francisco, Fine Arts Museum — Legion of Honor Museum Fig. 26: Lucas van Leyden, Susanna and the Elders, c. 1508, engraving, 19.9 /14.7 cm, Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum Fig. 27: Marcantonio Raimondi (after Raphael), Lucretia, c. 1510 /11, engraving, 21.2 /13 cm, Amsterdam, Rijksmusem Fig. 28: Joos van Cleve, Lucretia, c. 1520 /25, 76 /54 cm, panel, Vienna, Kunsthistorisches Museum Fig. 29: Lucas Cranach the Elder, Lucretia, 1533, 37 /24 cm, panel, Berlin, Staatliche Museen, Gemäldegalerie Fig. 30: Lucas Cranach the Elder, Venus, 1532, panel, 37.9 /24.6 cm, Frankfurt, Städelsches Kunstinstitut Fig. 31: Pieter Coecke van Aelst, Lucretia, first half of the 16th century, panel, 68.6 /50.8 cm, Lindau, private collection Fig. 32: Paolo Veronese, Lucretia, c. 1580 – 83, canvas, 109 /90.5 cm, Vienna, Kunsthistorisches Museum Fig. 33: Caravaggio, David with the Head of Goliath, 1609 /10, canvas, 125 /101 cm, Rome, Galleria Borghese Fig. 34: Jan Muller, Lucretia, early 17 th century, engraving, 18.7 /22.8 cm, Dresden, Staatliche Kunstsammlungen, Kupferstichkabinett 331

Fig. 35: Correggio, Jupiter and Io, 1527 – 31, canvas, 163.5 /74 cm, Vienna, Kunsthistorisches Museum Fig. 36: Artemisia Gentileschi, Lucretia, c. 1621 – 25, canvas, 100 /77 cm, Genoa, Palazzo Cattaneo-Adorno Fig. 37: Rembrandt, Joseph and Potiphar’s Wife, 1634, etching, 9 /11.4 cm, Paris, Bibliothèque nationale Fig. 38: Antonio Tempesta, Joseph and Potiphar’s Wife, c. 1600, engraving, 5.8 /6.7 cm, London, British Museum Fig. 39: Paolo Finoglio, Joseph and Potiphar’s Wife, c. 1622 /23, canvas, 231/195 cm, Cambridge, Fogg Art Museum Fig. 40: Hans Sebald Beham, Joseph and Potiphar’s Wife, 1544, engraving, ø 5.2 cm, Paris, Bibliothèque nationale Fig. 41: Codex Manesse, Jacob van Warte, c. 1320, Heidelberger Universitätsbibliothek, Cod. Pal. Germ. 848, fol. 46v Fig. 42: Wenzel Bible, Bathing scene (title page, detail, book of Joshua), c. 1390, Vienna, Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, Cod. Vindob. 2759 – 2764, vol. 1, fol. 214r Fig. 43: Fountain of Youth, c. 1430, fresco, Piemont, Manta Castle near Saluzzo Fig. 44: Rembrandt, Self-Portrait with Gorget, c. 1629, panel, 38 /30.9 cm, Nuremberg, Germanisches Nationalmuseum Fig. 45: Circle of Giorgione, Man in Armor, panel, 53.5 /41.5 cm, Edinburgh, National Gallery of Scotland Fig. 46: Giorgione, Self-Portrait as David, c. 1500 – 1510, canvas, 52 /43 cm, Braunschweig, Herzog Anton Ulrich-Museum Fig. 47: Rembrandt, Saskia with a Flower, 1641, panel, 98.5 /82.5 cm, Dresden, Staatliche Kunstsammlungen, Gemäldegalerie Fig. 48: Rembrandt, Self-Portrait, 1640, canvas, 93 /80 cm, London, National Gallery Fig. 49: Titian, so-called Ariosto, c. 1510, canvas, 81.2 /66.3 cm, London, National Gallery Fig. 50: Rembrandt, after Raphael’s portrait of Baldassare Castiglione, drawing, 1639, 16.3 /20.7 cm, Vienna, Graphische Sammlung Albertina Fig. 51: