In the summer of 1886, the Dutch artist Vincent van Gogh painted 35 still life paintings portraying flowers in vases, painted in brilliant colors. At that time, the artist was living in Paris in an apartment with his younger brother Theo who was working at the international art dealership Boussod, Valadon & Cie. Van Gogh’s sudden commitment to the subject of floral still lifes marked an important moment in the development of the artist’s style through which he was later able to paint masterpieces such as Starry Night and Almond Blossom.

Van Gogh in Paris: New Discoveries and Financial Trouble

Van Gogh decided to move to Paris in 1886 after spending a few months enrolled at the Royal Academy of Fine Arts in Antwerp, Belgium. He had spent his early development as an artist learning from the tradition of Dutch realist painting, but was aware that new developments in the world of art were burgeoning in Paris. Naturally, he wanted to participate in this dynamic environment and learn the artistic approaches of his contemporaries in order to develop his own style and technique. But more importantly, he wanted to take lessons at the studio of the artist Fernand Cormon. Van Gogh arrived in Paris at the end of February 1886 and soon enrolled in Cormon’s studio, although he only stayed there a few weeks. Nevertheless, his trip to Paris was far from fruitless.

Paris was a major turning point in Van Gogh’s artistic career. Discovering the light, colorful canvases of Impressionist artists such as Claude Monet and Edgar Degas showed him a brand new side of painting, while at the same time forcing him to face the growing reputation of realism as outdated. Not only did he witness avant-garde paintings, but he also became friends with a number of artists, such as Paul Gauguin, Henri Toulouse-Lautrec, Emile Bernard, and Paul Signac. He called this group the Painters of the Petit Boulevard. Each artist had a different theory and style of painting, and Van Gogh learned something from all of them. At the same time, woodblock prints from Japan called ukiyo-e had gained immense popularity in Europe during the 19th century, and the role of these prints in shaping Van Gogh’s style cannot be overstated.

But while the artist was living in the midst of one of the greatest art historical developments in Europe, his financial reality was less glamorous. Sharing the apartment with his brother saved him some money, but the reality was that Van Gogh did not hold a stable job and therefore relied on selling paintings as his source of income. He had hoped that Paris would be a suitable market for his work, but his work was not yet up to date with the modernist taste.

And so Theo took care of the finances, and Vincent focused all his time and energy on painting. He had hoped to develop his skill in figure painting, something that he had worked on both at the Royal Academy in Antwerp and in Cormon’s studio, but models were expensive, and Van Gogh had to look for another way. It was then that the artist turned to painting still lifes of flowers. Flowers were readily available and proved to be incredibly useful subjects for Van Gogh, particularly for his development as a colorist.

Flowers as a Means to Study Color Theory

In 1884, Van Gogh read a book by Charles Blanc that laid out a scientific theory of color. The theory proposed the concept of complementary colors: colors that intensify each other when placed together, providing maximum contrast. Blanc included a color wheel in his publication that depicted the complementary colors placed opposite each other: yellow and purple, red and green, and blue and orange. Color theory changed Van Gogh’s approach to color even before he set foot in Paris. “Color expresses something in itself,” he wrote to Theo in 1885, and expressed his admiration for the works of the French Romantic artist Eugène Delacroix who applied color theory in his paintings.  Learning about color theory changed Van Gogh’s approach to color in his early days, but it was only in Paris that he could unleash the full potential of this theory by using bright and bold colors.

Flower still lifes were a helpful way to practice color theory in Paris. As mentioned above, lacking the money for models, Van Gogh started painting flowers in vases to practice his understanding of color theory. He painted 35 such works, including Vase with Gladioli and Chinese Asters and Vase with Zinnias and Geraniums. Flower still lifes took up a large portion of his summer during 1886, and he took up the project with enthusiasm, as he explained in a letter from October 1886:

“And now for what regards what I myself have been doing, I have lacked money for paying models, else I had entirely given myself to figure painting but I have made a series of color studies in painting simply flowers, red poppies, blue corn flowers and myosotys. White and rose roses, yellow chrysanthemums – seeking oppositions of blue with orange, red and green, yellow and violet, seeking THE BROKEN AND NEUTRAL TONES to harmonise brutal extremes. Trying to render intense COLOR and not a grey harmony.”

The artist explained his goals with these paintings at length, focusing on harmonizing a set of colors in a composition. Another notable point is that he called these still life paintings of flowers color studies, clearly stating his intentions with these works. These paintings also demonstrate the artist’s interest in different stylistic techniques. For example, the painting Fritillaries in a Copper Vase shows Van Gogh’s experimentation with the Pointillist technique pioneered by the Neo-Impressionist artist Georges Seurat. This style consisted of painting with dots and small dashes, something that Van Gogh implemented primarily in the background of this painting.

Van Gogh would be sent flowers regularly from his acquaintances, and he would paint them almost as soon as they arrived. The genre of floral still lifes offered the opportunity to test a wide range of colors and their interaction with light on the canvas, all the while being cost-effective. This project is today recognized as an important step in the transformation of Van Gogh’s palette from the dark and dull colors of his Dutch period to the bright and intense paintings from his mature years.

Floral Still Lifes, Adolphe Monticelli, and Impasto

A significant figure who influenced Van Gogh’s style in Paris was the French artist Adolphe Monticelli. Van Gogh witnessed Monticelli’s works in Paris during the summer of 1886 and soon discovered a different way to approach brushwork in his paintings. Monticelli worked with rough and fierce brushstrokes, but more importantly, he applied his paint thickly. Viewing Monticelli’s paintings, such as Flowers in a Blue Vase, resonated deeply with Van Gogh, and his thickly painted color studies of flowers marked the beginning of his experimentation with impasto. This technique is a crucial aspect of Van Gogh’s oeuvre and was never abandoned by the artist. Apart from his bold approach to color, his passionate brushwork featuring thick impasto is what sets Van Gogh apart in the history of European art.

For example, Van Gogh’s Vase with Chinese Asters and Gladioli not only features a wider and lighter palette than works from his Dutch period, but it also shows his impassioned brushstrokes and a generous application of paint. The petals of the flowers are almost three-dimensional, with each individual brushstroke clearly visible. The red background also shows an interesting use of the impasto technique through a basketweave pattern, something that also appears in many of his later still lifes.

The entire painting appears much more dynamic and intense than his works from the previous year, such as The Potato Eaters. The choice of flowers as a subject complemented this newfound stylistic practice as painting flowers required a speedy brush to capture fresh blooms before they wilted. Later in 1888, Van Gogh described his approach to brushwork in a quite straightforward way: “I follow no system of brushwork at all; I hit the canvas with irregular strokes which I leave as they are, impastos, uncovered spots of canvas . . .”

The Commercial Benefit of Paintings of Flowers

Van Gogh also chose to focus on flower still lifes in Paris because of their commercial appeal. This genre was in high demand in the contemporary art market, and many young artists made their living selling still life paintings of flowers. Facing a financial impediment due to the lack of any sales both in Antwerp and Paris, Van Gogh was eager to find buyers for his paintings. This was, however, difficult as the artist was only beginning to understand the taste of the modern market and had not yet discovered a style that was both modernist and unique to him. Flower still lifes appeared as a way out of this issue, but his goals with this project eventually shifted as he discovered the potential of this genre to experiment with color theory and brushwork. Nevertheless, Van Gogh was not able to sell these paintings during his lifetime.

While the decision to paint flowers in Paris was linked both to economic concerns and his technical development as a colorist, Van Gogh continued painting flowers long after leaving Paris. In fact, the still life series of sunflowers that he painted between 1888 and 1889 in Arles became one of his most famous masterpieces. These were made as decorations that he hung in the Yellow House where he lived during his time in Arles and were also meant as saleable paintings.

With Sunflowers, Van Gogh had found a flower that was his. The practice of picking one signature flower was common among artists as it distinguished them in the art market and helped establish their identity among the masses. Not only did Van Gogh place his signature in two of his Sunflowers on the vase, but he also clearly declared his ownership of the flower in a letter to Gauguin from January 1889: “if Jeannin has the peony, Quost the hollyhock, I indeed, before others, have taken the sunflower.”

How Flower Still Lifes and Color Theory Shaped Van Gogh’s Art

The experiments with floral still lifes in Paris were foundational to Van Gogh’s artistic development in the later years. Equipped with the knowledge of new stylistic techniques and color theory, Van Gogh left Paris in February 1888, longing for the peace of the countryside after spending two years in the busy environments of the French capital. He arrived in Arles, a town located in the south of France, that offered him the brilliant natural light, variety of colorful landscapes, and serenity that he needed to continue his work with renewed focus. His letters were now full of detailed descriptions of the color he saw around him under the Provençal sun, such as in this letter to Theo from May 1888: “Many of the subjects here are just — in character — the same as in Holland — the difference is in the color. There’s sulphur everywhere where the sun beats down.”

Some notable flower still lifes from his later years include Oleanders, Irises, and Roses. The time in Arles, however, also offered him the opportunity to work with models. These were usually people he knew personally instead of professional models, such as the postman Joseph Roulin, his wife Augustine Roulin, and the Belgian artist Eugène Boch. Nevertheless, portraits of these subjects are a testament to Van Gogh’s mastery of color and brushwork and show his success as a modernist painter who developed one of the most unique styles in European art history.

Many of the world’s most famous artists, like Claude Monet, Salvador Dali, and Pablo Picasso, fall under the umbrella of Modernism, even though their styles vary widely. So, how exactly do we define the Modernist era? Modern art is defined by its rejection of traditional academic standards. While historians debate the exact starting point, the 1863 Salon des Refusés marked a clear break, giving artists new freedom from the Academy’s rigid rules. Over the following hundred years, a succession of visionaries abandoned perspective, emotional restraint, physical representation, and artistic craft itself to create something new. Understand art in the Modernist era with ten pivotal works from modern masters.

1. Édouard Manet, Luncheon on the Grass, 1863

Édouard Manet is often seen as the artist who cracked open the door to Modernism. His Luncheon on the Grass wasn’t just a painting. It was a provocation that sparked a movement. The scene shows two clothed men casually picnicking with a nude woman. She isn’t Venus or a goddess, but a modern-day figure, unidealized, staring directly at the viewer. That blunt realism, combined with rough brushstrokes, flat lighting, and an awkward sense of depth, shocked 19th-century Salon-goers accustomed to polished historical scenes.

Rejected by the official Salon, Luncheon on the Grass found its home in the Salon des Refusés. Its inclusion there marked a turning point in art history. Manet had rewired tradition, replacing old myths with modern-day reality. That shift toward the present, the personal, the provocative is what made Manet the father of Modern art.

2. Eugène Bataille (Sapeck), Mona Lisa Smoking a Pipe, 1887

An early Modern group that headlined the beginning of the period was Les Arts Incoherents, French for “Incoherent Art.” Led by writer Jules Lévy, this group was defined by humor, satire, and accessibility of art, seen in the fact that most of their graphic artworks were cartoons published in widely distributed journals. While most of their works were made in the form of poetry or performance art, there were also some graphic artists, particularly Eugène Bataille.

