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    ‘Bad Painter’ Neil Jenney Curates a Tribeca Gallery’s First Show

    Isabel Sullivan seems too young to be called a veteran of the gallery scene, but she has nonetheless spent the last decade working in New York galleries, most recently as a partner at Chase Contemporary.
    Now, Sullivan, 33, has struck out on her own with an eponymous space on Lispenard Street in the fast-growing Tribeca gallery scene.
    “Opening my own space wasn’t necessarily something that I always dreamed about,” she said in an interview. “The move happened organically, as I began to grow and develop an understanding and a vision for the type of gallery and organization I wanted to create. I wanted to show work I believed in.”
    Installation view of “New Realism” group show at Isabel Sullivan Gallery in Tribeca. Image courtesy Isabel Sullivan Gallery.
    Her gallery’s inaugural show, which opened on March 14, is “New Realism: Looking Forward and Back,” which was curated by the storied SoHo artist Neil Jenney, who shot to fame a half-century ago with his “Bad Paintings.”
    Jenney has included some of his recent work, as well as pieces by Elisa Jensen, Victor Leger, Joseph Santore, Mercer Tullis, and Frank Webster. A few of those figures are connected: Santore, for instance, taught both Jensen and Webster. Sullivan has filmed mini-documentaries about each artist. (More good news for Jenney fans: he will open a solo show with Gagosian on West 24th Street in West Chelsea on May 2.)
    Isabel Sullivan at her new gallery in Tribeca. Image courtesy Isabel Sullivan Gallery.
    “New Realism” includes roughly 30 works and aims to explore what “Realism” is today. They include Jenney’s skyscapes with sculptural frames and Jensen’s shadowy but vibrant interiors. Santore’s existential paintings reflect on the human condition, while Tullis’s striking graphite works have a meditative air to them. Webster and Leger’s paintings add a serene touch to the affair.
    Sullivan met Jenney when she accompanied a friend to his studio. “When I first entered the space, I felt as if I had walked into a museum,” she said. She was taken not only by Jenney’s work, but also with a permanent exhibition he had on view of different Realist artists. “Neil gave me a tour and told me about the group exhibition he had organized, ‘American Realism Today’ at the New Britain Museum of American Art” in Connecticut, in 2022, she explained.
    Joseph Santore, Empty Lot (2022–23). Image courtesy the artist and Isabel Sullivan Gallery.
    Jenney was interested in organizing a subsequent edition at a commercial gallery. “It felt fated to me at that moment,” said Sullivan, adding, “I had been thinking about the return of figurative painting, and its prevalence, and in particular that there was something fundamentally radical in such a return—and that Realism had first emerged, and then continually re-emerged following profound shifts or ruptures in society, and culture.”
    Sullivan and her gallery started a search for artists in New York who were working in this mode, and found numerous artists who were included in his New Britain Museum show. “From there, the whole show began to truly take shape,” she said.
    Elisa Jensen, Lace Curtain (Limits of the Diaphane), 2014. Image courtesy the artist and Isabel Sullivan Gallery.
    As for landing in Tribeca, Sullivan said she initially came close to taking a space in Chelsea, but “there was something about the energy down here in Tribeca that really moved me. It felt spirited and lively—like the future, and my future was here.”
    Sullivan says she’s glad she ultimately steered away from some of the “typical white box spaces” she looked at. The location she chose, formerly the home of the now-closed Denny Gallery, “felt cozy and intimate, which was the vibe I was going for,” she said. “It gave me the feeling that I hoped others would feel in the future when they visit us.”
    The facade of the new Isabel Sullivan Gallery at 39 Lispenard Street in Tribeca. Image courtesy Isabel Sullivan Gallery.
    “New Realism: Looking Forward and Back” runs through Sunday, April 21, at Isabel Sullivan Gallery, 39 Lispenard Street.
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    Artist Jamie Reid’s Final Sex Pistols Artwork Will Go on View