Albrecht Dürer, Self-Portrait, 1498, panel, 52 /45 cm, Madrid, Prado Fig. 52: Titian, Flora, c. 1515, canvas, 79.7 /63.5 cm, Florence, Galleria degli Uffizi Fig. 53: Circle of Giorgione, Portrait of a Man, so-called Brocardo, c. 1510, canvas, 72,5 /54 cm, Budapest, Szépmu˝vészeti Múzeum Fig. 54: Rembrandt, Self-Portrait with Saskia, c. 1635, canvas, 161 /131 cm, Dresden, Staatliche Kunstsammlung, Gemäldegalerie Fig. 55: Rembrandt, A Woman Bathing, 1654, panel, 61.8 /47 cm, London, National Gallery Fig. 56: Rembrandt, Men Bathing, 1651, etching, 11 /13.7 cm, London, British Museum Fig. 57: Dirck Jacobsz., Group-Portrait of Seventeen Members of the Kloveniersdoelen, 1529, panel, 122 /184 cm, Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum Fig. 58: Werner van den Valckert, Regents of the Groot Kramergild, 1622, panel, 132 /185.5 cm, Berlin, Staatliche Museen, Gemäldegalerie Fig. 59: Bartholomeus van der Helst, The Four Governors of the Archers’ Civic Guard, 1653 – 57, canvas, 183 /268 cm, Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum Fig. 60: Rembrandt, Portrait of Cornelis Claesz. Anslo and his wife Aeltje Gerritsdr. Schouten, 1641, canvas, 176 /210 cm, Berlin, Staatliche Museen, Gemäldegalerie. Fig. 61: Cornelis Anthoninsz., Banquet of Members of Amsterdam‘s Crossbow Civic Guard, 1533, panel, 130 /206.5 cm, Amsterdam, Historical Museum

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Fig. 62: Master of Frankfurt, Guards Festival, second half of the 15th century, panel, 142 /176 cm, Antwerp, Museum voor Schone Kunsten Fig. 63: Govert Flinck, The Steadfastness of Consul Marcus Curius Dentatus, 1656, canvas, 485 /377 cm, Amsterdam, Royal Palace Foundation Fig. 64: Johannes Eyssenhuth, Danaë, Defensorium inviolatae Mariae of Franciscus de Retza, 1471, woodcut, Regensburg Fig. 65: Master L. D. (Leon Davent), after Primaticcio, Danaë, c. 1540 – 50, engraving, 21.7 /29.5 cm, Vienna, Albertina Fig. 66: Titian, Danaë, 1553 /54, canvas, 129 /180 cm, Madrid, Prado Fig. 67: Orazio Gentileschi, Danaë, c. 1621 /22, canvas, 162 /228.5 cm, Cleveland, The Cleveland Museum of Art Fig. 68: Giulio Bonasone, Danaë, engraving, 16.5 /11 cm, Vienna, Albertina Fig. 69: I Modi, woodcut after engraving from Marcantonio Raimondi from 1527 (after drawings by Giulio Romano) Fig. 70: Gian Giacomo Caraglio (after Perino del Vaga), Merkur and Herse, from: Love of the Gods, 1527, engraving, 21.7 /13.5 cm, Hamburg, Kunsthalle Fig. 71: Gian Giacomo Caraglio, Pan and Diana, from: Love of the Gods, 1527, engraving, 21.7 /13.5 cm Fig. 72: Coitus, fresco, Pompeii, Casa del Centenario IX, 8, 3 (Cubiculum 43), 1st century AD, Pompeii Fig. 73: Rembrandt, Ledikant, 1646, etching, 12.5 /22.4 cm, Paris, Bibliothèque nationale Fig. 74: Rembrandt, The Monk in a Cornfield, c. 1646, etching, 4.8 /6.5 cm, Paris, Bibliothèque nationale Fig. 75: Rembrandt, Jupiter and Antiope, 1631, etching, 8.4 /11.4 cm, London, British