Articoli di riviste sul tema "German Paper sculpture"

The aim of the paper is to compare the formal organization of a visual message with the rhetorical devices used in a verbal message. This analysis is carried out based on the example of the sculpture Dual by Zbigniew Władyka. The creativity found in the rhetorical devices used in the sculpture Dual to trigger and amplify feelings proves that they can be employed even in this form of artistic expression. Creativity in the analysed sculpture is represented by German reunification, reflected in the form of the transformation of two characters into one. The sculpture is meant to inspire, to be an object (res) directing the viewer toward personal reflection, and invoking projections of fear and doubt, but also of confidence and courage. Confidence and courage are represented by a strong figure with a head, firmly standing on its feet. Fear and doubt are represented by a weak figure, carried by the first one. The centripetal composition used in the sculpture suggests merger rather than destruction. The sensory perception of the viewer is controlled by directional tensions, which lead the viewer’s sight along designated linear directions. As described earlier by Witkiewicz, directional tensions and motionless substance correspond to a rhetorical enlarging and diminishing. By interacting with the sculpture, you can experience these devices. Not only visualization is at work here, as in verbal communication, but also physical experience. The presented analysis shows that a sculptural work of art can be analysed in a similar way to verbal communication. Of course, not all verbal devices have their counterparts in visual communication, but the basic content and emotions can be expressed regardless of the code.

Summary This paper focuses attention on the reception of the exhibition “Deutsche Bildhauer der Gegenwart”, which was inaugurated on April 23rd, 1938 at the Institute of Art Propaganda in Warsaw – an institution whose exhibition hall was considered a venue of crucial importance to the cultural policy of the Polish state. The presentation was organized in the framework of a cultural exchange between Poland and Germany which was initiated by an exhibition of Polish contemporary art mounted in 1935 at the Preußischen Akademie der Künste in Berlin. I will present the response of the Warsaw public to the presentation of contemporary German sculpture within the context of traditionalist ideology which was promulgated in Poland as much as across Europe in the decades between the two world wars. Drawing on traditionalism, which heralded a prevalence of national cultural values strongly anchored in the past, I will question the relevance of its rhetoric to the artistic phenomena evolving under political pressure. It seems intriguing to juxtapose the accounts provided by Polish and German authorities from the art world in an attempt to grasp the semantic content of such categories as “the genius of the race”, as reflected in the 1930s’ critical discourse. Moreover, in order to reflect upon the concept of propaganda art – another key notion of the time – it is worth considering the response of Polish commentators to official exhibitions of other nation-states held in Warsaw in the 1930s.

Mask in an artistic world of Gogol, and the masks of Anatoli Kaplan. The paper deals with an intersemiotic problem — how it is possible to represent a verbal image by the means of sculpture. It was written as an afterword for a German edition of N. Gogol’s Dead Souls (illustrated by photos on mask-sculpures by Anatoli Kaplan) thus using a style meant for general reader. However, it includes a deep analysis and several important conclusions about the fancy worlds of Gogol and Kaplan, and about the possibilities to create connections between them. It is stressed that the very artistic illustration is possible only due to its independence, due to the subjective seeing of the author.

The aim of the paper is to outline the circumstances of the establishment of the Łódź Sculpture Gallery in Rubinstein’s Alley (formerly: Aleja ZMP) and its impact on the aesthetics of Łódź. Despite the city’s history dating back to the beginning of the 15th century, the first fully-fledged sculpture in public space appeared only in 1912. By the beginning of World War II, the number of sculptures increased to a dozen or so, but all of those works were destroyed by the Germans in the first years of the occupation. In the period 1945–1970, two monuments and a dozen or so smaller forms appeared. The sculptural face of the city was changed only by the Łódź Sculpture Gallery, which focused on the most important issues of post-war town planning, politics, artistic trends, and social needs. Despite its short period of operation (1972–1978), its effects are still visible almost everywhere in Łódź. Never before and never after has the medium of sculpture been aestheticised on such a scale in the city. The memory of this place and several dozen sculptures (and of their creators) has almost faded away. Currently, activities are under way to restore the Łódź Sculpture Gallery to its due position in the history of the city and to continue its activities in the same place.

This paper addresses the artistic endowment of the Conception Chapel in Mondoñedo Cathedral, carried out by a married couple belonging to the local nobility. It analyses the works of architecture, painting, sculpture, blacksmithing and silversmithing made by various Flemish, German, Galician and Cantabrian artists, providing new information on figures such as Martín de Balenzate, Juan de Biorín, Juan de Castro and Crispín de Evelino, among others. El presente trabajo trata la dotación artística de la capilla de la Concepción de la catedral de Mondoñedo, llevada a cabo por un matrimonio perteneciente a la hidalguía local. En él se analizan las obras de arquitectura, pintura, escultura, rejería y platería realizadas por diversos artistas flamencos, alemanes, gallegos y cántabros, aportándose nuevos datos sobre figuras como Martín de Balenzate, Juan de Biorín, Juan de Castro o Crispín de Evelino, entre otros.

Wind from the North: The Discursive Construction of Heimat Exemplified by the Edifice of the Former Royal School of Building Crafts (Königliche Baugerwerkschule) in Katowice and its Decoration The paper examines the edifice of the former school of building crafts (Baugewerkschule) in Katowice, Upper Silesia, which opened in 1901, and its decoration. The works of architecture, painting and sculpture were interpreted as carriers of a discourse calculated to construct Heimat, located within the borders of the Prussian Silesian Province. The building’s forms, reminiscent of the brick Gothic of northern Germany, were characteristic of the milieu of the Technische Hochschule in Hannover, where the designers of the edifice were educated. The city’s coat of arms was depicted on the facade, the vaulted ceiling of the auditorium was decorated with dragon and gryphon motifs of Scandinavian origin, and its walls painted with images of St. Hedwig ‒ the patron saint of Silesia, viewed here as a deconfessionalized personification of the land ‒ the Prussian eagle, and four iconic monuments of historic Silesian architecture. Thus, references were made to various levels of identity ‒ local, regional, national, and the mythologised Germanic North. The narrative constructed in this way fits into the cultural nationalism of the educated German bourgeoisie (Bildungsbürgertum), which grows out of the Romantic tradition. At the same time, the emphasis on the opposition of the North and South can be seen as a strategy for overcoming the peripheral status of Silesia in a world organised by the West-East axis. The school’s building in Katowice exemplifies how the elites of the German Empire used visual means to construct modern imagined communities.

AbstractThe paper presents stone funerary monuments known from the Saint Michael Cathedral in Alba Iulia (in Hungarian, Gyulafehérvár, in German Karlsburg or Weissenburg, today in Romania) from the second half of the sixteenth and the seventeenth centuries, the period of the Transylvanian Principality. These memorials represented a broad variety in terms of their quality and complexity, including simple heraldic ledgers produced locally as well as large wall monuments made of colorful marbles imported from the most fashionable Dutch and Italian workshops in the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth to commemorate the princes of Transylvania and their family members. All stone funerary monuments, regardless their size and form, are linked by their function: they were created to preserve and evoke the memory of the dead among the present and future generations of the living by communicating specific messages about them. The forms, materials, images, and texts, as well as the location of the memorial in the space of the medieval cathedral and in the context of the other funerary monuments there were all carefully chosen to serve this purpose of communication. The paper analyzes all principality-period funerary monuments from the Saint Michael Cathedral in Alba Iulia as media of memory, including both the simple and the more complex ones ordered from abroad to commemorate the Transylvanian rulers. I will examine the monuments in the context of their production and reception, within the scene of sculpture in Central and Eastern Europe, in order to understand what kind of memory they were intended to preserve and how they were designed to retain and shape the memory of the deceased.

The paper aims to examine the transformative role of art and artists, today and in the future. We have chosen as a starting point the work of a remarkable Portuguese sculptor at the leading edge: Rui Chafes, a challenger of new aesthetic paths. Chafes is a conceptual sculptor of iron and fire who seeks and aspires to abstractionism, as a novel language and a novel vision of the world. The artist thinks his work deeply, regularly publishing texts about his work and its connections with art, beauty and life. From his imaginary artistic biography, Between Heaven and Earth, a bit like Vasari’s The Lives, we will begin by presenting the sculptor’s aesthetic and plastic universe. Then we will consider the way his unique identity path turns out to be inspiring and fulfilling. This imaginary character, born in Germany in the 13th century, absorbed the spiritual medieval gothic shapes and the sense of nature, the sublime and the absolute spirit, peculiar to German Romanticism. From his long experience we highlight learning the value of life, and the love for here and now, both rooted in a density of experiences and memories; memories, places and times which interact and dialogue with his sculptures — works which cralise the spaces they inhabit as if they had always been part of them. For Rui Chafes the future of humankind depends on our ability to incorporate memory and the past into the present, and in this sense his project is a very original and promising alliance between tradition and modernity.

