Exhibition Reviews – The Global Voyagers https://theglobalvoyagers.com Global Travel Premium Magazine & Article Sat, 01 Jul 2023 15:29:06 +0000 en-US hourly 1 https://wordpress.org/?v=6.5.5 https://i0.wp.com/theglobalvoyagers.com/wp-content/uploads/2021/10/cropped-Global-Voyagers-Fevicon.png?fit=32%2C32&ssl=1 Exhibition Reviews – The Global Voyagers https://theglobalvoyagers.com 32 32 214881783 Reconstructing the Labyrinth in the Ashmolean https://theglobalvoyagers.com/reviews/exhibition-reviews/chrispoole/reconstructing-the-labyrinth-in-the-ashmolean/ Wed, 28 Jun 2023 03:16:47 +0000 https://theglobalvoyagers.com/?p=1057
Minotaur

There is one tantalising question at the heart of the Ashmolean’s latest exhibition: what if the labyrinth was real? It’s a question that haunted and tempted academics, map-makers and, perhaps most crucially, archaeologists. It’s a question followed like the mythical thread, unravelled through time and across oceans in search of the myth’s roots, the real places and ruins that were in turn exaggerated, expanded and made grand. It’s a question that led Arthur Evans to Knossos, and one that led me to the Ashmolean.

Knossos is the Cretan village thought to be the inspiration for Minos. Minos was the mythical city home to the Labyrinth, the elaborate maze imprisoning the minotaur. Half-man, half-bull, the minotaur is slain by Theseus—who uses a spool of thread to chart his progress and find his way home.

Vaulted ceilings, vast, empty corridors, serpentine knots littered with bones: what kind of place could inspire a story like this? As the archaeologists dug, they found, at least in their eyes, their answer. They uncovered vast chambers and burial sites, the material remains of a vast palace. They began a process of reconstruction, recreating first ancient Knossos and then, by association, mapping it onto the myths it had inspired. They sought to piece together a story from the fragments of a forgotten world.

Axes

On display until 30th July at the Ashmolean, Labyrinth: Knossos, Myth& Reality charts this process. Its second room presents the uncertainty preceding these discoveries. Before the digs at Knossos, the notion of a ‘real labyrinth’ was the source of conjecture and academic bickering, laced in optimism and ideology. Some insisted it was real; others deemed this a fantasy. Mapmakers assigned the Labyrinth various locations in Crete, giving the maze undue athleticism as it leapt across the page, across Cretan soil, and into new theoretical confines. It has the texture of a mirage, hovering on the line between reality and fiction. It was a primordial maybe, either a trove of (career-making) revelations to be uncovered or a schoolboy fantasy. Entry into the exhibition places us on the same threshold as Theseus, at the moment of uncertainty preceding all journeys. It is the same uncertainty those archaeologists faced.

Heading further into the exhibition, the fog clears. The Cretan sand yields stone. A team of archaeologists, led by Sir Arthur Evans, discover an expansive palace near Knossos. The palace ticks all the boxes. It has hundreds of rooms and a twisting floorplan. It has ample bull iconography, easily paired with Theseus’ mythology: As well as slaying the Minotaur, Theseus also captured the Marathonian Bull. Emboldened by these parallels, Evans and his team posit that this site was the basis of the Labyrinth myth. Labyrinth, Evans proposes, translates as a reference to a double-headed axe, which is one of the palace’s key icons.

Bull

This is a rare phenomenon, a process I had thought one-way. I could picture concrete facts becoming myth: time, embellished accounts, agendas, that human need for things to be truer-than-true (an instinct you’ll see alive and well at your local pub), all of these could comfortably have palace walls jutting higher than the sky, could turn prisoners’ groans into a braying minotaur. But to see the reverse, whereby elusive myths became ‘real’ as Knossos was found, was a strange kind of alchemy.  Columns of smoke condense into brickwork: the beast dies again, a death far more definitive than that pathos-laced mercy-kill. There is a quiet sense of tragedy as the mythological Labyrinth is grounded, its phantasmic weightlessness anchored by real spaces. We wonder how it will survive when it is both real and imagined, dig-site and dream.

Though Evans’ discovery is monumental, his work to reconstruct Knossos is tinged by overconfidence. He continues the tradition of the ancient storytellers, who were very loose in their interpretation of Knossos’ ruins. They greatly exaggerated to form their Labyrinth: they weaved shards and fragments into vast narratives of heroism. Likewise, the same fervency seems to possess Evans and his team, as though the stone of Knossos has a hallucinogenic quality. Their archaeological study sees them reconstruct large frescoes and artworks from the few remaining pieces. They combine the pieces like a jigsaw puzzle and paint the rest themselves. This is a fraught business, yet the researchers are as brash as a bull in a China shop.

Bull 2

The exhibition highlights the pitfalls of such an approach in one memorable example. The researchers found a set of shards from wall art in Knossos. Placing them together, they piece together a purple, slender arm. They add extra pieces, meshing them together: Are those petals at the ends of the fingers? The team’s resident artist fills in the blanks and completes the missing fresco. The arms, he reasons, must belong to a child: he draws a child picking flowers. Later, however, further shards were found…the arms actually belonged to a monkey! Archaeology is miles more objective than mythological recreation, yet Evans and his team are often led astray. Dead ends, solid walls, long periods of backtracking.

The Ashmolean seems keen to point out these ironies, quietly suggesting that much of Knossos remains to be discovered. More fundamentally, they cast doubt onto the process of reconstruction, highlighting that it is susceptible to personal biases, rash conclusions, and misinterpretation.

Inaccurate reconstruction of monkey shards

This notion of reconstruction underpins the exhibition, and haunts Knossos itself. Knossosis reconstructed twice. Firstly, archaeologists try and recreate the site itself. They focus on the culture that developed it, drawing conclusions from its material remains. Secondly, they extrapolate how this site, a historical reality, inspired a mythical labyrinth. They wonder which parts of it became the hallmarks of the Labyrinth myth. Once Knossos is reconstructed, they must imagine how it was imagined. This entails strange, treacherous forays into the minds of long-gone creators and narrators: while the Labyrinth’s walls are the ridges of their thumbprint, their exact relationship with Knossos remains elusive.

For example, researchers unearthed a human sacrifice chamber. This allows them to reconstruct the site and its practices: they learn more about Knossos. Simultaneously, academics study the Labyrinth myth and point out that, in the story, human sacrifices were made to the Minotaur. They then imagine a link between the real sacrifice chambers, and the human sacrifice mentioned in the story. Then come reinterpretations of the myth: did it express the trauma of such practices? Why does the myth express the ache of an entire settlement in thrall to a monstrous influence? This dance of material and mythical reconstruction is enticing, and the Ashmolean lays it bare.

Map of the palace

As I studied the relics on display, I was drawn to copy such efforts. The temptation to insert artefacts into the Minotaur myth was overwhelming. Many vases depicted octopi with their matted, inky tentacles splaying across terracotta. These vases grew more abstract over time: anatomical accuracy gave way to loose, simple forms. Ariadne’s thread, lacing through the Labyrinth, guiding Theseus home…a Greek poet discovering a shard in the dark, thumbing the twine-like tendrils on its surface, converting them into the silk of a lover…

The metaphor of the thread runs through the vaulted halls of this exhibition. Theseus followed it homeward: it led him from the maze to the light of day. We picture him standing over the slain Minotaur, in symbolic victory over (depending on who you ask) the bestial, the repressed, the uncivilised. The thread is the physical manifestation of intellect, ingenuity as a means of overcoming the incomprehensible Labyrinth. It allows him to retrace his path and survive. The metaphor must entrance every archaeologist at Knossos: following history’s thread backwards, navigating its looping, uncharted halls by the material guides left by our predecessors. The exhibit’s structure, leading us from initial uncertainty to the find, before pointing to the future of study at Knossos, presents a linear, methodical descent into history—a descent that will somehow lead us forward, allowing us to emerge from it.

Monkey picking flowers

With such an easy metaphor in hand, I picture a continuity between archaeologist and mythmaker. The question, then, is how directly does the thread run? Both archaeologist and storyteller delve into Knossos’ raw materials to weave a human narrative. Both extrapolate and interpret, despite modern aspirations to objectivity. Yet it seems difficult to equate archaeological study with mythological retelling. How can we reconcile the primitive energies of mythmaking with the scientific aspects of archaeological study?

I return to the beginning of the exhibition. Though it is mostly chronological, the exhibition begins with a set of contemporary artworks. We see a Picasso self-portrait, in which he depicts himself as a minotaur. He exploits the minotaur’s association with sexual shame, or unchecked desire. I think Picasso wrestles with the minotaur to consider the consequences of his urges, the ways in which they make him ugly or compelling, the unchecked musk of his infamous romantic appetite. There’s a measure of ego in it, sure, a sexual boastfulness…and he’s definitely making a myth (and a mess) of himself. For Picasso it’s all about the beast; the maze is nowhere to be seen, at least not in the work on display here.

There is also a marble sculpture of the minotaur, whose human proportions make the beast seem more pitiful than monstrous. The white marble is candle-flame yellow every time the adjacent animation loops. It retells the tale of the Labyrinth, a primer for unfamiliar audiences. Ayrton’s Minotaur is a tortured, contorted beast, glancing at its hand in what reads as a moment of dreadful sentience. Mark Wallinger’s artworks, created for London’s tube system, make the Labyrinth as abstract as those late-era Cretan octopi: we picture a writhing, complex maze beneath London’s high-rises. These works, ranging from the ancient to the modern, testify to the myth’s versatility and endurance. It is compelling to see the same figures reinvented time and again, since each artist finds new nooks of originality within the confines of an established myth.

These works highlight the myth’s persistence in the collective imagination. It continues to inspire works of art, literature and film. Even as Knossos is unveiled, it is the Labyrinth which continues to inspire reinvention: new myths, new works, new media. Archaeology has no monopoly on the maze.

These works testify to how art is, itself, a means of preservation. Would archaeologists have sought the ruins if not for the Minotaur myth’s enduring cultural prevalence? Myths function as the first mode of conservation, passing down the fictitious heritage that eventually led us to Knossos’ physical reality. Before the luxuries of modern archaeological technology, storytelling is one of our only ways to keep things alive. It is a precursor to archaeology and history: without it, the halls of that palace may have been lost for good.

Octopus vase depiction

Artistic methods of preservation bleed over into archaeology. Evans’ team leaned on sketches, portraits, and jigsaw-like mosaics of pottery shards. They were painters and assemblers, interpreters and narrators. Knowledge of this reminds us of the other narrator presiding over these artefacts—the museum itself. An exhibition is a narrative. It is sequential even as we explore it in non-linear fashion. It creates harmonies and contrasts, places emphases, and filters our perceptions with context and omissions. The storyteller is no longer a face over a fire but an amorphous web of placards, plexiglass and projections. The thread is continuous: myths preserve sites, guiding archaeologists to them, and then museums frame that archaeological inquiry in new narrative terms. In time, artists (including, perhaps, your humble reviewer) sift through the material—physical and mythical—for whatever suits their whims and kinks. I leave the exhibition finding no clashes between the ancient storytellers and the modern curator or archaeologist.