Museum Fig. 76: Rembrandt, Jupiter and Antiope, 1659, etching, 13.8 /20.5 cm, Cambridge, Fitzwilliam Museum Fig. 77: Correggio, Jupiter and Antiope, c. 1528, canvas, 188.5 /125.5 cm, Paris, Louvre Fig. 78: Heinrich Aldegrever, Monk and Nun in a Cornfield, early 16th century, engraving, 11 /8 cm, Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum Fig. 79: Rembrandt, The Flute Player, 1642, etching, 11.6 /14.3 cm, London, British Museum Fig. 80: Gerrit Dou, Lady at Dressing Table, 1667, panel, 75.5 /58 cm, Rotterdam, Museum Boijmans van Beuningen Fig. 81: Jan Vermeer, The Music Lesson, c. 1662 – 64, canvas, 74 /64.5 cm, London, The Royal Collection Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II Fig. 82: Hieronymus Bosch, Superbia (detail from the Table with the seven Deadly Sins), c. 1485, panel, Madrid, Prado Fig. 83: Paulus Moreelse, Young Lady with a Mirror, 1627, canvas, 105.4 /82.2 cm, Cambridge, Fitzwilliam Museum Fig. 84: Leonardo da Vinci, Mona Lisa, 1503 – 05, panel, 77 /53 cm, Paris, Louvre Fig. 85: Edouard Manet, Un bar aux Folies-Bergère, 1881 /82, canvas, 96 /130 cm, London, Courtauld Institute Galleries Fig. 86: Frans van Mieris, The Cloth Shop, 1660, panel, 55 /43 cm, Vienna, Kunsthistorisches Museum Fig. 87: Petrus Christus, S. Eligius, 1449, panel, 98 /85 cm, New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art Fig. 88: Quinten Massys, The Pawnbroker and his Wife, c. 1514, panel, Paris, Louvre Fig. 89: Pieter de Hooch, Woman Weighing Gold, c. 1664, canvas, 61 /53 cm, Berlin, Staatliche Museen, Gemäldegalerie 333

Fig. 90: Jan Vermeer, Woman with a Perl Necklace, c. 1664, canvas, 51.2 /45.1 cm, Berlin, Staatliche Museen, Gemäldegalerie Fig. 91: Jan Vermeer, The Milkmaid, 1658 – 60, canvas, 46 /41 cm, Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum Fig. 92: Frans Francken II, Last Judgement, 1606, copper, 67 /51 cm, formerly Brussels, F. Franco Gallery Fig. 93: Pieter Aertsen, Christ at the House of Martha and Mary, 1552, panel, 60 /101.5 cm, Vienna, Kunsthistorisches Museum Fig. 94: Diego Velazquez, Still Life with Christ in the House of Martha and Mary, c. 1618, canvas, 60 /103.5 cm, London, National Gallery Fig. 95: Jan Vermeer, A Lady Standing at the Virginal, c. 1672 /73, canvas, 51.8 /45.2 cm, London, National Gallery Fig. 96: Jan Vermeer, The Girl with the Wineglass, c. 1659 /60, canvas, 77.5 /66.7 cm, Braunschweig, Herzog Anton Ulrich-Museum Fig. 97: Jan Vermeer, The Art of Painting, c. 1666 /68, canvas, 120 /100 cm, Vienna, Kunsthistorisches Museum Fig. 98: Thomas de Keyser, Portrait of Constantijn Huygens and a Messenger, 1627, panel, 92.4 /69.3 cm, London, National Gallery Fig. 99: Jan Harmensz. Krul, Amor Presents a Letter to a Woman, emblem from Pampiere wereld, Amsterdam 1644, Amsterdam, Universiteitsbibliotheek Fig. 100: Dirck Hals, Woman Tearing a Letter, 1631, panel, 45 /55 cm, Mainz, Mittelrheinisches Landesmuseum Fig. 101: