Month: January 2024

  • Frans Hals (1582–1666), Portrait of Jean de la Chambre at the Age of 33, 1638

    Frans Hals (1582–1666), Portrait of Jean de la Chambre at the Age of 33, 1638, Oil on panel, 20.6 × 16.8 cm. The National Gallery, London

    Frans Hals (1582–1666), Portrait of Jean de la Chambre at the Age of 33, 1638,

    Frans Hals (1582–1666), Portrait of Jean de la Chambre at the Age of 33, 1638. Oil on panel, 20.6 × 16.8 cm. The National Gallery, London

    Painted at a time when Haarlem was one of the most dynamic and cosmopolitan artistic centres of the Dutch Republic, this portrait of Jean de la Chambre (1605/6–1668) reflects the city’s distinctive interplay of intellectual ambition, artistic collaboration, and religious diversity. It captures not only the likeness of a celebrated calligrapher and master of the French School in Haarlem but also the spirit of a community where painters, printmakers, and scholars worked in close dialogue.

    This portrait depicts Jean de la Chambre (1605/6–1668), a renowned calligrapher and master of the French School in Haarlem. It served as the model for a print created in the same year by Jonas Suyderhoef (c. 1613–1686), which was used to promote de la Chambre’s book. 

    De la Chambre, a highly ambitious and respected French Protestant living in Dutch Haarlem, held a prominent position within the Haarlem artistic circle. Many years later, another Haarlem printmaker, Pieter Holsteyn the Younger, would create another portrait of him in old age, combining depictions of de la Chambre in Jan de Bray’s The Governors of the Guild of St. Luke, Haarlem created in 1675 with the first portrait of the young de la Chambre by Hals and its print by Suyderhoef.

    Many of Hals’s portraits reject formality in favour of engaging and emotional portrayals. At times, they even exhibit a sense of personal connection, celebrating the bonds of friendship and mutual respect among artistic individuals. These portraits go beyond mere tributes, drawing upon the famous Haarlem art speciality of capturing facial expressions, emotions, and psychological nuances—a popular theme in genre portraits known as ‘tronie’ portraits. In this particular portrait, the distinguished calligrapher confidently holds his professional tool, with his friendly countenance marked by a warm smile. His choice of attire, though somewhat outdated for the period, aligns with the style commonly worn by many Protestant groups, suggesting that fashion holds little importance to him as his focus lies on more significant aspects of life.

    Frans Hals (1582–1666), Portrait of Jean de la Chambre at the Age of 33, 1638. Oil on panel, 20.6 × 16.8 cm. The National Gallery, London
  • St Botolph without Aldersgate, London

    St Botolph without Aldersgate is one of the three remaining medieval churches dedicated to St Botolph in the City of London. It was also one of four churches erected at the City gates, symbolising St. Botolph’s role as the traditional patron saint of travellers before St. Christopher assumed the title. The church’s origins can be traced back to around 1050, with its first documentation appearing in 1291. Remarkably, it withstood the Great Fire of London. From 1788 to 1791, Nathaniel Wright led significant reconstruction, preserving only the old east wall—this effort aimed to fix structural damage and facilitate the adjacent street’s expansion.

    This Georgian-era reconstruction introduced wooden galleries, a domed semi-circular apse, and intricate plasterwork alongside an organ installed in 1788 by Samuel Green. Despite these major changes, the church maintained its 16th and 17th-century memorials, including a notable baroque tribute to Sir John Micklethwaite, a physician knighted by Charles II. Integrating memorials from the 16th and 17th centuries within a primarily Georgian architectural framework reflects a profound respect for historical continuity. It bridges the past with the present and future congregations, honouring the contributions and spiritual paths of those who came long before us.