Enticing as the tale of Knossos is, the exhibition makes a few missteps. It should linger longer on its critique of Evans, especially when it comes to the heartbreaking tale of Minos Kalokairinos. Kalokairinos, a local, amateur archaeologist, pioneered the research in Knossos; yet he was shouldered out, and it was Evans who led the digs. This controversy is touched on far too fleetingly. As we interrogate the legacy of colonialism, stories like that of Evans and Kalokairinos deserve proper attention. The Ashmolean is perfectly positioned to study Sir Arthur Evans’ legacy: he was a former director of the museum. Sadly, the curators’ efforts to reckon with this legacy are more apparent in their tours of the press circuit than in the exhibition’s structure. In the exhibition itself, Kalokairinos fades after the second room, restaging his historic marginalisation.

Reconstruction

Kalokairinos is described in the exhibition’s official catalogue as the first to find Knossos. He openly showed his findings to English visitors, including Evans, but was ultimately excluded from subsequent excavations. One wonders whether the conclusions reached by Kalokairinos and his fellow Cretans would be the same as those reached by Evans and his company. Knossos’ reconstruction was coloured by political and economic factors that may warp our understanding of the site itself. Unfortunately, those interested in these injustices will learn more from the exhibition catalogue than the displays at the Ashmolean.

The 16-minute projection at the end of the exhibition claims to study the role of curators critically, through a post-colonial lens, but its attacks are mainly levelled against the perceived sterility of exhibitions in general. It argues for tactile, sonorous reclamation of the artefacts, bringing them sonic force: pottery bursts on screen as an electronic voice reads a ghostly prose-poem. This is joyful, but does little to overtly criticise the colonial nature of England’s museum hordes. On my viewing, I struggled to see what the projection offered—beyond an amusing enough aesthetic exercise. The projection was not produced specifically for the Knossos exhibition, and doesn’t mesh organically with the rest of the displays.

Role of an artist in reconstruction

I was also unconvinced by the inclusion of Assassin’s Creed Odyssey, in a short video loop depicting the game’s version of the Labyrinth. Perhaps a bid to entice younger visitors, the clip is not interactive and therefore loses much of its value. Unable to explore the virtual maze, we are left with what amounts to a teaser trailer on repeat. This felt strangely advertorial, as though Ubisoft slipped the curators a wad of cash or a few Neolithic arrowheads. While it again testifies to the myth’s endurance, there’s scant insight into how the developers recreated the Labyrinth nor how they handle the myth. The developers’ passion is channelled more into faithful, meticulous reproduction of Knossos’ iconography and architecture than it is into thematic innovation. There’s no reinvention of the minotaur’s symbolic role as we see in the first gallery. Whether this matters to you or not depends on how you value their faithful reproductions, which are, for what it’s worth, completely commendable.

Satirical image of Knossos team

Though the first room highlights the contemporary role of the labyrinth myth, ancient depictions could be given more space. For example, there is a famous vase by the Kleophrades Painter that depicts Theseus killing the Minotaur. Its iconography would make a fascinating counterpoint to Ayrton’s work. Such depictions were common in Ancient Greece, and they created a visual language to which modern artists respond. Though slightly beyond the scope of the exhibition, these ancient depictions can contextualise modern reimagining of the labyrinth.

Finally, it must be reiterated that Evans’ view of Knossos—that it was the original inspiration for the Labyrinth—is not universally accepted. Scholars continue to contend these claims and offer different explanations for what inspired the myth. The Ashmolean is right to focus on one of these explanations, but visitors should be aware that such debates continue. I only learned this on later research, and it produced a palpable sense of anticlimax: the ruins could have little to do with the myth, it seems, which may again become a cultural mirage. Could the Ashmolean spare us such heartbreak by alluding to criticisms of Evans’ theories?

Shards reconstruction

The Knossos exhibition is, despite certain shortcomings, thrilling. It presents the union of mythological and archaeological reconstruction, bringing science and storytelling face to face. Its vases, frescoes and sculptures are focal points where voices of past and present coalesce: they are mythologised and demythologised, revitalised and vivisected. Far from spoiling the myth, the exhibition shines light on how our forebears used stories to preserve the past, paving the way for (supposedly) more methodical inquiries. Following that human thread back to one of its oldest sources is a fascinating exercise. We have access to more of Knossos’ materials than ever, now, not least since some of the exhibition’s artefacts have left Crete for the first time. What stories will we tell with them—what will we pass forth?

Youth leaps over bull
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Raphael: The Renaissance Rock-star  https://theglobalvoyagers.com/reviews/exhibition-reviews/harryedmonds/raphael-the-renaissance-rock-star/ Sun, 04 Jun 2023 03:55:45 +0000 https://theglobalvoyagers.com/?p=1008

Disputa, 1509

Introducing the exhibit

The National Gallery, a principal art museum in the UK, was founded in 1824 and houses some extraordinary collections in addition to hosting the country’s most prestigious exhibitions. So, it’s all the more surprising that the institution is associated with a basket case like Credit “Suisside” Suisse (some of whose clients have been accused of sex trafficking and torture – ‘Credit Suisse’s art partnerships up in the air after emergency UBS takeover’ – The Art Newspaper, 24.3.23), recently and rather ignominiously swallowed up by rival UBS. How this affects future exhibitions at the NG remains to be seen. Will UBS honour Credit ‘balance sheet like Swiss cheese’ Suisse’s sponsorship commitments?

The recent exhibition, housing the most complete and comprehensive collections of Renaissance painter Raphael for the first time ever in the UK (the most comprehensive and complete exhibition of his work remains the one held at the Scuderie del Quirinale in Rome, in 2020), generated the inevitable column inches and effusive praise- at times it became difficult to distinguish between an objective review and a fawning hagiography. This is our take – controversial and contrarian- on the exhibition.

Born Raffaello Sanzio da Urbino, Raphael was an artist, architect, archaeologist, poet and much more, known as much for his artistic output as his libido. The Catholic Church obviously had no issues with Raphael’s promiscuity. Despite having a short career, passing at age 37 (1483-1520), Raphael had an unprecedented impact – some would say he outshone his contemporaries: Michelangelo and Leonardo da Vinci –  on culture and art.

Learning from his father Giovanni Santi, Raphael took over the family workshop when his father passed in 1494.It’s rather surprising that the impact of this tragic event on Raphael’s life is rarely discussed in more detail, especially in this era of psychoanalysis (real and pseudo), in all the volumes written about Raphael. That Giovanni artistically influenced his son is a given but what was the nature of the father-son relationship? How did Raphael feel in the presence of his father? How did he feel when he saw his father’s completed works? If Giovanni’s The Madonna and Child Enthroned With Saints, with its celestial figures, apprehensive humans, precisely rendered immoveable structures and geometrically perfect tiles can draw an adult’s prolonged attention, what effect did it have on his son (a profound effect, as it happens: Raphael would  go on to create a version of his own, in the form of an altarpiece,  a medium he soon came to master under the guidance of his uncle)? Conversely, how did Giovanni feel as he saw his son’s precocious talent burgeon?

Undoubtedly, the death of Raphael’s mother would have had a profound effect on father and son, as would the later death of two siblings. How did they cope with this and did they channel the grief in to their work? Did Raphael channel memories of his mother in every rendition – flawless, thin, bright-eyed-  of the Madonna?There are so many unanswered questions about the father and son but one factor can’t be refuted: the genesis of genius was engendered in loss and tragedy.

The exhibit provides a unique opportunity not just to learn about Raphael’s works, but one’s relationship with art in general. A key aspect of this exhibit is how the art on show can tell us about Raphael’s life and character, as well as develop our own perspectives on art. Prior to the exhibit, I had a base level of art knowledge – I’d heard of key figures like Rembrandt, and was aware of some of the world’s most iconic pieces. Now, I have a much deeper appreciation for the cultural impact of all types of art, and how it can be a tool to explore psychology and history.

Supplementing the exhibit isa complete hardback catalogue, filled with scholarly essays on Raphael and descriptions of each piece. This proved to be an invaluable learning tool for me as well as an interesting read.

I’ll aim to explore the layout of the exhibit, before briefly addressing each of the works and then finally addressing how the exhibit affected myself, a solo attendee with only a base understanding of art history, and other diverse groups such as art enthusiasts or school trips attending the exhibit.

Layout/Structure

The exhibit made use of different rooms to break up the collection of Raphael’s work into different chunks. This semi-chronological structure led guests along a numbered tour from Raphael’s first paintings to his architectural designs. I say semi-chronological since it roughly follows the timeline of his life, but some rooms such as the architecture room or the portrait room are dedicated to a certain aspect of Raphael’s career.

The different rooms are structured as follows:

Early Works

The first room was aptly labelled Early Works, featuring works from the time in his life following the passing of his father in 1494. I was struck with how bright and colourful the paintings of biblical scenes were(to me they suggested hope and salvation), which I think is reflective of the fact that Raphael was living with his uncle- who was a priest- following the death of his parents.

Florence & Beyond

Guests then filter into Florence & Beyond. This follows the period circa 1504 where Raphael turned his attention to Florence, as it was the artistic hub in Italy. This is where his style began to evolve as Raphael came into contact with his more famous contemporaries. His work was influenced by Leonardo Da Vinci, Michelangelo and he’s even known to have studied the works of sculptor Donatello.

The Pope’s Banker

The next room is titled The Pope’s Banker. Agostino Chigi (1466 – 1520) is believed to be the richest man in Italy at the time, and acted as the financial backer for both Pope Julius II and Pope Leo X, hence the titleThe Pope’s Banker. Chigi supported and gave financial aid to Raphael, commissioning works both for his villa and the chapels in Santa Maria della Pace and Santa Maria del Popolo. The ‘Art-Money’ nexus existed long before Credit ‘Seriously Shit’ Suisse teamed up with the National Gallery! This section of the exhibit features some of the works Chigi commissioned.

Working for two Popes

Following this the exhibit naturally progresses from the last featuring Chigito Working for two Popes. This displays Raphael’s works for Pope Julius II and Pope Leo X(the more cynical would say this was an attempt by the Catholic Church to ‘Art Wash’- a ploy adopted centuries later by Middle Eastern despots -its persecutions during the Spanish Inquisition), beginning in 1508 when he was commissioned to paint frescoes for Pope Julius II’s private apartments in the Vatican. Some theorise this was the Pope’s attempt to emulate his predecessor, Pope Alexander VI.Where did the money for this interior decoration come from? While there is little evidence, it is reasonable to assume

that Julius utilised taxes levied by the Catholic Church, anonymous donors, and donations from believers to fund his project, pushing the Vatican to the forefront of Renaissance art. Raphael’swork was impressive enough that Pope Julius II fired other artists on the project, assigning Raphael to lead,while Julius’ successor, Pope Leo X, had Raphael continue after Pope Julius II’s passing in 1513. Raphael continued painting the papal suites, known as the Stanze, until his death in 1520 at which point they were left unfinished.