Dirck Hals, Seated Woman with a Letter, 1633, panel, 34.2 /28.3 cm, Philadelphia, Museum of Art Fig. 102: Vermeer, The Love Letter, c. 1669 – 72, canvas, 44 /38.5 cm, Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum Fig. 103: Jan Harmensz. Krul, emblem from Minne-beelden, Amsterdam 1640 Fig. 104: Heerman Witmont, Ships in a Storm, pen on wood, 39 /51 cm, private collection Fig. 105: Book of Kells, Chi Rho, c. 800, 33 /25 cm, Dublin, Trinity College Library, Ms. 58, fol. 34r Fig. 106: Drogo Sacramentary, Te Igitur, Metz, c. 823 – 855, Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, Cod. lat. 9428, fol. 15v Fig. 107: Folkunge Psalter, Annunciation, Northern England, second half of the 12th century, Copenhagen, Kongelige Bibliotek, Ms. Thott 143, fol. 8 Fig. 108: Moralia in Job of S. Gregory, title page of the Engelberg codex 20, c. 1143 – 78, Cleveland, The Cleveland Museum of Art Fig. 109: Trajan’s Column, detail, Rome, AD c. 117 Fig. 110: Hans Memling, The Passion of Christ, end of 15th century, panel, 56.7 /92.2 cm, Turin, Galleria Sabauda Fig. 111: After the Master of the Turin-Milan Hours (Jan van Eyck?), Christ Carrying the Cross, 16th century, panel, 97.5 /130.6 cm, Budapest, Szépmu˝veszéti Múzeum Fig. 112: Caravaggio, The Calling of St. Matthew, 1600, canvas, 322 /340 cm, Rome, San Luigi dei Francesi, Contarelli Chapel Fig. 113: Master E. S., Figure Alphabet, c. 1466, engraving, 14.4 /11 cm, Washington, D. C., National Gallery of Art Fig. 114: El Lissitzky, Figure Alphabet, design for a children’s book, calculating: 1 worker + 1 farmer + 1 soldier in the red army = 3 comrades, 1928, watercolor, Sophie LissitzkyKüppers Collection Fig. 115: Simias of Rhodes, visual poetry, 300 BC (reconstruction by G. Wojacek 1969) Fig. 116: Visual poetry, Cygnus, 14th century, abbey of Göttweig, Ms. 7 Fig. 117: Johann Leonhard Frisch, Berlin Bear, 1700 334

Fig. 118: Guillaume Apollinaire, Horse, 1917 Fig. 119: Claus Bremer, Pigeon, 1968 Fig. 120: Paul Klee, Legend from the Nile, 1937, pastel on cotton and jute, 69 /61 cm, Bern, Kunstmuseum Fig. 121: Rembrandt, Portrait of Mennonite Preacher Cornelis Claesz. Anslo, 1641, etching, 18.7 /15.8 cm Fig. 122: Rembrandt, Portrait of Mennonite Preacher Cornelis Claesz. Anslo and his Wife Aeltje Gerritsdr. Schouten, 1641, canvas, 176 /210 cm, Berlin, Staatliche Museen, Gemäldegalerie Fig. 123: Gerard Ter Borch, Officer Writing a Letter with a Trumpeter, c. 1658 /59, canvas, 56.8 /43.8 cm, Philadelphia, Museum of Art Fig. 124: Gerard Ter Borch, Officer Reading a Letter with a Trumpeter, c. 1657 /58, canvas, 37.5 /28.5 cm, Dresden, Staatliche Kunstsammlungen, Gemäldegalerie Fig. 125: Caspar Netscher, Man Writing a Letter, 1664, panel, 27 /18.5 cm, Dresden, Staatliche Kunstsammlung, Gemäldegalerie Fig. 126: Gerard Ter Borch, Woman Sealing a Letter with a Maidservant, 1658 /59, canvas, 56.5 /43.8 cm, New York, private collection Fig. 127: