- 出版社：石 頭出版股份有限公司
- 出 版日期：2008年01月31日
- 語言：繁體中文 ISBN：9789866660009
WHEN Caravaggio arrived in Rome in 1592 he was just another young, aspiring painter. It took only a few years for his unconventional aesthetic vision and colorful, often violent lifestyle to transfix Roman society. To read his 17th-century biographers, Caravaggio was more likely to have a sword in his hand than a paintbrush, and court papers from the time amply substantiate his bad-boy behavior, which ranged from churlish (hurling artichokes at a waiter) to deadly (murder).
But it was his naturalistic style, along with his tendency to set religious scenes in the contemporary world, that really captured the public imagination.
And is still capturing it, if the lines snaking outside the Scuderie del Quirinale are any indication. For the last three months a greatest hits show at the gallery has drawn thousands of visitors who don’t mind jostling for space to get a glimpse of works like “The Lute Player” and “Amor Vincit Omnia.” But even after the exhibition closes on June 13, Rome will still be the best place to explore Caravaggio’s world: about a third of the more than 60 works that experts acknowledge are his are housed in the capital’s museums and churches.
One place to start is the Borghese Gallery, in the park that backs onto the Spanish Steps. It is there where visitors will find two early paintings: “Boy With Basket of Fruit” (1593-94) and “Sick Bacchus” (c. 1593). Caravaggio was too poor to pay for a model, so he often painted friends, as in the “Boy With Basket of Fruit,” or himself, as in the “Sick Bacchus.” The latter, an ashen self-portrait as the god of wine — which recalls hangovers more than Bacchanalian delights — was likely created after Caravaggio’s release from the Hospital of the Consolation where he was treated for a horse kick.
Cardinal Scipione Borghese was an early fan and it’s thanks to him that the gallery boasts six Caravaggios. The two early works were acquired from one of Caravaggio’s first employers in Rome, and some art historians posit that two others — a “St. Jerome” (1605-06) and a “David With the Head of Goliath” (1609) — were gifts to the cardinal from Caravaggio for getting him out of various legal entanglements. The most imposing Caravaggio in the Borghese is the “Madonna dei Palafrenieri,” which the cardinal bought in 1606 for “just 100 scudi,” according to Rossella Vodret, who this year published a slim guide: “Caravaggio in Rome: Itinerary.”
The center of Caravaggio’s existence was the Piazza San Luigi dei Francesi, halfway between the Pantheon and the Piazza Navona. As Peter Robb writes in his biography, “M, The Man Who Became Caravaggio” (1998), nearly every major event of Caravaggio’s Roman life happened within a five-minute walk of this square, from selling his first works to killing a man, which occurred just a few streets to the north of the piazza, in 1606. (Details concerning the murder are unclear; some biographers say it was the result of a brawl over the outcome of a tennis game. Whatever the cause, Caravaggio was forced to flee the city.)
In Caravaggio’s day San Luigi was already a bustling thoroughfare and home to several Roman power brokers. “There was a huge concentration there and everyone knew each other,” said Helen Langdon, the author of an engaging 1998 biography of the artist, “Caravaggio: A Life.” On the square was the shop of the dealer believed to have hawked “The Fortune Teller” (1594-95) to Cardinal Francesco Maria del Monte, the artist’s first powerful patron. The painting — along with a “St. John the Baptist” (1601-02) that also belonged to Del Monte — is now in the Capitoline Museums, about a 10-minute walk from San Luigi.
Caravaggio would ultimately choose many of his models from the streets he strolled through each day, and from his circle of friends and acquaintances: swordsmen, painters, commoners and courtesans. Most of his models have remained nameless, like the red-haired young woman who modeled for his “Penitent Magdalene” (c.1595) and for the Virgin in the “Rest on the Flight Into Egypt” (1595-96). Both are in Rome’s Doria Pamphilj Gallery, about a five-minute walk from the piazza.