Also known under the pseudonym Sapeck, his illustration of Mona Lisa Smoking a Pipe for the journal Le Rire remains a virtually unknown piece of Modernism. Here, he draws the all-famed Mona Lisa with one simple addition: a pipe. Satirical images like this are still recreated today. Bataille appropriates the famous Mona Lisa by putting a phallic object in her mouth, poking fun at her renowned status.

Modernism is usually referred to as revolutionary, a title that makes all too much sense for someone like Bataille, living in the aftermath of the French Revolution. As rebellions spread throughout Europe in the 18th and 19th centuries, it only made sense that the same ideas would integrate themselves into the art world. The works of the Modern era can even be argued to be a broad act of iconoclasm, defined as the destruction of images. While this term typically refers to the damaging of religious icons (such as the Byzantine Iconoclasm) or political images (seen during the French Revolution), its general idea can be applied to the Modern period. Artists were working to destroy the established concepts of art on a large scale, rejecting everything put in place before them.

3. Vincent van Gogh, Starry Night, 1889

Vincent van Gogh created The Starry Night in June 1889 while seeking treatment at the Saint-Paul-de-Mausole asylum in Saint-Rémy-de-Provence, France, just a year before his death. Rather than a direct observation, the canvas is a composite of the view from his east-facing bedroom window, memory, and emotional imagination. Swirling waves of cobalt, indigo, and white surround eleven exaggerated, glowing stars and a crescent moon, applied with thick impasto brushstrokes.

The Starry Night stands as a pivotal bridge between late 19th-century Post-Impressionism and 20th-century Modernism. Where Impressionists sought to capture light as it fell in objective reality, van Gogh used color and form to express subjective psychological states. His approach influenced many subsequent Modernist artists. German Expressionists drew heavily on van Gogh’s dramatic brushwork and exaggerated forms to convey anxiety and internal conflict, while Henri Matisse and the Fauves built on van Gogh’s use of liberated, non-naturalistic color palettes.

4. Pablo Picasso, Les Demoiselles d’Avignon, 1907

Painted in 1907, Pablo Picasso’s Les Demoiselles d’Avignon is widely considered the single most decisive rupture in 20th-century art history, single-handedly firing the starting gun for Modernist abstraction. The massive 8-foot canvas portrays five prostitutes in a brothel on Carrer d’Avinyó in Barcelona. Shattering Renaissance perspective, human bodies are reduced to jagged, razor-sharp planes and overlapping geometric forms rather than soft, naturalistic contours. The two figures on the right wear stylized facial features derived directly from African tribal masks.

The radical flattening of space in Demoiselles directly laid the foundation for Cubism, which Picasso developed alongside Georges Braque over the following years. By incorporating non-Western artistic motifs as equal visual tools rather than mere exotic decor, Picasso changed how European artists approached abstraction. Even Picasso’s closest avant-garde peers, including Henri Matisse and Georges Braque, were initially horrified by the painting’s aggression, proving just how far past the established boundaries of art it pushed.

5. Wassily Kandinsky, Untitled, 1915

An artist like Wassily Kandinsky leaned into abstraction and took it a step further, turning abstraction into non-representation. That is, the form is so deconstructed that there is hardly anything recognizable anymore. Kandinsky started Der Blaue Reiter group along with Franz Marc, where together they pioneered the German Expressionist movement. An artwork like Untitled (1915) confuses the viewer at first. The first question viewers ask sounds simple, but is deceptively complex: What is Kandinsky trying to show?

In his artworks, it’s not the what that’s important, but the how. Kandinsky is an expressionist who focuses on expressing or conveying emotions. What’s being shown on the canvas gives way to how it’s being shown. Kandinsky does this primarily through his colors. He considered himself a synesthete, so for him, color had sound, typically denoted by a certain instrument. For example, red was aggressive, and as a warm color, it moved out toward the viewer. On the other hand, blue was calming and receding in its cool qualities. Juxtaposing these two together created chaos and disharmony. If you look in the upper corners, you’ll see large splotches of red across from blue, which make the canvas almost tilt in imbalance. Keep this concept in mind when viewing Kandinsky’s works, and their meanings might come a little easier.

6. Marcel Duchamp, Fountain, 1919

More than anyone or any movement, Duchamp and the Dadaists truly embody what Modernism means. Established in the early 20th century, Dadaism isn’t so different from Les Arts Incoherents. They focus on satire and appropriation, making fun of the elitism of the art world. Ironically, little did they know they’d become a symbol for what we consider elite art today.

Marcel Duchamp was a forerunner of Dadaism, with his most famous work, Fountain. In this piece, Duchamp took a manufactured urinal, flipped it on its side, and submitted it to be exhibited. Fountain created an outrage. If artists can take ready-made objects and call them art, then what does art really even mean? This question was the exact one Duchamp was trying to elicit.

7. Jackson Pollock, Number 1A, 1948

Jackson Pollock’s Number 1A, 1948 represents a seminal moment in late Modernism, marking the full emergence of Abstract Expressionism and shifting the center of the international art world from Paris to New York after World War II. Created in his Long Island barn, Number 1A, 1948 completely abandoned the traditional easel, palette, and brush-to-canvas contact.

Pollock laid raw, unprimed canvas flat on the floor, using his entire body to fling, drip, and pour liquid industrial enamel paint from sticks, trowels, and stiff brushes. Near the top right edge of the canvas, Pollock stamped his own paint-covered handprints directly onto the surface—an intimate signature linking the artist’s physical body to the recorded action. The painting lacks a central focal point, horizon line, or hierarchy. The dynamic web of black, white, grey, and metallic paint extends uniformly across the massive canvas, drawing the viewer’s eye endlessly around the surface.

Pollock made the act of creation the primary subject matter of his work. He treated the canvas as a record of kinetic movement, paving the way for modern Happenings, Performance Art, and Minimalist art movements in the mid-to-late 20th century.

8. Willem de Kooning, Woman I, 1950-52

Kandinsky’s Expressionism shouldn’t be confused with the later movement of Abstract Expressionism. Yes, he’s making abstract works in the expressionist style, but these movements are defined separately. One of the largest differences between the two is that Abstract Expressionism took place in the 1940s and 1950s, in the new art capital of New York City. A trailblazer in this style was the Dutchman Willem de Kooning. Artists like de Kooning were looking back a few decades, inspired by creators like Van Gogh and Munch. De Kooning’s Woman I takes a very traditional European subject, the female nude, and flips it on its head, not in a way entirely dissimilar from Bataille or Duchamp.

The figure depicted in Woman I is grotesque and disturbing, though it is still clear she is a woman through her prominent breasts. De Kooning was appropriating the female form, much like Duchamp or Sapeck did with the Mona Lisa, but on a broader scale. He reduced this woman down to her basic body parts, emphasizing the most important aspect of his movement: abstraction.

His dynamic, dramatic brushstrokes created a similar sense of chaos that Kandinsky depicted in his Untitled work. The colorful palette of pinks and greens gets drowned out by the large swatches of gray that create the woman’s form. We can’t tell if she’s standing or sitting, where her arms or legs are, or if she’s clothed or naked. The disorder of the form reflects the post-war world. Working in the United States, de Kooning and other Abstract Expressionists distanced themselves from European tradition to forge a new, distinctly American art.

9. Andy Warhol, Campbell’s Soup Cans, 1962

Andy Warhol’s Campbell’s Soup Cans (1962) marked the arrival of Pop Art, a decisive shift that challenged late Modernism’s obsession with heroic individualism and interior emotion. Debuted at the Ferus Gallery in Los Angeles, the artwork comprises 32 individual canvases; one for each variety of soup sold by Campbell’s at the time. Warhol utilized synthetic polymer paint applied partly via screen printing, mimicking the mechanical precision of commercial graphic design rather than traditional brushwork. The canvases were displayed horizontally on shelves, directly mimicking how grocery stores stock mass-produced consumer goods.

10. Jean-Michel Basquiat, Three Quarters of Olympia Minus the Servant, 1982

Modernism informally ended around the 1970s, ushering in a new era of Postmodernism. Artists like Duchamp and Kandinsky became household names. The context of the Cold War flipped the world upside down once again, and artists, doing what artists do, had to modify their works to keep up with the times.

This idea is exactly what the early Modernists were trying to do. For example, Manet took the traditional subject of a female nude in his Olympia and unveiled something deeper, something gritty, not unlike what de Kooning did with Woman I. His depiction of a sex worker astounded the Salon-goers in the 1860s, paving the way to the shocking early-Modern artworks of the Impressionists and beyond.

The neo-expressionist Jean-Michel Basquiat did what Duchamp did with L.H.O.O.Q. to Manet’s Olympia: he appropriated her iconic status as a symbol of the Modern art world. In Three Quarters of Olympia Minus the Servant, Basquiat took abstraction to an extreme, breaking apart all forms until everything was virtually unrecognizable.

It’s hard to tell where Olympia is meant to be. There’s some kind of face in the middle, but it looks nothing like Manet’s courtesan. Instead, it more accurately reflects the woman in de Kooning’s work: bald, ugly, and disturbing. Basquiat rejected the mainstreaming of modernism, reshaping its values into something that reflected his experience as a Black artist in New York.

Every artwork he made was an assault on the elitist art world. His graffiti medium portrayed the same idea of accessibility as Les Arts Incoherents did with their journals. Basquiat was painting identity, not just figures and bodies. He was evocative, just like the expressionists, forcing the viewer to analyze and interpret, not just observe.

Modern Art: How Did It Lead Us To Today?

The Modern era allowed artists to experiment with new forms, styles, and subjects. Without them, we might still be stuck in the stagnant tradition of academic formality. Imagine if every artwork looked just like a work made by Leonardo da Vinci or Michelangelo. Sure, they’re beautiful pieces to look at, but doesn’t it get quite boring? Shouldn’t we prefer a wide range of styles, enticing us with each new work we look at?

While Modern art can be hard to get, it’s still important to understand its place within art history. Without Modern artists, we could very well be trapped in the cycle of history without an escape. Their satirical takes on iconic artworks—and their abstract pieces that shattered traditional form—let audiences see something new each time. So, the next time you’re at a museum and feel overwhelmed by the complexity of Picasso or Matisse, remember: artists like them gave the art world freedom. That freedom opened the door to the full range of expression we enjoy today.

For more than two centuries, Japan remained largely isolated from the outside world under its national seclusion policy known as sakoku (1639–1853). This era came to an abrupt end in 1854, when Western pressure forced the country to open its ports and accept unequal trade treaties, setting the stage for the transformative Meiji Restoration. As Japan transitioned from feudal society to a modern nation-state, sweeping reforms reshaped society and altered the fate of its Buddhist heritage.

The Separation of Shintō and Buddhism in 1868

In 1868, the new Meiji government set out to redefine the nation’s political and cultural identity. At the heart of this transformation was the 1868 Edict on the Separation of Shintō and Buddhism (Shinbutsu Bunrei), which dismantled a syncretic religion that had shaped Japanese spiritual life for more than a millennium. By establishing Shintō as the ideological and ritual foundation of the modern state, the new regime fundamentally altered the place of Buddhism in Japan.