Gabriel Metsu, Man Writing a Letter, 1665 – 67, panel, 52.5 /40.2 cm, Dublin, National Gallery of Ireland Fig. 128: Title page from Jean Puget de La Serre’s Secretaris d’A le Mode door de Heer van der Serre, Amsterdam 1652, The Hague, Koninklijke Bibliotheek Fig. 129 = 100: Dirck Hals, Woman Tearing a Letter, 1631, panel, 45 /55 cm, Mainz, Mittelrheinisches Landesmuseum Fig. 130 = 101: Dirck Hals, Seated Woman with a Letter, 1633, panel, 34.2 /28.3 cm, Philadelphia, Museum of Art Fig. 131: Rembrandt, Haman Recognizes his Fate, c. 1665, canvas, 127 /117 cm, St. Petersburg, Hermitage Fig. 132: Rembrandt, Self-Portrait with a Cap and Eyes Wide Open, 1630, etching, 5.1 /4.5 cm, Vienna, Albertina Fig. 133: Rembrandt, Self-Portrait, c. 1657, panel, 49.2 /41 cm, Vienna, Kunsthistorisches Museum Fig. 134: Rembrandt, Judas Returning the Pieces of Silver, 1629, panel, 79 /102.3 cm, England, private collection Fig. 135: Gerard Ter Borch, Curiosity, c. 1660, canvas, 76.2 /62.2 cm, New York, The Metropolitan Museum of Art Fig. 136: Jan Vermeer, Woman Reading a Letter at an Open Window (x-ray photograph), c. 1657, canvas, 83 /64.5 cm, Dresden, Staatliche Gemäldegalerie Fig. 137: Gerard Ter Borch, The Gallant Conversation (‘The Paternal Admonition’), c. 1654, canvas, 71 /73 cm, Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum Fig. 138: Caspar Netscher, Woman Reading a Letter (paraphrase after Ter Borch), after 1655, location unknown Fig. 139: Samuel van Hoogstraten, The Slippers, detail, c. 1658 – 60, Paris, Louvre (see Pl. 14) Fig. 140: Pieter Codde, A Woman Seated at a Virginal with a Letter, panel, early 1630s, 40.3 /31.7 cm, Boston, private collection Fig. 141: Willem Duyster, Woman with a Letter and a Man, early 1630s, panel, 58 /45 cm, Copenhagen, Statens Museum for Kunst Fig. 142: Charles Le Brun, Conférence sur l’expression générale et particulière des passions, 1687

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Image credits Color plates p. 161: Vienna, Kunsthistorisches Museum; 1, 9: bpk Bildarchiv Preußischer Kulturbesitz; 2: Edinburgh, National Gallery of Scotland, photograph: Antonia Reeve; 3, 7, 8, 11, 13: akg-images; 4: Anholt, Sammlung des Fürsten zu Salm-Salm, Museum Wasserburg; 6: Minneapolis, Institute of Arts, The William Hood Dunwoody Fund; 10: Widener Collection, Washington, National Gallery of Art; 12, 14: akg-images / Erich Lessing Text images: 1: Haag, Herbert / Kirchberger, Joe H. / Sölle, Dorothee, Große Frauen der Bibel in Bild und Text, Frei­burg / Basel / Vienna 1993, p. 187; 2: Andrews, Keith, Adam Elsheimer, Munich 2006, n.p., fig. 33; 3, 7, 8, 9, 20, 23: Sluijter 2006, p. 62, fig. 326; p. 63, fig. 338; p. 70, fig. 361; p. 71, fig. 363; p. 35, fig. 88; p. 139, fig. 90; 4: Mielke, Hans / Winner, Matthias, Peter Paul Rubens, Kritischer Katalog der Zeichnungen. Originale — Umkreis — Kopien, Staatliche Museen Preußischer Kulturbesitz, Berlin 1977, fig. 18r; 