Architect &Grand Visions

The exhibit then transitions to show one of Raphael’s other labels, Architect. This much smaller room is dedicated to his brief career as an architect. Featuring a models and floorplans of his work, we learned about his designs for the burial chamber of Chigi, and how he became chief architect of the new St Peter’s Basilica. Grand Visions is similarly a smaller room and represents the growth in Raphael’s career. Learning to delegate work, Raphael was offered more commission by Pope Leo X and increased the diversity of his art. Giant tapestries and altar pieces can be found here.

Friends and Patrons

The final room is a portrait room dubbed the Friends & Patrons room. Due to the success of Raphael’s career he was often occupied, rarely taking commissions for portraiture. This means that the only portraits Raphael undertook were of those close to Raphael, such as his self-portrait with Giulio Romano, or of politically important figures like Lorenzo de Medici.

Laying out the exhibition in this way is a logical choice since it creates an easy- to- follow route through the exhibition, which means visitors of any age and interest can not only experience Raphael’s work, but it also allows the audience to track how Raphael’s work evolves over time.

By this I mean, Raphael was famously open to learning from other artists. While many artists would develop a style and stick with it for the duration of their career, Raphael would learn from and evolve with his contemporaries. Raphael would also share skills with and teach other artists himself. This process of sharing inspiration can be observed when looking at Raphael’s work in the context of Leonardo Da Vinci. Once I mentioned his name, I’d wager that Da Vinci’s most famous work sprung to your mind – the Mona Lisa.This iconic portrayal of a woman, turned slightly towards the viewer with hands crossed on her lap is synonymous with Renaissance art. One of Raphael’s featured works in the National Gallery is a portrait titled La Muta (‘silent one’). My initial instinct when viewing this painting was “oh, this reminds me of the Mona Lisa” and this is because it portrays a woman, turned slightly towards the viewer, with her hands crossed on her lap. This is not to say the works are identical – while the Mona Lisa is smiling, La Muta looks to be fairly despondent or disapproving. Coupled with this is La Muta’s left index finger, which is outward in a pointing position, again unlike the Mona Lisa. It gives me the impression that she is motioning toward something she is unimpressed with, as if I had trekked mud through her newly cleaned kitchen. It adds an element of movement to the painting which is absent in Da Vinci’s work. Considering the Mona Lisa was estimated to be painted around 1503, and La Muta is estimated to originate around 1507, the assumption can be made Raphael was inspired by, and built upon, other’s work.More controversially, the argument could be made that Raphael was ripping off Da Vinci. Today’s Intellectual Property lawyers would have a field day arguing for and against!

This was a long-winded way of explaining that in the early exhibit we see a lot of very colourful paintings of key biblical scenes. Yet as we move further along his career, we see less colour and different subject matters, and we can also see where the inspirations for these changes originate. Despite this logical and effective structure, there is one aspect of the exhibition which suffers as a result: the sketches.

These are frequent throughout the gallery and they show Raphael’s practice sketches before tackling larger pieces. In my opinion they’re overshadowed by the other works.The graphite sketches on paper have faded considerably. This is to be expected and the gallery’s very low lighting makes it hard to truly appreciate some of the sketches. Again, this is an understandable choice since high lighting can irreversibly damage artwork and Raphael’s works need to be preserved. This results in the already faded sketches being harder to see, therefore leading to people having to stand much closer to the works to properly experience them. These queues are made worse considering the sketches were often positioned next to the completed painting where people were also gathered. As well as crowds standing close to the sketch, it also lessens the impact of the sketch. Why struggle to examine a faded drawing when you could stand back and absorb the completed project? A solution to this would be change the structure of the gallery slightly.

One of the other rooms should have been dedicated to the key sketches. This would mean that people could have spread out a bit more, having more room to view each sketch. They would also no longer have been overshadowed by their completed big-brothers. Interestingly, it would also have allowed the audience at this stage to follow not the career of Raphael but the process of Raphael. Sketches were done as a plan before Raphael later completed the piece. This means that, like Raphael, the audience can use the drawings to build an image of what to expect before moving into the next room and experiencing the completed works in all their glory. This prevents the sketches being overshadowed and lets the audience follow alongside Raphael.That being said, the argument could be made that the sketches would lose some of their meaning if it was an incomplete fragment of a drawing in a separate room from the final product – some visitors may not connect the two works. In addition to this some sketches are key in showcasing how a certain piece evolved, and needs to be situated at a certain point in the process. So while I found a nitpick,I understand the thought process behind it and can admit that the current layout still works well.

Paintings

Art is arguably created to invoke an emotional reaction in those viewing it, be it joy, despondency or even fear. These emotions, in combination with imagery, are used by the artist to convey a message which may be political, personal, religious and many more. An exhibition such as this will therefore inspire reflection by the viewer not just on the artwork but the world around them. One guest I spoke to even described this particular exhibition as “overwhelming”, as a result of the sheer volume of iconic works. There’s almost too much to take in and consider. In order to address my thoughts, experiences and preferences I’ll first briefly outline each of the works included in the exhibit.

Head of a Boy (1498)

This faded portrait of an unknown young boy is the first piece visitors view if they are following the exhibit chronologically. The fact that the portrait was fading, no longer clear, only benefits the work. It builds on the impermanence of time: while all photos become memories of those we’ve lost, those photos too will one day be gone, only then are we truly forgotten. The gradual fading of the artwork creates a sense that this boy’s memory has a deadline. Yet the other unfaded works cement Raphael’s name in history, so while the boy in the picture may be gone his legend remains.As a work of art, it’s no better or worse than hundreds and thousands of self-portraits churned out by budding artists (just pop over to Piccadilly Circus and you’ll see how skilled the busking artists are, if you want to put this sketch of Raphael’s in to perspective). In fact, if Raphael’s name wasn’t attached to it, it probably wouldn’t merit a second look.

Saint Sebastian (1502-3)

The Christian martyr Saint Sebastian was famously tied to a tree and shot full of arrows for converting his fellow Roman soldiers to Christianity. Usually depictions of this event can be quite graphic, as can be seen in the portrait by Il Sodoma. However, Raphael makes the choice to use bright colours and show a beautiful young man (flowing locks, unblemished, broad face, pliant demeanour) holding an arrow rather than being harmed by one. I believe this is a decision to portray the beauty in Christianity(and an attempt to sanitise Christianity’s often violent history), likely born from Raphael’s religious background under the care of his uncle. Personally, I prefer Il Sodoma’s portrayal of the event, unafraid to shy away from the dark nature of the event and represent the darker side of faith.

© Harry Edmonds

Procession to Calvary (1504-5)

Raphael’s depiction (supposedly influenced by Da Vinci, Filippino Lippi and Justus of Ghent) of Jesus dragging his cross is extremely beautified. By this I mean the use of bright, diverse colours and the absence of any violence or blood (even the cross looks smooth and freshly painted). However, the colours and the actions of the various figures fade when you look directly in to Jesus’s eyes. His is the only gaze meeting the viewer’s; all the other figures look elsewhere. Similarly to Saint Sebastian, I suspect this is Raphael’s attempt to portray biblical events in a lightened way.Again, Raphael’s uncle may well have been an influence in sanitising the depiction of Christianity in Raphael’s work.While I understand a believer’s choice to beautify Jesus’s suffering, I feel by lightening the work it lessens the impact of the sacrifice. If he was not suffering to the extent we believed, then ultimately, how selfless actually was his sacrifice?

The Mond Crucifixion (1502-3)

This iconic portrayal of Jesus’s crucifixion is the first to really grab the viewer, due to its sheer size. Standing at nearly three meters tall and under two meters wide,The Mond Crucifixion is a pièce de resistance. As above, this usually grim point in time has been recreated with vibrant colours and minimal violence.However, Christ’s naked body contrasts with his red loincloth and with the blacks, greens, pinks and light blues of the other figures. The nails in his hands and wound in his rib only feature a small red dash.In fact, none of the figures even appear to be shedding tears. A strange decision on the part of Raphael considering the significance of the event depicted. It endeavours to create a sense of calm (not horror, which ultimately reflects Jesus’s attitude towards his sacrifice) but the presence of floating angels and the Sun and Moon gives the work a crowded and busy feel. Perhaps leaving the two angels and Sun and Moon out and letting the blue skies (why are the skies always blue in Raphael’s paintings?) remain unobstructed would have had a more calming effect.

© Harry Edmonds

Saint George and the Dragon (1504 -5)

The epic and heroic scale of this work is somewhat diminished by Raphael’s disproportionalities: for example, the Princess of Silene is barely more than a maroon splodge. It’s odd that the very reason for the heroic battle has been diminished and stuck in the background. St. George’s horse looks like a mutant (part horse, part bull), with its disproportionately large breast and improbably thick neck! There’s a lack of drama in the background: clear, blue skies (again!) instead of, say, trees bending in a storm.

However, the painting does have some merits, such as the contrast between the sable hue of the dragon (a cast –off from Durer’s The Apocalyptic Woman) and St. George’s sleek, shiny black armour.

Saint Michael (1503-4)

Saint Michael is the first exhibit from Raphael’s religious paintings to move away from the beautified version of Christianity. Here, Christians will NOT turn the other cheek. They’ll fight back!We see browns and reds (and a welcome, albeit temporary, departure from blue skies)with Michael in full armour (“Locked and loaded”!) slaying Lucifer, with other creatures (Hounds of Hell?) looking on in shock and awe. Set in Hell, the scene appears to depict a battlefield, with a town in flames in the background.The right side of the painting shows four men being attacked by serpents. It’s not just Lucifer, portrayed as a goat (a common symbol for Satan), getting his ass kicked. Raphael shows the full fury of God by showing sinners getting their comeuppance. As far as value for money and detail go – simultaneous slaying and judgements – this painting is hard to top. This change in tone suggests Raphael growing as an artist, moving away from his youthful optimism (and naivety) and approaching darker subject matters.

Virgin and Child with Infant Saint John and Child Saint (‘The Terranuova Madonna’ – 1505)

This painting introduces visitors to the concept of a “tondo” which is a type of circular painting originating from Florence. As this is one of Raphael’s first, we can see he has not maximised the potential of this circular canvas, since some of the painting is cropped out.It’s a tonally dark work: even the sky seems to have lost its usual blue glaze. It’s a drained, colourless sky and one wonders what was going through Raphael’s mind as he worked on this sombre piece.  Another unusual aspect about the work is the presence of a third child. It’s very rare to come across similarly themed works by Raphael that depict a third child and the identity of this child remains unknown. Raphael’s fondness for structures is visible in the buildings in the background, their straight lines and peaks contrasting with the undulating contours of the vegetation on the opposite side of the painting, yet Raphael has painted both in a greenish tinge.

© Harry Edmonds

Siege of Perugia (1505-6)

This piece depicts, as the name suggests, a battle. Regardless, all the soldiers are pictured weapon-less and armour-less. I note this because it encapsulates Raphael’s tendency to use nude figures with very important commissions, which answers the question of why soldiers are performing a siege naked. Allegedly inspired by Leonardo da Vinci, one can only wonder how this would have turned out had Raphael persevered with it.