Others have been tentatively identified, like Fillide Melandroni, who may have served as the model for his “Judith Beheading Holofernes” (1599) in the Barberini Gallery, close to the Via Veneto. The story of Judith, a Jewish widow who saves her people by beheading the Assyrian general, was a popular subject at the time, and Caravaggio’s shocking version may have been influenced by the public execution in 1599 of Beatrice Cenci and two other members of her family for the murder of her abusive father.
And little is known of “Lena,” whom Caravaggio’s contemporaries identified as his lover; for some she was a poor honest girl and for others a prostitute. She was the model for the “Madonna of the Palafrenieri,” and for the “Madonna of Loreto” (1604-05) or pilgrims’ Madonna, which hangs in the church of Sant’Agostino, just around the corner from Piazza San Luigi. Of this work, the painter Giovanni Baglione, Caravaggio’s contemporary biographer, wrote that “the lower classes made a huge fuss” over the two grubby pilgrims. In keeping with a vision that broke down the barriers between the real world and the divine, the Virgin could also be mistaken for a young Roman mother clutching her son to her chest.
Between 1595 and 1600 Caravaggio lived in Palazzo Madama, then the residence of Cardinal Del Monte and now home to the Italian Senate, which abuts Piazza San Luigi dei Francesi. Getting into the cardinal’s household was Caravaggio’s first big break, and through Del Monte he was commissioned to paint three altar paintings for the Contarelli chapel in the French church of San Luigi. It was his first, important religious commission and it made him the talk of the town. Given the strict artistic formulas dictating how religious scenes should be painted, the paintings were nothing short of revolutionary. In “The Calling of St. Matthew” (1599-1600) he fast-forwarded the action by 1,600 years, plunking the apostle in a pub and portraying a slice of tavern life that Caravaggio, no teetotaler, would have been familiar with.
The first versions of the “Crucifixion of Peter” and “Conversion of Saul” (both 1604-1605), his next religious commission, were rejected for reasons that remain unclear. But his second take on the lateral paintings in the Cerasi Chapel in Santa Maria del Popolo in downtown Rome, next to the massive gate that received visitors traveling from the north, offers a striking contrast to the grandiose altarpiece, an “Assumption of the Virgin” by Annibale Carracci, another star of the time.
To see “The Deposition,” (1602-1604), painted for the Church of Santa Maria in Vallicella, one must go to the Vatican Museums. But it’s also worth going to the church, which is a short walk from San Luigi, on the Corso Vittorio Emanuele II, to see a copy in situ, if only to get a full sense of Caravaggio’s originality. A stone slab juts into the viewer’s space as grievers prepare to lay the remarkably realistic body of Christ into a tomb that corresponds with the chapel’s altar.
Caravaggio spent the last four years of his life on the run, a death sentence hanging over his head as a result of the murder. He flitted between Naples, Malta and Sicily, and died in the summer of 1610, in mysterious circumstances, as he was returning to Rome after receiving a papal pardon.
If accepted as a late work, “David With the Head of Goliath,” now hanging in the Borghese Gallery, is believed by some biographers to have been intended as a gift to Cardinal Borghese for his role in commuting the death sentence. Goliath appears to be a self-portrait, a hunted, haunted likeness, capturing Caravaggio’s fear and his unflinching pursuit of the real.
IF YOU GO
Borghese Gallery, Piazzale del Museo Borghese, 5; (39-06) 8413979, galleriaborghese.it. (Ticket reservations necessary: 39-06-32810.)
Barberini Gallery, Via delle Quattro Fontane, 13; (39-06) 4824184, galleriaborghese.it.
Capitoline Museums, Piazza del Campidoglio, 1; (39-06) 060608; en.museicapitolini.org.
Doria Pamphilj Gallery, Via del Corso, 305; (39-06) 6797323; dopart.it.
Vatican Museums, Viale Vaticano, (39-06) 69884676 or (39-06) 69883145; www.vatican.va.