5: exh. cat. Los Angeles 2003, Illuminating the Renaissance, Paul Getty Trust; 6, 47: Marx, Harald (ed.), Gemäldegalerie Alte Meister Dresden. Die Ausgestellten Werke, vol. 1, Cologne 2006, p. 463; p. 453; 10, 11, 21, 38, 75, 76, 79: exh. cat. Edinburgh, London 2001, p. 182, fig. 135; p. 189, fig. 104; p. 40, fig. 43; p. 106, fig. 95; p. 80, fig. 13; p. 231, fig. 134; p. 178, fig. 97; plate 5, 12, 14, 37, 44, 48, 73, 74: Wright 2000, p. 81, fig. 66, p. 268, fig. 266; p. 157, fig. 140; p. 91, fig. 37; p. 319, fig. 323; p. 326, fig. 334; p. 275, fig. 274; p. 274, fig. 272; 13: Sutton, Peter, Von Frans Hals bis Vermeer, Berlin 1984, p. 182; 15, 52: Seipel, Wilfried (ed.), Bellini, Giorgione, Tizian und die Renaissance der venezianischen Malerei, Washington Gallery of Art, Kunsthistorisches Museum Vienna 2006, p. 23; p. 225; 16: Geiser, Bernhard / Bolliger, Hans (eds.), Picasso. Das graphische Werk, Teufen 1955, p. 93; 17: Berti, Luciano, Die Uffizien, Florence, 1993, p. 75; 18: Johannsen, Rolf H., Skulpturen von der Antike bis ins 19. Jahrhundert, Hildesheim 2005, p. 44; 19, 32, 97: Bauer, Rotraut /  Otto, Udo, Das Kunsthistorische Museum in Wien, Salzburg/Vienna 1978, p. 193; p. 201; p. 271; 22: Sumowski 1983, vol. 3, p. 1822, fig. 1183; vol. 1, p. 176; 24: Musner, Lutz / Wunberg, Gotthart (eds.), Kulturwissenschaften. Forschung — Praxis — Positionen, Vienna 2002, p. 332, fig. 1; 25: Foto: Molly Eyres; 26: Lavalleye, Jacques, Lucas van Leyden, Pieter Bruegel d. A., Das gesamte graphische Werk, Vienna 1966, n.p., fig. 8; 27, 34, 40, 65, 71: Strauss, Walter (ed.), The Illustrated Bartsch, vol. 26, p. 188, fig. 192-I; vol. 4, p. 451, fig. 8; vol. 15, p. 45, fig. 13-[I]; vol. 33, p. 192, fig. 40; vol. 28 (comment), p. 210, fig. 069 S2; 28, 39: Garrard 1989, p. 225, fig. 190; n.p., fig. 11; 29: Marx, Harald /  336

Mössinger, Ingrid (eds.), Cranach, Dresden 2005, p. 79, plate 30; 30: Schade, Werner (ed.), Lucas Cranach. Glaube, Mythos und Moderne, Ostfildern-Ruit 2003, p. 71; 31: Jahrbuch des Kunsthistorischen Institutes der Universität Graz, Graz 1971, p. LV, fig. 16; 33: Harten, Jürgen, Caravaggio. Originale und Kopien im Spiegel der Forschung, Ostfildern 2006, p. 186; 35, 77: Ekserdjian, David, Correggio, New Haven (Conn.) 1997, p. 285; p. 273; 36, 67: Christiansen, Keith / Mann, Judith W., Orazio and Artemisia Gentileschi, New Haven (Conn.) 2001, p. 363, fig. 67; p. 195; 41: Walther, Ingo F., Sämtliche Miniaturen der Manesse-Liederhandschrift, Stuttgart 1981, plate 20; 42: Wenzelsbibel — König Wenzels Prachthandschriften der deutschen Bibel (facsimile), Dortmund 1990, p. 163; 43: private photograph; 45, 46, 53: Aikema, Bernard (ed.), Renaissance Venice and the North. Crosscurrents in the Time of Bellini, Dürer and Titian, Milan 1999, p. 207; p. 235; p. 229; 49: Suckale, Robert, Malerei der Welt, vol. 1, Von der Gotik zum Klassizismus, Cologne 1995, p. 154; 50: exh. cat. Vienna 2004, p. 