    St Botolph Without Aldersgate, London
    St Botolph Without Aldersgate, London
    St Botolph Without Aldersgate, London
    St Botolph Without Aldersgate, London
  • Unidentified early 17th-century Lübeck copyist, Emblematic Scroll in Latin, attributed to George Ripley (1415-1490), circa 1600

    Unidentified early 17th-century Lübeck copyist, Emblematic Scroll in Latin, attributed to George Ripley (1415-1490), circa 1600. Watercolour, wash, and ink on woven paper mounted on linen, 343 x 38 1/2 cm. Wellcome Collection, London. ‘The Cult of Beauty’ exhibition, 26 October 2023 – 28 April 2024

    Unidentified early 17th-century Lübeck copyist, Emblematic Scroll in Latin, attributed to George Ripley (1415-1490), circa 1600. Watercolour, wash, and ink on woven paper mounted on linen, 343 x 38 1/2 cm. Wellcome Collection, London. ‘The Cult of Beauty’ exhibition, 26 October 2023 – 28 April 2024
    Unidentified early 17th-century Lübeck copyist, Emblematic Scroll in Latin, attributed to George Ripley (1415-1490), circa 1600. Watercolour, wash, and ink on woven paper mounted on linen, 343 x 38 1/2 cm. Wellcome Collection, London. ‘The Cult of Beauty’ exhibition, 26 October 2023 – 28 April 2024

     Few objects capture the uneasy fascination of early modern Europe with the secret sciences as vividly as the so-called Ripley Scrolls. Vast, enigmatic, and crowded with alchemical imagery, they were never simple treatises but theatrical instruments of wonder, combining learned text with dazzling emblematic pictures. Only twenty-one copies survive, dating between the 16th and 17th centuries, each varying in detail but united by their cryptic illustrations of the quest for the Philosopher’s Stone.

    The name of George Ripley (c.1415–1490), an Augustinian canon and alchemist, hovers over these works, yet without certainty. Ripley’s writings, especially his Compound of Alchemy (1471), circulated widely in manuscript and print and became touchstones of English alchemical literature. The scrolls, however, are unlikely to be his own work. Rather, they use his reputation to lend authority to what were already evolving pictorial and poetic traditions of alchemical allegory. The Wellcome Library preserves two such scrolls, MS.692 and MS.693, the latter shown in the recent exhibition. Made in Lübeck around 1600, this copy stretches over three metres, demanding to be unfurled in sequence like a ceremonial object. Its imagery unfolds as a kind of visual riddle: a monstrous toad swelling with corruption, figures gathered around a fountain of living waters, a radiant golden eagle, a ravenous green dragon, and finally the solitary philosopher-alchemist himself. Each image is paired with verses in Latin, elaborating the process of purification, death, and rebirth that defined alchemical practice. What makes these scrolls remarkable is not their practicality—no alchemist could have used them as a literal handbook—but their symbolic density. They reveal how alchemy in the Renaissance and early modern period was as much a language of metaphor, myth, and art as it was of experiment.

    The toad embodies base matter awaiting transformation; the dragon’s blood symbolises the hidden elixir of life; the eagle takes flight as the volatile spirit. Read together, they chart a vision of alchemy not merely as metallurgical craft but as a universal drama of corruption, dissolution, and final perfection. Their preservation in collections was not accidental. The scrolls were prized less as working documents than as marvels of design, treasured by collectors who valued their combination of mystery, artistry, and erudition. They embodied the allure of hidden wisdom, lending prestige to libraries and cabinets of curiosities, where they were displayed alongside rare manuscripts, exotic specimens, and antiquities. For the early modern elite, owning such a scroll meant possession of an object that was as intellectually fashionable as it was visually extraordinary—a reminder that the pursuit of knowledge in this period was inseparable from spectacle, imagination, and the performance of learning.