Shintō, Japan’s native belief system, centers on the worship of kami—deities or spirits associated with nature, ancestors, and sacred places. After Buddhism reached the archipelago via China and Korea in the sixth century, the two faiths gradually fused into a uniquely Japanese religious tradition. Shrines and temples often shared the same sites, while Buddhist priests performed rituals connected with Shintō beliefs. Under the doctrine of honji suijaku, many kami came to be understood as manifestations of Buddhist deities, giving rise to shared iconographic forms.

This centuries-old coexistence came under attack with the Meiji Restoration. Determined to forge a powerful and modern nation-state, the new government elevated Shintō as the embodiment of Japanese identity. Meanwhile, Buddhism became associated with the old political order and was increasingly portrayed as an imported foreign religion.

The Anti-Buddhist Movement in Meiji Japan

In theory, the new regulations provided for the administrative separation of Buddhism and Shintō rather than the destruction of either faith. In practice, some priests and local authorities interpreted them as a call for the complete eradication of Buddhism and consequently launched an extreme anti-Buddhist campaign, known in Japanese as haibutsu kishaku (“abolish Buddhism, destroy Śākyamuni”). The result was a period of religious turmoil.

The consequences were profound, but their intensity varied enormously from region to region. Across Japan, temples and shrines were abandoned and fell into disrepair. Waves of anti-Buddhist violence swept the country; in extreme cases, religious sites went up in flames, monks were defrocked, and sacred images, scriptures, and ritual objects were destroyed or dispersed. In some areas, bronze statues were melted down and treated as scrap metal, while elsewhere, stone Buddhas were smashed and repurposed as construction materials for new schools.

The Dispersal of Sacred Treasures Around the World

Since Buddhism had lost official patronage, temples facing financial hardship were forced to sell their possessions. The great Kōfuku-ji temple in Nara, once one of Japan’s most powerful Buddhist institutions, was disestablished; its lands were confiscated, buildings demolished, and sacred objects left neglected and broken.

In 1870, many of Kōfuku-ji’s statues and scriptures were put up for public sale. Contemporary accounts record that its five-story pagoda was purchased for 250 yen by a dealer who planned to burn it down and retrieve its metal fittings. It survived only because of concerns about the danger that such a fire would pose to the surrounding area. A structure that is now one of Nara’s most recognizable landmarks could, for one brief moment, be treated as little more than a source of salvage.

The transformation did not end there. Thousands of Buddhist objects flooded the antiques market. Some were rescued by monks and local residents. Others found their way into the collections of museums in Tokyo, Kyoto, and Nara. Many more, however, passed into the hands of Western art dealers and private collectors, who arrived in Japan at precisely the moment when centuries-old religious artifacts were becoming available on an unprecedented scale, and often at prices far below their true value.

This created a striking disparity in perception. A Buddhist statue that had lost its ritual function could be worthless to a community seeking to distance itself from the past and dismantle an unwanted temple. To a foreign collector, however, the same statue could be regarded as an exceptional work of Japanese art. As these objects circulated through Japan and eventually crossed into Europe and North America, they became part of a growing market, laying the foundations of some of the earliest Western collections of Japanese Buddhist art.

From Devotional Image to Museum Masterpiece

One remarkable example is the Amida Buddha housed at the Musée Cernuschi in Paris. This monumental bronze sculpture survived the fire that destroyed the Banryū-ji Temple (Meguro district, Tokyo), where it was originally enshrined and was subsequently left exposed to the natural elements.

In 1871, the French-Italian banker, politician, and collector Henri Cernuschi (1821–1896) acquired the abandoned Buddha for 500 gold ryō during his journey through Asia. The statue was disassembled and transported to Paris, where it soon became the centerpiece of the grand hall in Cernuschi’s newly built mansion. Following his death, the residence and its extraordinary collection were bequeathed to the city of Paris, forming the foundation of the Musée Cernuschi. For more than a century, the sculpture has greeted visitors in the museum’s main gallery.

This story also illustrates a profound change in how Buddhist objects were understood. Once infused with spirituality and embedded in religious practice, the Amida Buddha crossed the sea and became part of the opulent decoration in a private interior as well as the main attraction of a museum. It lost its sacred identity and was classified in the West as a piece of art.

From Destruction to Preservation

The collapse of Japan’s Buddhist heritage also prompted a growing movement to preserve what remained. Among its most influential advocates was the American art historian Ernest Fenollosa (1853–1908), who witnessed firsthand the neglect, destruction, and commercialization of temples during the second half of the 19th century. He worked alongside Okakura Kakuzō (1863–1913), a scholar and pioneering figure in modern Japanese art history, to promote the idea that Buddhist objects should be understood as works of national and artistic significance.

From a contemporary perspective, however, Fenollosa’s position appears rather complicated: as a collector, he participated in the very market created by the dispersal of Buddhist art, even as he increasingly championed these objects as cultural treasures worthy of preservation and display.

Nevertheless, Fenollosa and Okakura’s efforts contributed to a fundamental shift in Japanese attitudes toward Japan’s historic and religious legacy. The government gradually introduced measures and laws to protect important temples, sculptures, paintings, and other related objects. In this sense, the destruction of the haibutsu kishaku period helped expose the vulnerability of Japan’s cultural heritage and inspire the modern system to preserve it.

A New Era of Preservation for Japanese Sacred Art

The turning point came with the 1897 Law for the Preservation of Ancient Temples and Shrines (Koshaji Hozon Hō), which provided a legal framework for protecting historic religious sites and their treasures. The government established strict rules for restoring old temples, banned the export or alteration of designated cultural properties, and introduced official systems for identifying, registering, and safeguarding important Buddhist heritage.

The journey of Japan’s Buddhist artifacts from sacred objects to unwanted remnants of an old order, to commodities on an international market, and finally to protected cultural heritage, reveals the contradictions of the process of modernization. The Meiji Restoration transformed Japan into a modern nation-state, but at the cost of scattering pieces of its sacred heritage across the globe, a cultural loss whose consequences are still felt today.

Accordingly, some of the finest examples of Japanese Buddhist art are found not only in their native country, but in museums and collections across Europe and North America. Their presence abroad is a reminder of a turbulent moment when objects once rooted in Japan’s temples acquired entirely new lives far from home.

Van Gogh has one of the most distinct painting styles in European art. While it may seem like a product of his individual artistic genius, this style was not developed in isolation. The Dutch artist looked up to many artists, with four masters in particular having a huge impact on him. The influence of four artists led to pivotal developments in Van Gogh’s work. These four masters were Rembrandt van Rijn, Jean-François Millet, Eugène Delacroix, and Adolphe Monticelli, each influencing a different aspect of Van Gogh’s art.

Van Gogh’s Love of Rembrandt

Vincent van Gogh and Rembrandt van Rijn are two of the biggest names in Dutch art history. It is then interesting to note the connection between the two, as Rembrandt was one of the earliest sources of influence on Van Gogh’s art. The Dutch Old Master was active two centuries before Van Gogh was born and was therefore already a well-established name during the 19th century. While living in the Netherlands, Van Gogh had some ideas about the developments in modern art in Paris, but had not yet been exposed to any of the new styles or techniques that his peers were working towards. As a result, his knowledge of painting was limited to the Dutch realist tradition, which in itself was heterogeneous.

In 1885, Van Gogh visited the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam and saw Rembrandt’s painting The Jewish Bride. This allowed him to study the manner of the Old Master closely. An important thing that he learned from this close examination was that Rembrandt, along with other artists such as Frans Hals, painted quickly without revisiting the canvas too much. He noted that the canvases had minimal retouching and were essentially an arrangement of colors placed beside each other. Their technical perfection lay in the cohesive composition this arrangement produced when viewed from a distance.

Understanding this technique was significant for Van Gogh, and it stayed with him throughout his career as an artist. He started practicing it soon after his museum visit, producing the painting Still Life with Bible in one sitting. Once Van Gogh was exposed to the wonders of Impressionism and modern art in Paris in 1886, he quickly evolved his own palette and style to keep up with his peers and meet the demands of the art market. But Rembrandt’s influence stayed with him even after this transformation from the dark realist manner to the bright modern style, as most of the works that he made during his later years, particularly between 1888 and 1890, were made in one sitting.

The artist also found a way to combine the two by painting his own rendition of old works, such as The Raising of Lazarus, after Rembrandt. Both works depict stark stylistic differences as Van Gogh completely changed the color palette to incorporate bright yellows, greens, and blues in his rendition.

Millet and the Origin of a Peasant Painter

The French artist Jean-François Millet had a notable influence on Van Gogh during his early years as an artist. Millet was a member of the Barbizon school in France and focused most of his oeuvre on paintings of peasants in rural France. A particularly famous painting of his is The Gleaners from 1857. It was Millet’s authentic depictions of peasants that inspired Van Gogh to become a peasant painter. The artist lived in his family home in Nuenen between 1884 and 1885, surrounded by nature and laborers from the countryside.

Even before this, Van Gogh had spent a lot of his early life in rural Brabant, which made him develop a deep appreciation for nature. In Nuenen, Van Gogh became serious about following in the footsteps of Millet and capturing the character of peasant life. In April 1885, he wrote in a letter, “After all, I desire nothing other than to live deep in the country and to paint peasant life.” Van Gogh made a large number of paintings and drawings featuring peasants engrossed in labor, either digging the ground, picking up potatoes, or sowing the field. In addition to this, he also made 50 portraits of peasants as studies that eventually culminated in his first major painting titled The Potato Eaters in 1885.

Millet’s influence on Van Gogh’s interpretation of peasants was always evident as both artists focused on the mundane reality of peasant life. The latter described his views on painting this subject in a letter: “For my part, I’m convinced that in the long run it produces better results to paint them in their coarseness than to introduce conventional sweetness.”

Van Gogh also created several copies after Millet’s paintings throughout his life, such as The Evening (after Millet) and The Sheepshearer (after Millet), both made in 1889. But the most notable work by Millet that inspired Van Gogh was The Sower, made in 1850. Van Gogh was fascinated by this subject and Millet’s rendition of it, and made several sketches after this work. He was keen to paint a work featuring this subject, which resulted in two paintings, The Sower and The Sower with Setting Sun, both made in 1888.

Both of Van Gogh’s paintings depict stylistic differences but center on the subject of the sower who is in the midst of his work in the field, as well as the sun that holds a prominent presence behind the peasant. Van Gogh’s rendition of The Sower is stylistically different from Millet’s as the former uses brighter colors and conspicuous brushstrokes. This was due to the artist’s two-year stay in Paris, which allowed him to learn about and experiment with color and form in order to reimagine Millet’s depiction of the sower in a modern style, while maintaining the essence of the subject as a peasant who is sowing his field with an extended arm.

The Colors of Eugène Delacroix

A major shift occurred in Van Gogh’s art after 1886. During this year, he went to live with his brother in Paris and discovered the colorful palette of the Impressionists. Van Gogh had read about color theory before he arrived in Paris from the books of Charles Blanc, but only started experimenting with it in 1886. A major influence that pushed the artist to implement it in his own work came from the French artist Eugène Delacroix. Van Gogh saw Delacroix’s Christ Asleep During the Tempest in 1886 and was struck by how reds and greens were placed next to each other in the composition and the vivid effect this resulted in.

Another work by Delacroix that he saw was the ceiling painting of Apollo slaying Python in the Louvre, where the French artist put orange and green as well as yellow and purple together. While reading about color theory interested Van Gogh, it was only after he witnessed its successful employment in the works of Delacroix that he was inspired to experiment with it in his own work.