69, fig. 8; 51: Anzelewsky, Fedja, Albrecht Dürer. Das malerische Werk, vol. 2 (plates), Berlin 1991, p. 43; 54: Pächt 1991, p. 60, fig. 23; 55: exh. cat. Melbourne, Canberra 1997–1998, p. 37, fig. 8; 56: exh. cat. Berlin 2006, p. 120, fig. 67 ; 57, 59: Haak 1996, p. 104, fig. 183; p. 111, fig. 198; 58: Möbius et al. 1990, n.p., fig. 34; 60, 122: Guillaud, Jacqueline and Maurice, Rembrandt. Das Bild des Menschen, Paris 1986, p. 315; 61: Haak 1986, fig. 1; 62: exh. cat. Haarlem 1988; 63: Frijhoff et al., 2004, p. 436; 64: Panofsky 1933, p. 207, fig. 16; 66: Pedrocco, Filippo, Tizian, Florence 1993, p. 54, fig. 77; 68: Grohé 1996, p. 252, fig. 70; 69: Lawner 1985, p. 71; 70: Sluijter 2000, p. 157, fig. 125; 72: Dierichs, Angelika, Erotik in der Römischen Kunst, Mainz am Rhein 1997, p. 66, fig. 76a; 78: The New Hollstein, German Engrav­ ings, Etchings and Woodcuts 1400–1700, Rotterdam 1998, p. 140, fig. 179; 80: exh. cat. Zwolle 1988, Leidse Fijnschilders van Gerrit Dou tot Frans van Mieris de Jonge, 1630 –1760, ed. by Eric Jan Sluijter et al., p. 114; 81, 90, 91, 95, 96, 136a, 136b: exh. cat. The Hague, Washington 1995, p. 129, fig. 8; p. 153, fig. 12; p. 109, fig. 5; p. 197, fig. 21; p. 115, fig. 6; p. 73, fig. 11; p. 73, fig. 10; 82: Marijnissen, Roger H., Hieronymus Bosch. Das vollständige Werk, Weinheim 1988, p. 338; 83: Les Vanités dans la peinture au XVIIe siècle, exhibition catalog Musée des Beaux-Arts de Caen, Paris 1990, cat. nr. 41, p. 175; 84: Kemp, Martin, Leonardo da Vinci, vol. 3, New Haven 1989, p. 7; 85: Bataille, Georges, Manet, Genf 1988, p. 106; 86: Vienna, Kunsthistorisches Museum; 87: Pächt, Otto, Altniederländische Malerei von Rogier van der Weyden bis Gerard David, ed. by Monika Rosenauer, Munich, 1994, p. 64; 88: Gardner, Helen / Kleiner, Fred / Mamiya, Christin, Gardner’s art through the ages, Belmont (Cal.) / London 2005, p. 680, fig. 23–17; 89: exh. cat. Dulwich Picture Gallery, New Haven / London 1998, Pieter de Hooch, ed. by Peter C. Sutton, p. 55, fig. 56; 92: Härting, Ursula, Frans Francken d. J.,

Flämische Maler im Umkreis der großen Meister, vol. 2, Freren 1989, p. 276, fig. 174; 93: Balis, Arnout, Flämische Malerei im Kunsthistorischen Museum Wien, Zürich 1989, p. 61; 94: Ortiz, Antonio Domínguez (ed.), Velázquez, exh. cat. Prado, Madrid 1990, p. 63, fig.2; 98, 102: Wenzel et al. 2001, p. 161, fig. 2; p. 164, fig. 5; 99, 100, 129, 135: Franits, Wayne, Dutch Seventeenth-Century Genre Painting, New Haven / London 2004, p. 176, fig. 159; p. 32, fig. 23; p. 32, fig. 23; p. 105, fig. 93; 101, 103, 123, 124, 125, 126, 127, 128, 130, 140, 141: exh. cat. Dublin, Greenwich 2003, p. 83, fig. 2; p. 82, fig. 1; p. 100, fig. 8; p. 95, fig. 6; p. 109, fig. 11; p. 101, fig. 9; p. 128, fig. 18; p. 72, fig. 67; p. 83, fig. 2; p. 85, fig. 3; p. 89, fig. 4; 104: Giltaij, Jeroen / Kelch, Jan, Lof der Zeevaart: De Hollandse zeeschilders van de 17e eeuw, Rotterdam 1997, p. 