Today, I visited the Musee de Beaux Arts of Tours; the building used to be the Palace of the Archbishop, but has now become a museum featuring paintings, furniture, and a few sculptures, principally from the 17th-19th centuries.
I really don't know very much about art history, and I'm trying to teach myself to at least understand European art, so long as I'm here. I know the real superstars of European Art -- Michelangelo, Rembrandt, Monet, Picasso, etc. However, beyond the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and the Impressionists, I don't know eras and schools. The Musee de Beaux-Arts has a couple paintings by big-name Dutch artists: a Rubens painting of the artist's clients posing with the Virgin, and a very small (but rather beautiful) Rembrandt of a biblical journey in the desert. There was also a painting by Monet, but not a very good one: there is none of the beautiful color in it that one finds in, say, his paintings of water lilies, gardens, haystacks, etc.
But most of the paintings were French and 18th-century. I am going to speak as if they were representative of 18th-century French painting: if they weren't, then the following observations are all fallacious. Most of the paintings depict classical or biblical subjects, or else are allegorical, in which case they generally derive their symbolism from classical motifs. There were paintings of Hercules chucking some dude into a lake, the faulty judgment of Paris, Apollo about to have sex with a shepherdess, Achilles arguing with Agamemnon and getting told off by Athena, Hector and Andromache saying their last goodbyes, Octavian discovering the dead Cleopatra, David immediately after his victory over Goliath, Judith holding Holophernes's severed head, Jesus resurrecting Lazarus, etc. For the most part, the painters tried to depict crucial emotional moments in all of these scenes: so it's Hercules still holding the poor guy by the crotch, and Lazarus just rising up while onlookers stare with wonder. As far as portraits go, apparently during Louis XIV's reign, it became fashionable to pose young women in the act of playing the guitar.
Furniture-analysis is a skill I'm going to need to learn. Thanks to the professor of civilization at the Institute, as well as a little prior knowledge of "baroque," I understand the very basic differences between Louis-Quatorze, Louis-Quinze, and Louis-Seize furniture. I really don't know Louis-Treize, Imperial, or anything else, though. Throughout the museum, I would look at a bureau or dresser (they're easier than chairs), make a guess, and then look at the placard, to see if I was right. Happily, I was still wrong 50% of the time. Still it was a real moment of triumph when, while examining a wooden dresser, and hopelessly torn between designating it as Louis-Quinze and Louis-Seize, I read the placard to see that art historians had designated it as "epoque Transition." The rule of thumb is as following: if the piece is ready to fall over due to gold ornamentation, it's Louis-Quatorze; if it's very curved, voluptuous, and sexy, it's Louis-Quinze; if it has straight lines and geometric motifs, it's Louis-Seize. ASAP, I will be uploading pictures of the artwork from the museum onto Facebook.
Also, the museum had managed to acquire quite a few of the Cardinal de Richelieu's personal furniture. He was into classical busts and statues, apparently, which dated back to the 2nd century. There was a painting of his nephew, the Duc de Richelieu, on horseback, as well as a few paintings of the Cardinal and Louis XIII campaigning in Italy: in the backgrounds, battles played out, while in the foregrounds were Louis and the Cardinal on horseback. In 1629, France went to war in order to intervene in the succession of the Spanish Hapsburgs. France backed the Duc de Nevers against the rival claimant, the Duc de Savoie. On May 6th, the French armies were successful in crossing over a pass in Mantua, and there is a painting depicting the victory, as well as several following victories. In spite of Albino Black Sheep, France was victorious in more than a few battles and wars!
There was a whole room devoted to paintings of the city of Tours. It was wonderful to look at paintings of a town other than Ithaca, and recognize the landmarks! The towers of the Cathedral's facade, the dome of the Basilica of Saint Martin, the massive tower from which the Duc de Guise escaped, the bridge over the Rue National, the various steeples... Although the 19th- 20th-century paintings were not terribly interesting, there was a fantastic, haunting picture of "Judith victorieuse," from 1874, painted by some dude named Thirier. However, for the most part, the painters of the museuem were would-be Rembrandts, would-be Davids, and would-be Monets. Also interesting, a great deal of the explanatory placards had "Saisie Revolutionnaire," or "Revolutionary seizure" printed on them!