    Unidentified early 17th-century Lübeck copyist, Emblematic Scroll in Latin, attributed to George Ripley (1415-1490), circa 1600. Watercolour, wash, and ink on woven paper mounted on linen, 343 x 38 1/2 cm. Wellcome Collection, London. ‘The Cult of Beauty’ exhibition, 26 October 2023 – 28 April 2024
    Unidentified early 17th-century Lübeck copyist, Emblematic Scroll in Latin, attributed to George Ripley (1415-1490), circa 1600. Watercolour, wash, and ink on woven paper mounted on linen, 343 x 38 1/2 cm. Wellcome Collection, London. ‘The Cult of Beauty’ exhibition, 26 October 2023 – 28 April 2024
    Unidentified early 17th-century Lübeck copyist, Emblematic Scroll in Latin, attributed to George Ripley (1415-1490), circa 1600. Watercolour, wash, and ink on woven paper mounted on linen, 343 x 38 1/2 cm. Wellcome Collection, London. ‘The Cult of Beauty’ exhibition, 26 October 2023 – 28 April 2024
    Unidentified early 17th-century Lübeck copyist, Emblematic Scroll in Latin, attributed to George Ripley (1415-1490), circa 1600. Watercolour, wash, and ink on woven paper mounted on linen, 343 x 38 1/2 cm. Wellcome Collection, London. ‘The Cult of Beauty’ exhibition, 26 October 2023 – 28 April 2024
    Unidentified early 17th-century Lübeck copyist, Emblematic Scroll in Latin, attributed to George Ripley (1415-1490), circa 1600. Watercolour, wash, and ink on woven paper mounted on linen, 343 x 38 1/2 cm. Wellcome Collection, London. ‘The Cult of Beauty’ exhibition, 26 October 2023 – 28 April 2024
    Unidentified early 17th-century Lübeck copyist, Emblematic Scroll in Latin, attributed to George Ripley (1415-1490), circa 1600. Watercolour, wash, and ink on woven paper mounted on linen, 343 x 38 1/2 cm. Wellcome Collection, London. ‘The Cult of Beauty’ exhibition, 26 October 2023 – 28 April 2024
  • Sebastiano del Piombo (1485-1547), “Judith (or Salome?),” 1510.

    Sebastiano del Piombo (1485-1547), Judith (or Salome?), 1510, Oil on poplar, 54.9 × 44.5 cm, The National Gallery, London

    Sebastiano del Piombo (1485-1547), Judith (or Salome?), 1510, Oil on poplar, 54.9 × 44.5 cm, The National Gallery, London

    This artwork from 1510, from the artist’s early Venetian period, underscores his interest in the psychological drama of historical and biblical figures. The identity of the subject is ambiguous, potentially depicting either Salome with John the Baptist’s head or Judith with Holofernes’ head. This reflects the Venetian elite’s interest in exploring complex biblical and ancient themes in a vivid and explicit manner. According to art historians, the latter subject was a more popular choice at that time.

    Such dramatic paintings of powerful women were particularly popular in Venice due to the city’s intricate political landscape and the societal fascination with strong, influential female figures who could symbolise the city’s resilience and its complex engagement with themes of power and morality.

    Sebastiano’s artistic journey began in an unexpected realm: music. According to Vasari, who is not always reliable, Sebastiano, originally named Sebastiano Luciani, initially pursued a music career as a lute player and singer. His transition to the visual arts led him to study first under Giovanni Bellini and later possibly under Giorgione. In 1511, Sebastiano moved to Rome, where he collaborated with Raphael and developed a close relationship with Michelangelo.  His friendship with Michelangelo, who was the godfather of his child and provided preparatory drawings for his various artworks, was an essential aspect of his career until their friendship ended in 1534.

    After the Sack of Rome in 1527, Sebastiano moved back to  Venice before returning to Rome in 1529. In 1531, he became the papal ‘plombatore,’ or Keeper of the Seal, acquiring his nickname “del Piombo” (“of the Lead”) from this role, which involved using a lead seal to stamp official documents for the Pope. This prestigious appointment led to a decline in his artistic output. However, he remained respected in artistic circles, even though great masters of his era, including Michelangelo, considered his artistic abilities somewhat inferior.

    Sebastiano del Piombo (1485-1547), Judith (or Salome?), 1510, Oil on poplar, 54.9 × 44.5 cm, The National Gallery, London
    Sebastiano del Piombo (1485-1547), Judith (or Salome?), 1510, Oil on poplar, 54.9 × 44.5 cm, The National Gallery, London
  • St Vedast Alias Foster, London

    The Church of St Vedast Alias Foster, London

    The Church of St Vedast Alias Foster, London
    The Church of St Vedast Alias Foster, London

    On Foster Lane, a short street running north from Cheapside in the City of London, stands a church whose name carries within it a compressed piece of linguistic history. Saint Vedast-alias-Foster takes its double title from a single source: Vedast, a Frankish bishop who died around 540 and whose name, passing through successive vernacular corruptions (Vastes, Fastes, Faster, Fauster, Forster) settled eventually in medieval English as Foster, so thoroughly that the lane itself was renamed after the saint in the thirteenth century and then renamed after the corruption, the original lost from the street but preserved in the church’s formal designation. There is only one other church in England still dedicated to Vedast, at Tathwell in Lincolnshire, which places the London foundation in a category of genuine rarity even by the standards of the City’s unusually eclectic calendar of medieval dedications.