Delacroix’s use of color illustrated a modern approach, and Van Gogh was eager to try it himself. However, lacking the money to hire professional models, he settled on a different subject that allowed him to work with a variety of colors: flower still lifes. While not ideal, this genre was economical and also allowed him to experiment with a variety of different colors. The artist made thirty-five such paintings during the summer of 1886 in order to grasp the correct placement of complementary colors.

This exercise was incredibly important for the development of his style, as it was the beginning of his journey as a colorist. He remained preoccupied with color throughout the rest of his life and planned his paintings based on the color effects they would produce. The influence of Delacroix also stayed with him long after he left Paris, as he painted copies after the French artist’s work, such as Pietà (after Delacroix) in 1889 and The Good Samaritan (after Delacroix) in 1890.

Adolphe Monticelli and Van Gogh’s Use of Impasto

The most distinct stylistic feature in Van Gogh’s art is his use of the impasto technique, which refers to applying a large amount of paint thickly on the canvas. While it may seem that the artist had always adopted the impasto technique in his paintings, the reality is a bit different. Van Gogh’s intentional use of impasto only began after 1886 during his stay in Paris. This was a period of learning and experimentation. His two-year stay in Paris culminated in a completely transformed artistic style.

While working on flower still life paintings to practice color theory, Van Gogh became particularly fascinated by the works of the same genre by the French artist Adolphe Monticelli. Monticelli’s canvases were composed of a thick layer of oil paint applied with a free brush, producing an impasto effect. Van Gogh admired the spontaneous character of Monticelli’s canvases that went against the carefully calculated method of Dutch realist tradition. An example is Monticelli’s Vase of Flowers, painted in 1875, where the oil paint is distinctly visible due to the sheer amount applied to the surface. Van Gogh took inspiration from this visual effect and started incorporating impasto with freely applied brushstrokes in his works in Paris, never to look back.

The flower still lifes from 1886 show the beginnings of impasto in Van Gogh’s oeuvre. We can see this in Vase with Chinese Asters and Gladioli and Glass with Yellow Roses. In 1887, the artist began working alongside Emile Bernard, who was developing the cloisonnist style that featured large sections of color and bold outlines on a flat composition. Together, these elements created a decorative effect similar to stained glass and Japanese woodblock prints, both of which were sources of inspiration for Bernard. Van Gogh implemented these stylistic features in several paintings from his mature years, including the Sunflowers and The Bedroom from 1888-89. But even while working with flatness on the picture plane, he continued the use of impasto, as is visible on these canvases.

Painting with impasto was one of the major reasons Van Gogh ran out of paint quickly and had to ask Theo to send more supplies. However, it was a worthwhile exercise as the impasto, along with his spontaneous brushstrokes, gave Van Gogh’s canvases the sense of aliveness and passion unique to him.

Apart from these four master artists, the Dutch Post-Impressionist was also deeply influenced by Japanese prints, Neo-Impressionism, as well as the works of his peers Emile Bernard and Paul Gauguin. Ironically, a few of these artists have gained recognition today specifically as sources of inspiration for Van Gogh. In addition to all these influences, it was ultimately Van Gogh’s dedication to learning about color and technique that resulted in a highly distinct oeuvre that showcases his stylistic individuality.

Before the second half of the 19th century, anyone referring to decadence probably had the decline of the Roman Empire in mind. How did the term—capturing the lurid, lascivious excesses and moral turpitude of the ruling class of that empire—come to define a movement in literature (and, to a lesser extent, art)? Decadence looked to the past, but it also kept a keen eye on the present. What it discerned, diagnosed, and perhaps even celebrated, were manifold ills at the end of a century of progress.

1. Joris-Karl Huysmans, À rebours (1884)

The English critic Arthur Symons once referred to À rebours as a “breviary,” or prayer book, of decadence. Even amid recent scholarly reassessment of the parameters of the term “decadent,” we tend still to worship at the altar of Huysmans’s 1884 novel.

Set against the slightly earlier aesthetic movement, À rebours does what its title (usually translated as Against Nature, but generally suggesting inversion, turning something inside-out or backward) suggests: it takes aestheticism and turns it on its head. Its hero, Des Esseintes—aristocratic, privileged, last of his line—is obsessively fascinated by art, not for art’s sake, but entirely for his own pleasure.

À rebours posed a bold challenge to 19th-century literary conventions, eschewing the plot-driven three-volume novel for a series of catalogs. Des Esseintes, ill and disgusted by the world around him, has withdrawn entirely from society and devoted himself to musing on art, literature, music, philosophy, perfume, flowers, liqueurs, and gemstones. His tastes tend toward the extravagant, profane, and cruel: Gustave Moreau‘s paintings of Salome, Arthur Schopenhauer‘s philosophy, and a jewel-encrusted tortoise.

Huysmans offers no moralizing in the midst of enumerating these curious pleasures; rather, his protagonist is fascinated by his discoveries, even when they touch on unpleasant themes or engender pain. This set the tone for decadent literature in all its proto-Freudian fascination: pleasure and pain were to be inseparable, the twin objects of many a protagonist’s pursuit.

2. Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray (1891)

Chapter eleven of Oscar Wilde‘s classic tale, about a young man’s Faustian pact to retain his youth while his portrait ages and takes on the burden of his secret life of sin, recounts Dorian Gray’s perilous obsession with a novel. It’s a French novel (perilous enough in itself, for many contemporary English readers). It exerts such a strong influence that Dorian follows its advice to the letter and indulges in a series of rarefied hobbies: art, music, philosophy, perfume, flowers, gemstones. Wilde stops short of naming the novel, but this catalog-like chapter is undoubtedly a tribute to Huysmans’s À rebours.

Decadent heroes are known for their synesthetic excesses—pursuing indulgence in sound, sight, smell, taste, and touch with often studious zeal. This is usually accompanied by withdrawal from social relations, and thereby a severing of ethical ties. The parable-like aspects of Wilde’s story, with its device of the decaying portrait, make the latent potential moralizing of decadent works explicit.

As Wilde argued in defending the novel, “all excess […] brings its punishment.” Dorian immerses himself excessively in art, commits murder, and—uncharacteristically for a decadent work—receives his comeuppance when, in stabbing his portrait, he kills himself. We might take Dorian Gray as a relatively straightforward cautionary tale, then: absorption in art purely for pleasure leads to a solipsistic embrace of hedonism and immoral actions which cannot go unpunished.

However, Wilde also argued—within the novel itself and subsequently, when defending it—that all art is “sterile,” and “there is no such thing” as being “poisoned by a book,” as Dorian suggests he has been. According to this argument, Dorian Gray itself has no moral, positive or negative, and this is its strongest claim to decadence. Decadent writers aimed neither to celebrate nor criticize the subjects they put on display, but to make art that was (paradoxically, since Dorian Gray has had such a notoriously rich afterlife) a dead end.

3. Charles Baudelaire, Les Fleurs du Mal (1857)

Most decadent works can trace their origins to one incendiary poetry collection: Les Fleurs du Mal, published by Charles Baudelaire in 1857 and promptly prosecuted for obscenity.

Were it solely focused on eroticizing corpses, castigating the reader for hypocrisy, and enumerating forms of monstrosity, ancient and modern, we might think of Les Fleurs du Mal as primarily an example of the grotesque.

Yet Baudelaire’s collection is an early example of decadence because of the poet’s fascination with these things—he revels in turning his attention to subjects from which others might rather turn away. He was an early enthusiast of synesthesia, writing poems about the heights of pleasure (and, consequently, the possibility of pain) which might be attained by uniting all of the senses in one aesthetic experience.

Like all the true decadents after him, Baudelaire proposed no corrective to the evils he portrayed. They are inevitable, even natural: just like the flowers in his title, Baudelaire proposes, the good and beautiful in human nature are liable to wither and decay.

4. Ernest Dowson, Verses (1896)

Ernest Dowson cut a ubiquitous figure in the literary circles of fin-de-siècle London before dying of alcohol abuse at the turn of the 20th century in 1900, leaving behind a handful of short stories and prose pieces but, most influentially, a body of tragic decadent poetry.

Like many British decadents, Dowson was a convert to Roman Catholicism, drawn to its rituals and its combination of ostentation and profundity; also like many British decadents, he was a Francophile, translating novels including Honoré de Balzac’s A Passion in the Desert and Choderlos de Laclos’s Dangerous Liaisons.

His poems (with titles in English, French, and Latin) speak of fading love, dashed hopes, life’s dwindling twilight, futility, silence, and solitude. Best remembered is the poem Non Sum Qualis Eram Bonae Sub Regno Cynarae, whose speaker languishes in remembrance of his infidelity, all too aware that, in classic decadent fashion, he is trying to revive a love which is dying. His repetition of “I was desolate and sick of an old passion” grows more anguished with each stanza, while the description of his memories as “gone with the wind” gave Margaret Mitchell the title of her novel in 1936.

5. Aubrey Beardsley, Under the Hill/The Story of Venus and Tannhauser (1904-07)

Love and lust in decadent literature exist solely in extremes: when not lamenting their loss or lack, decadent writers at least look at these subjects slightly askew. Many were censured, like Baudelaire earlier in the century, for writing about sexual practices which their societies condemned or considered indecent.

Late-19th-century commentators pointed to perversion (which encompassed homosexuality, cross-dressing, and what they considered excessive sexual desire in women) as a root cause of social decay, and so decadent authors flocked to depict it.

Aubrey Beardsley went one step further, literally depicting darkly and disturbingly erotic scenes in the ornate black-and-white illustrations for which he is best known. As a writer, he was similarly ornate. In Under the Hill (unfinished at his death in 1898, and published in its original manuscript form nine years later as The Story of Venus and Tannhäuser), his prose is every bit as fanciful and capricious as his drawings.

It tells the story of Tannhäuser, a mortal who falls in love with the goddess Venus—familiar to many in the late 19th century through the opera by Richard Wagner, who was something of a godfather to the decadents. Yet while Wagner had made the Venusberg (the goddess’s  underground lair) into the magical stuff of opera, in Beardsley’s version it is more of a bordello, making Under the Hill a typically decadent riff on high art which reveals (and revels in) its less lofty parts.

6. Rachilde, Monsieur Vénus (1884)

Another decadent work, which took up and twisted the classical goddess of love, was the second novel of a young woman, allegedly not yet twenty years old when she wrote it, who wrote under the name Rachilde.

Monsieur Vénus brought Rachilde the scandal she craved. Authorities in Belgium, where it was originally published, were not impressed with the novel’s dedication “to physical beauty” but more preoccupied with its depiction of a sexually voracious young woman.

The novel concatenated all of the age’s sexual taboos. Raoule, the heroine, not only dominates and flagellates her lower-class lover, Jacques Silvert, but transforms him into her so-called wife, forcing him to become more and more feminine and renounce any shred of power or self-assertion.

What’s more, when Silvert is killed in a duel, Raoule delves into a further taboo, necrophilia, by making, then making love to, an effigy of his corpse. In the newly coined language of the period, Raoule appears to be a nymphomaniac: driven solely, compulsively, by pleasure.