Close to the ruins of the old Basilica of Saint Martin, as well as the 19th-century reconstruction, is the Museum of Saint Martin, dedicated to the hagiography of the saint, and the history of the building. Sam or Shea, I hope you’re reading this (please ignore all of the hagiographic rationalization). For the rest of you, the following information at least makes a good story; furthermore, Saint Martin is one of the most important French saints, nearly 4,000 churches in France alone bearing his name.
Saint Martin was born in the first half of the 4th century; dates are disputed. Because his father served in the Roman Army, he was obligated to join the alae scolares, a mounted company of the Emperor Julien. However, soon after the incident with the beggar and the cloak (see “First Look at Tours”), he visited the Emperor to personally tell him that he refused to serve -- Julien, according to legend, was the first of three Roman emperors Martin would personally meet.
He became a hermit, and, it seems, it was during this stage in his life that two bizarre events occurred. The first involves his survival in spite of a pine tree falling on him (or, maybe, just missing him). There seems to be some confusion about this episode: a villager was chopping down the tree, and yet, there was believed to be something sacred about the tree, and it seems odd, not only that a villager chose to chop down a holy pine, but also that Martin didn’t hear the axe blows. Mr. Secular Historian says that this episode probably reflects the memory of Martin ordering the destruction of a tree associated with local idolatry, and the surprise of local peasants that he did not die on the spot. Other tales describe his overturning of idols, etc., and destruction of a holy tree might have been part of his dissolution of local pre-Christian cults.
The second is even stranger, and even Mr. Secular Historian has difficulty rationalizing it. A Jew (the stained glass in the cathedral depicts him with the red pointed cap used to designate Jews in the Middle Ages) placed a small statue of Saint Martin in his house; soon after, thieves stole some of the Jew’s property. The Jew whipped the statue, after which Martin persuaded the thieves to return the stolen goods. I have no idea what aspect of Martin’s character this story is meant to teach, other than, perhaps, a susceptibility to anthropopathic violence.
When the previous bishop of Tours died, the locals universally wished to elevate the hermit, Martin, to take his place; Martin, however, preferred to remain distant from worldly affairs. The villagers, therefore, resorted to deception: while one of them distracted Martin by begging alms from him on the highway, others grabbed him, bringing him to Tours, and declaring him their candidate. He accepted the post, but before long, made a compromise, going into semi-exclusion at Marmoutiers (which I might visit in the next few days).
Many deeds and miracles are attributed to Martin: he cured the sick, raised the dead, healed a leper by embracing him, and opposed Aryanism and pre-Christian cults. He was a sort of Apostle of the Gauls, and traveled through what are now France, Austria, and Italy. The chair of the Emperor Valentine caught fire when he refused to pay proper respect to Martin, and Martin dined with the Emperor Maximus. He died on November 8th, 397, and was reburied at least twice; since then, his corpse has since been destroyed in one of the many destructions, natural or deliberate, of his basilica in Tours. Pilgrimages began in the fifth century, and have included such celebrities as Clovis and his wife Clotilde, Pepin the Short, Charlemagne, Alcuin of York, and Charles the Bald. His original chapel has grown in spite of fires and Norman pillaging, transforming from the Romanesque to the Gothic style (“Angevin Primitive,” to be precise) in the late twelfth century, the date of the oldest standing ruins. A decorated half-dome remains from the 11th century, however; and just enough remains of the original painting to see that it depicts Martin’s coronation. In the Revolution, the Basilica became the “Martin Stables.”
Whew, that's a lot for today. Hope you enjoyed it!
~JD
"De toute facon, l'assignat, dont la circulation atteignait 45 milliards, ne pouvait plus survivre: il ne valait pas davantage que son cout de fabrication. Les planches en furent publiquement brisees a Paris, le 19 fevrier 1796" [In any case, the Revolutionary currency, of which 45 million units were in circulation, could no longer survive: it was worth no more than its cost of creation. Its minting-plates were publicly shattered in Paris, February 19th, 1796] (Denis Woronoff, La Republique bourgeoise, p.110-111).
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