Self Portrait (1506)

Raphael’s self portrait oozes self-confidence. I was particularly drawn to this earl work. The young Raphael is show with his head held high, looking directly towards the viewer, though he does not appear smug or cocky. It’s as if Raphael knew the talent he possessed and the impact he could leave on the art world(…and possibly the number of mistresses he was rumoured to have).

Lamentation of Christ(1506-7)

I found the Lamentation of Christ interesting as it exposes the audience to the idea that art is fluid, able to adapt and evolve as it forms. The portrayal of Jesus’ body being carried to the tomb was originally conceived as a crowd gathered around Jesus’ body. This can be seen in a sketch performed by Raphael early in the project, an ink on paper drawing of Christ’s body on the ground with his head resting in his mother’s lap. Jesus’s pose here is similar to his form in the final product as he is carried, which enables the viewer to see how one evolved into the other.

La Muta(1506-7)

I have already touched upon La Muta, a portrait very reminiscent of theMona Lisa. It is accompanied here by the sketch Raphael used to practice the form, Study for a portrait of a young woman. This image is one of the first in the exhibit to be inspired, not by Christianity, but by the art world around Raphael. Understandably, it stays within the confines of the genre- exposed shoulders, neutral expression and dark, unpretentious garments. However, it’s the model’s hands that catch the eye. Firm, long fingers, with just enough flesh to hint at the fact that the lady has healthy appetites.

Saint John the Baptist Preaching(1505)

Apart from depicting a variety of emotions, this work reintroduces the brightly coloured, uplifting tone from Raphael’s earlier paintings . We seen John’s furrowed seriousness as he points upwards (referring to the anticipated arrival of Christ), the attentiveness of those in the front row, the distractedness of two in the second row, and the defiant lack of interest of the fatty in the last row. The coming of Christ is seen as a time of hope and joy, exactly the sensation which is projected by the colour scheme. On that note, it’s worth noting how the bright colours contrast with the dark terrain in the background. In fact, the change from the lighter shade in the foreground to the darker hue in the background seems abrupt, as if the clouds had perhaps moved across the sun, thus darkening the land.

© Harry Edmonds

The Ansidei Madonna (1505)

The Ansidei Madonna was crafted as an altarpiece for the Ansidei family chapel. A Madonna is a term used to describe depictions of the Virgin and Child, the most common subject in Renaissance art. This piece shows Mary with the infant Christ on her lap, St John the Baptist on her right, and St Nicholas of Bari to her left. This is a melancholic piece, designed to allude to the infant’s eventual crucifixion later in life. Nicholas, Jesus and Mary all gaze at the Bible, which foretells his sacrifice. John, however, is looking at the cross he is holding in his left hand while pointing at the infant with his right, calling to the sacrifice to come. However, Raphael, being the architect that he was, has injected symmetry in to this work. All four figures are tilting their heads in the same direction and he’s taken considerable care in depicting the base of the throne in clean, sharp lines and blocks. The sharp-eyed will notice how the protruding wave at the left elbow of the Virgin catches just a hint of light. This would suggest that the scene is lit from behind and from the side.

© Harry Edmonds

Holy Family with Pomegranate (1507-8)

This piece unsurprisingly depicts the holy family and a pomegranate. What is special about this piece is that it highlights Raphael’s generosity toward other artists, a trait not all artists possessed. This piece was gifted to Domenico Alfani, who later made use of it to create an altarpiece. Raphael was not afraid to both learn from and inspire other artists.Although “just” a sketch, it still delivers an emotional thump, mainly in the depiction of Saint Joseph’s position and expression and Child Christ’s curious tilt towards the fruit from behind his mother’s arm.

Madonna of the pinks (1506-7)

This work again highlights Raphael’s interaction with other artists. The piece is strikingly similar to Da Vinci’s The Benois Madonna. It is up to viewer interpretation whether it is an homage to Da Vinci’s work, or a challenge. One aspect I was drawn to is the thin veil over the Virgin’s head, as it highlights the extraordinary skill required to achieve such an effect.The dark background struggles to compete with the look of love on the Madonna’s face, a testament to Raphael’s skill in portraying a smile so slight in size yet so impactful, especially when one considers that the Virgin was always aware of her son’s fate. The smile is complemented by the mother touching her son’s little fingers while supporting his back with her other hand. The dark interior background contrasts with the skin tone of the figures and the Virgin’s clothes but this is a parallel contrast, parallel to the physical contrast between mother and child. She’s smiling but sub-consciously her grip on him is loosening, as it one day will for good.Then again, is she really smiling? Could her demeanour not be that of a mother struggling to hold back tears while she spends precious moments with her infant, sadness overcoming happiness?

Saint Catherine of Alexandria (1507)

Saint Catherine of Alexandria was a Saint and martyr who, when refusing to renounce her faith, was ordered to be executed on a breaking wheel. This was a form of torture where an individual’s limbs were threaded through the spoked of a wheel and beaten until crushed with a rod. In Raphael’s depiction, he returns to the use of vibrant colours and little violence, asshe is standing next to the wheel turning away(contrapposto) from it to look up at golden light breaching the clouds. This gives the audience a sensation of hope, suggesting Saint Catherine of Alexandria was correct in looking towards God no matter the punishment man inflicted on her.

A rather unexpected result of showing St. Catherine twisting is that we get a suggestion of her curvaceous physique (wide hips and ample but firm thigh), even though she’s fully clothed in heavy robes (a quick study of his sketches/studies for this painting will reveal that the model the Saint is based on was nude). An example of Raphael moving away from the slim and delicate Madonnas to more voluptuous renditions of the female form…and ever so subtly eroticising saints?

Leda and Swan (1505-7)

This piece is based on a now lost Leonardo Da Vinci creation. Elements of this piece were incorporated into other works, for example the twisting pose of the woman was used in Saint Catherine of Alexandria, highlighting again how art from not only other artists but one’s own catalogue can influence new works. And, could there be a sexier, more suggestive Renaissance sketch? Leda’s half-smile, inscrutable (Is it a seductive smile? Is it a post-coital smile?) and non-committal yet not in the least bit shy. This is a muscular, pert, fertile woman of mythology, bearer of children and open to pushing boundaries. How else would you describe seducing a swan (ok, it was Zeus disguised as a swan but still!)?

The Madonnas

At this stage in the exhibit is a series of Madonnas, starting with the Virgin and Child (‘The Alba Madonna’ 1509-11). In this piece the Virgin has a look of motherly love on her face, and yet the infant Christ appears forlorn. It appears as though he knows the sacrifice he is destined to make and that he will not live a normal life. Interestingly, here the Virgin has her hand around the infant John the Baptist, and not her son.  Also noticeable is the way the brownish tinge of the earth slowly changes to alight green of the bushes, finishing with the light blue of a mostly clear sky. The predominant presence of blue and the strong infantile presence convey a sense of serenity and innocence to this tondo.

Following this is the Garvagh Madonna (1510-11), similar in themes and tones to The Alba Madonna. However, here the humans are depicted indoors.

The Bridgewater Madonna (1507-8)is another piece which expresses Raphael’s willingness to be inspired by others. Jesus is shown in an unusual position, which is inspired by the Taddei Tondo,a marble tondo created by Michelangelo.

The final Madonna is the Madonna of the Palm(1506-7), a piece which calls to Jesus’ birth. Another tondo, we see the holy family with Mary, on a trough, and Jesus looking at one another with Joseph holding the baby’s hands. This is a rare depiction of Joseph, which adds a layer of poignancy to the painting. Only one side of Joseph’s face is portrayed but it nevertheless conveys a father’s happiness, sadness and powerlessness.There is a through line in many of Raphael’s Madonnas of the young infant acknowledging and accepting his eventual sacrifice, though not all. This may be because it is ultimately more tragic when we picture an infant sacrificing themselves rather than a grown adult man.

© Harry Edmonds

Incredulity of Saint Thomas(1511-12)

This section of the exhibit consists of three pieces, two sketches and a sculpture. This marks the first time in his career that Raphael provided designs for a sculptor. The audience can observe sketches, one paper and one created using metalpoint. These show the design process for the tondo sculpture adjacent to the sketches. This will likely catch the viewer’s attention as it is the first physical, three dimensional piece of art we see in the exhibit after sketches and paintings. The chips and damage at the bottom of the tondo are indicative of the age of the artwork in the room. Compared to some of the pristine paintings, the sculpture feels like an ancient relic uncovered because of the wear and tear, helping to remind the audience how incredible it is we can still experience these works.

Descent into Limbo(1511-12)

Descent into Limbo is presented as a pair with the Incredulity of Saint Thomas since it is another sculpture. Nearly identical in size, material and scope, this piece portrays Christ surrounded by angels. In the top left-hand of the tondo is an unfinished angel, and Christ’s right foot only has two toes, which suggests that Raphael may have passed away during the design process of this piece.

Ground plan for Chigi Chapel (1511-12)

Here we see our first hint at Raphael’s architectural prowess. The plans we can see are reminiscent of the works of Raphael’s friend, architect Donato Bramante. This suggests he may have influenced or even aided Raphael in his early architectural career.

Study for an angel (1515-16)

Accompanying the Ground plan for Chigi Chapel is a study for an angel that Raphael was planning  on using in the Chigi Chapel. The angel is seen looking down but pointing upwards, as though they are showing us the way and guiding us to God. I was particularly drawn to this sketch over others as it was created using red chalk, which I found gave it a warm, calming effect.

Study of a figure leaning on a parapet(1508-9)

While not the most awe inspiring of his works, this sketch does have an interesting quality that the others do not. On the same scrap of paper are lines of a sonnet which Raphael had written, which shows us that outside of art, architecture and sculpting Raphael still explored other interests and talents.

Pope Leo in a Sedia Gestatoria(1513)

This piece can be used to teach audiences a common practice in the art world. Showing Pope Leo being carried by his people, the rough sketch is overlayed with a grid pattern. Obviously practice sketches were often done at a much smaller scale than many of the finished pieces, but this creates a problem when trying to replicate the finished product as scale alters the proportions of each aspect. To offset this problem artists would overlay a grid pattern on a sketch, and having mathematically worked out the dimensions of the larger canvas, proportionally recreate this grid pattern on the new location. These grids can then be used to determine the positions of specific elements.

Pope Julius II (1511)

Bathed in deep, rich colours, this portrait stands apart from the rest as the viewer is placed slightly above and to the right of the Pope, who is looking downwards with a defeated expression. The deep greens and reds contrast with the deathly palour of the Pope (who, incidentally, almost died in 1511). It suggests that life is slowly seeping out of him as he sits there in his papal regalia ( rendered with attention to detail and delicacy: check out the white fur trim on the Pope’s red “hoodie”).This piece reflects the Pope’s reaction to his recent military defeat, given that he was usually associated with violent power and war. This piece is also among Raphael’s most widely knownworks, and as such is given a lot of breathing room in the exhibit.