    The final artwork created by the artist Jamie Reid, known for his designs for the punk band the Sex Pistols during the 1970s, will be going on display for the first time this month at Brighton’s Enter Gallery. “Jamie Reid, A Lifetime of Radical Gestures” opens on April 25 and will celebrate the life of Reid, who passed away in August 2023, showing work from the artist’s “Rogue Materials” series, which he made between 1972 and 2021. Fifty photographs will also be on display, chronicling Reid’s life.
    Reid was born in 1947, raised in a “diehard socialist” household. He met Sex Pistol’s manager Malcolm McLaren when the pair were studying at Croydon College of Art, and McLaren introduced him to the band with whom Reid would be forever associated. Over his lifetime, Reid worked on several left-wing publications including the West Highland Free Press and the Suburban Press.
    Reid’s designs are synonymous with the 1970s punk spirit, most notably his iconic collaged work for the cover of the Sex Pistol’s 1977 single “God Save the Queen,” an image that was so scandalizing it offended workers at the printing plant. Despite his anti-establishment beginnings, Reid artworks are highly coveted by commercial galleries, fashion brands, and now fetch high sums at auction. A promotional poster for “God Save the Queen” previously owned by Sid Vicious, Sex Pistol’s bassist, sold at Sotheby’s London for $49,796 in 2022. Collectors of Reid’s work include Vivienne Westwood, Madonna, and Angelina Jolie, and his work is held in the collections of the Museum of Modern Art in New York, and London’s Victoria and Albert Museum and National Portrait Gallery.
    “Radical ideas will always get appropriated by the mainstream… That’s why you have to keep moving on to new things,” the artist told Another Man in a 2018 interview. 
    Jamie Reid’s “God Save the Queen” machine print on view in 2022, ahead of a Sotheby’s London auction. Photo: Daniel Leal / AFP via Getty Images.
    Reid’s final artwork, a homage to his single cover for Sex Pistol’s “Anarchy in the U.K.,” shows a torn Union Jack flag, held together with safety pins. The print was approved by Reid and his foundation the Arcova Trust before his death in 2023. Anarchy in the UK (2024) is being released in two new silkscreen editions, one sized 67 by 100 cm (26.4 by 39.4 inches) in an edition of 200, and another sized 100 by 150 cm (39.4 by 59 inches) in an edition of 76—a reference to the year the Sex Pistols released the record.
    “A Lifetime of Radical Gestures” was co-curated by the gallerist and archivist John Marchant, a friend and representative of Reid’s who announced the passing of the “artist, iconoclast, anarchist, punk, hippie, rebel and romantic” in an Instagram post.
    “I am very happy that we are partnering with Enter Gallery to launch this exclusive editioned print of Jamie Reid’s infamous ‘Anarchy In the U.K.’ flag, as we have a great history of working together to offer Jamie’s world-renowned art and messages to collectors,” he said. “Jamie and I started work on this edition last summer and although Jamie is no longer with us, I am pleased that this classic work is finally available as a tribute to his incredible legacy.”
    Enter Gallery’s Head of Buying, Helen Hiett, said: “Enter Gallery had the pleasure of working closely with Jamie Reid over several decades. He was a true visionary, always fighting for equality and justice via exciting, rebellious, and risqué works that provoked a reaction. In this retrospective, we honor his fascinating life and creativity, and can’t wait to bring his iconic work to the people of Brighton and beyond.”
    “Jamie Reid, A Lifetime of Radical Gestures” is on view at Enter Gallery, 13 Bond Street, Brighton, from April 25 to May 2.
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    “Scar” by David de la Mano in Salamanca, Spain

    In a heartfelt homage to the enduring spirit of women, artist David de la Mano unveils his latest creation, the “Scar” mural, gracing the walls of The House of Women “Clara Campoamor” in Salamanca. Inspired by the moving verses of Louise Glück’s poem “Dress,” the mural stands as a tribute to the strength and beauty found within life’s challenges.Nestled in the heart of Salamanca, the mural serves as a visual testament to the journey of healing and self-discovery. With his distinct style marked by intricate linework and emotive symbolism, dela Mano breathes life into Glück’s evocative words, crafting a narrative that speaks to the resilience of the human spirit.My soul dried up.Like a soul thrown into the fire,but not completelynot until annihilation. Thirsty,went ahead. twitchy,not because of loneliness but because of mistrust,the result of violence.//.The spirit, invited to leave the body,to be exposed for a moment,trembling, like beforeof your surrender to the divine;The spirit was seduced, due to its loneliness,for the promise of grace.How are you going to trust againin the love of another being?//.My soul withered and shrank.The body became too much of a dress big for her.And when I regained hope,It was a completely different hope.“Dress”Louise Glück (1943-2023) USATake a look below for more photos of David de la Mano’s recent work. (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || []).push({}); More

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    A New Show Offers Face Time With Ancient Egyptian Funeral Portraits

