I'm Kenney Mencher. I'm an artist who left a tenured professorship in 2016 to pursue making art full time. This blog is about art, art history, with a emphasis on human rights. I make homoerotic art featuring bears, otters & other gay wildlife.
Change my mind? AI steals from authors, artists, composers, and other creative, but, it's unavoidable.
The objection that many artists put forward is that it samples and uses elements of original artists' works to "train" it without permission. Then reassembles parts of different stolen elements and passages to make a kind of collage of them as a complete image. It does the same thing when you ask it to write a sentence, paragraph, or essay.
Artists like Giotto, did this when they sampled and used symbols, compositions, and techniques to create their different versions of the "Virgin Enthroned."
I suspect, that some users might lack some empathy towards the hundreds of thousands of authors, illustrators, and musicians it "borrows" from. However, I use it to correct and proof my writing, and an academic database to find articles for research. I try to use it ethically, however, I think it's unavoidable and will probably cause some artists to evolve, change, and innovate, to create works that are probably physical, and outside of AI's abilities.
As we get closer to
the 1300s, there's a noticeable shift toward more naturalistic representation
in art. This period marks the beginning of the Renaissance, a revival of the
classical styles seen in ancient Greece and Rome.
One example from this transitional period is the pulpit
inside the Baptistery of Pisa, a structure that combines Gothic and Romanesque
architectural elements. The pulpit was created by Nicola Pisano, an artist
whose name likely comes from the city of Pisa. He, along with his father and
other family members, worked on various artistic projects in Pisa during the
13th century.
The pulpit, positioned at the center of the baptistery,
serves as a raised platform where a priest would stand to deliver sermons. Its
design blends several stylistic influences. The structure includes Corinthian
columns, a feature associated with classical antiquity, and sculpted lions
beneath them, which have a more Byzantine quality. Above the columns,
Gothic-style tracery decorates the pulpit, reflecting the architectural trends
of the time. The panels on the pulpit depict religious scenes that hold significance
in Catholic tradition.
In the upper left corner, you can see the Angel Gabriel, who
is gesturing toward Mary. This is an Annunciation scene, where Gabriel
delivers the message that she will give birth to Jesus. Mary is slightly
recoiling, which suggests both the honor of the moment and a sense of surprise
or fear. There’s a bit of human expression in her reaction.
In the lower left corner, we see Joseph. He’s often a bit of
a complicated figure in religious art since he’s not Jesus’ biological father
but still plays an important role as Saint Joseph. Here, he’s included
in the composition, though his role in the scene is somewhat secondary.
Moving to the right,
there’s a Nativity scene. Jesus is shown lying in a basket, while Mary
reclines beside him. This setup closely resembles the composition of the
stained glass window we looked at earlier.
In the upper right corner, the figures of the Magi—the
three wise men—are present, but their heads are missing. They are depicted
bringing gifts to the baby Jesus.
At the center, we see Jesus, but his head is damaged, and
Mary’s arm is missing. This part of the panel shows a Baptism scene,
where the infant Jesus is being bathed in a vessel resembling a chalice.
In the lower right corner, there is a manger scene, which
also appears to reference the biblical story of David. This could be a typological
connection—a way of linking events in the Old Testament to those in the New
Testament. The depiction of David as a shepherd may relate to Jesus' role as
the Good Shepherd.
This panel presents a continuous narrative, meaning
multiple scenes from a story are shown within the same space. Here, three or
four different moments are included in a single composition. This approach is
similar to earlier works, like the Sarcophagus of Junius Bassus, as well
as the stained glass window we looked at previously. There are also other
historical examples that use this same method.
Now, looking at the piece from a formal perspective,
you’ll notice that it doesn’t create a fully realistic sense of space. There is
some use of scale variation—figures in the foreground are larger than those in
the background. For example, Gabriel and Mary appear larger than the building
behind them, and the three wise men are slightly smaller as they recede into
the background. This suggests an early attempt at spatial depth, but overall,
the composition doesn’t fully follow natural perspective.