© Harry Edmonds

The School of Athens(1509-11)

This is a rather breath-taking portrayal of history, having been replicated at the exhibit to scale due to its current location in the Vatican. Another of Raphael’s most iconic works, its hard to take in every aspect of this image, showing all of the great philosophers, such as Plato and Aristotle, at an imaginary gathering. The wall it was displayed on was barely large enough to show all of it, expressing the sheer scale of the work.

The Holy Family with the Infant St. John the Baptist/’Madonna of the Rose’ (1516-17)

The holy family with infant John the Baptist are again the main figures and the theme remains Christ’s sacrifice. However, this is a much more intimate work with no distracting backdrop (there’s nothing but a dark background). The children’s happy faces are welcome contrasts to the overall sombre background hue and Joseph’s downcast demeanour. Worth noting is the delicate depiction of the noses: the two children have been given plump little noses while the Virgin’s seems to perfectly compliment her lips and chin. But, it’s Joseph’s nose that really stands out: sharp but proportionate, adding a fatherly gentleness to an ageing face.

For the aesthetes, it’s the depiction of the Virgin’s veil that really stands out. Portraying its transparency, flow down the right side of Mary’s face and its eventual curling around her shoulders could only have been pulled off by an exceptional artist.

Although named ‘Madonna of the Rose’, this is inappropriate since the rose was added in much later. As with the other Madonnas, John is holding his cross and Jesus seems to be interacting with John. Mary however is holding the infant protectively, whilst looking at John, and Joseph can be seen in the background looking withdrawn. This could suggest that the parents know, and wish to protect, Jesus from his fate though inevitable.

God the Father accompanied by Symbols of the Evangelists/‘The Vision of Ezekiel’- (1516-17)

This work consists of two parts: a grand painting and a large tapestry. Though the tapestry has slight alterations, it is a rather faithful and impressive recreation of the painting. The work depicts God breaching the clouds, silhouetted in golden light. With him are two angels and the four evangelists, represented in their animal forms. The sheer size of these works mean viewers have to look up at God descending from a gateway to heaven, as they would in the real event. This exemplifies how scale can be used in order to immerse a viewer in a painting. It’s one of the rare works in which Raphael relies on more than one animal to, as it were, do the heavy lifting.

The Holy Family with St. Anne and the Infant St. John the Baptist/‘Madonna of Divine Love’ (1516)

This work is one of Raphael’s which was widely replicated. This demonstrates the influence he was having on the art world at the time. It shows the holy family with Saint John the Baptist and Saint Anne. We can see that John does indeed have his cross, and Jesus is pointing at it with his right hand, again foreshadowing his eventual sacrifice. Everyone is painted in a warm glow, except Joseph in the background who is in shadow, perhaps lamenting the coming sacrifice of his son.

Barely noticeable is the wide-eyed and genuflecting Infant John the Baptist placing a hand on his chest, perhaps pledging loyalty to the future Saviour. This could be an attempt by Raphael to depict the nascent forces of good growing despite the dark period, symobolised by the dark walls in the background.

The Holy Family with Raphael, Tobias and the Angel and St. Jerome/’Madonna of the fish’ (1513-14)

Conceived as an altarpiece, thisis one of the few works not to depict John the Baptist or Joseph. Rather, we can see the Archangel Raphael and Tobias to the Virgin and Christ’s right, with Saint Jerome to their left. The attention of Mary and Christ are so directed toward their right that the work’s earliest names do not acknowledge Saint Jerome at all.

Raphael chose a large green drape, rather than end-to-end blue skies, or architecture, or celestial beings as a backdrop for this interior-set piece. Consequently, the green overpowers the other colours.

The tilt of the winged Archangel Raphael’s face and the position of his eye make it look like he’s focusing on something on the ceiling, rather than at Jesus and Mary. Interestingly, Tobias’s face seems blurry and lacking in definition. This is not one of Raphael’s most well-executed paintings.

Study for the Judgement of Solomon & Massacre of the innocents (1510)

The identity of the artist of these sketches remains unclear to this day. Some say the idea was Raphael’s but the execution was Marcantonio Raimondi’s while others say both artists collaborated on the creation. The topic will inevitably be debated for many more reasons but what’s noteworthy is the relation between both works. The reason I have combined these works is because Raphael himself did. By this I mean, in the sketches for Judgement of Solomon viewers can see the form of a soldier. This soldier, however, was repurposed in Massacre of the innocents. This again points to the fluidity of art, how it can be adapted and changed in the hands of an expert. Outside of this, Massacre of the innocents is fascinating for another reason. I reinforced earlier the idea that Raphael often portrayed gruesome events in a bright, colourful and non-violent fashion. That practice has been abandoned here, with a colourless portrayal of violence. With the bodies of numerous infants on the ground, Raphael appears to be moving away from his “shiny”, devotional pieces to exploring the violence that presaged Judeo-Christianity.

The sketch might be devoid of colour but the violence is unrestrained (swords fully drawn and about to strike, soldiers reaching for the mothers and their children) and this is possibly the most violent of the exhibits. The fear of the mothers seeps in to the viewers and turns in to rage. Indeed, some of the women in the sketch are depicted as muscular and ready to confront the soldiers. One can’t help but wonder what it might have looked like had Raphael (or Raimondi) gone ahead and added colour. Even in its basic form it probably influenced the Bruegels, Rubens, Reni and Poussin.

Portrait of Valerio Belli (1517)

A very small piece, this tondo represents Raphael’s now mastery of the practice. Here we see an immaculately intricate and proportioned tondo, absent of all the mistakes seen in Virgin and Child with Infant Saint John.

Iconic Column Base owned by Raphael(1518-20) & Letter to Leo X(1519)

I have written about these together as they help to realise Raphael as a person. Iconic Column Base owned by Raphaelacts as another exhibition of Raphael’s architectural growth, the exhibit shows an old book, a codex, containing a design by Raphael. Seeing his real works in a codex helps to visualise how his concepts may have been stored at the time. Following this is a real letter addressed to Pope Leo X. This is truly moving as we can read first-hand Raphael’s thoughts on being an architect and archaeologist. For me, seeing a letter by Raphael realises him, outside of being a legend of renaissance art.

Architecture

This room features two brief works which demonstrate Raphael’s architecture, outside of the ones aforementioned. The first work are Satyr Masks and Cornucopia Reliefs. We can observe the real cast from his workshop, and get a glimpse of how Raphael would have had to design, sculpt the cast and create the final product. Next to this is a rather large model for the Façade of Palazzo Branconio Dell’aquila. This large model shows the realised designs from his drawings. I noticed that there was an extreme amount of intricate detail and decoration around the mid section of the model, with bare walls either side. It makes me curious whether this is a choice or a result of unfinished work.

The Ecstasy of St. Celia (1515-16)

This piece, designed to be an altar piece in Bologna, returns to Raphael’s brightly coloured biblical scenes. We can observe Saint Celia with Paul, John Evangelist represented by an eagle, Augustine and Mary Magdalene. At their feet is a pile of broken instruments and above their heads the clouds are parted to show heaven. One interpretation can be that they are rejecting earthly music in favour of heavenly music, music here representing behavioural practices and belief systems.

Saint Paul Preaching at Athens (1517-19)

This work consists of several elements. One element is a massive tapestry, with a golden decorated boarder. The other element is a large painting, which is mirror flipped to the tapestry. These awe- inspiring works make us feel as though we are part of the audience, watching in real time, rather than observing a glorified recreation of the event.

Portrait Room

This is the final room of the exhibit. As mentioned Portraiture was really reserved for friends or important political figures at the time. Therefore walking through here is very immersive, since I felt as though I was walking through a snapshot of Raphael’s life and those around him. When comparing it to the commonly religious works, a room full of those in Raphael’s life almost feels like a room of photographs. It also shows off his extreme skill with fine details, for example La Fornarina (1519-20), possibly Raphael’s sexiest work (and the one that has feminists tied in knots wondering if the work is exploitative or empowering! Agonising over whether they’re supposed to find it sexy – here’s a tip girls: if you feel a little moistening, a little tingle and a hardening ofthe nipples then, yes, it’s sexy! Enjoy!) is covered in a barely visible veil, similarly to the Madonna of the Pinks. We also see all the portraits are level with, and looking at, the viewer which highlights the decision to show Pope Julius II looking downward was a significant choice.

Self Portrait with Giulio Romano(1519-20)

Of these portraits, arguably the most famous is Raphael’s Self Portrait with Giulio Romano. Romano was Raphael’s apprentice, which is clearly seen in the portrait. Raphael is slightly above Romano, looking directly at the audience, while Romano is looking up at Raphael. It suggests that while Romano is looking for guidance, Raphael is confident in his ability, therefore cementing his position in the hierarchy. We also see Raphael’s left hand on Romano’s shoulder, while his right hand blends with Romano’s, suggesting his is actively guiding Romano here. This is one of Raphael’s most poignant works. The age and weariness is visible on his face. No artistic vanity here. The vigour and energy has been injected in to the younger Romano, who already seems to be pointing to the future, (a talented but frequently overlooked Renaissance artist, his ‘Donna alla toeletta’, painted soon after Raphael completed his ‘La Fornarina’ is arguably inspired by the latter and it’s a sexier, raunchier and darker variation of the themes in ‘La Fornarina’. Raphael would surely have been proud of ‘Donna all toeletta’) while the master contemplates his own work and life).

© Harry Edmonds

Progression in Raphael’s career

The exhibit was laid out in a semi-chronological order and I touched on each piece in this order. Raphael had a brief career due to his untimely death at the age of 37, though this exhibit provides a unique opportunity to follow that entire career from beginning to end. When one combines the subject of each room with the art on display, there is a very natural progression in his work. In his early works we see brightly coloured, non-violent representations of biblical events which is likely a symptom of living with a priest. As time progresses, Raphael turns his attention away from biblical events and looks outward towards Florence and other artists. We can see works such as La Muta orThe Bridgewater Madonna, inspired by Leonardo Da Vini and Michelangelo respectively. We then begin to see the introduction of Raphael’s other skills such as architecture, poetry and archaeology creeping into the exhibit. We begin to see darker, more violent depictions in his work such as Massacre of the Innocents again exemplifying a desire to experiment and leave behind his youthful tendencies.

Getting to see not only Raphael’s whole portfolio, but how is evolves as he grows results in a unique learning experience for viewers. As mentioned earlier, art can send a message or tell a story. Usually, the story of Raphael’s life such as his interests, people of note and his key works, would be told in a wall of exposition. However, the National Gallery, being one of the few exhibition hosts to house his complete works, is able to tell this story through his art. The works alone tell the story of the boy who took over his father’s workshop before learning from the other great artists to find his voice and become the legend he is today. It is fitting that the first image of the exhibit could be a faded self portrait of a young boy, nearly forgotten and the final painting is an immaculately preserved, very famous portrait of an older, confident Raphael as a master of his craft, others looking to him for guidance. From boy to legend.