    Vedast’s significance in the early Frankish church rested partly on a single well-documented moment and partly on decades of institutional labour. Around 496, when Clovis I (c. 466–511), king of the Franks, was making his way to Rheims to receive baptism from Saint Remigius (c. 437–c. 533), Vedast accompanied him and helped prepare him for the ceremony. He was then appointed to the see of Arras and Cambrai and spent his episcopate rebuilding a church that prolonged disruption and invasion had reduced to near-desolation. The hagiographic tradition emphasises his patience and practical charity as a bishop, and his tomb at Arras became a pilgrimage site whose reputation spread across northern France and, more selectively, into England.

    The foundation of the London church dates by tradition to around 1170, and the most plausible account associates it with the Flemish community then established in the City, possibly connected to a Flemish ancestor of Ralph d’Arras (d. after 1276), Sheriff of London in 1276; the Augustinian clergy of Arras, among whom the Vedast cult was particularly strong, have also been proposed. From at least the twelfth century the patronage of the church lay with the Prior and Convent of Canterbury, passing in 1352 to the Archbishop of that see, an arrangement that made Saint Vedast one of the thirteen ecclesiastical Peculiars of London, exempt from the jurisdiction of the Bishop of London. The medieval building accumulated additions over time: a chapel dedicated to Saint Dunstan was added in the fifteenth century, and altars to the Virgin and to Saint Nicholas followed in the sixteenth.

    The Great Fire of London in September 1666 reached Foster Lane on its third day. The church was not entirely destroyed: the roof, pews, pulpit, and fittings were lost, but the walls were thought sufficiently survived that the parishioners undertook repairs and briefly reopened the building. It soon became clear, however, that the structure required more thoroughgoing attention, and Christopher Wren’s (1632–1723) office oversaw a full rebuilding completed between 1670 and 1673. Robert Hooke (1635–1703), Wren’s close colleague and the City Surveyor overseeing much of the post-Fire reconstruction, is also recorded as having been involved in the work, though the precise division of responsibility between the two men at this church remains imprecisely documented.

    By the early 1690s structural problems had accumulated again, and the medieval tower, which had survived the Fire largely intact, was pulled down in 1694 and rebuilt between 1695 and 1698, possibly incorporating the lower medieval stages. The three-tier spire was added subsequently, between 1709 and 1712. Its three diminishing stages (the first concave, the second convex, the third an obelisk spire) form a composition of some sophistication in Portland stone. The attribution to Nicholas Hawksmoor (1661–1736) rests on his surviving correspondence with the churchwardens rather than on any extant drawings, and the scholarship has tended to treat it as probable rather than settled. The master mason Edward Strong the Younger (1676–1741) oversaw the construction and was responsible for the cherubs on the west front and bell tower and for the dove in glory sculpture at the east end of the south aisle. With the spire’s completion in 1712, Saint Vedast was probably the last of the post-Fire churches to reach its finished state.

    The night of 29 December 1940 gutted the interior of Saint Vedast for the second time in three centuries. German incendiary raids reduced the roof, pews, and fittings to nothing, leaving the external walls, tower, and spire intact. A proposal by Hugh Casson (1910–1999) that Saint Vedast and several other damaged City churches should be preserved as open ruins was rejected, and the restoration begun in 1953 was entrusted to Stephen Dykes Bower (1903–1994), working under a Parochial Church Council that included the poet John Betjeman (1906–1984). Dykes Bower introduced collegiate-style seating, screened off the south aisle, and constructed new internal walls within the east and south faces to regularise the floor plan for a smaller modern congregation. A strong black and white terrazzo floor was laid. The plaster ceiling was modelled on Wren-period precedents and finished with gold leaf and aluminium, the gilding funded by the Worshipful Company of Goldsmiths, whose hall stands a short distance along Foster Lane. The restoration was substantially complete by 1962.