At the center, Mary is reclining, and she is much larger than
the surrounding figures. Her size draws attention to her role in the scene.
This choice reflects the artistic conventions of the time rather than an
attempt at realistic proportion.
The carving style is also more naturalistic than what was
common in earlier medieval art. This work dates to around 1260, and by this
time—at least in Pisa—there was a shift back toward the classical sculpting
techniques of ancient Rome. The drapery, for example, is carved in a way that
suggests the form underneath. While it doesn’t fully resemble the wet
drapery effect seen in classical
sculpture, it does create a sense of volume and movement that is more lifelike
compared to earlier medieval figures.
The faces in this sculpture look less Byzantine and
are more similar to Greco-Roman sculptures we've studied earlier. One of
the key ideas to focus on, especially as we move toward the Renaissance, is how
space is represented in images.
One thing to note is that there isn’t enough architecture in
this scene to fully demonstrate linear perspective, which includes one-point
and two-point perspective. That technique wasn’t commonly used until the
14th or 15th century. Until then, artists used other methods to suggest depth.
For example, in this sculpture, some figures overlap others,
which starts to create a sense of space. There's also diminution, where
figures in the background are smaller than those in the foreground. A common
rule of thumb in medieval and early Renaissance art is that anything higher up
in the image is usually meant to be farther back—this is known as vertical
perspective. There's also diagonal perspective, where objects lower
in the picture plane appear closer, and those positioned diagonally upward seem
to recede into the background.
Since this is a sculpture, we don’t see atmospheric
perspective, which is more common in painting.
I’ve put together some images that help connect this piece to
earlier artistic traditions. One of them is a Byzantine early Christian Psalter,
which is basically a book of psalms. In this image, David is shown composing
the Psalms. If you compare it to the drapery on Mary in Nicola Pisano’s
pulpit, you can see some similarities. The folds in the fabric are treated in a
way that resembles early Byzantine styles.
There are also similarities in the poses. For example, in the
lower right corner of the Psalter, there’s a Nativity scene that
follows a composition similar to the one on Pisano’s pulpit. While Pisano may
not have seen this specific manuscript, there were likely many similar versions
circulating at the time. Artists frequently borrowed elements from earlier
works.
Another connection can be made to classical Greek sculpture.
The Three Goddesses from the pediment of the Parthenon (c. 450
BCE) show reclining female figures draped in garments that closely resemble the
reclining Mary on Pisano’s pulpit. The wet drapery technique used in Greek sculpture,
where fabric clings to the body and reveals the form underneath, seems to
reappear here. It’s possible that this classical approach influenced Byzantine
art, which was then reinterpreted in Pisano’s work. The draped clothing and
reclining pose create a visual link between these different periods.
The last image I want to point out is a panel painting by Duccio.
This piece seems to distill or borrow some of the key pictorial elements found
in the Baptistery pulpit in Pisa. For instance, it includes Joseph in
the lower left corner, a scene of Mary and a maid washing the infant Jesus in a
bowl similar to the one in Pisano’s relief, and a manger scene in the lower
right corner with animals positioned in a similar way. One difference is that
Duccio’s version is surrounded by a group of angels, which is not present in
the pulpit relief. On the right side, the Magi—the three wise men—are
shown approaching, just as they do in Pisano’s composition.
These examples highlight how artistic traditions were adapted
and reinterpreted over time, with elements from Byzantine, classical
Greek, and medieval art appearing in different contexts.
This work dates from around 1280 to 1311, making it
contemporary with Cimabue and Giotto, two artists we’ll be
studying later. The imagery and composition in these pieces—both the relief
sculpture and Duccio’stempera-painted panel—share similar visual
structures.