© Harry Edmonds

My personal experience

There was a lot to process with an exhibit of this magnitude, but that only means everyone has an opportunity to learn more. I learned a significant amount, not just about Raphael but Renaissance art in general. Is that very clichéd? Yes, but growing up I never had the best exposure to art and so exhibits such as this are key to teaching myself about this aspect of our world. For example, I learned that tondos are a type of circular painting originating in Florence and that the most common subject matter in Renaissance art were madonnas.

I also learned a lot about how we consume art. Arguably my favourite piece in the exhibit was the portrait of Pope Julius II.Raphael made many deliberate choices with this portrait that were absent in all others. Putting the viewer slightly above Julius suggests that we should look down on him, and Julius himself is avoiding our eye contact, sheepishly looking at the ground. The only other portrait that played with perspectives in this manner was the Self Portrait with Giulio Romano, though this was to boost Raphael’s own stature. When observed with the context that Julius recently suffered a crushing military defeat it is clear that Julius is ashamed, disappointed and since he was regarded as a militaristic leader, embarrassed. This is why I quite like it because, as childish as it sounds, it makes me chuckle. Of every moment Raphael could have immortalised, he chose one of the lowest points of the man’s life. The piece is causing an emotional response (laughter) in the message it conveys (military defeat of a once strong leader), which is why I was drawn to it.

Another piece I was drawn to is the School of Athens. Having studied Philosophy when I was younger, I’ve had an interest in the subject for most of my adult life. Seeing a massive mural depicting the greatest philosophers in history was fascinating, and even allowed me to explore that interest in a new manner. Rather than reading about the philosophers, I was looking at them. This tells me that art which reflects our interests or views on the world is likely to grab us, though this is another form of emotional response. This can be negative however, such as the guest who found the exhibit overwhelming. Sometimes our emotional relationship with a piece may actually drive us further way, not pull us closer.

Not all who visited found the exhibit to be this enlightening, though. Alongside the previously mentioned guest who regarded the exhibit as “overwhelming”, another guest I spoke to noted a lack of connection between Raphael’s works and modern culture (well, that guest doesn’t know shit: a quick look at the album covers, designed by Mark Kostabi, for Guns n’ Roses’ Use Your Illusion 1 &2 will notice the obvious allusion (Use your allusion?) to Raphael’s School of Athens. Epic artwork referenced in an epic album release). Understandably it is not necessary for the exhibit to create a link to our current culture, especially since a complete collection of Raphael’s career could be considered overwhelming as it is. It does make a difference to those who are already well versed in Raphael’s works, hoping to see a fresh perspective on his career.

Moving forward, this exhibit has inspired me to seek out art more actively, rather than just reading about it or watching the odd documentary. Finding new exhibits, learning about different periods, and ultimately finding my avenue in the world of art. I also want to try to open up people I know to art more often, suggesting exhibits and discussion works. I think it would be hard, after experiencing the complete works of someone such as Raphael, not to motivated to seek out more.

Closing Thoughts

Usually, these works are spread throughout the world. As a result of this,having the opportunity to view them all in one place is a rarity but a welcome one. I genuinely learned not just about Raphael’s key works but all his works, how his life and career evolved in sync. I could also see first- hand how technical terms and skills are represented in his work. I think everyone, not just art lovers, could really benefit from an experience such as this and when the opportunity for a similar exhibit arises, I highly recommend it.

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Painting Poetry with Dia Al-Azzawi https://theglobalvoyagers.com/reviews/exhibition-reviews/chrispoole/painting-poetry-with-dia-al-azzawi/ Sun, 28 May 2023 08:08:44 +0000 https://theglobalvoyagers.com/?p=988
Mosul Panorama

When the German poet Rilke saw a sculpture of Apollo, he wrote the line “you must change your life.”[1]Something in the sculpture is magnetic, arousing in Rilke the desire for transformation. Perhaps the great work lays his life, as it currently is, bare: some level of mundanity, tolerated until this juncture, is suddenly seen for what it is. It is no longer adequate to live like this. Apollo, the God of Music, has made a simple command. You must change your life.

Rilke heeds this call in poetry. The aforementioned line comes at the end of ‘Archaic Torso of Apollo,’ a poem written in response to the titular sculpture. Art begets art, as the poem tries to extend and recapture the living force of the sculpture. In the poem, Rilke recreates the bust’s missing head. He senses its smile in the torso’s brilliance. He completes the sculpture, reversing the effects of time. The viewer is, in turn, the sculptor: art is not final, and it implicates Rilke in its creation. That final line, ‘you must change your life,’ now addresses his audience: the cycle continues as we are invited to extend the poem, the sculpture, and the creative act. We’re ushered into Apollo’s chorus.

Rilke is hardly the only poet to write in this manner. His poem is an example of ekphrasis, a written tribute to a visual work of art.  Many poets have dabbled in ekphrasis, perhaps prompted by experiences like Rilke’s. Moved by an artwork’s power, they attempt to reproduce its emotive power through language. Yet the relationship is not a one-way street; what happens when visual arts speak back? One answer lies inDia al-Azzawi’s dafatir.

Al-Azzawi’s dafatir hybridise book and canvas. The word ‘dafatir’ comes from the Arabic for canvas. Dafatir, therefore, resemble notebooks: they are composed of bound sheets, with several A4 canvases linked together into a ‘book’ of connected canvases. Like the adjacent images of a triptych, each canvas contrasts or echoes its neighbours. Some maintain the structure of books, while others spread out like accordions; others still are housed in cigar cases. The dafter on display reject the singular nature of the canvas. Instead, they present a set of connected images. These images are complemented by calligraphed lines from Arabic poems, etched onto the canvases themselves.

Al-Azzawi produced a range of dafatir inspired by poets. These are central to the Ashmolean’s Dia al-Azzawi: Painting Poetry, which explores the dialogue between Al-Azzawi and his poetic peers. The exhibition showcases an array of dafatir, many of which are direct responses to Arabic poems. These dafatir transcribe linguistic feats into meshes of colour, shape, texture and space. The resulting works often extend the context of the original, recapturing its essence while adding unexpected new hues.

[1]Ahead of All Parting: Selected Poetry and Prose of Rainer Maria Rilke, transl.  Stephen Mitchell, Modern Library. © 1995 Stephen Mitchell.

Artefacts next to A wolf Howls

The poems quoted in the dafatir can be deemed the starting point of the work. Al-Azzawi’s illustrations respond to the words of a given poem, a process he describes as ‘free and emotive responses’ to the poet’s language. Al-Azzawi reproduces both the images of the poem, and the personal, subjective responses they conjure in him. There is a dance between the components of the poem and the observer, Al-Azzawi, whose replies are often just as mysterious.

Al-Azzawi has praised the ‘allusive quality’ of poetic imagery. For him, poetry’s references are evocative and indirect. Al-Azzawi works in a visual medium, and so must improvise to reproduce this elusive quality. To do this, he frequently leans on outlines of figures, abstract shapes, vibrant patches of colour, and fragments of text. We sense that Al-Azzawi sees poetry as liberating, inviting him to paint more loosely, unhindered by precepts of photorealism or ‘accuracy’. Poetry grants him licence to reject rigid notions of artistic merit. Painting is no longer about representing his subjects with visual accuracy; instead, it is about mapping moods and states, which, by definition, have no solid forms.

If a poem’s mysteries lie in the implicit relationships between images, the dafatir reproduce this in the link between their divided pages. These links are often just as elusive: one page’s muted greens and blues give way to passionate reds and yellows. Sometimes the pages spread like accordions, whereas at other times they look like traditional books. These differences, too, loosen or tighten the metaphorical ‘bonds’ between each canvas.

A Wolf Howls

The dafatir are refreshingly intimate. Viewing them carries the voyeuristic intrigue of studying a painter’s diaries, even as we know they are performative works whose so-called ‘intimacy’ is created with the public in mind. The dafatir’s charming informality hinges on the typical role of a ‘notebook’, that is, a place for private reflection and practice sketches. They are steeped in a childlike playfulness at home in poetry and art alike. I feel the urge to reach through the glass and touch them. I want to thumb through their pages and feel their texture, to trace the calligraphed grooves…the dafatir are tactile, and I want to treat them as I would an family photo album. The prohibitive, look-but-don’t touch confine of a gallery space is all the more apparent here, with works that beg to be explored by hand.

Though they evoke play and privacy, the dafatir have a darker side. Their popularity among artists is in part pragmatic: they are easy to transport and quick to produce. This accounts for their prevalence in areas affected by war, where material scarcity drives artists to such economical forms.

Book of darkness

War, soon enough, becomes the exhibition’s primary theme. Al-Azzawi is particularly moved by conflict in Iraq, his birth nation. Once a patron and curator of the Mosul Museum, Al-Azzawi laments its televised destruction by Daesh. Al-Azzawi’s work achieves a simultaneous mourning of innocent life and historical heritage, twin victims of contemporary conflict. The destruction of the Mosul Museum brings the two together and, as such, becomes a key focal point for Al-Azzawi. The dafatir are transmuted into means of decrying violence. Al-Azzawi becomes a voice of protest against the waste of life, innocence, and art.

At the centre of the exhibition is Mosul: Panorama of Destruction 2017/22. A sweeping ten-metre tapestry, the work depicts the chaos of war in the city of Mosul. Its scale contrasts sharply with the dafatir. Poetry’s brevity informed the dafatir’s intimacy, but war is maximalist, expansive, and indulgent. The tapestry form (this is not the only one of Al-Azzawi’s tapestries to broach war) is appropriate both in terms of historical precedent, and in terms of its sheer size. The Panorama dominates the small exhibition space, which metaphorically reflects Daesh’s intrusion into cultural spaces: invited or not, conflict takes centre stage.

The immediate temptation is to compare the Panorama to Picasso’s Guernica. Both are stark, black- and- white testimonies to war’s pandemonium. However, Al-Azzawi disavows us of this temptation. For one thing, the techniques differ considerably. Guernica haunts with its emotive faces; Al-Azzawi’s human figures, meanwhile, are mostly faceless. Their blankness, deprived of any features, floods the work with silence. They are dehumanised spectres: without Guernica’s facial expressions, the victims in Mosul have no means of communicating their suffering. Their pain remains is invisible and unheard. Perpetrators and victims operate beneath a fog of anonymity, without voice, without identity. Only political banners, weaponry, and facial hair (with its religious and political connotations) demarcate figures’ status and role. Curiously, destroyed statues have more detailed faces than the living human subjects.

Four children playing football

Guernica’s shadow looms over the Panorama, even when the works differ considerably. If nothing else, this reminds us of Al-Azzawi’s presence in a long cultural tradition. He is yet another artist tasked with encoding war’s chaotic horror, producing works that lament, condemn, and warn against conflict. This is the artist-as-witness, a figure whose constancy across styles and generations reminds us only of war’s perennial presence. Is this one of the longest artistic traditions in history? When we see the Panorama’s surface-level resemblance to Guernica, we wonder what Guernica resembled, and what those predecessors resembled, until we imagine a long chronology of corresponding war canvases, poems, songs and novels. As that awful heritage becomes clear to us, our view of war becomes more panoramic.