    A new exhibition at the Allard Pierson Museum in Amsterdam brings together a large collection of funeral paintings from post-Ptolemaic Egypt, some loaned from the Louvre and the J. Paul Getty Museum. Known as the Fayum portraits, the bulk these artifacts were unearthed in the necropolis in Egypt’s Faiyum region, where they were found laid over the faces of mummified bodies. As one of the rare surviving Classical art forms, these works are unique for several reasons.
    The first concerns their medium. Most of the art produced during classical antiquity survives in the form of statues and monuments. Not because that’s all the ancient Romans, Greeks, and Egyptians made—they had rich painting traditions—but because stone is much more durable than paint, which survived only in the rarest of instances. Just as the frescoes from the ash-covered ruins of Pompeii were preserved through volcanic eruption, the Fayum portraits survived as a result of Egypt’s desert climate.
    A Fayum portrait. Photo courtesy of Musée du Louvre, Department des Antiquités égyptiennes.
    The second reason concerns their subject. Where the vast majority of Greco-Roman artwork depicts gods, mythological heroes, and quasi-divine emperors, the Fayum portraits are snapshots of ordinary people. The exhibition’s title, “Face to Face: The People Behind Mummy Portraits,” is fitting, for when you stare at some of these portraits, you interact with individuals who lived thousands of years ago.
    One of the most striking features of the Fayum portraits is their style, which curator Ben van den Bercken describes as a melting pot of cultural influences. “They were made to be placed on top of mummified bodies,” he said. “That’s the Egyptian component: a means of keeping the diseased recognizable for the gods as well as their loved ones.”
    Installation view of “Face to Face: The People Behind Mummy Portraits” at the Allard Pierson Museum. Photo courtesy of Allard Pierson Museum.
    Hellenistic culture—introduced to Egypt through the reign of the Ptolemaic pharaohs, whose lineage traces back to the Greco-Macedonian conqueror Alexander the Great—is present in the clothing of the subjects as well as the materials with which they were put on canvas. Tempera, an originally Egyptian tradition where pigment is mixed with water-soluble binders like egg yolk, is frequently combined with encaustic or hot wax painting—a Greek approach Van den Bercken speculates may have been taught in Egypt’s Hellenistic schooling systems.
    “The interesting thing about encaustic painting is the skill involved,” he said. “Since you cannot make adjustments once the wax has cooled, portraits were constructed layer by layer, giving them an almost Impressionistic quality. It’s reminiscent of what we find in the 17th century with artists like Rembrandt.”
    A Fayum portrait. Photo courtesy of Allard Pierson Museum.
    The realism of the Fayum portraits was also imported, primarily from Rome, which officially annexed Egypt in 30 C.E., and indirectly from Greece. Their lifelike detail, demonstrating a clear understanding of human anatomy, stands in stark contrast to the more abstract and symbolic visual language associated with ancient Egypt today.
    But while the portraits are lifelike, the question of whether they were true to life remains up for debate. “It’s difficult to judge the extent to which the paintings reflect what these people actually looked like,” Van den Bercken noted. “If, for instance, they really owned the jewelry we see in the images. It’s possible people were presented a bit wealthier than they actually were.”
    A Fayum portrait. Photo courtesy of Musée du Louvre, Department des Antiquités égyptiennes.
    At the same time, funeral portraits would not have been cheap: “Look at the wood panels on which they were painted. Many of these are made of basswood, which came from outside Egypt. The same goes for some of the pigments.” This, he said, suggests the subjects were members of society’s upper class: men and women of considerable means.
    Sticking with the subject of realism, keen observers will note that paintings produced in the 3rd and 4th centuries look different from those dated closer to the time of Julius Caesar. Where the latter rival Roman busts in their accuracy and precision, the former are more evocative of Byzantine icons, their personality obscured by a certain level of abstraction.
    Installation view of “Face to Face: The People Behind Mummy Portraits” at the Allard Pierson Museum. Photo courtesy of Allard Pierson Museum.
    Coincidence? This, too, is difficult to say. While Van Bercken does not rule out that evolving artistic currents on the Italian peninsula and Asia Minor influenced Egyptian brushwork, there simply isn’t enough evidence to draw a definite conclusion here. Differences in style, he explained, could just as easily be attributed to differences in geographic location or preferences of individual painters. On top of this, many of the portraits cannot be dated with 100 percent accuracy.
    What is certain is that the tradition of funeral painting, which emerged during the 1st century B.C.E., gradually fizzled during the 4th century C.E. One possible explanation for development this is the rise of Christianity, declared the official religion of the Roman Empire by Theodosius in 380. When the religion spread from Rome to Egypt, mummification rituals made way for Christian burial ceremonies. As mummification disappeared, mummy portraiture followed suit.
    “Face to Face: The People Behind the Mummy Portraits” is on view at the Allard Pierson Museum, Oude Turfmarkt 127-129, Amsterdam, Netherlands, through May 20.
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    From Chagall’s Bible to ‘Sgt. Pepper’ Art—See 5 Highlights at the N.Y. Antiquarian Book Fair