This paper paraphrases the first monographic study of the silver casket which was commissioned in the last quarter of the fourteenth century as a reliquary for the body of St Simeon in Zadar. The author of the monograph ‘The Silberschrein des S. Simeone in Zara’ is Alfréd Gotthold Meyer, an art historian from Berlin. The manuscript was written in German, translated into Hungarian and published in Budapest in 1894. Both the manuscript and the book are available only in a few copies in Croatia and this was one of the incentives for writing this article, apart from the need to introduce and evaluate one of the key works ever written on this important subject, and to do so in a more detailed manner than it had been done before. Meyer divided the material in five chapters. In the first chapter he deals with the traditions about the relic. The second chapter is a summary of the documents concerning the history of the silver casket. In the third chapter Meyer describes the reliefs on the casket and discusses their iconography, while in the fourth chapter he analyses them stylistically and attempts to reconstruct the original arrangement of particular reliefs. The final, fifth chapter is the most important part of this work, because it emphasizes comparisons between the Zadar casket and similar works in Italy and Dalmatia. The book has all the qualities of a scholarly text which is rather surprising for such an early date. Meyer pointed out a number of key notions about the supposedly different authors of particular reliefs, for example several master pieces of Italian painting and sculpture which may have inspired these authors, and he also noted the important seventeenth-century restoration on the casket. A. G. Meyer set very high scholarly standards with his work, which were rarely achieved in many subsequent publications on the casket, especially during the first half of the twentieth century.

Influenced by Le Notre Garden, Peter Walker’s works brought forward the landscape architectural modernism movement while embracing classical elements. Most of his works have geometric and symmetrical layout with axis and specifics to sites. Modern materials, dynamic and static waterscape, geometric shaped plants and sculptures are common elements of his design. This paper analyzed the innovative style and features of Peter Walker’s five modern-classical landscape works: Burnett Park (Fort Worth, Texas, USA), Garden of Kempinski Hotel (München, German), Toyota City Museum of Art (Toyota City, Aichi, Japan), IBM Solana (Dallas, Texas, USA) and Cambridge Center Roof Garden (Cambridge, Massachusetts, USA).

This paper presents the theoretical assumptions and design praxis concerning colour schemes used in the multi-threaded Moderne, Streamline Moderne and Art Deco styles, which were used in Germany during the interwar period to design commercial facilities. We based our analysis on selected cases of department stores built in the years 1927–1930 in Berlin and Wrocław (Breslau at the time). Streamline Moderne and Art Deco, which was present in Germany alongside Expressionism, operated using a simple spatial structure that followed the precepts formulated by the Bauhaus: it featured rhythmically divided, disciplined facades clad in ceramics, sandstone or travertine, as well as large storefront windows with brass frames. These Modernist compositions were enriched with ceramic or brass cornices and friezes, overhangs and full-figure sculptures that were often gilded. The buildings’ interiors, designed following the principles of efficiency and functionality, had spatially accentuated and colour-marked entrance zones and grand, glazed courtyards that were given an expressive décor via ceramics, stone or exotic wood. The expression of these compositions was underscored by linear illumination and cascade-like chandeliers that formed light sculptures. In our paper, we also presented problems associated with the contemporary revitalisation and reconstruction of such buildings. We specifically focused on research findings that identified original ceramics production technologies and methods that allowed the recreation of the texture and colour of the facade of the A. Wertheim department store in Wrocław.

This paper provides a detailed redescription of the adult and the first morphological description of all juvenile stages of Scutovertex sculptus. Specimens from four European countries, Austria, Germany, France and Spain were investigated. The species specific characters are the broadened posterior notogastral setae (lp, h 1 –h 3 ), the slightly broadened anterior notogastral seta (dm), the gastronotic cuticle with irregularly distributed foveae and a thick layer of secretion forming blocs with color dispersive qualities on the posterior half of notogastral region. Minor differences in the shape of notogastral setae and in the thickness of the secreted layer on the posterior gastronotic region were found in specimens from different countries. The investigation of the juveniles of S. sculptus showed that the larva and nymphs can be easily distinguished from those of S. minutus; the lateral setae on tibia I are leaf-shaped in S. sculptus and knife-shaped in S. minutus.

Forming one of the most important branches of our culture and traditional arts, embroidery was born by sewing in a decorative way and it is worth mentioning that it is as early as humanity. Embroidered clothing on the sculptures excavated and the narration that the daughter of Noah in Hebrew history wears an embroidered belt shows that this branch of art goes back to earlier times. Hand embroidery, which is the products of intelligence, skill and subtle wit, has reached the current time by preserving its value. Out of a great many embroidery techniques reaching large public masses, a technique called ‘German Embroidery’ was encountered in the researches carried out in the city of Kahramanmaras and its towns in the years 2013–2014. According to the information obtained from the source people in the research carried out in the city of Kahramanmaras, German Embroidery dating back to earlier times is not produced today; however, we are likely to find pillows, clothes and dresses embroidered with German Embroidery in houses. In the current paper, embroidery samples were determined in order to unveil this technique that was embroidered on any kind of cloth with a plain surface and it was aimed to make the embroidery alive and to promote it by analysing the way of embroidering. Keywords: Embroidery, ornament, technique, traditional.

Colossus of Rhodes: Where It Stood and How It Was Made The author, just as Ursula Vedder, who has expressed the same opinion recently, has been long sure that the place where the Colossus of Rhodes was located was the acropolis of the town of Rhodes. The paper includes also some arguments that have not been presented by the German scholar. At first, some source information concerning the Colossus has been briefly summarized. For instance, the expression in APV, 171 (Overbeck 1543), ou gar hyper pelagos monon anthesan alla kai en ga, may be understood as confirming its location in the acropolis: “it stood not only close to the sea, but also on the earth.” In fact, there it would have loomed over the land and the sea, and, as big as it was, it could be seen from a distance. The text by Philo of Byzantium is not credible, as it was written quite late. Then the problem has been analyzed critically. As regards the legend of Colossus bestriding the entrance to the harbor, one may add to the already listed counterarguments that for static reasons a piece of sculpture shaped that way would have needed a third footing attached to the sea bottom at the harbor entrance, which would have made the ships’ access to the harbor difficult. Besides, such a pose of a god would have seemed a little indecent. A hypothesis that situates the Colossus at the end of a pier in the Mandraki Bay, preferred by many scholars, also has its weak points. Placed there, the construction site would have been too small, particularly that construction took at least twelve years, and it would have been difficult to move building materials along the narrow and long pier which under such circumstances could not be used as part of the harbor. According to Strabo (XIV, 2, 5) the harbor was accessible only to authorized personnel. Was it then a good location for a work of art intended to glorify the people of Rhodes? Even if the Colossus had been accessible there, it would have been visible only in a shortened perspective, in frog’s eye view. Still, the most important was the problem of proper display of the statue. Placed on the pier, it would have to turn its back either to the town, or to the sea, and in both cases connotations would have been unwelcome. Such details were essential for ancient Greeks. For static and constructional reasons, one must also reject a hypothesis that the Colossus put his palm over the eyes, as if examining the horizon. If it is true that the relics of the statue remained for several hundred years intact, they would have blocked access to the harbor since most probably they would have fallen into the sea. Besides, would the iron elements have resisted corrosion well enough to be recognizable? Placed on the pier, the Colossus would have been invisible to the crews of ships approaching the town from the west and the same would have been true had it been situated at the present location of the palace of the Great Masters of the Knights Hospitaller. The placement of the statue in the sanctuary of Helios at the present corner of Sofouli and Khimaras streets is also improbable, since the area is really small and the Colossus would not have made a prominent component of the town skyline. Hence, the acropolis must have been the most convenient place, just as in other Greek towns, particularly in Athens where it was the site of the city patron’s worship. Some scholars argue that the temple in the acropolis was dedicated to Apollo, but when the Colossus was constructed Apollo was commonly identified with Helios who was the most important patron of the island. The statue, with his face turned to the east – the town and the sea – might have stood near that temple (ill. 1-2), towering over it. From the west, the steep rock of the acropolis practically made it impossible to watch the Colossus from the western shore, while from the sea it was visible only as a silhouette, an orientation point for the approaching ships (ill. 3), particularly if it was gilded like the statue of Athena Promachos in Athens. This can actually be the origin of the legend that the Colossus of Rhodes was also a lighthouse. Situated in the acropolis, the statue would have been visible both from the town and the sea on both sides of the island. If the damaged Colossus remained intact for centuries, it was because removing it from the acropolis was much more difficult than removing from the wharf. The noun “colossus” originally meant “something towering” (cf. Colossae and Colophon, towns upon hills). The other part of the paper focuses on the technology of construction. Some scholars were too eager to draw from Philo’s description conclusions about the Colossus’ structure and the building methods applied. If the statue had stood at the end of the pier, most likely it would not have been hilled up since the area was too small. Due to the pressure of dirt, boarding such an embankment (A. Gabriel’s claim) would have required 40-45 meter long struts for which there was no room. Moreover, with each subsequent raising of the embankment the struts would have to be multiplied and made much longer, which would have been both costly and technologically challenging. With each new layer of dirt, founding furnaces would have to be removed (as, according to Gabriel, they were located on the embankment) and then put back. A high embankment would have required the use of gigantic ladders, unstable and dangerous. What is more, it would have made it impossible to control the form of the work in progress. All that would have been irrational, while ancient Greeks do not really deserve such a charge. In the author’s opinion, the Colossus was erected within a wooden scaffolding. Founding particular elements of the statue on site was rather unlikely. An external dirt coat would not have helped since there was no clay core inside it, which would have made the alloy’s cooling speed radically unequal. Partial casting is also unlikely as it would have required a 1:1 model (30-35 meters high). Had the model been smaller, errors in calculating detailed measurements would have been inevitable. The author believes that the Colossus of Rhodes was made of hammered bronze sheets riveted to the inner metal skeleton. Such a technique made vertical transportation easier and allowed the constructors to correct the process of montage by bending the sheets whenever necessary. It cannot be excluded that the heads of the rivets and lines of contact between the sheets were masked with solders that did not require much alloy, although in higher sections of the statue the wind would have cooled it quite rapidly. The noun “colossus” did not originally imply a gigantic size but only a slightly archaic look of the sculpture so that the Colossus of Rhodes might have been somewhat similar to very ancient and artistically primitive stiff statues of Helios. On the other hand, it might have alluded to the mythic Telchins who were the first to make statues of gods. (For static reasons, contrapposto was out of the question in the statues of that size, besides it would have been impossible to fill its interior with stones.) Another aspect of making the Colossus look archaic was the use of a modified technique of sphyrelaton. In the author’s opinion, the base of the statue and maybe its higher parts as well, up to the level of ankles, contained carefully sized and braced blocks of stone. They were drilled through to hold the lower ends of the metal internal skeleton made according to the schema of a spatial grid, perhaps used on that occasion for the first time in history. Such a fixture protected the Colossus from the wind pressure so effectively that it remained standing for dozens of years, being vulnerable to earthquakes. The fallen Colossus must have looked like a debris of rods and tin, while the stones from the fixture could be seen in the “abyss” (Plinius), below the level of the ankles, where the structure was actually bent (it must have been bent there rather than at the level of the knees, since looking inside the ruin was easy: the ankles were situated about two meters above the base.) The third footing point might have been camouflaged with some attribute (a spear or a torch). It cannot be excluded that originally Chares had been planning a statue half the final size, similar to the previously known colossal pieces of sculpture, but the pride of the people of Rhodes, emulating Athenians, made them want a Colossus twice as big (Sextus Empiricus, pros mathem., VII, 107 n.). Making the statue look archaic and using an old technology plus some innovations allowed Chares to make their extravagant wish come true. The archaic look might have been achieved thanks to a reference to some old statue of Helios, which perhaps could be found in the neighboring temple. The torso might have been topped with the head, cast separately, although the trouble with placing it so high makes one doubt it.