Standing before the Panorama, we imagine the next artist to continue the chain. We imagine the next voice after Picasso, Al-Azzawi, and the others. How long before another artist vows to extend these cubic shadows, these lightless visages—how long before the easel stands lamb-legged before the latest wasteland?

Like Picasso and others, Al-Azzawi witnesses conflict from a distance. Picasso painted Guernica in Paris, far from the Basque town as it was bombed. Likewise, Al-Azzawi moved to London in the 1970s, leaving Iraq after the rise of Saddam Hussein. He was not in the conflict zone itself and witnessed Mosul’s destruction from London.

I mention this to consider a critique levied at such ‘witnesses’. Detractors may accuse such witnesses of appropriating trauma that is not their own. They ask if you can truly understand conflict without direct experience of it. Whatever your ties to a nation affected by conflict, your understanding will not match that of those who endure its conditions directly. The first, obvious tension is that war is not meant to leave witnesses. We rely on second-hand witnesses because the ‘direct’ witness is far less likely to survive. Nonetheless, critics wonder how satisfied we should be with ‘war artists’ who are not immersed in the conflict itself. Distance means survival, but it also complicates the legitimacy of the painter’s response.

Layla and Majnun

In light of these questions, I wondered why Al-Azzawi chose the format of a ‘panorama’. The sweeping scale of the work is at odds with its emotive force. The distance evokes landscape works, yet the sheer power of its disparate images are more like tortured portraits. Its dimensions feel contradictory, so that we are at once removed and placed in its centre. Al-Azzawi seems to study the very notion of ‘distance’ from conflict in the panorama itself, conflating panorama’s literal distance with emotional proximity to the suffering at hand.

For Western viewers, arguably the primary target audience of this exhibition, this Panorama may evoke our own distance from conflict. Drone footage, aerial shots, cameras that pan over bombarded cities: in England, our views of war are panoramic. We are placed at literal and critical distance: our wide view comes at the cost of close experience. Conflict in the Middle East is so readily distilled into political and economic terms that the suffering of individuals is overlooked. Indeed, this dynamic is essential to war: the disconnect between its ideological terms and its visceral realities.

The Panorama seems to encapsulate both of these poles and, in doing so, breaks down whatever distance we feel from conflict. It brings suffering closer to us. The Panorama works as an attack on the distance created by spectatorship, drawing attention to the ways we make war digestible, logical, and permissible. We remember how often war is, to the lucky among us, a slew of sound-bites, graphs, and dispassionate shots of blasted high-rises. Al-Azzawi’s distance from Mosul perfectly positions him to interrogate the role of ‘distance’ in obfuscating war’s nature. And his personal closeness with Mosul’s victims is never in doubt.

Mosul Panorama

In a video interview showing at the exhibition, Al-Azzawi claims he had to ‘abandon poetry’ in the face of war. Though a lucid speaker on his creative processes, this claim seems too absolute. It is hardly reflected in the dafatir on display at the exhibition, even when they are divided into subsections of ‘poetic’ and ‘war’ dafatir. When we look at Al-Azzawi’s treatment of conflict, we see many techniques similar to his treatment of poetic texts. Even in Mosul, seemingly so different from the dafatir, these techniques endure. We notice the logic of partial allusion, where fragments allude to a larger whole. The ways in which bodies blend, jostle, and blur recalls that ‘allusive’ quality that Al-Azzawi admired in poetry. Where it once invited him to capture poetry’s nebulous evocations, it now becomes a way to depict violent chaos.

Disembodied limbs in the dafatir Four Children Playing Football are exemplary of this. Their disconnected fragments tease at a narrative just out of view. Initially, the ambiguity of this fragmentation is total. Is this an innocent childhood scene, or a web of dismemberments? This duality is but one of the many effects Al-Azzawi achieves by bringing poetry’s lessons to the frontline. Indeed, poets have also been witnesses, from Ancient Greece to occupied France. War has its own poetic tradition.

Four Children Playing Football is composed of two images set in a wooden box, far more economical than the other dafatir. One image is sketched in pencil, while the other utilises sculpted clay. Both represent legs and arms, with two heads in their centre. The pencil sketch is riddled with holes. A band of red runs horizontally across them both, connecting them.

Like the figures in the Mosul tapestry, the work’s figures are faceless and shady. At first glance, the wooden frame compounds the work’s ambiguity. It makes the work appear a treasured item, a prized heirloom brought out for special occasions. It also induces claustrophobia, with the titular children entrapped in its narrow space. Before I learned the context of the work, it sat between opposites: between innocence and slaughter. A placard tells me that it was inspired by children killed while playing football. They were struck by an Israeli shell in 2014, during the Israel-Gaza conflict. The ambiguity continues even in light of this. Has Al-Azzawi trapped that moment of innocent play in amber, moments before tragedy, or has he frozen atrocity in full view? Or has he, somehow, done both?

Panorama of destruction executioners

Whatever the case, Four Children  highlights how war infects the most innocent aspects of humanity. This work is indicative of how conflict changes the poetic logic of Al-Azzawi’s dafatir. Though they maintain their indirect allusions, they become smaller, darker works. Their text is muted, their figures anonymous. Dafatir  were previously indulgent and joyful. Now they are lightless and stark. Colour drains away. What colour remains is invariably the red of blood, not of passion. These dafatir are microcosms of the destruction of the museum, testaments to what war makes of us.

Still, something of Al-Azzawi’s playfulness persists. Even as conflict’s shadow spreads over the exhibition, experimentation stands firm. In one instance, Al-Azzawi uses a friend’s cigar case as the ‘frame’ for a dafatir. The friend visited Al-Azzawi by chance and allowed him to use the case. Al-Azzawi seems willing to entrust his creativity to a higher influence, or to sheer luck, much like poets of past and present. The Muse clearly isn’t averse to the odd Havana. It is touching to see Al-Azzawi innovate and play even as war demands a singular, solemn attention. These fragments of joy become testimonies to a greater endurance.

The Ashmolean is a fitting venue for two reasons. The first is that the exhibition is free. The second is that it houses various artefacts from the Arab world, as well as from Persia. Both are sources of influence for Al-Azzawi. Some reside on the museum’s first floor, while others have been placed directly in the Painting Poetryexhibition on floor -1. The latter offer the most fruitful insights. For example, one display features a 15thCentury copy of Nizami’s Khamsa (Quintet). This book includes an account of the Bedouin love story of Layla and Majnun. Visitors can study the work’s traditional illustration on an open display page. Beside it, we see one of Al-Azzawi’s dafatir responding to the same love story.

The 15th Century book demonstrates a conventional relationship between text and image. The text is the primary component, while the image is added to supplement the text. The dafatir modifies this relationship. Though it begins with the same story, its imagery is indirect and evocative. It contains fragmented human and animal forms, knotting black lines, and red backgrounds which suggest passion and danger. By comparing Al-Azzawi’s version of Layla and Majnun to older depictions, we see how he draws on and reinvents tradition. A tale of averted, forbidden desire, its fragmented forms remind us of stolen glances and furtive, repressed longings.

Poetic Dafatir (included for the prevalence of text on its front)

In other places, traditional context is far subtler. Take, for example, Al-Azzawi’s use of the phrase ‘Land of Darkness’. The term was originally used to describe Mesopotamia’s rich, dark soil. It suggests fertility and potential, presenting an idyllic image of the land. Al-Azzawi applies this moniker to his work Iraqi Book of Darkness, 2020.

I found myself most drawn to this dafatir’s exterior, the jacket where we’d usually find a book’s front and back cover.  The front page is black, while the back is white. The white side bears trickles of red and a bloody handprint. The human figures are also monochrome. Their bodies are characterised by jumbled lines, barren patches of emptiness, and anonymity—there are no faces, depriving us of an easy emotional core. Inside the Book of Darkness, we glimpse gloomy figures and shadows. Blood trails from page to page, reminding us of violence’s extended legacy. Its stains pass on to ‘separate’ times and places, just as shapes and shades recur across the dafatir’s divided pages.

The ‘darkness’, once describing Mesopotamia’s promise, now denotes torment. The binary split down the middle of the dafatir could speak to a contemporary crossroads, as the region faces ‘darkness’ of past, present and future. Can an Edenic, fallow Mesopotamia be returned to—and should it? The split could just as easily evoke conflict: simplistic binaries linger in the background, framing and menacing the fragile human forms at the centre. Whatever the case, Al-Azzawi demonstrates a firm belief that the past, distant as it may seem, can elucidate the present—even when that present literally erodes the past’s relics. The bitter humour of reclaiming the name ‘land of darkness’ permeates this work.

The same applies to Al-Azzawi’s interest in Persia. Iraq was once a key part of the Persian Empire. As such, Al-Azzawi’s study of Persian tradition allows him to interrogate contemporary Iraq. We’re reminded that empires are impermanent things, whose collapse, definitive as it may seem, in fact leaves a stubborn cloud of dust and a maze of debris. Al-Azzawi, like so many others, trawls through the rubble, with a fervent faith that there is something worth salvaging. He seeks traditions which can enrich modern aims, be they artistic or social. Other parties, meanwhile, seem more interested in laying further waste.

Sculpture within Mosul panorama

The Panorama of Destruction includes destroyed artefacts and statues, which, according to the exhibition’s placards, are from Assyria and Hatra. By including them, Al-Azzawi tries to preserve what has been destroyed. He creates in his work a place where fragile legacies might survive, if only long enough that we can sift through them, changing and being changed by them. As we see Daesh soldiers mingle with the dust of prehistory, we should be reminded that geographical demarcations, for which so many have been asked to die, are always in flux.

The Ashmolean’s collection allows us to study Al-Azzawi’s works alongside the traditions he draws upon. This is invaluable to newcomers. It is the ideal set of conditions for any dialogue between two art forms. It is like reading Rilke beside that godly torso. We are freest to evaluate these works when we can study the art they respond to. With Al-Azzawi, this means sweeping leaps between different historical alcoves, from Mesopotamia to Persia. You almost feel that ‘you must change your life’ has been whispered again and again over the years, across collapsing empires and against winds of repression.

The opportunity to study dafatirs alongside their inspirations is a powerful one. However, it is not as expansive as it could be. We can see plenty of the history that Al-Azzawi draws on, but what about the poets? The Ashmolean commendably translates the exhibition’s plaques into Arabic. However, it does not translate the poems quoted on the dafatir into English. This is a baffling omission. The exhibition is devoted to the interplay between poets and artists, yet many of the poems, including quotes etched on the dafatir themselves, are unavailable in English.

It would be delightful to untangle the links between Al-Azzawi’s imagery and that of the poems, but the exhibition does not facilitate this. This is even more shameful since the poets in question are some of the Arabic world’s most esteemed contemporary voices: Mahmoud Darwish, Saadi Youssef, Adonis. The latter Syrian poet, Adonis, has been dubbed the Arab world’s greatest living poet, an accolade to match the exhibition’s claim that Al-Azzawi is ‘the Arab world’s most influential living artist’…this hardly means that the average visitor will know Adonis’ verses, let alone in their original language. The exhibition could bring light to these poetic voices as well as to Al-Azzawi’s work, yet its focus is primarily on the latter. Ironically, this lessens our appreciation of both.