Continuing with the transition from Romanesque art, we
can look at the ways Nicola Pisano builds on earlier styles. One example
is the Virgin and Child from the French Romanesque tradition. The
drapery in this sculpture follows a very Byzantine style, where the
folds are stylized rather than naturalistic. The theme, known as the Throne
of Wisdom, was discussed earlier—it depicts Mary as a symbolic seat for the
Christ child. The figures in this style tend to be stiff, with unrealistic
proportions and limited sense of movement.
Within about a
hundred years, however, there is a shift. Nicola Pisano’s work
introduces elements that resemble classical sculpture. His figures appear more
naturalistic, and the drapery starts to suggest body forms underneath, rather
than just decorative folds. This change picks up speed in the late 13th century
and becomes more pronounced in the 14th century, leading into the early
Renaissance.
One concept we discussed earlier is schema and correction—the
idea that artists follow an established model (schema) and then update
or modify it (correction). This can be seen in the work of Cimabue,
a Florentine painter active between about 1280 and 1300. Even though he was
Italian, his style was heavily influenced by Byzantine traditions. I
usually tell students to remember the year 1300 as a turning point—almost like
a bar mitzvah for Italian art—when it transitions into something more
naturalistic.In order to understand the
schema that Cimabue and his student, Giotto, worked with, we need to go back in
time a bit and look at a couple of earlier works.
I was at Santa Maria Novella today. Thought I'd get some cool complete images for myself, but, Masaccio had other plans. It was really cool to see how they are restoring the fresco. Another wonderful thing was that I was at eye level with the dove that serves as God the Father's collar. I've not seen a close up before. It was great to see how the head of the dove is facing down.
Now that I am old, I have many regrets, one of them was that I knew people who were old that I didn't do what the advised me to do.
I look back at my life, I forgive myself for not taking their advice, but I still wish I had a time machine and did things differently. It's the curse of the old, and of teachers, that they can share our experiences but that the young may not listen.
(I have a young person asking for coaching right now.)
Artists, you cannot trick, or gimmick, or market yourself into a successful selling art career. The starting point for any successful artist is to have 20 or more really good works of art ready to show people, either in a live venue or on the web.
The theme of lamentation is pretty
common and goes way back, showing up during the Romanesque, Gothic, and
Proto-Gothic periods. It's also present in Giotto’s and Andrea Mantegna's work.
We recently looked at Mantegna's painting, and now we're comparing it to
Giotto’s to see how each handles the depiction of space. Giotto was a pioneer
in creating a new sense of depth by overlapping figures and using
foreshortening, particularly with the angels and a figure leaning over Jesus.
Both
paintings use similar iconography, like Mary grieving over the dead or supine
Jesus, packed with emotional expressions that pull us in through Renaissance
humanism, aiming to engage our emotions.
Mantegna’s
painting, Dead Christ, stands out because he understood linear
perspective, a technique further developed since Giotto’s time and documented
by Leon Battista Alberti. This painting can be confusing, but it emphasizes
Renaissance humanism, which isn’t about rejecting Christian or Catholic beliefs
but reinforcing them. It uses the human experience—our senses and emotions—to
connect us to Christian ideology.
In
Dead Christ, the portrayal is meant to make us feel sad as witnesses to
Jesus's death. Mantegna adds his own twist by playing with anatomy; Jesus is
depicted with heroic musculature reminiscent of classical sculpture. Yet, he
does something unusual with the foreshortening of Jesus’s feet, making them
appear small and almost dwarf-like, probably out of politeness to the viewer by
not making the feet overly prominent.
Mantegna
also highlights the wounds of Christ, the stigmata, enhancing the connection to
Jesus's sacrifice. An interesting point my students often note is the drapery
around Jesus’s genitals, which seems exaggerated but isn't meant to be creepy.
Rather, it’s tied to theories like those in Leo Steinberg’s book, The
Sexuality of Christ in Renaissance Art and in Modern Oblivion, which argues
that Jesus is depicted as fully masculine, emphasizing his choice to remain
non-carnal.