Monsieur Vénus was so notorious that it informed later depictions of transgressive sex and gender identity. In the original manuscript of Dorian Gray, Wilde did name the novel that so influenced his protagonist: the imaginary tome was titled Le Secret de Raoul.

7. Octave Mirbeau, The Torture Garden (1899)

Late in Dorian Gray, one character sighs “fin de siècle,” and another responds “fin du globe”—not end of the century, but end of the world. This encapsulates the literary mood on both sides of the Channel around 1890: a profound ennui at civilization, which seemed only to have led to death, decay, disease, and depravity. As 1900 approached, many looked back and wondered what the 19th century had achieved.

Octave Mirbeau was already famous in France for novels that starkly portrayed abuse and trauma by the time he published The Torture Garden in 1899. This was at the height of the Dreyfus Affair, when a wrongful and antisemitic plot to convict an officer of treason exposed deep divisions in the French state and the fragile standing of nationalist and socialist movements.

The Torture Garden sends up authority, institutions, and the notion of cooperation in society. It tells of a superfluous political aide who is sent on a mission to China and finds himself in a beautiful garden, witnessing horrific tortures (like Baudelaire’s Fleurs du mal, inverting the common representation of flowers as regenerative and healthy).

Also typically for a decadent work, it combines anti-authoritarianism with a depiction of women’s sexual voracity and sadism. The narrator’s female companion takes orgasmic pleasure in watching the flagellation and other tortures taking place in the eponymous garden. Consistent with contemporary medicine and philosophy, which demonized sexual desire in women as hysteria, Mirbeau elevates women to an integral—and highly dangerous—position by virtue of their sexuality:

“Woman possesses the cosmic force of an element, an invincible force of destruction, like nature’s. She is, in herself alone, all nature! Being the matrix of life, she is by that very fact the matrix of death—since it is from death that life is perpetually reborn, and since to annihilate death would be to kill life at its only fertile source.” (The Torture Garden, Introduction)

8. Gabriele d’Annunzio, Il trionfo della morte (1894)

Decadence may have originated in France, but its stylistic innovations, its willingness to shock with its subject matter, and its apolitical apathy found disciples across the world. In Italy, its best-known practitioner was the novelist Gabriele d’Annunzio (who would become even more notorious in the first few decades of the 20th century for his involvement in proto-fascist politics as an early rival of Benito Mussolini).

Revealing the influence of Wagner on decadent literature, Il trionfo della morte features a pair of lovers who, like Tristan and Isolde, are inexorably borne toward death. Once again, its protagonist is an aesthete who has become bored and disillusioned by aesthetic experience. Visiting a beautiful mountainous village and looking at its sculptures only makes him reflect on death and depravity. He and his lover wander hopelessly during a broiling summer, every encounter pushing them further into themselves and their paranoia toward one another.

D’Annunzio’s cloying, obsessive prose makes the ending seem inevitable. With nothing to contribute to a world which disgusts them, what more is there for these lovers to do but plunge off a cliff together, in that exhilarating, tragic combination of love and death which Wagnerians called Liebestod?

9. George Egerton, Keynotes (1893)

Amid the more scandalous stylings of decadent works, it’s easy to overlook an important definition of the term, as signaling the decline of one epoch before a new one arises. Decadence in literature was transitional, with dominant forms and genres of the 19th century (realism, naturalism, the three-volume novel) giving way in this period to those of the 20th century (modernism, fragmented narratives, stream of consciousness narration).

Keynotes was the debut short-story collection by George Egerton, pseudonym of the Anglo-Australian writer Mary Chavelita Dunne Bright. It was illustrated by Aubrey Beardsley, and one of its publishers was John Lane, publisher of Wilde and founder of The Yellow Book, English literature’s foremost journal for decadent writing.

Keynotes was such a roaring success that Lane started the Keynotes series, 33 novels or short-story collections which included other decadent classics such as The Great God Pan by Arthur Machen and Prince Zaleski by M.P. Shiel.

Egerton’s stories were decadent in style, hinting at synesthesia by incorporating musical notation as motifs (their “keynotes”) and delving into the consciousness of her protagonists, frequently women facing moments of moral ambiguity.

Egerton’s women are sexually liberated, railing against the restrictions of 19th-century marriage, and emboldened by the work of writers like Henrik Ibsen and Friedrich Nietzsche to imagine better lives for themselves. It’s important to remember Egerton among the many male decadents (and some female, such as Rachilde) who generally make women’s licentiousness a point of perverse fascination, often simply confirming the contemporary censure around hysteria and erotomania. In contrast, Egerton used decadent style and subjects to advocate for women’s freedom and fulfillment.

10. Vernon Lee, Hauntings (1890)

Vernon Lee (born Violet Paget) had been skeptical of the aesthetic movement in English culture in the 1870s and 1880s, writing a novel that lampooned what she saw as the perfunctory attitude of aesthetes who merely collected artistic objects and experiences like a checklist exercise. Lee was a scholar of aesthetics and Renaissance art who lived at some remove from the literary vagaries of Aestheticism and then Decadence, as an expatriate in Florence, Italy.

As such, she was also wary of the term “decadent,” and her writing engages critically with it, even when it appears to fulfill our expectations of decadence. The four stories that make up Hauntings each scrutinize their protagonists’ interactions with an art object, whether painting, sculpture, or music. In doing so, they question whether the decadent stance of paradoxically enchanted disengagement is healthy, useful, necessary, or even possible.

Lee’s protagonists all become obsessed with art in a typically decadent manner. The composer protagonist of the story A Wicked Voice feels he is being pursued by an operatic air from the 18th century, which so consumes him that he compulsively transforms the music he is composing from Wagnerian excess into this outdated recitativo. What is more decadent and dangerous, then: the music he composes or the music he listens to?

Each of Lee’s stories leaves us with questions like this about decadent works’ relationship to, and responsibility toward, their audience. In portraying decadent themes and writing decadent works that are alluring and seductive, do writers necessarily glamorize perversity and disease? Or are these works, as Wilde argued, sterile? How much is left to the reader? These questions make Lee’s stories into compelling meta-meditations on the power of art, and suggest the enduring fascination of decadence for readers today.

Ernest Hemingway was both an ambulance driver for the American Red Cross Ambulance Service in Italy during World War I and a foreign correspondent who became captivated by bullfighting. He had a naturally adventurous spirit and was well-traveled. His father taught him to hunt and fish from an early age, which later developed into a love for game hunting. Despite marrying four different women in his life, perhaps his greatest love was Cuba, where he lived longer than anywhere else. Hemingway’s memorable experiences found their way into his works.

Ernest Hemingway and the Iceberg Theory

The Iceberg Theory, or the Theory of Omission, is a writing technique coined by Ernest Hemingway. Hemingway believed that by omitting seven-eighths of a story, or by leaving it underwater, it would, in turn, strengthen the story by allowing readers to infer hidden meanings in the text. Hemingway developed this style of minimalism during his time as a reporter for The Kansas City Star, where he worked after high school, and as a foreign correspondent for the Toronto Star after he moved to Paris in 1921.

Since Hemingway believed authentic emotion was universally recognizable, a writer should therefore know enough about what they are writing about and be able to omit details. This will, in turn, reveal more about the story and its characters in the mind of the reader. For Hemingway, this could only be achieved if a writer selected the right details from their own lived experiences.

Hemingway in World War I and “A Farewell to Arms”

In 1917, when the United States entered World War I, an eager seventeen-year-old Ernest Hemingway was denied the opportunity to enlist due to poor eyesight. Determined to reach the front lines regardless, he volunteered with the American Red Cross Motor Corps and was sent to Italy as an ambulance driver, arriving in Milan in May 1918.

Hemingway’s daily duties involved delivering items like coffee, chocolate, cigarettes, and postcards to soldiers in the trenches. On July 8, 1918, while he was carrying out his duties near the Piave River, an Austrian mortar shell landed beside him. Despite sustaining shrapnel wounds to his legs and suffering a concussion, he still picked up a wounded Italian soldier and carried him out of the dugout. For his actions, he was awarded the Italian War Merit Cross and the Italian Silver Medal of Military Valor.

Hemingway spent much of the remainder of the war recovering in the American Red Cross Hospital in Milan. He was cared for by Agnes von Kurowsky, an American Red Cross Nurse, with whom he had a brief romance. Kurowsky later served as the inspiration for Catherine Barkley in his 1929 novel, A Farewell to Arms, with Hemingway himself taking on the role of Frederic Henry. The novel draws many parallels between his own experiences during World War I, including being wounded by mortar fire and developing a relationship with the nurse who cared for him.

In reality, Kurowsky was transferred to a hospital in Florence. While they continued exchanging letters and discussing marriage, Kurowsky ultimately broke off the relationship, leaving Hemingway devastated after his return to the United States. In the book, Catherine gets pregnant, gives birth to a stillborn child, and dies during childbirth, immortalizing Hemingway’s pain from his split with Kurowksy.

The Festival of San Fermín and “The Sun Also Rises”

The Fiesta de San Fermín is an annual festival held in Pamplona, Spain, that honors the city’s first bishop and patron saint, Saint Fermín. The festival begins at noon on July 6 and ends at midnight on July 14. A key highlight of the festival is the daily running of the bulls, an aspect that Hemingway was fascinated by upon his first attendance of the festival in 1923. Hemingway attended the festival with his first wife, Hadley Richardson, returning the following year in 1924, and again in 1925. Shortly after the festival ended in 1925, Hemingway began working on what would become his first novel, The Sun Also Rises, completing it in only eight weeks.

The core group who attended the festival in 1925 were Hemingway, Lady Duff Twysden, Harold Loeb, and Pat Guthrie. They were fictionalized in the novel as Jake Barnes, Lady Brett Ashley, Robert Cohn, and Mike Campbell, respectively. Much like in the novel, tension arose in real life, with Lady Duff Twysden at the center of it. Although she was traveling with Pat Guthrie, she had begun an affair with Harold Loeb. The heavy drinking and tension in the book were real-life occurrences. Loeb became possessive of Twysden, which isolated him from the rest of the group. Altercations broke out between Loeb, Hemingway, and Guthrie.

Although Hemingway sustained injuries from World War I, they did not leave him unable to have sex like Jake Barnes in the novel. Jake’s impotence reflects the Lost Generation’s psychological wounds from World War I. Men who returned from war struggled to reclaim traditional ideas of masculinity, heroism, and purpose. Instead, they were left without meaning in a world transformed by violence and disillusionment.

This symbolism is further emphasized through the Spanish matador, Cayetano Ordóñez, who, in the novel, is known as Pedro Romero. Unlike the moral decay of the foreign visitors, Romero represents discipline, courage, and a clear sense of identity, untouched by the confusion that defined the postwar Lost Generation.

Kilimanjaro’s Frozen Leopard and “The Snows of Kilimanjaro”

The opening of Hemingway’s 1936 short story, The Snows of Kilimanjaro, references a frozen leopard on Mount Kilimanjaro’s western summit. In 1926, a Lutheran pastor named Richard Reusch discovered a mummified frozen leopard with its paws curled up in the snow along the crater rim of Kibo Peak, Kilimanjaro’s highest volcanic cone. The remains of a goat were found a few hundred feet away from the leopard. Reusch speculated that the leopard pursued a goat up Kilimanjaro before succumbing to environmental conditions. Reusch returned the following year and removed one of the leopard’s ears to keep as a memento. Upon Reusch’s later return, however, the leopard was nowhere to be found with no explanation to follow. Despite its unexplained disappearance, it has been epitomized in Hemingway’s story.