In March 1945, the combined Polish-Soviet forces captured the German city of Stettin. On 26 April, the 65th Army of the 2nd Belorussian Front entered the city, in which the rule of the Soviet military command was soon established. Due to its unresolved status and territorial disputes, Polish politicians, self-government officials, and first settlers were forced to leave Szczecin twice. In the period of the Polish-German “race for Szczecin”, which ended with the Potsdam Conference, the only stable element having control over the lower Oder was the USSR, whose emissaries treated the conquered territories as if they already belonged to their communist state. As early as in 1945, the Polish civil authorities came up with an idea to erect a memorial dedicated to the “democratic armies”. The competition for the Red Army Gratitude Memorial was officially launched in Spring 1949, once the USSR-born doctrine of socialist realism was introduced to Poland. Out of twenty-two submission, the first award was given to Józef Starzyński from Zakopane, a former citizen of Lvov. The commemorative complex located at the Polish Soldier’s Square was completed in April 1950. The aim of the present paper is to analyse the very memorial which remained in Szczecin until 2017. Of special importance to my investigation are: the geographical context of Western Pomerania considered one of the Reclaimed Territories and in a feudal relationship with the historical regions of the Republic of Poland, as well as with the Russian “Seigneur”/”Lord”; the topographical context, namely the act of re-building the former German city destroyed in warfare; as well as the biographical context, i.e. the life of the monument’s designer. The paper takes special interest in the formal and ideological links between the Szczecin memorial and one of Starzyński’s earlier projects, namely the Sacred Heart of Jesus Gratitude Memorial in Poznań (1927; a competition submission; never erected). A careful reconstruction of the memorials’ history will offer a valuable case study which showcases the 20th-century sculptor in a politically-charged environment.

AbstractDuring the Baroque period, artists worked in a style—encouraged by the Roman Catholic Church and the Council of Trent—that revealed the divine in natural forms and made religious experiences more accessible. Cosmas Damian Asam, painter and architect, and his brother Egid (Aegid) Quirin Asam, sculptor and stuccatore, were the principal exponents of eighteenth-century, southern-German religious decoration and architecture in the grand manner, the Gesamtkunstwerk. Cosmas Damian's visionary and ecstatic art utilized light, both physical and illusionistic, together with images of meteorological and astronomical phenomena, such as solar and lunar eclipses. This paper focuses on his representations of eclipses and demonstrates how Asam was galvanized by their visual, as well as metaphorical, power and that he studied a number of them. He subsequently applied his observations in a series of paintings for the Benedictine order that become increasingly astronomically accurate and spiritually profound. From the evidence presented, especially in three depictions of St. Benedict's vision, the artist harnessed his observations to visualize the literary description of the miraculous event in the Dialogues of St. Gregory the Great, traditionally a difficult scene to illustrate, even for Albrecht Dürer. Asam painted the trio at Einsiedeln, Switzerland (1724–27); Kladruby, the Czech Republic (1725–27), where he captured the solar corona and the "diamond-ring effect"; and Weltenburg, Germany (1735), where he also depicted the diamond-ring effect at a total solar eclipse. We conclude that his visualizations were informed by his personal observations of the solar eclipses on 12 May 1706, 22 May 1724, and 13 May 1733. Asam may have also known the eclipse maps of Edmond Halley and William Whiston that were issued in advance. Astronomers did not start studying eclipses scientifically until the nineteenth century, making Asam's depictions all the more fascinating. So powerful was the image that Asam invented to visualize St. Benedict's vision that it found reflection in the subsequent Bavarian Benedictine visual tradition. Total solar eclipses are among the most spectacular sights in Nature. Therefore, in an age obsessed with revealing the divine through natural idioms and making religious experiences direct—not to mention that light had long functioned as a symbol of divinity in the Christian tradition—it seems fitting that solar eclipses would be interpreted as a metaphor of a divine presence or a miracle.