    The ABAA New York International Antiquarian Book Fair is considerably more exciting than its name suggests.
    Each April, dealers, collectors, and the casually curious descend on New York’s Park Armory for a weekend of bookish fun. In truth, “book” is a misleading, limiting word compared to the scope and diversity of items laid out in the cavernous hall. Offerings span early maps, groundbreaking patents, historic letters, fledgling advertisements, political banners, concert posters—each with its own specialist dealer.
    Here are five intriguing art-related offerings from the 64th Edition.

    The Cottingley Fairies PrintsRare Burnside Books
    The first of the five photographs, taken by Elsie Wright in 1917. Photo: Burnside Rare Books.
    In an era of deep fakes and photoshop trickery, the Cottingley fairy images are a reminder that photographic manipulation is as old as the medium itself. In 1917, two girls set out to photograph fairies dancing in the Yorkshire countryside. They hoped to prank their parents. Instead, the series of five photographs captured the imagination of the British public. Most compelled were the theosophists, including Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, who understood the prancing white-winged things as protoplasmic thought forms produced by the girls’ psychic auras. In reality, the fairies were cardboard cut outs held in place with hatpins. The pair admitted as much in a 1983 interview—sort of, the fifth photograph, they insisted, was authentic.

    The Original Artwork for Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club BandVoewood Rare Books
    The original artwork created by Dutch design company The Fool for The Beatles. Photo: Voewood Rare Books.
    Exhausted by touring and keen for a refresh, the Beatles took a mini-hiatus in late 1966. Ringo relaxed, John traipsed through art galleries, George learned the sitar in India, Paul dropped LSD. Art, psychedelics, and musical experimentation underpinned the subsequent record: Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, a concept album that saw the Beatles adopt Edwardian alter-egos. For artwork, they commissioned The Fool, the playful Dutch design collective that had worked with Cream and Procol Harum. Its offering was a psychedelic garden of Eden, a scene of mermaids, lush flora, and symbolic birds. Ultimately, the design was considered too overtly trippy and wasn’t chosen. Not that The Fool minded; they took the decision almost as a point of pride. Voewood Rare Books has priced it at $110,000.

    David Hockney’s poster for a university lectureSims Reed Gallery
    A poster David Hockey created for a 1965 lecture at Newcastle University. Photo: Sims Reed Gallery.
    In 1965, with David Hockney’s reputation steadily growing, his friend Mark Lancaster convinced him to give an informal talk about his practice to students at Newcastle University. Hockney created a poster for the occasion, a palm tree (inspired by recent visits to California) together with a simple red sun and the playful all-cap words “David Hockney Will Come.” Lancaster would develop his screen-printing skills further as an assistant to Andy Warhol and Jasper Johns. The Newcastle rendezvous was an important beat in a lifelong friendship that saw the pair travel to Hawaii, Japan, and Hong Kong.

    Marc Chagall Bible with burning bush designPhilip J. Pirgaes
    Marc Chagall Bible with bindings by Renee Haas. Photo: Philip J. Pirgaes.
    In 1931, the renowned art dealer Ambroise Vollard inquired after Marc Chagall’s interest in illustrating the Bible. Chagall was keen. First, however, he wanted to feel and experience the Holy Land for himself. Upon his return, he studied the masters of engraving, in particular the work of Rembrandt, and methodically produced 105 engravings over a 25-year period. The final work is considered a peerless illustrated Old Testament of modernity with age-old stories made fresh through Chagall’s ability to capture human emotion. Released unbound in 1957, Philip J. Pirgaes offers René Haas’ design ($95,000), one that evokes a burning bush ablaze on a stain-glass window.