    Dykes Bower furnished the interior largely from City churches that had been demolished or had lost their congregations. The font and its cover, the latter attributed to Grinling Gibbons (1648–1721), came from Saint Anne and Saint Agnes on Gresham Street, a surviving Wren church that had ceded its furnishings; both were recovered by the organbuilder Noel Mander (1912–1994), who also rebuilt the organ from a derelict eighteenth-century instrument removed from a church in Fulham. The sword rest at Saint Vedast came from Saint Anne and Saint Agnes as well. The elaborately carved pulpit was made for All Hallows Bread Street, a Wren church demolished in 1876, not lost to bombing but long since gone from the City; it is among the finer pieces of post-Fire carved woodwork to survive in a City interior. The reredos behind the altar came from Saint Christopher-le-Stock in Threadneedle Street, demolished in 1781. The stained glass at the east end, depicting scenes from the life of Vedast, was made after the restoration by Whitefriars Glass, using opaque glass both to conceal the modern buildings behind and to correct the visual distortion caused by the non-perpendicular angle of the east wall. In the rectory courtyard, a carved stone head of Canon Mortlock, who led the parish through the restoration years, was made by Jacob Epstein (1880–1959); a painting by Hans Feibusch (1898–1998) depicting Jacob and the Angel hangs within the rectory itself.


    The Church of St Vedast Alias Foster, London
    The Church of St Vedast Alias Foster, London

    References

    Brooke, C. and Keir, G. (1975) London 800–1216: The Shaping of a City. London: Secker & Warburg

    Downes, K. (1959) Hawksmoor. London: A. Zwemmer

    Downes, K. (1988) The Architecture of Wren. 2nd edn. Reading: Redhedge

    Farmer, D.H. (2011) The Oxford Dictionary of Saints. 5th edn. Oxford: Oxford University Press

    Harries, J. (2011) Stephen Dykes Bower. London: Merrell

    Pevsner, N. and Cherry, B. (1997) The Buildings of England: London 1: The City of London. Revised edn. London: Penguin

    Stow, J. (1603) A Survey of London. London: John Wolfe

    Wood, I. (1994) The Merovingian Kingdoms, 450–751. London: Longman

    Wren Society (1924–1943) The Wren Society, 20 vols. Oxford: Wren Society

  • The Question Mark: Rembrandt’s A Woman Bathing in a Stream and What We Bring to It

    Rembrandt van Rijn (1606 – 1669), A Woman bathing in a Stream, 1654, Oil on oak, 61.8 × 47 cm, The National Gallery, London

    Rembrandt van Rijn (1606 - 1669), A Woman bathing in a Stream, 1654, Oil on oak, 61.8 × 47 cm, The National Gallery, London
    Rembrandt van Rijn (1606 – 1669), A Woman bathing in a Stream, 1654, Oil on oak, 61.8 × 47 cm, The National Gallery, London

    The painting’s earlier provenance is not documented. It was almost certainly the lot sold at the Blackwood sale of 18-19 March 1756, where it was described as ‘A Woman going into the Water holding her Coats pretty high, and laughing at what she sees reflected.’ Before that, it was possibly the picture listed in the Andrew Hay sale of May 1739 as, simply, ‘A Woman going into a Bath.’ These early descriptions deserve attention, not because they are especially eloquent, but because of what they do not say. There is no Hendrickje. No Callisto. No mythological apparatus of any kind. The eighteenth-century cataloguer saw a woman wading into water and described what was in front of him. The identification of the model, the decoding of the subject, the biographical backstory: all of that came later, and it is worth asking what changed in the way people look at pictures between 1756 and the present day.

    The painting has appeared in every major catalogue raisonné of Rembrandt’s work. John Smith (1781-1855) listed it as No. 165 in his A Catalogue Raisonné of the Works of the Most Eminent Dutch, Flemish and French Painters (1829-1842). Wilhelm von Bode (1845-1929) and Cornelis Hofstede de Groot (1863-1930) gave it No. 353 in their complete edition (1897-1906); Hofstede de Groot subsequently catalogued it as No. 306 in his own expanded ten-volume raisonné (1907-1928). Abraham Bredius (1855-1946) assigned it No. 437 in 1935, retained by Horst Gerson (1907-1978) in the revised third edition of 1969. Kurt Bauch (1897-1975) listed it as No. 278. Christian Tümpel (1937-2009) gave it No. 122. In each case, the title remained broadly descriptive: a woman, a stream, a bath. Neil MacLaren’s (1909-1988) catalogue of the National Gallery’s Dutch School, revised and expanded by Christopher Brown in 1991, introduced a quiet but significant addition: the parenthetical question mark after Hendrickje Stoffels’s name. A Woman Bathing in a Stream (Hendrickje Stoffels?). That question mark is, in its way, one of the most carefully weighed interventions in the painting’s entire literature.