The Snows of Kilimanjaro follows Harry, a writer dying of gangrene, who is stranded on safari in Africa with his wife Helen. Hemingway and his second wife, Pauline Pfeiffer, went on a ten-week-long safari to Kenya in December of 1933. They departed from Marseille and sailed for two weeks before arriving in Mombasa. From there, they visited Nairobi and Machakos in Kenya, then moved on to the Serengeti and the Lake Manyara region in what was then known as the Tanganyika Territory, now Tanzania.

In January 1934, Hemingway fell seriously ill due to amoebic dysentery, which caused a prolapsed intestine. Unlike Harry in The Snows of Kilimanjaro, Hemingway was evacuated by plane to Nairobi for medical treatment. By mid-January, Hemingway had recovered enough to return to Tanganyika Territory to commence hunting. This ten-week-long trip to Africa provided Hemingway with enough material to write his second work of nonfiction, Green Hills of Africa, as well as two of his most famous short stories, The Snows of Kilimanjaro and The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber.

Game Hunting and “The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber”

Game hunting in Africa during the 1930s was a luxurious and elite pastime catered to wealthy Westerners. These hunting safaris were usually orchestrated by professional “white hunters” of European descent. Typically, these hunters made local arrangements, gathered and packed supplies, and hired workers of African descent to take on the roles of porters, tent attendants, armed guards, and horse trainers.

Former United States President Theodore Roosevelt helped popularize African big game hunting after embarking on a widely publicized safari in 1909. This expedition would later influence Hemingway to travel to Africa himself for the same purpose.

Philip Percival was a famous English-born white hunter who worked as an assistant on Roosevelt’s 1909 safari. As he got older and more experienced, he went on to guide Hemingway during his first safari. Percival and Hemingway developed a strong friendship. Percival also accompanied Hemingway on his second safari in 1953.

Hemingway based the character of Robert Wilson after Percival in his short story, The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber. The story follows wealthy American Francis Macomber and his wife, Margot, on safari in Africa, under Robert Wilson’s guidance. The story culminates with Margot shooting at a charging buffalo, but she instead shoots and kills Francis. Whether this was intentional or not remains a mystery.

During their time in Africa, Percival recounted a scandalous 1909 safari incident involving the white hunter J.H. Patterson. While guiding British soldier Audley Blyth and his wife, Ethel, Blyth died from a gunshot wound under mysterious circumstances. Though it was never determined whether his death was suicide or murder, rumors quickly spread that Patterson and Ethel were having an affair. No charges were ever brought against Patterson, but this event permanently damaged his reputation in Africa.

Ernest Hemingway’s Cuban Experience and “The Old Man and the Sea”

Ernest Hemingway first visited Cuba in 1928, on a layover to Spain. He visited the island throughout the years, including 1932, when he brought two friends with him so they could fish for Marlin on the Gulf Coast. Hemingway and his third wife, Martha Gellhorn, married and purchased Finca Vigia, or “Lookout Farm,” on the outskirts of Havana.

Hemingway fell in love with Cuba, calling it home for the last third of his life. He spent over twenty years in Cuba, which was longer than he had lived anywhere else in the world. He integrated himself into Cuban life, drinking mojitos at La Bodeguita del Medio, daiquiris at El Floridita, and forming relationships with Cuban fishermen in the village of Cojímar.

During the 1930s, a Cuban fisherman by the name of Carlos Gutiérrez told a story about an old man and a giant marlin to Hemingway. This would later be the basis for Hemingway’s 1952 novella The Old Man and the Sea.

While living in Cuba, Hemingway kept his fishing boat, the Pilar, docked in Cojímar, where he and Gutiérrez would venture out into the Gulf Stream in search of Marlin. The novella’s depiction of deep-sea fishing was rooted in Hemingway’s firsthand experience in Cuba and Bimini. When fishermen hauled harpooned marlin onto the boat, they sometimes recovered only the head, tail, and backbone on account of being “apple-cored” by sharks. Hemingway’s solution for dealing with sharks feasting on his catches was to shoot at the sharks. On one instance, however, he shot himself in both of his calves.

Only measuring 3 by 1.5 miles, the island of Lindisfarne resides in the tempestuous North Sea off Great Britain’s northeast coast. Remote and craggy, it may at first glance appear to be a forbidding place. Between the 7th and 9th centuries AD, however, the island was a place of retreat and worship for a steadfast Christian community of monks and missionaries. An 8th-century illuminated manuscript produced here, known as the Lindisfarne Gospels, serves as a testament to the devotion and faith of the monks who worshiped at Lindisfarne during this period of the island’s history.

The History of Lindisfarne

Lindisfarne’s history as a major religious center of medieval British Christianity begins with Saint Aidan. Under the leadership of the deeply religious King Oswald of Northumbria, Saint Aidan was commanded to convert the pagan population of this region of England to the Christian faith.

One of Aidan’s most important undertakings under Oswald was to open a monastery at Lindisfarne in the mid-630s AD. There was likely a strategic element to Aidan’s focus on Lindisfarne, as it was not far from Oswald’s royal residence at Bamburgh, making the saint accessible to the king. Aidan himself acquired the title of Bishop of Lindisfarne, and converted the island (which came to include a school as well as a monastery) into a center of religious study and of greater intellectual curiosity.

Lindisfarne became even more renowned through its connections to Saint Cuthbert. The title of Bishop of Lindisfarne remained after Saint Aidan’s death in 651 AD, with a variety of other venerated leaders following after him. However, Saint Cuthbert became the most famous among these, becoming renowned for his commitment to missionary work, his unfailing charity to the needy, and the miracles his faith was believed to have accomplished. So admired was Cuthbert that, towards the end of his life, he was even called out of a period of seclusion as a hermit to resume his post as a bishop.

After his death in 687 AD, Saint Cuthbert continued to draw attention to Lindisfarne. Over ten years after his passing, Cuthbert’s remains, which were interred on the island, were supposedly revealed to be flawlessly maintained. This discovery was perceived as a miracle that resulted in a shrine being dedicated to Cuthbert, with many admirers coming to pay their respects and worship there. He is known today as the patron saint of Northumbria.

Bishop Eadfrith

The creation of the Lindisfarne Gospels was closely intertwined with the bishopric of Lindisfarne. Indeed, according to the colophon, or scribal note, added to the manuscript in the 10th century AD by the priest Aldred, four men are credited with its production, including Aldred himself. The others are Billfrith the Anchorite, credited with creating the book’s cover; Bishop of Lindisfarne Eadfrith, credited with the writing and illustration of the manuscript; and Eadfrith’s successor in the position, Aethilwald, credited with the binding. While all of these figures were instrumental to the book’s creation, it is Eadfrith in particular whose role seems to have led the way for the book’s creation.

Eadfrith became Bishop of Lindisfarne in 698, in the aftermath of the elevation of Saint Cuthbert’s body and Lindisfarne gaining wider recognition as a pilgrimage site. Eadfrith actively promoted Saint Cuthbert’s legacy during his tenure, commissioning an anonymous monk to write the first Life of Saint Cuthbert (c. 705) and encouraging the Venerable Bede to compose his famous prose biography of the saint around 721.

Eadfrith also probably played a major role in the celebration of Saint Cuthbert’s legacy on the island, preserving relics related to the saint and helping to maintain the saint’s shrine. This devotion to Saint Cuthbert seems to have played a role in the creation of the Lindisfarne Gospels, as not only is the text dedicated to God, but also to Saint Cuthbert. In this way, Eadfrith very much seems to have wanted to assert the manuscript’s identity as being shaped by the religious culture of Lindisfarne at the time when it was being written.

The Production of the Lindisfarne Gospels

The process of creating the Lindisfarne Gospels would have been extremely complex. While Eadfrith appears to have led the project, he would have needed help from other monks in the monastery to prepare materials for it and to help keep the process going. For example, the inks and colors used for the manuscript were created from natural materials located across the island of Lindisfarne. Natural elements used included various minerals, clay, soot, and even arsenic.

This task could only have been completed with the cooperation of the numerous monks who resided at the monastery with Eadfrith. Furthermore, the vellum used for the pages of the book would also have required extensive labor. Indeed, it seems likely that around 130 to 150 cattle skins were used to create the pages illustrated by Eadfrith. This assistance would not only have been in terms of labor, but in terms of money as well.

Creating the Lindisfarne Gospels was not only time-consuming, comprising an estimated ten years, but was also exorbitantly expensive. The dedication required from the entire monastery to complete the project demonstrates a commitment to perfecting the manuscript for the sake of monks’ faith, but also for the reputation of the community as well.

For Eadfrith personally, the process of creating the Lindisfarne Gospels would have been intensely spiritual. His approach to creating the illustrations would have varied based on the contents of each page. For example, for some pages, images were created using mathematical tools such as compasses for assistance. Important aspects of an illustration could be created through piercing specific designs into the page for the sake of precision. Other pages, however, seem to have been illustrated mainly by eye, with little to no help from tools. For Eadfrith, this process would have allowed him to put into tangible form his faith and dedication to God.

The Lindisfarne Gospels and the Insular Style

Eadfrith’s dedication to creating the Lindisfarne Gospels is evident on every page. Each of the illustrations that he created is rife with detail, taking readers on a journey rich with ornate scrolls, precise patterns, and dazzling colors. The specific artistic style of the illuminated manuscript can be attributed to the Insular, or Hiberno-Saxon, style of art that was popular during the Middle Ages in Great Britain. This style owes much to the Celtic and Saxon art that had taken root in the British Isles. At the same time, it incorporates elements from other cultures, such as the Byzantine Empire.

This wide range of influences can be strongly felt throughout the different illustrations in the Lindisfarne Gospels. For example, multiple influences can be felt in the carpet pages, the almost purely abstract pages at the beginning of each book of the Gospels. The intricate, detailed designs contained within each rectangle found in these carpet pages easily remind readers of rugs from the Middle East, which may have been circulating in Europe at this time through trade.

The illustration also evokes the detailed precision of Roman mosaics. Roman influences can be seen in the depictions of the disciples, as their garments and curly hair echo common motifs seen in Roman mosaics, sculptures, and illustrations.

Dynamic Celtic imagery also plays a role, with Celtic knots and swirls appearing regularly throughout the pages. This Celtic influence points back to tensions taking place within the Catholic Church at the time of the manuscript’s production. In 664, at the Synod of Whitby, the Northumbrian Catholic Church had decided to administer its teachings in the style of the Roman Church, and cease the Celtic traditions from which many Lindisfarne monks claimed their roots. By continually adorning the Lindisfarne Gospels in such blatantly Celtic imagery, Eadfrith and the monks who assisted him seem to have been searching for a way to elevate Celtic traditions in a sophisticated and reverent way, in spite of the dictates of the Synod.

What Happened to the Lindisfarne Gospels?