Contarelli Chapel, San Luigi dei Francesi, Piazza San Luigi dei Francesi; (39-06) 688271.
Cerasi Chapel, Santa Maria del Popolo, Piazza del Popolo, 12; (39-06) 3610836.
Sant’Agostino, Piazza di Sant’Agostino, 80; (39-06) 68801962.
When the photographer Philippe Halsman said, “Jump,” no one asked how high. People simply pushed off or leapt up to the extent that physical ability and personal decorum allowed. In that airborne instant Mr. Halsman clicked the shutter. He called his method jumpology.
The idea of having people jump for the camera can seem like a gimmick, but it is telling that jumpology shares a few syllables with psychology. As Halsman, who died in 1979, said, “When you ask a person to jump, his attention is mostly directed toward the act of jumping, and the mask falls, so that the real person appears.”
A wonderful exhibition of nearly 50 jumps that Halsman captured on film from the late 1940s through the ’50s — sometimes on commission from Life magazine — can be seen at the Laurence Miller Gallery at 20 West 57th Street in Manhattan, through Friday. The photographs feature stars of stage, screen and television; national leaders; a prima ballerina; writers; and other creative types. Except for a few earthbound choreographers, nearly everyone cooperates.
Some images involved a bit more stage direction than others, as with Halsman’s collaboration with the Surrealist Salvador Dalí from the late 1940s. The most famous of these images, “Dalí Atomicus,” shows the madcap Dalí aloft, brush and palette in hand. He is flanked by a chair and two easels (holding Dalí canvases) — all elevated, and seemingly floating, above the floor, which heightens the sense of suspension. But the main event is the great curve of water arcing across the image, along with three flying (or flung) cats in damp, disconcerted disarray. For once Dalí’s characteristic look of exaggerated surprise makes sense.
The show also includes six failed attempts at this shot, their flaws carefully noted by Halsman. I was startled to see that in these attempts the center easel holds only an empty frame. It prompted me to look more closely at the published photograph: the image on the center easel is a quite accurate depiction of the flying cats, spiky wet fur and all. It was drawn (or painted) and seamlessly inserted after the fact; the empty frame shadow is still visible on the floor. Dalí didn’t miss much when it came to Dalíesque moments.
There is a sublime silliness to Halsman’s images that can make you laugh or at least smile regardless of how often you see them. They may offer incontrovertible proof of Schiller’s claim that “all art is dedicated to joy.” Evidently the simple act of getting off the ground requires giving in to something like joy. You have to let go.
One of the purest examples of this joy is an image of Halsman himself, holding hands with a smiling Marilyn Monroe several feet off the ground. Facing his partner, he seems ecstatic, as if he cannot believe his luck. He will hang with one of the world’s most photogenic beauties for eternity. The two are caught in nearly matching, tucked-knees positions. Only a few other subjects, including Murray Kempton and Bridget Bardot, achieved a similar sense of height and compactness. (Ms. Bardot is in a one-piece bathing suit on a rocky bluff, making you wonder how she landed.)
Some images juxtapose motion and stasis to great effect. In one, Martha Graham remains seated as Merce Cunningham flies toward her in a superb vaulting leap, almost as if aiming for her head. In another, Gisele MacKenzie does a perfect “Sound of Music” leap — arms outstretched, mouth open — next to an upright piano. Her exuberance registers not at all with the drowsy dachshund ensconced on top of the instrument.
Audrey Hepburn, shot in a hedged garden, goes aloft with legs apart in an enthusiastic cheerleader manner that seems to fit her tightly wound, perfect-girl persona. But it is surprising to find a similar pose and abandon achieved by a debonair-looking man. He turns out to be Aldous Huxley, though at first he looks like Fred Astaire.
Vice President Richard M. Nixon and Ed Sullivan, both in suits, jump with button-down aplomb and surprising verve. Sullivan’s arm is raised as if he were introducing the next act; when J. Robert Oppenheimer makes a similar gesture, it seems more symbolic, as if he were reaching for the heavens.