I was told by Ashmolean staff that there was a conscious decision to forgo translations of the poems. Some people would argue that the point of recreating artworks in a new form is to create something that can speak for itself. If the visual form has truly captured the poem’s evocations, shouldn’t we understand them without the poem? This is all well and good, in theory; but the dafatir do not conform with this view. They quote fragments of the poems directly. The way the text is set beside, within, or against images and colours is part of their overall effect. Sure, the beauty of the calligraphy is evident, and it’s romantic to think of language reduced to pure form (which is easy if you don’t read the language), but the relationship between dafatir and poem is left unclear. My inability to read the text, a product of my humble trilingualism, means my experience of the works is partial. I don’t think this is the fragmentation that al-Azzawi is interested in; it is simply an oversight that hamstrings an otherwise compelling exhibition.

The Ashmolean does offer a series of free tours around Painting Poetry, the last of which takes place on June 9th. The tours are led by the exhibition’s curator, Dr Francesca Leoni, in collaboration with Oxford University students who study Arabic literature. These tours greatly elaborate on Al-Azzawi’s poetic inspirations and offer readings, close analysis, and an overview of contemporary Arabic poetry. Visitors interested in Arabic poetry should seek these tours urgently, and the Ashmolean should offer more of them.

Adonis and Darwish are published by reputed publishing houses: Yale University Press and Copper Canyon Press, respectively. They enjoy the kind of acclaim that garners Poetry Foundation pages and Guardianprofiles. I would encourage visitors to spend some time with their work before visiting the exhibition. You may start to understand what Al-Azzawi relates to in their poetry, especially if, like me, you find Al-Azzawi’s description of poetry somewhat surprising. His reference to the ‘allusive quality’ of poetry didn’t ring true for me at first: it didn’t conform with the poets I’d studied, let alone my own works. I knew that poetry could flit and evade, but I wondered how Al-Azzawi could distil poetic logic into any one principle. The vast variation of poetic ideals made it hard to picture a single quality, extractable for a painter’s use. Reading the same poets as Al-Azzawi, though, I could see what he meant. I also sensed affinities between painter and poet on political and social questions, as well as on aesthetic fronts. Discovering these affinities makes the colours of the dafter that little bit bolder.

For example, consider the Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish. Darwish shares Al-Azzawi’s concern with ancestral lands, with history’s erasure and displacement. It is easy to imagine the two in agreement, even if their ‘versions’ of Darwish’s poetry—the original and then Al-Azzawi’s visual response—differ greatly. Reading Darwish is a good introduction into the ‘allusive’ poetic logic, especially where his verse is as fragmented as Al-Azzawi’s visual language.

The exhibition features only one traditional canvas. This is A Wolf Howls: Memories of a Poet, produced in 1968. It preces the dafatir, which Al-Azzawi produced from the 1970s onwards. As a forerunner of sorts, it offers an insight into how Al-Azzawi’s interest in poetry developed and, perhaps, his only attempt to render poetry in conventional visual formats.

Where the dafatir relate to specific verses, A Wolf Howls depicts a generalised ideal of the poet. Its forms are more clearly defined than those of the dafatir, with less fragmentation of the human body and an atypically intact wolf. Its colour scheme is more muted than the bright hues of the other poetic dafatir. Its background is a deep black, resembling the war dafatir’s muted colour scheme. A Wolf Howls seems to balance aspects of Al-Azzawi’s war dafatir and poetic dafatir. The narrative is difficult to pin down: its emotional stakes are apparent but its precise contexts are elusive.

According to the exhibition’s placards, A Wolf Howls is ‘is based on an unpublished poem by the Communist poet Muzaffar Al Nawab that narrates the story of a mother who lost her son during the aftermath of the Ba’ath coup.’[1] In light of this context, it is all the more surprising that  Al-Azzawi talks of ‘abandoning poetry’ to face war. It would be hard to ask for further proof that poetry and war are intertwined.

The wolf, meanwhile, is an older poetic motif. Nocturnal encounters between the poet and a hungry wolf can be found, for example, in poems by Al-Buhturi and Al-Farazdaq. In their poems, a starved wolf approaches the poet and a tense friendship forms. These are mystical encounters between man and beast, at the interface between humanity and nature at large. Such an encounter appears to be depicted in A Wolf Howls, yet it is conflated with the violent aftermath of the coup. Once again, ancient tradition clashes with recent history, placing artist and poet at a strange intersection—wolf and man meeting on the dune.

On my third visit I talked with two students leading a tour. They elaborated on the role of the wolf in Arabic literature. Sometimes it did occupy the aforementioned role: a wild force that was momentarily tamed. In other places it was a thing to be slain or fought against, a measure, therefore, of heroic prowess. Later, wolves, or predatory animals more broadly, are used as shorthand for dictators and autocrats—both with metaphorical aims and simply to avoid censorship or repression. It is enriching to consider how the wolf’s varied symbolic meanings apply to A Wolf Howls, and to the maternal grief it expresses.

Once again, such contexts weren’t immediately available. When I first viewed A Wolf Howls, I saw a figure in the throes of sleep paralysis. They lay with hands in the air as a wolf trod over their legs. In front of them, a feminine figure gazed out at the viewer. I imagined night terrors, as though the poet was haunted by the titular ‘memories’. Had their memories manifested as a wolf, conjured up where the poet’s imagination clashes with his emotional turmoil? Even as the foundation of Azzawi’s subsequent obsessions, A Wolf Howls remained fittingly cryptic. It seemed to depict the dark side of the poet’s sensitivity, the torment to which an attuned individual must be exposed. If this was Al-Azzawi’s idealised poet, then the poet was somebody who felt things more deeply, whose imagery was an overblown map of their internal territories. Even as I invented my own contexts, I sensed the fundamental unease at the work’s core. I was further convinced that Al-Azzawi’s poetic sensibilities were perfectly suited to depict conflict, just as the poet may hear a distant wolf’s howl and dream its teeth over his face, alpine, marble, chalk to write with.

This, of course, is the temptation of writing about a painter who paints poems: you want to write poems in response, in a spiralling mise en abyme. I will rein in this temptation to underline the location of A Wolf Howls in the exhibition. It sits at the beginning of the gallery. A display of statues from Iraq, dating as far back as 2500 BCE, occupies the adjacent wall. Their eyes, in particular, help us understand the blank, round eyes we see in A Wolf Howls. Al-Azzawi praises the statue’s rejection of ‘rigidity and imitation’. They nurture his interest in visual arts which aren’t simply about direct representation.

More fundamentally, they mirror A Wolf Howls in that they are precursors, early forms that paved the way for the future. They are cultural foundations that were later imitated, sanctified, and defied. A Wolf Howls is the same. It is something early, something whose echoes we trace in the subsequent dafatir. The exhibition sets Al-Azzawi beside both ancient history, and his own personal prehistory. A Wolf Howls too is the dark soil from which the rest has bloomed. A trip upstairs to Gallery 31, meanwhile, shows how a new generation has taken up dafatir.

Painting Poetry occupies a small exhibition space, on the subterranean floor of the Ashmolean. Al-Azzawi’s first solo show in the UK, it is nonetheless an unceremonious display. It was quiet on both my visits, somewhere between reverence and emptiness. Ultimately, there’s something appropriate about the exhibition’s humble scale. The intimacy of the space echoes that of the dafatir. Mosul: Panorama of Destruction better lives up to its title in a modest space like this. Its contrast with the dafatir is all the starker. Though the work deserves its podium and plinth, I was glad for the relative tranquillity of the exhibition. Of course, even a quiet exhibition is home to the odd clash between audiences: on my first visit I saw selfie-stick users chastised for posing with Mosul. An older gentleman interrogated them, asking them if they knew what they were duck-facing beside. Even testaments to horror become aesthetic commodities, props, and risk being implemented into the Spectacle of war. I like to think Al-Azzawi would laugh at such a sight. On my guided visit, I’m assured that he is not one to protect his work from Instagrammers…and the Ashmolean are certainly eager for a pinch of virality.

Al-Azzawi may take some comfort in seeing his work housed in the Ashmolean, having mourned the destruction of similar spaces. Al-Azzawi’s story grants me new appreciation as I tour the rest of the museum. Even as I sense the parallels between the Ashmolean’s colonial legacy and the brutality Al-Azzawi decries, I also appreciate the fragility of the artefacts on display. The relics could be destroyed so easily, and swathes of history would be lost. In light of this fragility, they seem more engaging: the urge to write in response to them grows stronger. Al-Azzawi renews our interest in tradition, both as a source of identity and a route to new creation. If I am to ‘change my life’ in response to Al-Azzawi, I will do so by seeing these relics as alive—both in their fertility for creative inspiration, and in their mortal vulnerability.

Though Al-Azzawi’s work speaks for itself, translation of textual elements should be a priority for future exhibitions. The Ashmolean’s display is well worth seeing, both for the potency of the work and for the artefacts alongside them. However, this is fundamentally an exhibition about ‘painting poetry’ which fails to make the poetic texts accessible. This leaves Painting Poetry’s exploration of the relationship between two art forms incomplete.

Regrettably, the art press has done very little to cover Painting Poetry. National papers appear disinterested in reviewing it. It has received some attention in Oxford, as well as coverage from papers which focus on the Middle East, such as The National News. As Al-Azzawi’s first solo exhibition in the UK, it is lamentable that it has fallen by the wayside. Far more attention has been given to the Ashmolean’s Knossos exhibition, which focuses on Crete and the myth of the Minotaur. I wonder if this reflects enduring biases in favour of classical antiquity, and against Middle Eastern art. These biases may be shared by The Al Thani Collection Foundation and His Highness Sheikh Hamad bin Abdullah Al Thani,, who are billed as top sponsors of the Knossos exhibition but not the Al-Azzawi display (unless they are Painting Poetry’s anonymous sponsors).

Whatever the case, it is bleak to see Al-Azzawi’s work confined to a small corner of the Ashmolean, even where this enhances the dafatir’s  intimacy. The first solo exhibition of a prolific, bracing artist should be far more ceremonious. Painting Poetry is well worth the visit, but it leaves you with a hunger for Al-Azzawi’s work, one that it cannot quite satisfy. It is a fitting introduction to a bold, mournful, poetic voice. I only wish that there was more to see and more of us seeing it.

[1]See also https://www.barjeelartfoundation.org/collection/wolf-howls-memories-poet-dia-azzawi/, accessed 11/05/2023.

Acknowledgements:

The museum’s original texts were instrumental in contextualising Al-Azzawi’s works. The Barjeel Art Foundation’s website, as well as Al-Azzawi’s own, provided valuable background information. The tour led by Fatima el-Faki, Nadia Roeske, and Dr Francesca Leoni offered a greater exploration of Arabic poetic tradition, contemporary and ancient, than I can summate here.

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