King Matthias Corvinus of Hungary (1458‒1490), son of the “Scourge of the Turks,” John Hunyadi, was a foremost patron of early Renaissance art. He was only fourteen years old in 1470 when he was elected king, and his patronage naturally took some time and maturity to develop, notably through his relations with the Neapolitan Aragon dynasty. In December 1476, he married Beatrice, daughter of Ferdinand of Aragon, who brought to Buda a love of books and music she had inherited from her grandfather, Alphonse of Aragon.I studied the work of Beatrice’s brother John of Aragon (Giovanni d’Aragona), previously known mainly from Thomas Haffner’s monograph on his library (1997), from the viewpoint of his influence on Matthias’s art patronage. John was born in Naples on June 25, 1456, the third son of Ferdinand I of Aragon. His father, crowned king by Pope Pius II in 1458 following the death of Alphonse of Aragon, intended from the outset that he should pursue a church career. Ferdinand’s children, Alphonse (heir to the throne), Beatrice, and John were educated by outstanding humanist teachers, including Antonio Beccadelli (Il Panormita) and Pietro Ranzano. Through his father and the kingdom’s good relations with the papacy, John acquired many benefices, and when Pope Sixtus IV (1471‒1484) created him cardinal at the age of twenty-one, on December 10, 1477, he made a dazzling entrance to Rome. John was — together with Marco Barbo, Oliviero Carafa, and Francesco Gonzaga — one of the principal contemporary patrons of the College of Cardinals.On April 19, 1479, Sixtus IV appointed John legatus a latere, to support Matthias’s planned crusade against the Ottomans. On August 31, he departed Rome with two eminent humanists, Raffaele Maffei (also known as Volaterranus), encyclopedist and scriptor apostolicus of the Roman Curia, and Felice Feliciano, collector of ancient Roman inscriptions. John made stops in Ferrara, and Milan, and entered Buda — according to Matthias’s historian Antonio Bonfini — with great pomp. During his eight months in Hungary, he accompanied Matthias and Beatrice to Visegrád, Tata, and the Carthusian monastery of Lövöld and probably exerted a significant influence on the royal couple, particularly in the collecting of books. Matthias appointed his brother-in-law archbishop of Esztergom, the highest clerical office in Hungary, with an annual income of thirty thousand ducats.Leaving Hungary in July 1480, John returned to Rome via Venice and Florence, where, as reported by Ercole d’Este’s ambassador to Florence, Lorenzo de’ Medici showed him the most valuable works of art in his palace, and he visited San Marco and its library and the nearby Medici sculpture garden.In September 1483, Sixtus IV again appointed John legate, this time to Germany and Hungary. He took with him the Veronese physician Francesco Fontana and stayed in Buda and Esztergom between October 1483 and June 1484. The royal couple presented him with silver church vessels, a gold chalice, vestments, and a miter.John’s patronage focused on book collecting and building. He spent six thousand ducats annually on the former. Among his acquisitions were contemporary architectural treatises by Leon Battista Alberti and Filarete, which he borrowed for copying from Lorenzo’s library. They were also featured in Matthias Corvinus’s library, perhaps reflecting John’s influence. Around 1480, during his stay in Buda (approximately 1478‒1480), the excellent miniaturist, Francesco Rosselli made the first few large-format luxury codices for Matthias and Beatrice. Both Queen Beatrice and John of Aragon played a part of this by bringing with them the Aragon family’s love of books, and perhaps also a few codices. The Paduan illuminator Gaspare da Padova (active 1466‒1517), who introduced the all’antica style to Neapolitan book painting, was employed in Rome by John as well as by Francesco Gonzaga, and John’s example encouraged Matthias and Beatrice commission all’antica codices. He may also have influenced the choice of subject matter: John collected only ancient and late classical manuscripts up to 1483 and mainly theological and scholastic books thereafter; Matthias’s collection followed a similar course in which theological and scholastic works proliferated after 1485. Anthony Hobson has detected a link between Queen Beatrice’s Psalterium and the Livius codex copied for John of Aragon: both were bound by Felice Feliciano, who came to Hungary with the Cardinal. Feliciano’s probable involvement with the Erlangen Bible (in the final period of his work, probably in Buda) may therefore be an important outcome of the art-patronage connections between John and the king of Hungary.John further shared with Matthias a passion for building. He built palaces for himself in the monasteries of Montevergine and Montecassino, of which he was abbot, and made additions to the cathedral of Sant’Agata dei Goti and the villa La Conigliera in Naples. Antonio Bonfini, in his history of Hungary, highlights Matthias’s interest, which had a great impact on contemporaries; but only fragments of his monumental constructions survive.We see another link between John and Matthias in the famous goldsmith of Milan, Cristoforo Foppa (Caradosso, c. 1452‒1526/1527). Caradosso set up his workshop in John’s palace in Rome, where he began but — because of his patron’s death in autumn 1485 — was unable to finish a famous silver salt cellar that he later tried to sell. John may also have prompted Matthias to invite Caradosso to spend several months in Buda, where he made silver tableware.Further items in the metalware category are our patrons’ seal matrices. My research has uncovered two kinds of seal belonging to Giovanni d’Aragona. One, dating from 1473, is held in the archives of the Benedictine Abbey of Montecassino. It is a round seal with the arms of the House of Aragon at the centre. After being created cardinal in late 1477, he had two types of his seal. The first, simple contained only his coat of arm (MNL OL, DL 18166). The second elaborate seal matrix made in the early Renaissance style, of which seals survive in the Archivio Apostolico Vaticano (Fondo Veneto I 5752, 30 September 1479) and one or two documents in the Esztergom Primatial Archive (Cathedral Chapter Archive, Lad. 53., Fasc. 3., nr.16., 15 June 1484). At the centre of the mandorla-shaped field, sitting on a throne with balustered arm-rest and tympanum above, is the Virgin Mary (Madonna lactans type), with two supporting figures whose identification requires further research. The legend on the seal is fragmentary: (SIGILL?)VM ……….DON IOANNIS CARDINALIS (D’?) ARAGONIA; beneath it is the cardinal’s coat of arms in the form of a horse’s head (testa di cavallo) crowned with a hat. It may date from the time of Caradosso’s first presumed stay in Rome (1475‒1479), suggesting him as the maker of the matrix, a hypothesis for which as yet no further evidence is known to me. The seals of King Matthias have been thoroughly studied, and the form and use of each type have been almost fully established.John of Aragon was buried in Rome, in his titular church, in the Dominican Basilica of Santa Sabina. Johannes Burckard described the funeral procession from the palace to the Aventine in his Liber notarum. Matthias died in 1490 in his new residence, the Vienna Burg, and his body was taken in grand procession to Buda and subsequently to the basilica of Fehérvár, the traditional place of burial of Hungarian kings. The careers of both men ended prematurely: John might have become pope, and Matthias Holy Roman emperor.(The bulk of the research for this paper was made possible by my two-month Ailsa Mellon Bruce Visiting Senior Fellowship at the Center for Advanced Study in the Visual Arts [CASVA] of the National Gallery of Art [Washington DC] in autumn 2019.) [fordította: Alan Campbell]

Graphs drawn on rastered paper and a monumental steel sculpture display how visual artists Paul Klee and Henrik Neugeboren conceived of Johann Sebastian Bach’s polyphonic style in 1920s Germany. Focusing on the representational decisions behind these artistic translations of music, this article explores the ways in which such artifacts manifest a specific analytical lens. It highlights congruencies with and deviations from the theoretical framework of “linear counterpoint,” as epitomized in Ernst Kurth’s influential treatise from 1917, and thereby positions the artworks within the controversial reception history of Bach’s music and attendant theoretical frameworks in the early twentieth century. More generally, the article proposes that graphical and sculptural renderings of music can offer the opportunity to investigate music theory’s intangible methods and conceptual metaphors through different sensory experiences.

Graphs drawn on rastered paper and a monumental steel sculpture display how visual artists Paul Klee and Henrik Neugeboren conceived of Johann Sebastian Bach’s polyphonic style in 1920s Germany. Focusing on the representational decisions behind these artistic translations of music, this article explores the ways in which such artifacts manifest a specific analytical lens. It highlights congruencies with and deviations from the theoretical framework of “linear counterpoint,” as epitomized in Ernst Kurth’s influential treatise from 1917, and thereby positions the artworks within the controversial reception history of Bach’s music and attendant theoretical frameworks in the early twentieth century. More generally, the article proposes that graphical and sculptural renderings of music can offer the opportunity to investigate music theory’s intangible methods and conceptual metaphors through different sensory experiences.

This paper aims to reflect on a hypothetical threshold-space between contemporary dance and performance art, questioning at the same time the prevalence of too strict a boundary between them. To this end, a range of works involving hybridization of artistic languages ​​were selected and analyzed, from Signals (1970) by American dancer and choreographer Merce Cunningham to Café Müller (1978) by German choreographer Pina Bausch. Both dance and performance art are ephemeral arts or, according to the classical system, arts of time as opposed to the arts of space - painting, sculpture and architecture. They have also been called allographic arts, performative arts or, perhaps more specifically, arts of the body (Ribeiro, 1997). Unlike traditional fine arts, which materialize in a physical object other than the body, unlike video-art and cinema, arts without originals, mediated by the process of “technical reproducibility” (Benjamin, 1992), performative arts require the presence of a human body - and the duration of the present - as a fundamental instrument for their realization. In that sense, the paper also focuses on the ephemerality factor associated with dance and performing arts, and the consequent devaluation these have suffered vis-à-vis other artistic practices, considered to be academic and socially more significant.

AbstractThis paper focusses on the causes for damage to a paper-caché bust (Property Staatliches Museum Schwerin, Germany) and strategies for prevention of future damage by the implementation of a new mounting support system. The bust of Friedrich Wilhelm II was created in the late eighteenth century in Ludwigslust (Germany) and is made of up to 40 layers of paper bound with thin starch paste. The bust itself, the base and the connecting cardboard tube were separated, and some parts were severely deformed. In order to re-connect the three main parts, to support fragile areas, to reduce stress induced by uneven weight distribution and to be able to safely move the sculpture, a new mounting support was designed. Being inserted into the inside of the bust, the structure is invisible and does not interfere with the visual effect of the sculpture.

AbstractIn 1688 two sculptural fragments, a head of bearded man and a head of an unbearded youth, arrived in Copenhagen, sent from Athens as a gift to King Christian 5. They were placed in the Royal Kunstkammer, their provenance given as the Temple of Artemis in Ephesos, one of the Seven Wonders of the World. Almost a hundred and fifty years later, in the early 1820’s they were noticed and studied by two scholars independently visiting the Kunstkammer. However, both concluded that the two heads belonged to one of the metopes decorating the south side of the Parthenon temple on the Acropolis in Athens, showing fighting between Greeks and the mythical Centaurs, part man and part horse. In the 1830’s another sculptural fragment, a horse’s hoof, obtained through the German archaeologist and state antiquary of Greece, Ludwig Ross, reached Copenhagen. It was forwarded by the Danish consul to Athens, C.T. Falbe, as a gift to King Christian 8. The inventory reads: ‘… was found on the Acropolis near the Parthenon temple and is supposed to belong to one the Centaurs on the metopes.’ The present paper focuses solely on the head of the Centaur.A brown stain was noticed on the Parthenon marbles as early as 1830 by the British Museum and has ever since eluded a deeper understanding of its genesis despite many investigations and attempts of analyses. A quite similar brown stain can be observed on the Centaur’s head in Copenhagen as well.The present study reports analyses by LA-ICP-MS, SEM–EDX, µXRD, GC–MS, and LC–MS-MS, as well as optical microscopy of five small samples sequestered in 1999 from the Centaur head curated by the National Museum of Denmark. Our analyses show that the brown stain consists of two consecutively added surficial layers of the calcium oxalate minerals whewellite and weddellite. Despite a thorough search using proteomics, we have found no viable organic precursor material for the oxalates. Our results do not solve the mystery of the formation of the brown stain, but they do further qualify the structure and characterization of the brown stain.