Old habits, it seems, die hard. The retired boxer Jack Dempsey, also in a suit, goes straight up, legs together, hands positioned as if jumping rope. Harold Lloyd seems to dive downward, as if he had finally fallen from his clock.
It is important that the subjects of Halsman’s images are famous, so we can contrast the general vibe of the images — body language, energy and facial expression — with previous impressions of the subjects, as when Grace Kelly hikes her skirt in a strikingly coquettish way. Halsman’s simple device ensures that we see something we haven’t quite seen before.
It is perhaps not coincidental that he devised jumpology in the era of Action Painting, as Abstract Expressionism was sometimes called, which sowed the seeds that would soon grow into performance art. He pushed his own form, the studio portrait, to extremes, exaggerating its basic components in ways that make us more aware of them: the trust that must exist between photographer and subject; the split-second “performance” that any still camera captures; the uncontrollable revelations of character; the way we all try to rise, as it were, to the occasion of a photograph.
All these elements are distorted, possibly parodied, but also intensified. As is our understanding of how we look at a photograph, read its parts, decipher its message and draw its energy into ourselves.
“Philippe Halsman: Jump” continues through Friday at the Laurence Miller Gallery, 20 West 57th Street, Manhattan; (212) 397-3930, laurencemillergallery.com.
Arakawa studied mathematics and medicine at the University of Tokyo, and art at the Musashino Art University. Initially he worked with printmaking, using abstract dada and Neo-Dada styles. He had lived in New York since 1961.
Arakawa met his partner Madeline Gins in 1963. Together, they founded the Architectural Body Research Foundation. They designed and built residences (Reversible Destiny Houses, Bioscleave House, Shidami Resource Recycling Model House) and parks (Site of Reversible Destiny-Yoro). They developed an original theory and practice of the relation of the human being to the exterior world, elaborated most extensively in their book, Architectural Body. Arakawa and Gins were, together and separately, the authors of several books and exhibition volumes, most recently Making Dying Illegal (ISBN 1931824223).
1936年、名古屋市に生まれる。愛知県立旭丘高等学校美術科卒業。武蔵野美術学校中退。1958年、読売アンデパンダン展に初出品。1961年、渡米し、以後ニューヨークに定住。渡米後、マドリン・ギンズ（Madeline Gins、1941年 - ）と知り合い1962年頃から共同制作を始める。1982年、紺綬褒章受賞、1986年、フランス文芸シュヴァリエ勲章受章、2003年、紫綬褒章受章など内外でその活躍が認められている。1997年、グッゲンハイム美術館で日本人としては初の個展を開催している。初期には棺桶に入ったオブジェのような奇怪な作品を作っていたが渡米してからは画面に図形、文字、矢印などを描き込んだ「図形絵画」と呼ばれる一連の作品を制作する。「意味のメカニズム」においては書込まれた言葉と図像や貼付けられた既製品の物体などによって鑑賞者に身体と認識における試行や行動を促すに至るまでその「図形絵画」を発展させ、従来の「美術作品」の位置を逸脱し見る側が作られる場所の制作へ向かう。ギンズとの共同制作は書籍の著作でも並行され、「死なないために」（リブロポート）他、多数が複数の言語で出版されている。
近年は特に、人間の自律的な行動環境に直接的に影響を与える建物や庭園のようなものを建築する活動が目立つ。1994年、岡山県奈義町に 磯崎新とのコラボレーションによる「遍在の場･奈義の龍安寺・建築する身体」。1995年、岐阜県に「養老天命反転地」。2005年、東京都三鷹市に「三鷹天命反転住宅～In Memory of Helen Keller～」。2008年、ニューヨーク、イースト･ハンプトンに「バイオスクリーブ・ハウス」などを実現。現在も様々な建築さらには都市規模の変革プロジェクトを提示している。通常の美術家・芸術家の概念では捉え切ることができなくなった自身の活動領域を「コーデノロジスト」と称する。