While the Lindisfarne Gospels were deeply representative of the culture and history of Lindisfarne, they were ultimately not destined to remain there. In AD 793, Lindisfarne was attacked in a Viking raid, which left many of the monks dead and many of their possessions stolen. As Viking activity continued throughout Britain in the following century, the monks of Lindisfarne eventually decided to move away from the island permanently in AD 875.

After a long bout of unsettled traveling that lasted for years, the monks finally decided to deposit the Lindisfarne Gospels, as well as the remains of Saint Cuthbert, at Durham Cathedral. Following Henry VIII’s Dissolution of the Monasteries in 1539, the manuscript was removed from Durham Priory and preserved in private hands. In the early 17th century, it was acquired by the renowned collector Sir Robert Cotton, whose possessions were donated to the British Museum long after he died. Today, the manuscript resides in the British Library.

The history and production of the Lindisfarne Gospels recount a fascinating narrative. The pages of the manuscript reveal a complex history in which local traditions of religious devotion at Lindisfarne clashed with the dogmas of the wider church. What is also apparent through the study of the manuscript is the deep faith of Eadfrith and the monks who helped him to create the Lindisfarne Gospels.

The process of creating this text was time-consuming and expensive, yet the monks who created it persevered. Their efforts, combined with the later generations of monks who protected it from Viking raids and vandalism, succeeded in creating and preserving one of the most magnificent of all medieval illuminated manuscripts.

Robert Mapplethorpe was born in Queens, New York, in 1946. He had a very religious upbringing but chose to rebel against his mother’s wish for him to join the priesthood by studying art. He enrolled in Pratt Institute to study for a Bachelor of Fine Arts immediately after finishing high school, but he dropped out before getting his degree. Still, he managed to become one of the icons of photography, forever revolutionizing the art form.

Robert Mapplethorpe: The Emergence of an Artist

Shortly after dropping out of college, Robert met Patti Smith. This iconic personality in the punk rock scene first came to New York with dreams of being a poet. When she ran into Mapplethorpe, the two hit it off immediately and started dating and living together. At the time, Mapplethorpe’s main means of art expression was art collages. He would buy magazines, especially homoerotic magazines, cut up the images, and use them to create new art.

In 1969, he started exploring his homosexuality, which meant that his relationship with Patti Smith had to undergo some changes. The two kept living together but moved to the famous Chelsea Hotel, home to many great artists in the 1970s. This allowed Robert Mapplethorpe to quickly infiltrate the New York art scene and get ahold of his first camera. Using a Polaroid, he began to take photographs—mainly portraits of friends and artists. Among his first works was Patti Smith’s first album cover: the 1975 Horses. 
Robert Mapplethorpe was also getting acquainted with the gay scene in New York, and after a while, this became the main subject of his work. Among photography enthusiasts, Mapplethorpe is famous for bridging the gap between art and pornography. This debate often caused him more controversy than praise and his career was marked by many accusations for obscenity.

The Aesthetics of a Mapplethorpe Photograph

In a Robert Mapplethorpe photograph, no matter the subject, the framing is almost always identical. The subject stands alone in the middle of the frame and quite simply emulates a sculpture. This could be a man, a couple engaged in sexual activity, or a flower—Mapplethorpe’s work has a rigid yet sophisticated element. These photographs have the timeless quality of a 16th-century sculpture and the identity of the 1970s sexual revolution—works of art that are both timely and timeless.

As mentioned before, Mapplethorpe’s work was often the subject of the obscenity debate. Can pornography ever be considered art? And where exactly is the elusive line between the two? This debate is reminiscent of the debate around Andy Warhol’s early works, and indeed around found art in general. Is it the setting that renders something art, or is it merely the definition?

In Mapplethorpe’s case, aesthetics play a vital role in deciding the debate. His work is almost always in black and white. Black and white in photography, when it stopped being a necessity and became an artistic choice, took on two missions: to glamorize or to dramatize. The interesting thing about Mapplethorpe’s work, however, is that it constantly drifts between both the realms of high art and more controversial, taboo subjects.

Sexuality and How to Portray It

Portrayals of sadomasochistic sexual acts gain the status of high art through Mapplethorpe’s unique and deliberate lens. What truly sets them apart from mere exploitation is the simple fact that they are not exploitative in nature. The focus is on the act, the participants, the minimalistic setting, the precise framing, and the interplay of dual colors—but more importantly, it is on the raw, visceral experience itself. Through these elements, Mapplethorpe elevates the experience, turning it into something transcendent. All these components come together to paint an image of a carnal, intimate experience that is, paradoxically, made holy, turning the taboo into a deeply thoughtful exploration of human form and desire.

Sexuality for Robert Mapplethorpe is a vast ocean, one he spent the majority of his career exploring. His depictions of sexuality ranged from nude models to acts of BDSM, a photograph of male genitalia to one depicting it in painful torture—but as Patti Smith describes Robert’s work in Just Kids, “His obscenity is never obscene.”

Mapplethorpe was aware of the debate around his work, yet surprisingly, he never really took a side. He referred to his own work as pornographic and seemed to have no issue with the term. On the contrary, Mapplethorpe never saw the point in separating art and pornography, even in definitions, because for him, they were one. His work shamelessly explored male sexuality, seeking to deify it much in the same way ancient sculptors did with female beauty. In a sense, he was creating the male Venus, but through a different art form—through countless subjects and a continuous expansion of what sexuality could be understood as. By challenging conventional boundaries, Mapplethorpe not only redefined masculinity but also pushed the limits of how sexuality could be portrayed.

It is also worth noting that he never shied away from confrontation or public debate. On one occasion, while sending out invitations to an exhibition at a prestigious gallery, he included photographs of male genitalia with a whip, shocking unaccustomed recipients. This bold move reflected his willingness to challenge societal norms and provoke thought. A significant element in Mapplethorpe’s ability to portray male eroticism so uniquely is his personal involvement in the acts themselves, rather than merely being an observer. His intimate engagement with the subjects added an authenticity and depth to his work.

Mapplethorpe: Working Unapologetically

It is important to note that Robert Mapplethorpe’s images of extreme sexual acts were captured at a time when the gay community was facing an unprecedented pandemic.

While gay men were dying of AIDS, Mapplethorpe’s photography attempted to deify the male body that was suffering due to the deadly disease. In his photographs depicting BDSM acts, details await those brave enough to keep looking beyond the initial shock. Muscles, body hair, male genitalia—the lens sheds light on the men, and on what exactly makes them men, before portraying their desire.

The shock is intentional, especially considering the aforementioned circumstances. With the rise of the AIDS pandemic came a new surge of homophobia. Artists chose different methods to deal with it. For filmmaker Arthur J. Bressan Jr., director of Buddies (1985), humanity and emotion are his canvas. For Mapplethorpe, the unapologetically extreme is the only answer.

But the thing that makes Mapplethorpe’s photographs so striking, and ultimately lasting, is the fact that they are primarily shapes. Working in a studio granted him the liberty to carefully select every component of a photograph. In Robert Mapplethorpe’s work, nothing is arbitrary; everything is chosen with meticulous attention to even the smallest details. The details vary in quantity, depending on the nature of the photograph. Some may take hours to fully digest, while others convey their meaning with just two or three elements.

Robert Mapplethorpe’s Most Famous Portraits

This is one of Robert Mapplethorpe’s most famous works, and it’s easy to see why. The two subjects contrast in nearly every way: one’s eyes are closed while the other’s are open, one is pale and white while the other is Black, one is at rest and the other is alert. Yet, despite their contrasts, the lasting impression is one of completeness—two opposites coming together in harmony, much like the age-old Yin and Yang.

Thomas (1987) is another one of Mapplethorpe’s masterpieces. He often said that if he had been born in another era, sculpture would have been his medium of choice. And more often than not, his photographs behave exactly like sculptures. Thomas gives the feeling that even after the shot was taken, the subject remained in his choreographed perfection. That is the alluring quality of Mapplethorpe’s photography: being stuck in time longer than the click of a camera.

Mapplethorpe’s portrait of Andy Warhol does exactly what it is supposed to do: frame a landmark of modern art for all to see. There is no mistaking the purpose of this photograph: the subject is centered and singular, the black-and-white photography has low contrast, reminiscent of a flashback in a film, and the light is cast in a circular shape as if framing a culprit. Simple, yet striking. Simple, but everlasting.

Early 20th-century technological advancements radically transformed warfare. World War I soldiers mostly fought in trenches, which led to a staggering number of facial and head injuries. American sculptor Anna Coleman Ladd was among those who applied her artistic skill to help soldiers regain their faces. She created life-like metallic masks to cover the injuries and help veterans lead normal lives again.

World War I Combat: The Emergence of Anna Coleman Ladd’s Masks

World War I presented not only a previously unseen scale of human involvement but also significant advancements in the domain of technical progress, although ‘advancements’ is not the best word to describe the instruments used for human destruction. Chemical weapons, airplanes, machine guns, and bombs radically changed the strategy and tactics of combat, unleashing unprecedented destruction. Moreover, the warfare itself changed—from open spaces, the fight moved to the trenches.

The most horrifying product of trench warfare was the transformed character of typical battle wounds. Shrapnel not only pierced the flesh but tore it to pieces and shattered bones. Fighting in trenches has also meant that the human head and face became the body parts most exposed to shooting and explosions. Consequently, the number of face injuries became staggering, and no doctor was prepared to deal with it on such a scale. Soldiers returned home, if they returned at all, with their entire faces missing, with chins and noses shaved off.

The soldiers’ facial injuries were so severe and so widespread that surgical experiments became necessities, with doctors desperately trying to gather faces from pieces. Aesthetical issues were secondary: functionality and safety came first. Plastic surgery developed quickly but not quickly enough. Many soldiers suffered from phantom pains, feeling parts of their bodies and faces that were not there anymore. The condition currently called body dysmorphia was the most common and mentally traumatic occurrence. Human faces are body parts we recognize best in ourselves and others, directly associating them with persons and personalities. These soldiers lost not only their faces but their sense of self.

The ethical side of the issue was also far from being balanced and healthy. European hospitals that treated such injuries, along with more regular ones, painted some of the benches on the premises as designated seats for someone with a supposedly disturbing appearance. Caring for the emotional well-being of healthy people inevitably puts the patients’ mental health at even higher risk than it already was. Facial surgery wards strictly banned mirrors and other reflective surfaces so that the wounded soldiers would not see their faces, at least for a while. Still, they frequently had to treat mental breakdowns and fits of shock after someone accidentally caught a glimpse of their injuries. The soldiers’ families were often as shocked—for example, children were scared of their fathers.

Anna Coleman Ladd Before the War 

Anna Coleman Ladd started her career as a conventional and rather talented sculptor. Born in Philadelphia in 1878, she went to study sculpture in France and Italy. Upon returning home, she married a physician and worked as a professional artist, creating painted and sculpted portraits that were in high demand. Coleman Ladd’s artistic works were hardly outstanding on their own but presented a great skill.

Her portrait busts did not demonstrate any dramatism or strong character like those of more famous sculptors, but this was exactly the thing that would make her perfect for her future occupation. Anna Coleman Ladd knew real human faces well and could easily convey them in marble or bronze. When World War I started, her husband was put in charge of an American military hospital in France, so the couple moved to Europe. A British art critic, Lewis Lind, who was familiar with Coleman Ladd’s work, sent her a letter noting her talent for creating natural-looking faces and offered her a new opportunity to work and help.