408, fig. 96/1; 105: Brown, Peter, Das Evangeliar von Kells. Ein Meister­ werk frühirischer Buchmalerei, Freiburg im Breisgau 1980, fig. 19; 106, 107: Wenzel et al. 2000, p. 71, fig. 10; p. 26, fig. 12; 108: Schapiro, Meyer, Words, Script, and Pictures. Semiotics of Visual Language, New York 1996, p. 166, fig. 30; 109: Janson, Horst, History of Art the Western Tradit­ ion, Upper Saddle River (NJ) 2004, p. 196; 110: DeVos, Dirk, Hans Memling. Das Gesamtwerk, Zurich 1994, p. 106; 111: Urbach, Susanne, Früh­ niederländische Tafelbilder, Budapest 1971, fig. 1; 112: König, Eberhard, Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio 1571 – 1610, Cologne 1997, p. 96; 113: Pächt, Otto, Buchmalerei des Mittelalters, Munich 1984, fig. 80, p. 62; 114: Lissitzky-Küppers, Sophie, El Lissitzky. Maler, Architekt, Typograf, Fotograf, Erinnerungen, Briefe, Schriften, Dresden 1967, n.p., fig. 150; 115, 116: Ernst, Ulrich, Carmen figuratum. Geschichte des Figurengedichts von den antiken Ursprüngen bis zum Ausgang des Mittelalters, Cologne / Weimar / Vienna 1991, p. 67, fig. 19; p. 600, fig. 216; 117, 118, 119: Dencker, Klaus Peter, Text-Bilder. Visuelle Poesie international. Von der Antike bis zur Gegenwart, Cologne 1972, p. 49; p. 59; p. 99; 120: Glaesemer, Jürgen, Paul Klee. Die farbigen Werke im Kunstmuseum Bern. Gemälde, farbige Blätter, Hinterglasbilder und Plastiken, Bern 1976, p. 380, fig. 203; 121, 132: exh. cat. Berlin 2006, p. 87; p. 45, fig. 1; 131, 133, 134: Pächt 1991, n.p., fig. 43; n.p., fig. 5; n.p., fig. 52; 137: exh. cat. Washington, New York 2005, cat. no. 27, fig. p. 115; 138, 139: Yalçin, Fatma, Anwesende Abwesenheit, Munich / Berlin 2004, p. 121, fig. 80; p. 66, color plate II; 142: Borrmann Norbert, Kunst und Physio­ gnomik, Cologne 1994, p. 70, fig. 36.

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Daniela Hammer-Tugendhat Daniela Hammer-Tugendhat is professor emeritus for the history of art at the University of Applied Arts in Vienna. She was born in Caracas 1946, studied art history and archaeology at the Universities of Bern and Vienna and wrote her doctoral thesis on Hieronymus Bosch under Otto Pächt. She has taught at the Universities of Vienna, Salzburg, Basel, Oldenburg and Frankfurt and is one of the pioneers in establishing gender studies in German-speaking academia. Hammer-Tugendhat is on the supervisory board of the International Research Center for Cultural Studies in Vienna (IFK) and on the editorial board of the Zeitschrift für Kulturwissen­ schaften. She was elected as a reviewer for the European Research Council Advanced grant; in 2010 she received the Gabriele Possanner State Prize. Her research on the methodology of art history as Kulturwissenschaft is focused on Early Modern painting, specifically from the Netherlands, ranging from the representational politics of text and image to gender studies and the representation of emotions in the arts.