    Sylvia Plath’s high school paintingType Punch Matrix
    Sylvia Plath, Portrait of an Unidentified Young Woman (1948/49). Photo: Type Punch Matrix.
    As a child, Sylvia Plath drew, painted, and sketched with abandon. She arrived at Smith College in 1950 determined to major in fine art. Plath painted this portrait of an unidentified young woman as a high schooler in the late 1940s. It shows a characteristic sensitivity to mood and gesture. As explored in a 2017 Smithsonian exhibition on Plath, art fueled and inspired her writings, and vice versa. Upon hitting a publishing drought in the late ‘50s, Plath turned to contemporary art, finding in the works of Rousseau, Paul Klee, and De Chirico a kinship that led her to write a series of art poems. Type Punch Matrix has priced the work at $135,000.
    The New York Antiquarian Book Fair is on view at Park Avenue Armory, 643 Park Avenue, New York, April 4–7.
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    A Milan Exhibition Reunites an Augustinian Altarpiece for the First Time in Centuries

    In 1454, the Augustinians in San Sepolcro wanted a grand polyptych for the high altar of their church. They commissioned hometown master Piero della Francesca for the task. It took Piero 12 years—Pope Nicholas V kept demanding and hogging his services at the Vatican—and stood as a magnificent demonstration of the painter’s talents.
    Across 30 panels, Piero placed two saints on either of the Virgin and the surrounding predella was filled with New Testament scenes and Augustinian figures. The polyptych evidenced Piero’s mastery of space and light, as well as his familiarity with trendy Spanish painting.
    Piero della Francesca, San Nicola da Tolentino (1454–69). Photo: Poldi Pezzoli Museum.
    The popularity of such polyptychs didn’t last. By the end of the 16th century, it had been disassembled and sold off panel-by-panel.
    Eight panels have survived and are scattered across five museums in Europe and the United States. For the past two decades, museums have tried, but failed, to reassemble Piero’s polyptych.
    Piero della Francesca, Saint Michael the Archangel (1454–69). Photo: Poldi Pezzoli Museum.
    Now, the Poldi Pezzoli Museum in Milan has succeeded. Through June 20, visitors will be able to enjoy what remains of the Augustinian Polyptych 555 years after it was painted.
    The break came when Alessandra Quarto, the director of Poldi Pezzoli Museum, learned that New York’s Frick Collection, which owns four panels, would be closed for six months ahead of its 2024 grand reopening. The Frick proved willing leading to an exhibition that Quarto has called “the reunion of the century.”
    Piero della Francesca, Saint Augustine (1454–69). Photo: Poldi Pezzoli Museum.
    Milan holds Piero’s Saint Nicholas of Tolentino and with the Frick onboard, it proved possible to convince London’s National Gallery, Washington D.C.’s National Gallery of Art, and the Museum of Ancient Art in Lisbon to make the requisite loans.
    The exhibition presents the four saints (St. Michael the Archangel, St. John the Evangelist, Saint Nicholas, and Saint Augustine) in a staggered formation with a blank space for the central panel.
    Piero della Francesca, San Giovanni Evangelista (1454–69). Photo: Poldi Pezzoli Museum.
    Curated by Machtelt Brüggen Israëls of the Rijksmuseum and Nathaniel Silver of Boston’s Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, the exhibition also offered an opportunity to conduct diagnostic investigations on the panels. Studies revealed the central panel depicted the coronation of the Virgin, as opposed to a scene of Virgin and Child, as had long been assumed.
    Piero della Francesca, The Crucifixion (1454–69). Photo: Poldi Pezzoli Museum.
    This conclusion was reached through discovering traces of two wings on the panels flanking the centerpiece. The wings, one pink and one blue, were removed when the altarpiece was disassembled because it would have seemed incongruous. Furthermore, experts found a foot beneath a brocade dress on the panel depicting Michael the Archangel, which suggests a kneeling Virgin. Both details are consistent with period depictions of the Virgin’s coronation.
    The four panels depicting the saints reappeared miraculously in Milan in the 1800s and organizers are hopeful the exhibition might prompt more to resurface.
    “Piero della Francesca: The Augustinian Polyptych Reunited” is on view at the Poldi Pezzoli Museum, Via Alessandro Manzoni, 12, Milan, Italy, through June 24.
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    From Raucous to Revelatory: The Unflinching Eye of Frans Hals