It is the great honor for me to edit proceedings of “7th World Conference on Design and Arts (WCDA- 2018)”, 28-30 June 2018, BAU International Berlin University of Applied Sciences, Berlin – Germany. This privileged scientific event has been contributing to the field of educational research for seven years.As the guest editor of this issue, I am glad to see variety of articles focusing on Art Management, Art and Corporate Identiy, Art and Media, Art and Advertising Design, Art and Globalization, Civil Society and Art, Community Arts, Experimental Typography, Fashion Design, Game Design and Cinema, Game Design and Art, Gastoronomy and Art, Industrial Design, Interactive Arts, Interactive Sound Design, Interior Design, Jewelry Design, New Media for Learning and Teaching, Packaging Design, Performing Arts, Sonic Sculptures, Sound Installations, Teacher Training, The Science of Arts, Typeface Design, Urban Culture and Art, Visual Culture and Art, etc..Furthermore, the conference is getting more international each year, which is an indicator that it is getting world widely known and recognized. Scholars from all over the world contribute to the conference. Special thanks are to all the reviewers, the members of the international editorial board, the publisher, and those involved in technical processes. We would like to thank all who contributed to every process to make this issue actualized. A total of 27 full papers or abstracts were submitted for this conference and each paper has been peer reviewed by the reviewers specialized in the related field. At the end of the review process, a total of 8 high quality research papers were selected and accepted for publication.I hope that you will enjoy reading the papers.Best RegardsGuest EditorsProf. Dr. Ayse Cakir Ilhan, Ankara University, TurkeyEditorial AssistantZeynep Genc, Msc. Near East University, North Cyprus

At the start of the twentieth century, many young Australian artists travelled abroad to expand their art education and to gain exposure to the modern art movements of Europe. Most of these artists were active members of artist associations such as the Victorian Artists Society or the New South Wales Society of Artists. Male artists from Victoria were generally also members of the Melbourne Savage Club, a club with a strong association with the arts.This paper investigates the dual function of the club, as a space where the artists felt “at home” in the familiar environment that the club offered whilst they were abroad and, at the same time, a meeting space where they could engage in a stimulating artistic environment and gain introductions to leading figures in the art world. For those artists who chose England, London’s arts clubs played a large role, for it was in these establishments that they discussed, exhibited, shared, and met with their English counterparts. The club environment in London would have a significant impact on male Australian artists, as it offered a space where they were integrated into the English art world, which enhanced their experience whilst abroad.Artists were seldom members of Australia’s early gentlemen’s clubs, however, in the late nineteenth century Melbourne, artists formed less formal social groupings with exotic names such as the Prehistoric Order of Cannibals, the Buonarotti Club, and the Ishmael Club (Mead). Melbourne artists congregated in these clubs until the Melbourne Savage Club, modelled on the London Savage Club (1857)—a club whose membership was restricted to practitioners in the performing and visual arts—opened its doors in 1894.The Melbourne Savage Club had its origins in the Metropolitan Music Club, established in the late 1880s by a group of professional and amateur musicians and music lovers. The club initially admitted musicians and people from the dramatic professions free-of-charge, however, author Randolph Bedford (1868–1941) and artist Alf Vincent (1874–1915) were not content to be treated on a different basis to the musicians and actors, and two months after Vincent joined the club, at a Special General Meeting, the club resolved to vary Rule 6, “to admit landscape or portrait painters and sculptors without entrance fee” (Melbourne Savage Club). At another Special General Meeting, a year later, the rule was altered to admit “recognised members of the musical, dramatic and artistic professions and sculptors without payment of entrance fee” (Melbourne Savage Club).This resulted in an immediate influx of prominent Victorian male artists (Williams) and the Melbourne Savage Club became their place of choice to gather and enjoy the fellowship the club offered and to share ideas in a convivial atmosphere. When the opportunity arose for them to travel to London in the early twentieth century, they met in London’s famous art clubs. Membership of the Melbourne Savage Club not only conferred rights to visit reciprocal clubs whilst in London, but also facilitated introductions to potential patrons. The London clubs were the venue of choice for visiting artists to meet their fellow artist expatriates and to share experiences and, importantly, to meet with their British counterparts, exhibit their works, and establish valuable contacts.The London Savage Club attracted many Australian expatriates. Not only is it the grandfather of London’s bohemian clubs but also it was the model for arts clubs the world over. Founded in 1857, the qualification for admission was (and still is) to be, “a working man in literature or art, and a good fellow” (Halliday vii). If a candidate met these requirements, he would be cordially received “come whence he may.” This was embodied in the club’s first rules which required applicants for membership to be from a restricted range of pursuits relating to the arts thought to be commensurate with its bohemian ideals, namely art, literature, drama, or music.The second London arts club that attracted expatriate Australian artists was the New English Arts Club, founded in 1886 by young English artists returning from studying art in Paris. Members of The New English Arts Club were influenced by the Impressionist style as opposed to the academic art shown at the Royal Academy. As a meeting place for Australia’s expatriate artists, the New English Arts Club had a particular influence, as it exposed them to significant early Modern artist members such as John Singer Sargent (1856–1925), Walter Sickert (1860–1942), William Orpen (1878–1931) and Augustus John (1878–1961) (Corbett and Perry; Thornton; Melbourne Savage Club).The third, and arguably the most popular with the expatriate Australian artists’ club, was the Chelsea Arts Club, a bohemian club formed in 1891 by local working artists looking for a place to go to “meet, talk, eat and drink” (Cross).Apart from the American-born founding member, James McNeill Whistler (1834–1903), amongst the biggest Chelsea names at the time of the influx of travelling young Australian artists were modernists Sir William Orpen, Augustus John, and John Sargent. The opportunity to mix with these leading British contemporary artists was irresistible to these antipodean artists (55).When Melbourne artist, Miles Evergood (1871–1939) arrived in London from America in 1910, he had been an active exhibiting member of the Salmagundi Club, a New York artists’ club. Almost immediately he joined the New English Arts Club and the Chelsea Arts Club. Hammer tells of him associating with “writer Israel Zangwill, sculptor Jacob Epstein, and anti-academic artists including Walter Sickert, Augustus John, John Lavery, John Singer Sargent and C.R.W. Nevison, who challenged art values in Britain at the beginning of the century” (Hammer 41).Arthur Streeton (1867–1943) used the Chelsea Arts Club as his postal address, as did many expatriate artists. The Melbourne Savage Club archives contain letters and greetings, with news from abroad, written from artist members back to their “Brother Savages” (Various).In late 1902, Streeton wrote to fellow artist and Savage Club member Tom Roberts (1856–1931) from London:I belong to the Chelsea Arts Club now, & meet the artists – MacKennel says it’s about the most artistic club (speaking in the real sense) in England. … They all seem to be here – McKennal, Longstaff, Mahony, Fullwood, Norman, Minns, Fox, Plataganet Tudor St. George Tucker, Quinn, Coates, Bunny, Alston, K, Sonny Pole, other minor lights and your old friend and admirer Smike – within 100 yards of here – there must be 30 different studios. (Streeton 94)Whilst some of the artists whom Streeton mentioned were studying at either the Royal Academy or the Slade School, it was the clubs like the Chelsea Arts Club where they were most likely to encounter fellow Australian artists. Tom Roberts was obviously attentive to Streeton’s enthusiastic account and, when he returned to London the following year to work on his commission for The Big Picture of the 1901 opening of the first Commonwealth Parliament, he soon joined. Roberts, through his expansive personality, became particularly active in London’s Australian expatriate artistic community and later became Vice-President of the Chelsea Arts Club. Along with Streeton and Roberts, other visiting Melbourne Savage Club artists joined the Chelsea Arts Club. They included, John Longstaff (1861–1941), James Quinn (1869–1951), George Coates (1869–1930), and Will Dyson (1880–1938), along with Sydney artists Henry Fullwood (1863–1930), George Lambert (1873–1930), and Will Ashton (1881–1963) (Croll 95). Smith describes the exodus to London and Paris: “It was the Chelsea Arts Club that the Heidelberg School established its last and least distinguished camp” (Smith, Smith and Heathcote 152).Streeton, who retained his Chelsea Arts Club membership when he returned for a while to Australia, wrote to Roberts in 1907, “I miss Chelsea & the Club-boys” (Streeton 107). In relation to Frederick McCubbin’s pending visit he wrote: “Prof McCubbin left here a week ago by German ‘Prinz Heinrich.’ … You’ll introduce him at the Chelsea Club and I hope they make him an Hon. Member, etc” (Streeton et al. 85). McCubbin wrote, after an evening at the Chelsea Arts Club, following a visit to the Royal Academy: “Tonight, I am dining with Australian artists in Soho, and shall be there to greet my old friends. How glad I am! Longstaff will be there, and Frank Stuart, Roberts, Fullwood, Pontin, Coates, Quinn, and Tucker’s brother, and many others from all around” (MacDonald, McCubbin and McCubbin 75). Impressed by the work of Turner he wrote to his wife Annie, following avisit to the Tate Gallery:I went yesterday with Fullwood and G. Coates and Tom Roberts for a ramble … to the Tate Gallery – a beautiful freestone building facing the river through a portico into the gallery where the lately found turners are exhibited – these are not like the greater number of pictures in the National Gallery – they represent his different periods, but are mostly in his latest style, when he had realised the quality of light (McCubbin).Clearly Turner’s paintings had a profound impression on him. In the same letter he wrote:they are mostly unfinished but they are divine – such dreams of colour – a dozen of them are like pearls … mist and cloud and sea and land, drenched in light … They glow with tender brilliancy that radiates from these canvases – how he loved the dazzling brilliancy of morning or evening – these gems with their opal colour – you feel how he gloried in these tender visions of light and air. He worked from darkness into light.The Chelsea Arts Club also served as a venue for artists to entertain and host distinguished visitors from home. These guests included; Melbourne Savage Club artist member Alf Vincent (Joske 112), National Gallery of Victoria (NGV) Trustee and popular patron of the arts, Professor Baldwin Spencer (1860–1929), Professor Frederick S. Delmer (1864–1931) and conductor George Marshall-Hall (1862–1915) (Mulvaney and Calaby 329; Streeton 111).Artist Miles Evergood arrived in London in 1910, and visited the Chelsea Arts Club. He mentions expatriate Australian artists gathering at the Club, including Will Dyson, Fred Leist (1873–1945), David Davies (1864–1939), Will Ashton (1881–1963), and Henry Fullwood (Hammer 41).Most of the Melbourne Savage Club artist members were active in the London Savage Club. On one occasion, in November 1908, Roberts, with fellow artist MacKennal in the Chair, attended the Australian Artists’ Dinner held there. This event attracted twenty-five expatriate Australian artists, all residing in London at the time (McQueen 532).These London arts clubs had a significant influence on the expatriate Australian artists for they became the “glue” that held them together whilst abroad. Although some artists travelled abroad specifically to take up places at the Royal Academy School or the Slade School, only a minority of artists arriving in London from Australia and other British colonies were offered positions at these prestigious schools. Many artists travelled to “try their luck.” The arts clubs of London, whilst similarly discerning in their membership criteria, generally offered a visiting “brother-of-the-brush” a warm welcome as a professional courtesy. They featured the familiar rollicking all-male “Smoke Nights” a feature of the Melbourne Savage Club. With a greater “artist” membership than the clubs in Australia, expatriate artists were not only able to catch up with their friends from Australia, but also they could associate with England’s finest and most progressive artists in a familiar congenial environment. The clubs were a “home away from home” and described by Underhill as, “an artistic Earl’s Court” (Underhill 99). Most importantly, the clubs were a centre for discourse, arguably even more so than were the teaching academies. Britain’s leading modernist artists were members of the Chelsea Arts Club and the New English Arts Club and mixed freely with the visiting Australian artists.Many Australian artists, such as Miles Evergood and George Bell (1878–1966), held anti-academic views similar to English club members and embraced the new artistic trends, which they would bring back to Australia. Streeton had no illusions about the relative worth of the famed institutions and the exhibitions held by clubs such as the New English. Writing to Roberts before he joins him in London, he describes the Royal Academy as having, “an inartistic atmosphere” and claims he “hasn’t the least desire to go again” (Streeton 77). His preference lay with a concurrent “International Exhibition”, which featured works by Rodin, Whistler, Condor, Degas, and others who were setting the pace rather than merely continuing the academic traditions.Architect Hardy Wilson (1881–1955) served as secretary of The Chelsea Arts Club. When he returned to Australia he brought back with him a number of British works by Streeton and Lambert for an exhibition at the Guild Hall Melbourne (Underhill 92). Artists and Bohemians, a history of the Chelsea Arts Club, makes special reference of its world-wide contacts and singles out many of its prominent Australian members for specific mention including; Sir John William (Will) Ashton OBE, later Director of the Art Gallery of New South Wales, and Will Dyson, whose illustrious career as an Australian war artist was described in some detail. Dyson’s popularity led to his later appointment as Chairman of the Chelsea Arts Club where he initiated an ambitious rebuilding program, improving staff accommodation, refurbishing the members’ areas, and adding five bedrooms for visiting members (Bross 87-90).Whilst the influence of travel abroad on Australian artists has been noted, the importance of the London Clubs has not been fully explored. These clubs offered artists a space where they felt “at home” and a familiar environment whilst they were abroad. The clubs functioned as a meeting space where they could engage in a stimulating artistic environment and gain introductions to leading figures in the art world. For those artists who chose England, London’s arts clubs played a large role, for it was in these establishments that they discussed, exhibited, shared, and met with their English counterparts. The club environment in London had a significant impact on male Australian artists as it offered a space where they were integrated into the English art world which enhanced their experience whilst abroad and influenced the direction of their art.ReferencesCorbett, David Peters, and Lara Perry, eds. English Art, 1860–1914: Modern Artists and Identity. Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2000.Croll, Robert Henderson. Tom Roberts: Father of Australian Landscape Painting. Melbourne: Robertson & Mullens, 1935.Cross, Tom. Artists and Bohemians: 100 Years with the Chelsea Arts Club. 1992. 1st ed. London: Quiller Press, 1992.Gray, Anne, and National Gallery of Australia. McCubbin: Last Impressions 1907–17. 1st ed. Parkes, A.C.T.: National Gallery of Australia, 2009.Halliday, Andrew, ed. The Savage Papers. 1867. 1st ed. London: Tinsley Brothers, 1867.Hammer, Gael. Miles Evergood: No End of Passion. Willoughby, NSW: Phillip Mathews, 2013.Joske, Prue. Debonair Jack: A Biography of Sir John Longstaff. 1st ed. Melbourne: Claremont Publishing, 1994.MacDonald, James S., Frederick McCubbin, and Alexander McCubbin. The Art of F. McCubbin. Melbourne: Lothian Book Publishing, 1916.McCaughy, Patrick. Strange Country: Why Australian Painting Matters. Ed. Paige Amor. The Miegunyah Press, 2014.McCubbin, Frederick. Papers, Ca. 1900–Ca. 1915. Melbourne.McQueen, Humphrey. Tom Roberts. Sydney: Macmillan, 1996.Mead, Stephen. "Bohemia in Melbourne: An Investigation of the Writer Marcus Clarke and Four Artistic Clubs during the Late 1860s – 1901.” PhD thesis. Melbourne: University of Melbourne, 2009.Melbourne Savage Club. Secretary. Minute Book: Melbourne Savage Club. Club Minutes (General Committee). Melbourne: Savage Archives.Mulvaney, Derek John, and J.H. Calaby. So Much That Is New: Baldwin Spencer, 1860–1929, a Biography. Carlton, Vic.: Melbourne University Press, 1985.Smith, Bernard, Terry Smith, and Christopher Heathcote. Australian Painting, 1788–2000. 4th ed. South Melbourne, Vic.: Oxford University Press, 2001.Streeton, Arthur, et al. Smike to Bulldog: Letters from Sir Arthur Streeton to Tom Roberts. Sydney: Ure Smith, 1946.Streeton, Arthur, ed. Letters from Smike: The Letters of Arthur Streeton, 1890–1943. Melbourne: Oxford University Press, 1989.Thornton, Alfred, and New English Art Club. Fifty Years of the New English Art Club, 1886–1935. London: New English Art Club, Curwen Press 1935.Underhill, Nancy D.H. Making Australian Art 1916–49: Sydney Ure Smith Patron and Publisher. South Melbourne: Oxford University Press, 1991.Various. Melbourne Savage Club Correspondence Book: 1902–1916. Melbourne: Melbourne Savage Club.Williams, Graeme Henry. "A Socio-Cultural Reading: The Melbourne Savage Club through Its Collections." Masters of Arts thesis. Melbourne: Deakin University, 2013.