This
review of Mantegna's techniques, like his use of perspective and
foreshortening, helps us understand the artistic choices that define his style
and how they contribute to the themes he explores in his work.
When I first studied this painting in the Camera
Picta in the Ducal Palace of Mantua,
I was just getting the hang of translating Italian. I found an analysis of
these frescoes in Italian, which I initially misinterpreted. This
misinterpretation actually helped me understand it better over time. I
mistakenly translated Camera degli
Sposias the "room of the
wedded couple" when it really means "the room of the family." Camera
means room, and Picta means painted, so it’s essentially the painted
room of the family.
I initially thought it was a bedroom designed for a
newlywed couple’s first night, filled with portraits on the walls around what I
imagined to be the marriage bed. Observing the frescoes, I noticed figures standing on a mantel and
family portraits surrounding them. The ceiling fresco even traces the Gonzaga
family lineage back to ancient Rome, aiming to establish a noble connection.
I
assumed the couple would climb into a central bed, surrounded by curtains they
could close for privacy. Creeped out by the portraits, they might peek out at
the wall scenes, then look up to see a skylight, or oculus, making them
feel observed from all angles.
In
reality, this room is meant as a family room, akin to modern living rooms
decorated with family portraits. Mantegna, known for his illusionistic painting
style, uses foreshortening and perspective to make the scenes look realistic.
You can see foreshortened horses and dogs, showing the family's wealth and
their ability to commission such art. Mantegna also employs atmospheric
perspective, making distant objects appear cooler and bluer.
The figures on the mantel are
viewed from below, creating a sense of looking up at honored family members.
This technique, called sotto in su (from below to above), is used to
create an illusionistic skylight effect on the ceiling, reminiscent of the
oculus in the Pantheon.
Mantegna's
trompe-l'œil technique extends to architectural details, making painted
elements look like real carvings. He also incorporates symbols like the
peacock, representing Minerva and Hera, and includes diverse figures reflecting
Italy’s trade connections with Africa.
Overall,
Mantegna's work in the Camera Picta plays with humanism and illusion to create a
virtual reality experience, inviting viewers to feel part of a scene filled
with mythological and classical figures.
Today I visited the Brancacci Chapel in Florence at Santa Maria del Carmine.
Before I visited I brushed up a bit by looking some things up and watching some lectured on YouTube. What I discovered about the theme that holds the stories and paintings together surprised me. The frescos all represent Peter copying or emulating the life and philosophy that Jesus taught to his followers.
The frescos are designed to literally and symbolically put our duties and roles as a good human being, in perspective.
(BTW, I was brought up Jewish and I'm an agnostic and I still believe in the messages I saw in these Renaissance frescos.) I guess that makes me a Christian socialist?
Peter was is represented as a model of responsible, kind, civic minded, Christian charity and the frescos all are illustrations of what a good Christian was supposed to do in 15th century Florence. I'm not making this up.
In Florence in the 1400s it was considered a patriotic duty to take care of the poor, and to use excess wealth to not only build hospitals, but to make the city beautiful by using one's wealth to help the city and the less fortunate in emulation of both Peter and Jesus.
One of the scholars I watched, commented that a person looking at the frescos didn't read them in an order like a comic book, but would see them as sermons in paint. Often when visiting the chapel, a priest or monk would act as a guide and point out the various interpretations of charity it showed. He would discuss the meanings and interpretations with the people he was showing around the chapel.
Part of the thing that Lippi, Masolino, and Masaccio did was that the environments, city shapes, and clothing weren't from the 1st century, the city and clothing that the stories were set in were 15th century Florence. This was to make the viewer understand that Peter's acts weren't old fashioned that he was showing you what we need to do right now:
Peter giving money to the poor. Giving away wealth.
Peter healing the sick and crippled literally with the passage of his shadow across their bodies.
All the while acknowledging that God would provide even if you couldn't as he did in the painting by Massacio called "The Tribute Money."