    Then, in 2011, Ernst van de Wetering (1938-2021) published Volume V of A Corpus of Rembrandt Paintings, the ongoing project of the Rembrandt Research Project. He gave the painting its longest and most committed title: A woman wading in a pond (Callisto in the wilderness), catalogued as V 19 and discussed across sixteen pages (pp. 519-534). Volume VI subsequently listed it as No. 229. Volker Manuth catalogued it as No. 325; Jeroen Giltaij as No. 473. What is striking about the trajectory from Smith’s plain listing in 1836 to Van de Wetering’s retitling in 2011 is the steady accretion of meaning laid onto a picture that, by its very nature, resists it. The eighteenth-century auctioneer described what he saw. Van de Wetering decided what the picture was about. Whether that represents progress in understanding or a loss of something else, a willingness to sit with uncertainty, is a question that goes well beyond this single panel.

    The identification of the figure as Callisto was first proposed by Jan Leja in 1996, in an article published in Simiolus. Leja argued that the woman’s shift, pulled above her knees but emphatically not removed, aligned with the Ovidian story of Callisto as retold in seventeenth-century Dutch sources rather than in Ovid’s own Metamorphoses. Karel van Mander (1548-1606), in his commentary on the Metamorphoses appended to the Schilder-boeck [Book of Painters] (1603-1604), described how Callisto, expelled from Diana’s retinue after her pregnancy was discovered (the result of Jupiter’s assault, not her own doing), ‘for some time kept herself secretly in the wilderness.’ This detail has no counterpart in Ovid. Leja proposed that Rembrandt’s painting depicts exactly that moment: Callisto alone and exiled, wading through water, her pregnancy still concealed. Lyckle de Vries arrived independently at the same reading in 2006, and Van de Wetering adopted it for the Corpus. Bart Cornelis, Curator of Dutch and Flemish Paintings at the National Gallery, has endorsed this interpretation publicly. Other scholars have proposed Susanna at her bath, though the absence of the voyeuristic elders (present in Rembrandt’s 1647 Berlin Susanna and the Elders) makes this harder to sustain. The suggestion that the figure is Diana herself, the goddess of the hunt, does not appear to have serious scholarly support: Diana is part of the Callisto story, but the identification proposed in the literature is with Callisto, not with the goddess who punishes her. Still others have drawn a connection with Bathsheba, since Rembrandt’s great Bathsheba at Her Bath (Musée du Louvre, Paris) was painted in the same year and the two women share a physical type: wide-hipped, auburn-haired, with high round foreheads. But MacLaren’s catalogue entry noted that the panel’s small size and oak support might suggest a preparatory sketch for a larger history painting, though no such painting is known, and Rembrandt, unlike Rubens, did not typically produce preliminary oil sketches for larger projects.

    The biographical parallel with Hendrickje Stoffels (c. 1626-1663) is widely discussed. In July 1654, Hendrickje was summoned before the Council of the Reformed Church in Amsterdam and admonished for living with Rembrandt, in the church records’ phrase, ‘like a whore’ (in hoererije), and was banned from the celebration of the Lord’s Supper. Their daughter Cornelia was baptised on 30 October of that year. Hendrickje would have been about twenty-eight. The alignment with Callisto’s story is, as several scholars have acknowledged, difficult to ignore: both women punished by an institution for a pregnancy they did not choose entirely on their own terms, both exiled from a community. But how far should this kind of reading be pushed? Is the painting a private allegory, addressed to those who knew the household and would recognise the parallel? Or is the biographical reading simply the one that modern audiences find most satisfying, because it gives us a human story, and human stories, especially those involving shame and intimacy and institutional cruelty, are easier to care about than problems of iconography?

    This is a question that the literature tends to raise and then quietly set aside. There is a powerful appetite, in Rembrandt studies and beyond, for the artist’s life to illuminate the artist’s work, and the appetite is strongest when the life involves suffering, scandal, or financial ruin. Simon Schama’s Rembrandt’s Eyes (1999) is the most fully realised expression of this tendency, and Paul Crenshaw’s Rembrandt’s Bankruptcy (2006) traces the economic and social dimensions of the painter’s decline. But is the biographical approach the only way into a picture like this, or even the best one? The 1756 Blackwood cataloguer managed to look at the painting without knowing or caring who the woman was, and his description, which notices her holding up her clothes and laughing at her reflection, is in some respects more attentive to what is actually on the panel than much of what has been written since. He saw paint, not narrative. Whether that represents a failure of interpretation or a different, perhaps more honest, mode of looking is not a question with a settled answer.