    Just how aggressively did the artist booze?
    That question has kept plenty of art historians busy studying the fallow years of Jackson Pollock, the darker passages of Martin Kippenberger’s career, and the tragic behavior of Vincent van Gogh—sad tales, ultimately, that make their achievements all the more remarkable.
    Frans Hals’s alleged carousing presents a more complicated case. The 17th-century Dutch painter’s reputation as a lush comes in large part from a posthumous biography by the artist and writer Arnold Houbraken, who was born in 1660, six years before Hals’s death in his 80s. Relying on secondhand reports (and, perhaps, his imagination), Houbraken declared that the artist must “generally have been filled to the throat with drink every night.” There is circumstantial evidence, too. While he was a revered portraitist in Haarlem for a half-century, he left only about 200 pictures, and he had money troubles late in life.
    Banquet of the Officers of the St George Civic Guard, 1616.
    Still, Hals’s vivid, drink-filled paintings have undoubtedly played a role in helping that reputation endure. About 50 of them (a quarter of the oeuvre!) now fill a rollicking eponymous retrospective at the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam, many of their subjects raising glasses to toast or imbibe. Whether or not some potent elixir is present, his sitters tend to be some combination of pink-cheeked, ruddy, very jolly, and off-balance. These people are vividly, awfully present, and they are inviting you to join them. Do so with caution. I have not had this much fun in an exhibition in many years. But afterward, I did find myself rushing to the museum’s Gallery of Honor for the calm and equanimity of Vermeer and Rembrandt.
    The knock against Hals, the unholy member of Dutch Golden Age trinity, has always been that his portrayals are superficial, lacking the soul of his two leading contemporaries (who have also been feted by the Rijksmuseum in recent years). That is fair, up to a point. No, he was not Rembrandt, but in even his most gilded portraits of the high and mighty (of which there are many), you will receive heavy doses of personality—or maybe even hints of satire.
    Portrait of Jaspar Schade, 1645.
    There is a faintest trace of insecurity in the eyes of his famous, fabulously dressed, and fulsomely mustachioed Laughing Cavalier (1624), on loan from London’s Wallace Collection. And in a 1645 portrait, a vertiginously wealthy 22-year-old named Jaspar Schade gives a look so withering that you can just about hear him uttering some insufferable bon mot. I hate him. “Nothing was trendier than this in the 17th century!” the wall label crows of Schade’s get-up: a black floppy hat and a dark top decorated with zig-zagging silver marks.
    It is difficult to write this without sounding corny, but Hals was a genius with paint. The 19th-century French critic Théophile Thoré said that his brushwork was like that of “a fencer wielding his saber,” the show’s curators—Friso Lammertse, of the Rijksmuseum, and Bart Cornelis, of the National Gallery in London—relay in the show’s richly researched (and illustrated) catalogue. (The exhibition originated at the National Gallery, and will travel to the Gemäldegalerie in Berlin in July.) The Impressionists loved him for his loose and daring touch, which grew more pronounced over the decades.
    In any case, Hals’s fixation on (and his mastery of) surface-level appearances should not be held against him. He understood that self-presentation is at the heart of life in the ultra-competitive public sphere of a bustling democracy. Everyone in his pictures is angling for status—or being put in their place.
    Malle Babbe, circa 1640.
    Hals allowed his wealthy sitters to delight in their fineries, and when he painted children (he had 10 of his own at home at one point), he filled them with giddy mischievousness and a certain lack of sobriety. (Beer was safer than water at the time; everyone partook.) When depicting the impecunious or mentally ill, he could be unflinching, even cruel. In Malle Babbe (“Mad Babbe,” ca. 1640), we see a woman with a tortured grin, believed to be a local named Barbara Claesdr, with an owl, a symbol of folly, on one shoulder. A few years later, she would be sent to a workhouse.
    Much about Hals’s life is not known, including the exact year of his birth, but we know that there were difficult stretches. Born in Antwerp in the first half of the 1580s, he fled with his family in 1586, amid the Eighty Years’ War, for the South Netherlands. Two of Hals’s children were sent to the same workhouse where Claesdr would end up—a son for a mental issue, a daughter for promiscuity. He certainly frequented taverns, but that was a prerequisite for artists courting patrons, the art historian Jaap van der Veen notes in the catalogue. “While in all probability alcohol flowed freely in the Hals household, this in no way diminishes the importance of culture within the family,” he writes.
    Boy with Flute, about 1627.
    Both of those things, alcohol and culture, can provide recompense for tough times. Can Hals? His values may not be as profound as Vermeer’s or Rembrandt’s, but they are, in their own way, as important. He urges you to live in the moment—to enjoy your glass of wine and then ask for another, as some of the sloshed men do in his cinematic group portraits of militias. Embrace your vanity and excuse your foibles, he says, because life is precarious, and fraught, but at least for a while, we can keep the celebration going. We can stay together.
    Fittingly, Hals excelled at painting musicians. In Boy with Flute (about 1627), the young instrumentalist looks away, raising one hand as if he is acknowledging applause: “That’s all for tonight, folks.” However, the audience, awed by his performance, won’t stop. The flautist demurs, and then demurs some more. But just look at the expression on his face. He will soon acquiesce. He will play another. Just one more.
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    Dalí Headlines a New Show Exploring Artistic Takes on the Passion of Christ