This stuff didn't stop when you left the chapel. In the dining room where the clergy dined, Jesus and the apostles are represented at the "Last Supper" facing you from the other side of the table.
The rich and privileged of Florence in the 1400s knew what Jesus expected of them, why don't the rich and privileged "Christians" today emulate Peter and Jesus?
If you want I have an art business course available for free.
I was able to make a link to take my course for free. You can use the link to sign up for free. The link expires after 30 days, but, once you are in it it's free forever.
During a recent visit to the Palazzo Doria Pamphilj in Rome, I spent some time looking closely at Velázquez’s famous Portrait of Pope Innocent X. Like many visitors, I was struck by the psychological intensity of the painting. But what drew my attention even more was the smaller head of the pope displayed nearby. The relationship between the two works raised a number of questions that have stayed with me since the visit.
At first glance, the smaller head bears a strong resemblance to the great portrait. The colors, tonal structure, and overall technique suggest someone deeply familiar with Velázquez’s method. Yet the painting also feels slightly different. The forms appear somewhat chunkier, the drawing a bit less precise, and certain transitions in the face seem more generalized. These differences led me to wonder whether the painting might be the work of someone very close to Velázquez, rather than Velázquez himself.
My first hypothesis was that the work might have been painted by Juan de Pareja, Velázquez’s assistant and later a painter in his own right. Pareja traveled with Velázquez to Italy in 1649 and worked closely with him during the Roman period when the portrait of Innocent X was painted. Because Pareja prepared pigments and assisted in the studio, he would have had intimate knowledge of Velázquez’s materials and techniques. This could explain why the smaller head appears to share similar color structures and underpainting. At the same time, the slight awkwardness in proportion and modeling might reflect the hand of a talented but less experienced painter working under the influence of a master.
While exploring the question further, I unexpectedly encountered reproductions on Wikipedia of two sheets of drawings described as studies of Pope Innocent X. These drawings had been published in 1976 by Mary Cazort Taylor in European Drawings from Canadian Collections and were then said to belong to the collection of the art historian and museum curator Theodore Allen Heinrich. According to Taylor, the sheets were reportedly found in the library of the Palazzo Doria Pamphilj.
The drawings are intriguing. On each sheet the pope’s head appears in several orientations—frontal, profile, and partial views—alongside small sketches of the seated composition. At first glance they resemble preparatory studies, and Taylor cautiously suggested they might be by Velázquez. However, the more I examined them, the more they seemed to raise questions.
Velázquez is not known to have produced many preparatory drawings. His working method appears to have relied heavily on painting directly from life. Moreover, the structure of these sheets feels less like a focused preparatory study and more like an analytical exploration of the pope’s face and pose from several angles.
This led me to consider a different possibility. By the early 1650s, not long after the famous portrait was painted, sculptors such as Alessandro Algardi were producing busts of Innocent X. Once both the painting and sculptural likenesses existed, an artist interested in studying the pope’s appearance could have used both the painting and the sculptures as models. The drawings might therefore represent the work of a later artist attempting to understand the pope’s features and the composition of the portrait, rather than preparatory sketches by Velázquez himself.
If that is the case, it could also help explain why the drawings were reportedly preserved in the palace library but eventually left the Pamphilj collection. Works considered secondary or derivative—studio studies, copies, or exercises—were often dispersed quietly from aristocratic libraries in the nineteenth or early twentieth centuries.
My investigation is still ongoing. The drawings were once in Heinrich’s collection, and I have begun contacting archives that hold his papers to see whether any documentation survives about how he acquired them. If correspondence, photographs, or acquisition notes exist, they may help clarify when the drawings left the Pamphilj library and how they entered the modern art market.
For now, the small head of Innocent X and the curious drawings associated with it remain part of a puzzle—one that connects Velázquez, Pareja, Roman sculptors, and later artists who may have studied one of the most penetrating portraits ever painted.
