This Bruegel painting is the highlight of a stupendous new show of works from the Royal Collection. Richard Dorment traces its astonishing history
When is a painting finished? Is it the moment when the artist lays down his or her brush? Or when the canvas is signed? Or do great pictures, as I believe, have a life of their own, continuing to evolve even after they leave the studio?
Of course, colours can fade or darken over the years, but meaning can change, too, depending on who owns a work of art, where it is displayed and how it is treated. Time itself can impinge on the reading of an image when a later generation interprets it through the prism of its own experience, often in ways that the artist may never have intended.
There could be no better example of this phenomenon than Pieter Bruegel the Elder’s Massacre of the Innocents in the Royal Collection. Painted in 1565-67 and acquired more than a century later by Charles II, it shows a snow-covered Flemish village in the dead of winter, with new-fallen snow covering pitched roofs, icicles hanging from eaves, bare branches, a frozen pond and patches of hard earth visible under trampled snow.
Of course, colours can fade or darken over the years, but meaning can change, too, depending on who owns a work of art, where it is displayed and how it is treated. Time itself can impinge on the reading of an image when a later generation interprets it through the prism of its own experience, often in ways that the artist may never have intended.
There could be no better example of this phenomenon than Pieter Bruegel the Elder’s Massacre of the Innocents in the Royal Collection. Painted in 1565-67 and acquired more than a century later by Charles II, it shows a snow-covered Flemish village in the dead of winter, with new-fallen snow covering pitched roofs, icicles hanging from eaves, bare branches, a frozen pond and patches of hard earth visible under trampled snow.
# Art Sales: Colin Gleadell on the Scott Collection
# Market News: New York takes a break
This bleak landscape makes a suitable backdrop for a scene of pure horror - the murder by King Herrod’s soldiers of all male children in Palestine under the age of two. But, instead of setting the Biblical story in a faraway land in the distant past, Bruegel shows men and women of his own time, dressed in contemporary clothing and living in a prosperous village with two-storey brick houses and a substantial church of stone.
A master of narrative invention, he steps back to give us a bird’s-eye view of the carnage so that our eye must move slowly across the picture surface to examine each heart-rending episode in turn: a father falls to his knees to beg a mounted solider to spare his child; a couple implore a killer to take their daughter instead of their son; troops use pikes, axes and a battering ram to break down doors; mounted knights in armour guard the approach to the village to block the only means of escape. So beautifully painted is every detail that we can almost hear the cries of anguish carried in the cold air, the grunts of the soldiers and the methodical clink of cold steel.
If you’ve been looking at the reproduction of the picture as you read these words, by now you may be wondering about my eyesight. Instead of slitting the throats of infants, the soldiers are killing turkeys, a goose and a doe. Distraught mothers weep not over bloody corpses, but over hams, a cheese or nondescript bundles spread out in the snow. This is because the picture we see today looks very different from the one Bruegel painted.
The first owner, the Holy Roman Emperor Rudolph II, ordered that all the dead babies be painted out and replaced with animals, objects and foodstuffs. His intention was to turn a scene of massacre into one of mere plunder. Perhaps the subject was too distressing for a collector as cultivated as Rudolph, but more likely the Emperor did not feel comfortable with a picture showing the massacre by a king of his own subjects.
Especially troubling to Rudolph would be the figures on horseback - two sergeants in red coats on the left and the smiling young herald on the right. Unlike the thugs who only carry out their orders, they are clearly men of higher rank, representatives of the government, and so directly answerable to the ruler.
Then, too, Rudolph was a Habsburg, and Bruegel’s picture was an undisguised allusion to atrocities committed in Flanders under the harsh rule of the Spanish branch of his family. By having it repainted, the Emperor sought to mitigate the cruelty of a picture that in its own time must have been as inflammatory as Picasso’s Guernica. Rightly, modern conservationists have decided to leave the changes ordered by Rudolph intact. Not only are they now part of the picture’s history, but they add new layers to its meaning.
And that is not the end of the story. Rudolph’s alterations created a scene that to modern sensibilities may be even more resonant of calculated evil than the picture as originally painted.
For one thing, the absence of blood and gore creates an atmosphere of eerie stillness, as though we are watching a silent film in slow motion. Then, too, the changes somehow make the actions of the soldiers in rounding up their victims look more deliberate than frenzied. Instead of slaughtering their victims on the spot, it now looks as though the army is taking the children away to be disposed of elsewhere. Because we aren’t distracted by the sight of blood in the snow, it is easy to imagine the scene after the troops have gone, when numb silence descends on the village once more, leaving these people to face their loss.
You can see Bruegel’s remarkable picture in Bruegel to Rubens: Masters of Flemish Painting at the Queen’s Gallery, Buckingham Palace.
Because the Queen’s Old Master paintings are normally dispersed among her residences, it is easy to forget how rich in masterpieces the Royal Collection is - and what a superb team of curators and conservationists is employed to give us stupendous shows like this.
To take just a few highlights, Rubens’s virtuoso oil sketch for his altarpiece The Assumption of the Virgin hangs near his panoramic Winter: Interior of a Barn, the brushwork in the first so apparently spontaneous that it looks as if it was dashed off in an hour, the second methodically painted to create a miracle of natural observation.
In this gallery alone we find five Van Dycks, ranging from his sensual depiction of his mistress Margaret Lemon to some of his most beautiful religious paintings, including his wonderful Mystic Marriage of St Catherine.
As well as belonging to the Flemish school, what all the pictures in the show have in common is their Royal provenance, an invisible historical dimension that, in most cases, adds immeasurably to their interest. For example, the taste of Frederick Prince of Wales (father of George III) was so discerning that the mere fact that a painting was in his collection made me look at it twice, whereas Prince Henry (older brother of Charles I) did not live long enough to develop a sophisticated eye for pictures.
George IV’s taste for Dutch low-life genre paintings surprised me, but, boy, did he buy some great ones, including David Teniers the Younger’s silvery study of fishermen on the seashore. The bold purchase by the 20-year-old Queen Victoria of a mural-size mythological painting by Rubens and Franz Snyders, on show in an adjoining gallery, impressed me. That it was so hideous I found myself rubbing my eyes in disbelief only added to its fascination.
But I could go on all day. The show is on until April 26, but don’t put off your visit. It is one of the most enjoyable of the year.
# Information: 020 7766 7301
Source: telegraph.co.uk
The Royal Collection: bloody secrets of a masterpiece ©2008 Oil Paintings Market News