    “Ecce Homo: Behold the Man,” an expansive new exhibition at the Museum of the Bible in Washington, D.C., explores how artists have interpreted the Passion of Christ over the past five centuries.
    The Passion, derived from the Latin word patior meaning “to suffer, bear, endure,” refers to Christ’s final days as described in the New Testament. Celebrated during Easter, it includes his entry into Jerusalem, the Last Supper with his disciples, his betrayal by Judas, his trial before the Roman adjudicator Pontius Pilate, and his crucifixion. A popular theme in Christian religious art, the Passion symbolizes the belief that the Son of God sacrificed himself to absolve the sins of all mankind.
    Installation view of “Ecce Homo: Behold the Man” at Museum of the Bible. Photo courtesy of the Museum of the Bible.
    The title of the exhibition borrows from the phrase that Pontius Pilate is said to have uttered upon presenting Jesus, bound and lashed, to a Roman crowd. “Then came Jesus forth, wearing the crown of thorns, and the purple robe,” reads the Bible passage John 19:5. “And Pilate saith unto them, Behold the man!”
    To trace how representations of the Passion have changed significantly throughout art history, the show encompasses the figurative woodcuts of the Medieval era through the lifelike works by artists of the 18th and 19th centuries. A bulk of the exhibition is given over to art of the 20th century, when the Passion was abstracted and appropriated to comment on themes beyond the religious.
    Salvador Dalí with his painting, Christ of Saint John of the Cross. Photo: PA Images via Getty Images.
    Here, Dalí’s Ecce Homo (1969) takes the spotlight. The watercolor drawing was created with the technique “bulletism,” involving firing an antique gun loaded with ink capsules at a blank sheet of paper. The splatters, in this case, formed the face of Christ’s thorn-crowned face.
    Drawn to the Catholic traditions of his native Spain, particularly in the postwar period, Dalí’s interest in the Passion, a topic he tackled more than once, was a response to his anxieties about the “atomic age.” As he wrote in his 1942 autobiography: “I believe, above all, in the real and unfathomable force of the philosophic Catholicism of France and in that of the militant Catholicism of Spain.”
    Tyrus Clutter, Jesus Reviled (2006). Photo courtesy of the Museum of the Bible.
    Other contemporary interpretations of the Passion include Hubertus Giebe’s sad-faced Christ, rendered in the style of German Expressionism; Romanian artist Ioana Datcu’s collaged portrait of Jesus; and Ralph Hall’s vivid painting that captures the lashes that Jesus suffered before his crucifixion.
    See more images from the exhibition below.
    Installation view of “Ecce Homo: Behold the Man” at Museum of the Bible. Photo courtesy of the Museum of the Bible.
    W. French, Ecce Homo (after Guido Reni) (ca. 17th century). Photo courtesy of the Museum of the Bible.
    Ralph Hall, Ecce Homo (1986). Photo courtesy of the Museum of the Bible.
    Unknown artist, Man of Sorrows and Mater Dolorosa (1524). Photo courtesy of the Museum of the Bible.
    Installation view of “Ecce Homo: Behold the Man” at Museum of the Bible. Photo courtesy of the Museum of the Bible.
    Félix Bonfils, Ecce Homo (ca. 1880s). Photo courtesy of the Museum of the Bible.
    Cornelis Cort, Ecce Homo (1602). Photo courtesy of the Museum of the Bible.
    “Ecce Homo: Behold the Man” is on view at the Museum of the Bible, 400 4th St SW, Washington, D.C. through May 15.
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