Inside Anna Coleman Ladd’s Studio

In December 1917, Anna Coleman Ladd opened her prosthetics shop in Paris, partially funded by the American Red Cross. In the preceding months, she visited French hospitals to both train and demonstrate her work to the surgeons, who would later refer recovering patients to her. The sculptor did everything to make the soldiers’ experience as comfortable as possible. Her workshop looked like a salon rather than a hospital ward, with patterned cushions, flowers, posters, and tea served. She started her work by making a mold of the injured face once it had healed enough not to cause too much pain.

From the mold, she made a plaster cast. Next came the most difficult and exciting part—reconstructing the actual face. The sculptor relied on pre-injury photographs, if available, as well as information from family members. If none were present, she asked the soldier to describe himself. Usually, the likeness was striking, with new faces indistinguishable from original ones from a distance.

On at least one occasion, a soldier’s wife sent Anna Coleman Ladd a letter asking her to change something in the mask. Her husband lost both his eyes in combat, and his wife asked to repaint the mask’s artificial eyes with the same dark brown color he had before. Sometimes, a mask covers the entire face, and sometimes, only an injured part of it. In both cases, the masks were usually fixed onto a face with spectacles hooked behind the ears. In rarer cases, the sculptor used strings tied at the back of the head.

Francis Derwent Wood: Another Pioneer of Facial Prosthetics

Anna Coleman Ladd was not the only artist who became a specialist in facial prosthetics at the time. Initially, the idea came from the British sculptor Francis Derwent Wood, who opened the Masks for Facial Disfigurement Department at one of London Hospitals, which soldiers called “The Tin Noses Shop.” Derwent Wood was the first person Coleman Ladd was referred to in order to get familiar with the basics of the work.

Francis Derwent Wood’s main achievement was the idea of using galvanized copper for masks. Before him, some doctors tried to work with rubber, but it was too heavy and hot and gave off an unpleasant smell, making it too uncomfortable to wear. Wood’s invention was thin, light, and comfortable to use. Some soldiers even slept in those masks, either forgetting or unwilling to take them off at night. To imitate facial hair, Wood inserted thin pieces of cut metal.

Constructing Faces

However, Anna Coleman Ladd went a step further in her craft, surpassing her colleagues in quality. Compared to other mask-makers, her work was rather slow and it took more time, but the result was more convincing than ever. She carefully matched the paint tint to the skin tone of her patient, comparing how it looked in natural and artificial light. To make the metallic surface look like real skin, she experimented with paint components. Oil paint proved to be too messy and easily chipped, so the sculptor used washable hard enamel. She used a blue tint to draw a hint of stubble on the masks’ cheeks and chins. She created eyelashes, eyebrows, and even thick mustaches from real human hair. The lips of the masks were usually slightly parted so the patient could smoke through them.

Sometimes, the masks were temporary solutions that would help the patient to function between surgeries that would eventually restore his face. Yet, in most cases, these masks stayed with their owners for the rest of their lives. The masks, however, were not as durable as their owners wanted them to be, and after two or three years, the paint started to chip, while the thin metal distorted. Still, many soldiers were so attached to them that they would not take them off, even to order a new one. Some of them sent letters to Anna Coleman Ladd, expressing their gratitude for bringing their normal lives back. Despite the positive connotations, these letters were utterly devastating, as those people believed they were no longer welcome in their homes after their injuries.

Still, although the masks provided sensory and visual comfort to the soldier and his social circle, they could not make up for the terrible injuries. Many of them were unable to eat, speak, or see. The masks, although realistic enough, were still motionless and sometimes created an uncanny valley effect. Nonetheless, the wounded soldiers believed them to be much better than their actual faces.

Anna Coleman Ladd in the Post-War Era

Despite the enormous impact Anna Coleman Ladd made on the lives of the soldiers she treated and the whole field of post-traumatic treatment, she did not stay in Paris for long. Only a year after she opened her workshop, she returned to the USA, leaving sculptors Mary Louise Brent and Jane Poupelet in charge of the production. In the following years, she continued working on sculpture, creating several war memorials. Perhaps she was more traumatized by the war than she expected it to be. Many unfinished busts created by Coleman Ladd after returning from France have no faces, almost like the soldiers she used to treat.

During several years of the workshop’s existence, Coleman Ladd and her assistants created around 200 masks. Despite plenty of evidence and photographs from these years, none of the actual copper faces have survived. Either they deteriorated beyond repair, or their owners were buried with them still protecting their faces.

At 87 years old, David Hockney is still a practicing and immensely successful artist. Although he was trained as a traditional figurative artist, he became famous for his simplified compositions of swimming pools and natural scenes painted in vivid colors. Despite his age, Hockney does not shy away from technology and eagerly incorporates devices like the iPhone and iPad into his art production. Read on to learn more about David Hockney’s paintings and the inspiration behind them.

David Hockney’s Early Years: The Origins of His Artistic Style

David Hockney is one of the most famous artists associated with the Pop Art movement. Despite this immediate link with the art of Andy Warhol and Roy Lichtenstein, Hockney has already outgrown the confines of a single movement and developed his own signature style and look. Although deliberately simple, his works capture the audiences due to their pure color and direct forms of expression.

Hockney was born in 1937 in England and was one of five children in a rather eccentric family. His father was an accountant and an eccentric social activist. He refused to serve in World War II on the grounds of his political beliefs and wrote personal letters to world leaders, calling for immediate nuclear disarmament. Hockney’s mother was a Methodist and vegetarian, and although she was much less expressive than her husband, she equally supported their children’s interest in arts.

In 1953, Hockney began his art school studies, later enrolling in the Royal College of Art in London. His basic training was based on traditional methods of art education, such as drawing and painting from nature and live models or copying other artists’ work. His earliest known work is a 1954 portrait of his mother seated next to her sewing machine.

In college, Hockney began to explore more avant-garde forms of art. In tune with trends, he experimented with abstraction and the style of Jean Dubuffet, the promoter of outsider art. Many of the works from that period reflected Hockney’s identity as a young gay man in a country that did not decriminalize homosexuality until 1967. Despite his early experiments with the non-figurative, quite soon, Hockney realized he was not interested in abstract art, as he wanted to depict only the material world around him.

Hockney’s Californian Period

In 1964, Hockney visited Los Angeles for the first time and soon moved to California to teach art at Berkeley. The transformed surroundings triggered a transformation in Hockney’s painting style. He noticed that people in California were less tense than in New York, where he previously stayed, and that the sunlight and bright colors created an atmosphere incomparable to any other location. In California, Hockney created many of his most famous works, inspired by the colors and lifestyle of the state.

Hockney’s Swimming Pool Series

Undoubtedly, the most famous works of Hockney’s Californian period were also the ones that made him truly popular as an artist. Starting in 1966, he began painting images of swimming pools, strangely still with the only exception of a water splash in the center of each canvas. Despite traces of human presence, like the splash or the empty director’s seat in the background, the scenes were completely empty.

According to Hockney, he did not think about who jumped in the pool or who was present at the scene. Initially, he saw a photograph of a water splash and was mesmerized by the stillness of the shot and the captured moment. Hockney painted his pools almost entirely using paint rollers, spreading acrylic paint evenly and thinly. However, to accurately capture the splash, he used thin brushes and meticulously repeated every detail from his reference photographs. This gesture also positioned his art as an alternative to then-popular drip paintings of the Abstract Expressionist scene.

David Hockney’s Portraits

Another significant part of David Hockney’s oeuvre was a vast collection of portraits that he painted over his entire career. Beginning in the 1960s, Hockney created numerous portraits of his family members, friends, lovers, colleagues, and important figures from the art world who sat for him. He also painted hundreds of self-portraits that depicted the evolution of his artistic style and persona.

Hockney’s portrait style is, as that of his other works, deliberately simple. In most cases, it relies on a shoulder-up image or a seated figure. In the 1970s, however, Hockney painted larger portraits that featured figures in interiors. His most recent painted work that went viral was the 2023 portrait of singer Harry Styles.

Hockney’s Multi-Panel Landscapes: Bigger Grand Canyon

In 1982, David Hockney traveled to see the Great Canyon in Arizona. Impressed by the size and the colors of the space, the artist took numerous photographs of it, but none of them seemed to do it justice. More than a decade later, Hockney decided to paint it, using 60 small canvases that he arranged into a grid. According to Hockney, his Bigger Grand Canyon was an attempt to capture the uncapturable, fitting the enormous size and overwhelming impression of the Canyon into paintings.

The main inspiration for the work came to Hockney through his research of Chinese art. In Chinese tradition, artists often created painted scrolls with landscapes that showed the transformation of one scene during different seasons. The vivid and expressive paintings of Hockney attempted to do exactly that, representing different times of the day and year at once.

Hockney-Falco Thesis

In the late 1990s, David Hockney expanded his artistic input to the domain of art theories. While visiting an exhibition of Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres’ work, Hockney noticed incredibly subtle and realistic details of the light, draped fabric of dresses, and jewelry. He thought of artists like Andy Warhol and Audrey Flack, who created photorealistic images by projecting photographs onto canvas and tracing them. This led Hockney to suggest that Ingres possibly could have used mirrors or devices that could project images, like camera obscura or camera lucida.

For several years, Hockney studied Western art from the Middle Ages to the modern era and came to the conclusion that most famous artists of the Renaissance and early modernity used various kinds of optic devices. For instance, he claimed that the famous Arnolfini family portrait was painted by Jan van Eyck using a large curved mirror that projected the image of his models onto a wooden board. He also insisted that the degree of realism demonstrated by those skilled painters of past centuries was impossible to achieve without technical advancements.

Hockney’s theory was well-received by the general, amateur public. However, both art historians and optics scientists strongly objected to his ideas. For instance, in van Eyck’s time, the production of a mirror large enough to fit the entire scene was impossible. Moreover, the realistic image of a couple has several mistakes in angles and proportions that could have been avoided if van Eyck had relied on any kind of optic device. The idea that offended experts the most, however, was Hockney’s disbelief in the power of artistic skill of trained practicing artists. To disprove Hockney’s point, his opponents used the help of several contemporary painters who painted realistic fragments of famous paintings without any technical help.

David Hockney’s iPad Paintings

Over the decades of his career, David Hockney was never afraid to explore and experiment with new technology. Since the 1980s, he experimented with various computer programs to paint and create collages. Since 2009, he has used his iPhone and iPad as artistic mediums, creating landscape paintings, still lifes, and portraits. Hockney views technology as an exciting alternative to traditional art making, which requires materials, space, and time to prepare the workspace.

Painting on one’s phone allows for an unprecedented immediacy of impression, form, and color. Moreover, it creates more possibilities to share art with others. According to Hockney, every day, he paints a bouquet of flowers on his iPhone and sends it to his friends so that they can get fresh flowers every day.

Inspired by Claude Monet, Hockney created a series of iPad paintings depicting water lilies and other flowers from his garden in Normandy. In terms of convenience and immediate artistic response, such paintings can be interpreted as the continuation of the Impressionist plein-air tradition. After the invention of portable paint tubes, artists could leave the walls of the studio and paint directly on sight.