In the 1960s, especially in the West, art that was revelatory and art that was revealing operated at opposite ends of the aesthetic spectrum. On the side of the revelatory we can think of encounters synonymous with modernism, in which an expressionist painting was revelatory of the Freudian unconscious, or a Barnett Newman the revelatory intensity of the sublime. By contrast, the impulse to reveal in 1960s art was rooted in post-Duchampian practice, implicating artists as different as Lynda Benglis and Richard Hamilton, who mined the potential of an art that was without essence. If revelatory art underscored modernism’s transcendental conviction, critically revealing work tested its discursive rules and institutional conventions. Of course, nothing in history happens as neatly as this suggests, but what is clear is how polarized the language of artistic revelation was throughout the 1960s. With the international spread of minimalism, pop art, and fluxus, provisional reveals eventually dominated art-historical discourse. Aesthetic conviction, with its spiritual undertones, was haunted by its demystification. In the words of Donald Judd: “a work needs only to be interesting” (184).That art galleries could be sites of timely socio-political issues, rather than timeless intuitions undersigned by medium specificity, is one of the more familiar origin stories of postmodernism. Few artists symbolize this shift more than Hans Haacke, whose 2019 exhibition All Connected, at the New Museum, New York, examined the legacy of his outward-looking work. Born in Germany in 1936, and a New Yorker since 1965, Haacke has been linked to the term “institutional critique” since the mid 1980s, after Mel Ramsden’s coining in 1975, and the increased recognition of kindred spirits such as Mierle Laderman Ukeles, Michael Asher, Martha Rosler, Robert Smithson, Daniel Buren, and Marcel Broodthaers. These artists have featured in books and essays by the likes of Benjamin Buchloh, Hal Foster, and Yve-Alain Bois, but they are also known for their own contributions to art discourse, producing hybrid conceptions of the intellectual postmodern artist as historian, critic and curator.Haacke was initially fascinated by kinetic sculpture in the early 1960s, taking inspiration from op art, systems art, and machine-oriented research collectives such as Zero (Germany), Gruppo N (Italy) and GRAV (France, an acronym of Groupe de Recherche d’Art Visuel). Towards the end of the decade he started to produce more overtly socio-political work, creating what would become a classic piece from this period, Gallery-Goers’ Birthplace and Residence Profile, Part 1 (1969). Here, in a solo exhibition at New York’s Howard Wise Gallery, the artist invited viewers to mark their birthplaces and places of residence on a map. Questioning the statistical demography of the Gallery’s avant-garde attendees, the exhibition anticipated the meticulous sociological character of much of his practice to come, grounding New York art – the centre of the art world – in local, social, and economic fabrics.In the forward to the catalogue of All Connected, New Museum Director Lisa Philips claims that Haacke’s survey exhibition provided a chance to reflect on the artist’s prescience, especially given the flourishing of art activism over the last five or so years. Philips pressed the issue of why no other American art institution had mounted a retrospective of his work in three decades, since his previous survey, Unfinished Business, at the New Museum in 1986, at its former, and much smaller, Soho digs (8). It suggests that other institutions have deemed Haacke’s work too risky, generating too much political heat for them to handle. It’s a reputation the artist has cultivated since the Guggenheim Museum famously cancelled his 1971 exhibition after learning his intended work, Shapolsky et al. Manhattan Real Estate Holdings, A Real Time Social System as of May 1, 1971 (1971) involved research into dubious New York real estate dealings. Guggenheim director Thomas Messer defended the censorship at the time, going so far as to describe it as an “alien substance that had entered the art museum organism” (Haacke, Framing 138). Exposé was this substance Messer dare not name: art that was too revealing, too journalistic, too partisan, and too politically viscid. (Three years later, Haacke got his own back with Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum Board of Trustees, 1974, exposing then Guggenheim board members’ connections to the copper industry in Chile, where socialist president Salvador Allende had just been overthrown with US backing.) All Connected foregrounded these institutional reveals from time past, at a moment in 2019 when the moral accountability of the art institution was on the art world’s collective mind. The exhibition followed high-profile protests at New York’s Whitney Museum and Metropolitan Museum of Art, as well as at Sydney’s Museum of Contemporary Art, the Louvre, and the British Museum. These and other arts organisations have increasingly faced pressures, fostered by social media, to end ties with unethical donors, sponsors, and board members, with activist groups protesting institutional affiliations ranging from immigration detention centre management to opioid and teargas manufacturing. An awareness of the limits of individual agency and autonomy undoubtedly defines this era, with social media platforms intensifying the encumbrances of individual, group, and organisational identities. Hans Haacke, Gallery-Goers’ Birthplace and Residence Profile, Part 1, 1969 Hans Haacke, Gallery-Goers’ Birthplace and Residence Profile, Part 2, 1969-71Unfinished BusinessUnderscoring Haacke’s activist credentials, Philips describes him as “a model of how to live ethically and empathetically in the world today”, and as a beacon of light amidst the “extreme political and economic uncertainty” of the present, Trump-presidency-calamity moment (7). This was markedly different to how Haacke’s previous New York retrospective, Unfinished Business, was received, which bore the weight of being the artist’s first museum exhibition in New York following the Guggenheim controversy. In the catalogue to Haacke’s 1986 exhibition, then New Museum director Marcia Tucker introduced his work as a challenge, cautiously claiming that he poses “trenchant questions” and that the institution accepts “the difficulties and contradictions” inherent to any museum staging of his work (6).Philips’s and Tucker’s distinct perspectives on Haacke’s practice – one as heroically ethical, the other as a sobering critical challenge – exemplify broader shifts in the perception of institutional critique (the art of the socio-political reveal) over this thirty-year period. In the words of Pamela M. Lee, between 1986 and 2019 the art world has undergone a “seismic transformation”, becoming “a sphere of influence at once more rapacious, acquisitive, and overweening but arguably more democratizing and ecumenical with respect to new audiences and artists involved” (87). Haacke’s reputation over this period has taken a similar shift, from him being a controversial opponent of art’s autonomy (an erudite postmodern conceptualist) to a figurehead for moral integrity and cohesive artistic experimentation.As Rosalyn Deutsche pointed out in the catalogue to Haacke’s 1986 exhibition, a potential trap of such a retrospective is that, through biographical positioning, Haacke might be seen as an “exemplary political artist” (210). With this, the specific political issues motivating his work would be overshadowed by the perception of the “great artist” – someone who brings single-issue politics into the narrative of postmodern art, but at the expense of the issues themselves. This is exactly what Douglas Crimp discovered in Unfinished Business. In a 1987 reflection on the show, Crimp argued that, when compared with an AIDS-themed display, Homo Video, staged at the New Museum at the same time, reviewers of Haacke’s exhibition tended to analyse his politics “within the context of the individual artist’s body of work … . Political issues became secondary to the aesthetic strategies of the producer” (34). Crimp, whose activism would be at the forefront of his career in subsequent years, was surprised at how Homo Video and Unfinished Business spawned different readings. Whereas works in the former exhibition tended to be addressed in terms of the artists personal and partisan politics, Haacke’s prompted reflection on the aesthetics-politics juxtaposition itself. For Crimp, the fact that “there was no mediation between these two shows”, spoke volumes about the divisions between political and activist art at the time.New York Times critic Michael Brenson, reiterating a comment made by Fredric Jameson in the catalogue for Unfinished Business, describes the timeless appearance of Haacke’s work in 1986, which is “surprising for an artist whose work is in some way about ideology and history” (Brenson). The implication is that the artist gives a surprisingly long aesthetic afterlife to the politically specific – to ordinarily short shelf-life issues. In this mode of critical postmodernism in which we are unable to distinguish clearly between intervening in and merely reproducing the logic of the system, Haacke is seen as an astute director of an albeit ambiguous push and pull between political specificity and aesthetic irreducibility, political externality and the internalist mode of art about art. Jameson, while granting that Haacke’s work highlights the need to reinvent the role of the “ruling class” in the complex, globalised socio-economic situation of postmodernism, claims that it does so as representative of the “new intellectual problematic” of postmodernism. Haacke, according Jameson, stages postmodernism’s “crisis of ‘mapping’” whereby capitalism’s totalizing, systemic forms are “handled” (note that he avoids “critiqued” or “challenged”) by focusing on their manifestation through particular (“micro-public”) institutional means (49, 50).We can think of the above examples as constituting the postmodern version of Haacke, who frames very specific political issues on the one hand, and the limitless incorporative power of appropriative practice on the other. To say this another way, Haacke, circa 1986, points to specific sites of power struggle at the same time as revealing their generic absorption by an art-world system grown accustomed to its “duplicate anything” parameters. For all of his political intent, the artistic realm, totalised in accordance with the postmodern image, is ultimately where many thought his gestures remained. The philosopher turned art critic Arthur Danto, in a negative review of Haacke’s exhibition, portrayed institutional critique as part of an age-old business of purifying art, maintaining that Haacke’s “crude” and “heavy-handed” practice is blind to how art institutions have always relied on some form of critique in order for them to continue being respected “brokers of spirit”. This perception – of Haacke’s “external” critiques merely serving to “internally” strengthen existing art structures – was reiterated by Leo Steinberg. Supportively misconstruing the artist in the exhibition catalogue, Steinberg writes that Haacke’s “political message, by dint of dissonance, becomes grating and shrill – but shrill within the art context. And while its political effectiveness is probably minimal, its effect on Minimal art may well be profound” (15). Hans Haacke, MOMA Poll, 1970 All ConnectedSo, what do we make of the transformed reception of Haacke’s work since the late 1980s: from a postmodern ouroboros of “politicizing aesthetics and aestheticizing politics” to a revelatory exemplar of art’s moral power? At a period in the late 1980s when the culture wars were in full swing and yet activist groups remained on the margins of what would become a “mainstream” art world, Unfinished Business was, perhaps, blindingly relevant to its times. Unusually for a retrospective, it provided little historical distance for its subject, with Haacke becoming a victim of the era’s propensity to “compartmentalize the interpretive registers of inside and outside and the terms corresponding to such spatial­izing coordinates” (Lee 83).If commentary surrounding this 2019 retrospective is anything to go by, politics no longer performs such a parasitic, oppositional or even dialectical relation to art; no longer is the political regarded as a real-world intrusion into the formal, discerning, longue-durée field of aesthetics. The fact that protests inside the museum have become more visible and vociferous in recent years testifies to this shift. For Jason Farrago, in his review of All Connected for the New York Times, “the fact that no person and no artwork stands alone, that all of us are enmeshed in systems of economic and social power, is for anyone under 40 a statement of the obvious”. For Alyssa Battistoni, in Frieze magazine, “if institutional critique is a practice, it is hard to see where it is better embodied than in organizing a union, strike or boycott”.Some responders to All Connected, such as Ben Lewis, acknowledge how difficult it is to extract a single critical or political strategy from Haacke’s body of work; however, we can say that, in general, earlier postmodern questions concerning the aestheticisation of the socio-political reveal no longer dominates the reception of his practice. Today, rather than treating art and politics are two separate but related entities, like form is to content, better ideas circulate, such as those espoused by Bruno Latour and Jacques Rancière, for whom what counts as political is not determined by a specific program, medium or forum, but by the capacity of any actor-network to disrupt and change a normative social fabric. Compare Jameson’s claim that Haacke’s corporate and museological tropes are “dead forms” – through which “no subject-position speaks, not even in protest” (38) – with Battistoni’s, who, seeing Haacke’s activism as implicit, asks the reader: “how can we take the relationship between art and politics as seriously as Haacke has insisted we must?”Crimp’s concern that Unfinished Business perpetuated an image of the artist as distant from the “political stakes” of his work did not carry through to All Connected, whose respondents were less vexed about the relation between art and politics, with many noting its timeliness. The New Museum was, ironically, undergoing its own equity crisis in the months leading up to the exhibition, with newly unionised staff fighting with the Museum over workers’ salaries and healthcare even as it organised to build a new $89-million Rem Koolhaas-designed extension. Battistoni addressed these disputes at-length, claiming the protests “crystallize perfectly the changes that have shaped the world over the half-century of Haacke’s career, and especially over the 33 years since his last New Museum exhibition”. Of note is how little attention Battistoni pays to Haacke’s artistic methods when recounting his assumed solidarity with these disputes, suggesting that works such as Creating Consent (1981), Helmosboro Country (1990), and Standortkultur (Corporate Culture) (1997) – which pivot on art’s public image versus its corporate umbilical cord – do not convey some special aesthetico-political insight into a totalizing capitalist system. Instead, “he has simply been an astute and honest observer long enough to remind us that our current state of affairs has been in formation for decades”.Hans Haacke, News, 1969/2008 Hans Haacke, Wide White Flow, 1967/2008 Showing Systems Early on in the 1960s, Haacke was influenced by the American critic, artist, and curator Jack Burnham, who in a 1968 essay, “Systems Esthetics” for Artforum, inaugurated the loose conceptualist paradigm that would become known as “systems art”. Here, against Greenbergian formalism and what he saw as the “craft fetishism” of modernism, Burnham argues that “change emanates, not from things, but from the way things are done” (30). Burnham thought that emergent contemporary artists were intuitively aware of the importance of the systems approach: the significant artist in 1968 “strives to reduce the technical and psychical distance between his artistic output and the productive means of society”, and pays particular attention to relationships between organic and non-organic systems (31).As Michael Fried observed of minimalism in his now legendary 1967 essay Art and Objecthood, this shift in sixties art – signalled by the widespread interest in the systematic – entailed a turn towards the spatial, institutional, and societal contexts of receivership. For Burnham, art is not about “material entities” that beautify or modify the environment; rather, art exists “in relations between people and between people and the components of their environment” (31). At the forefront of his mind was land art, computer art, and research-driven conceptualist practice, which, against Fried, has “no contrived confines such as the theatre proscenium or picture frame” (32). In a 1969 lecture at the Guggenheim, Burnham confessed that his research concerned not just art as a distinct entity, but aesthetics in its broadest possible sense, declaring “as far as art is concerned, I’m not particularly interested in it. I believe that aesthetics exists in revelation” (Ragain).Working under the aegis of Burnham’s systems art, Haacke was shaken by the tumultuous and televised politics of late-1960s America – a time when, according to Joan Didion, a “demented and seductive vortical tension was building in the community” (41). Haacke cites Martin Luther King’s assassination as an “incident that made me understand that, in addition to what I had called physical and biological systems, there are also social systems and that art is an integral part of the universe of social systems” (Haacke, Conversation 222). Haacke created News (1969) in response to this awareness, comprising a (pre-Twitter) telex machine that endlessly spits out live news updates from wire services, piling up rolls and rolls of paper on the floor of the exhibition space over the course of its display. Echoing Burnham’s idea of the artist as a programmer whose job is to “prepare new codes and analyze data”, News nonetheless presents the museum as anything but immune from politics, and technological systems as anything but impersonal (32).This intensification of social responsibility in Haacke’s work sets him apart from other, arguably more reductive techno-scientific systems artists such as Sonia Sheridan and Les Levine. The gradual transformation of his ecological and quasi-scientific sculptural experiments from 1968 onwards could almost be seen as making a mockery of the anthropocentrism described in Fried’s 1967 critique. Here, Fried claims not only that the literalness of minimalist work amounts to an emphasis on shape and spatial presence over pictorial composition, but also, in this “theatricality of objecthood” literalness paradoxically mirrors (153). At times in Fried’s essay the minimalist art object reads as a mute form of sociality, the spatial presence filled by the conscious experience of looking – the theatrical relationship itself put on view. Fried thought that viewers of minimalism were presented with themselves in relation to the entire world as object, to which they were asked not to respond in an engaged formalist sense but (generically) to react. Pre-empting the rise of conceptual art and the sociological experiments of post-conceptualist practice, Fried, unapprovingly, argues that minimalist artists unleash an anthropomorphism that “must somehow confront the beholder” (154).Haacke, who admits he has “always been sympathetic to so-called Minimal art” (Haacke, A Conversation 26) embraced the human subject around the same time that Fried’s essay was published. While Fried would have viewed this move as further illustrating the minimalist tendency towards anthropomorphic confrontation, it would be more accurate to describe Haacke’s subsequent works as social-environmental barometers. Haacke began staging interactions which, however dry or administrative, framed the interplays of culture and nature, inside and outside, private and public spheres, expanding art’s definition by looking to the social circulation and economy that supported it.Haacke’s approach – which seems largely driven to show, to reveal – anticipates the viewer in a way that Fried would disapprove, for whom absorbed viewers, and the irreduction of gestalt to shape, are the by-products of assessments of aesthetic quality. For Donald Judd, the promotion of interest over conviction signalled scepticism about Clement Greenberg’s quality standards; it was a way of acknowledging the limitations of qualitative judgement, and, perhaps, of knowledge more generally. In this way, minimalism’s aesthetic relations are not framed so much as allowed to “go on and on” – the artists’ doubt about aesthetic value producing this ongoing temporal quality, which conviction supposedly lacks.In contrast to Unfinished Business, the placing of Haacke’s early sixties works adjacent to his later, more political works in All Connected revealed something other than the tensions between postmodern socio-political reveal and modernist-formalist revelation. The question of whether to intervene in an operating system – whether to let such a system go on and on – was raised throughout the exhibition, literally and metaphorically. To be faced with the interactions of physical, biological, and social systems (in Condensation Cube, 1963-67, and Wide White Flow, 1967/2008, but also in later works like MetroMobiltan, 1985) is to be faced with the question of change and one’s place in it. Framing systems in full swing, at their best, Haacke’s kinetic and environmental works suggest two things: 1. That the systems on display will be ongoing if their component parts aren’t altered; and 2. Any alteration will alter the system as a whole, in minor or significant ways. Applied to his practice more generally, what Haacke’s work hinges on is whether or not one perceives oneself as part of its systemic relations. To see oneself implicated is to see beyond the work’s literal forms and representations. Here, systemic imbrication equates to moral realisation: one’s capacity to alter the system as the question of what to do. Unlike the phenomenology-oriented minimalists, the viewer’s participation is not always assumed in Haacke’s work, who follows a more hermeneutic model. In fact, Haacke’s systems are often circular, highlighting participation as a conscious disruption of flow rather than an obligation that emanates from a particular work (148).This is a theatrical scenario as Fried describes it, but it is far from an abandonment of the issue of profound value. In fact, if we accept that Haacke’s work foregrounds intervention as a moral choice, it is closer to Fried’s own rallying cry for conviction in aesthetic judgement. As Rex Butler has argued, Fried’s advocacy of conviction over sceptical interest can be understood as dialectical in the Hegelian sense: conviction is the overcoming of scepticism, in a similar way that Geist, or spirit, for Hegel, is “the very split between subject and object, in which each makes the other possible” (Butler). What is advanced for Fried is the idea of “a scepticism that can be remarked only from the position of conviction and a conviction that can speak of itself only as this scepticism” (for instance, in his attempt to overcome his scepticism of literalist art on the basis of its scepticism). Strong and unequivocal feelings in Fried’s writing are informed by weak and indeterminate feeling, just as moral conviction in Haacke – the feeling that I, the viewer, should do something – emerges from an awareness that the system will continue to function fine without me. In other words, before being read as “a barometer of the changing and charged atmosphere of the public sphere” (Sutton 16), the impact of Haacke’s work depends upon an initial revelation. It is the realisation not just that one is embroiled in a series of “invisible but fundamental” relations greater than oneself, but that, in responding to seemingly sovereign social systems, the question of our involvement is a moral one, a claim for determination founded through an overcoming of the systemic (Fry 31).Haacke’s at once open and closed works suit the logic of our algorithmic age, where viewers have to shift constantly from a position of being targeted to one of finding for oneself. Peculiarly, when Haacke’s online digital polls in All Connected were hacked by activists (who randomized statistical responses in order to compel the Museum “to redress their continuing complacency in capitalism”) the culprits claimed they did it in sympathy with his work, not in spite of it: “we see our work as extending and conversing with Haacke’s, an artist and thinker who has been a source of inspiration to us both” (Hakim). This response – undermining done with veneration – is indicative of the complicated legacy of his work today. Haacke’s influence on artists such as Tania Bruguera, Sam Durant, Forensic Architecture, Laura Poitras, Carsten Höller, and Andrea Fraser has less to do with a particular political ideal than with his unique promotion of journalistic suspicion and moral revelation in forms of systems mapping. It suggests a coda be added to the sentiment of All Connected: all might not be revealed, but how we respond matters. 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