    Michael Zell, in a substantial article published in the Journal of Historians of Netherlandish Art (2024), has argued that the painting’s resistance to classification is itself the subject. Zell reads the picture as a deliberate experiment with the borders between a genre scene and a history painting, between a life study and a finished composition, and suggests that Rembrandt used the figure’s ambiguity to challenge the hierarchies of artistic categorisation that structured Dutch art theory in the writings of Van Mander and Samuel van Hoogstraten (1627-1678). The painting is signed and dated, which confirms it was complete to Rembrandt’s satisfaction, and yet it retains the loose, energetic brushwork of an informal sketch. Zell draws a parallel with the wash drawing A Young Woman Sleeping (c. 1654, British Museum), one of Rembrandt’s few drawings executed entirely with the brush. Christian Tümpel’s (1937-2009) concept of Herauslösung, the isolation of a single figure from a recognisable biblical or classical scene, has also been applied to the painting, and Zell notes that the pose has been connected to the ancient mulier impudica, a figure-type of a woman lifting her covering to expose herself. The Rembrandt Research Project’s own characterisation is plain enough: “Although at first sight this well preserved work may appear sketchily executed, it is a very subtle painting, epitomising Rembrandt’s artistic and pictorial genius. Its authenticity has never been questioned.”

    Perhaps what draws people back to this painting, year after year, has less to do with Hendrickje’s biography or Callisto’s exile than with something harder to put into words: the directness with which the paint meets the eye, the sense of a figure caught in a moment so particular and so unguarded that it feels almost intrusive to look. But then, looking is what the painting asks for. It is signed, dated, and finished. Rembrandt wanted it seen. The question is whether we see what he put there, or what we bring.

    Rembrandt van Rijn (1606 - 1669), A Woman bathing in a Stream, 1654, Oil on oak, 61.8 × 47 cm, The National Gallery, London
    Rembrandt van Rijn (1606 – 1669), A Woman bathing in a Stream, 1654, Oil on oak, 61.8 × 47 cm, The National Gallery, London

    References

    Bomford, D., Kirby, J., Roy, A., Rüger, A. and White, R. (2006) Rembrandt. London: National Gallery Company; New Haven: Yale University Press

    Bredius, A. (1935) Rembrandt: The Complete Edition of the Paintings. Vienna: Phaidon

    Bredius, A., revised by Gerson, H. (1969) Rembrandt: The Complete Edition of the Paintings. 3rd edn. London: Phaidon

    Crenshaw, P. (2006) Rembrandt’s Bankruptcy: The Artist, His Patrons, and the Art Market in Seventeenth-Century Netherlands. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press

    Hofstede de Groot, C. (1907-1928) Catalogue Raisonné of the Works of the Most Eminent Dutch Painters of the Seventeenth Century. 10 vols. London, Stuttgart and Paris

    Leja, J. (1996) ‘Rembrandt’s “Woman Bathing in a Stream”‘, Simiolus: Netherlands Quarterly for the History of Art, 24(4), pp. 320-327.

    MacLaren, N., revised and expanded by Brown, C. (1991) National Gallery Catalogues: The Dutch School, 1600-1900. London: National Gallery Publications

    Schama, S. (1999) Rembrandt’s Eyes. New York: Alfred A. Knopf

    Sluijter, E.J. (2006) Rembrandt and the Female Nude. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press

    Smith, J. (1829-1842) A Catalogue Raisonné of the Works of the Most Eminent Dutch, Flemish and French Painters. 9 vols. London

    Van de Wetering, E. (2011) ‘Rembrandt — A woman wading in a pond (Callisto in the wilderness)’, in A Corpus of Rembrandt Paintings. Vol. 5. Stichting Foundation Rembrandt Research Project. Dordrecht: Springer, pp. 519-534

    Zell, M. (2024) ‘Against the Mirror: Indeterminacy and the Poetics of Painting in Rembrandt’s Woman Bathing in a Stream‘, Journal of Historians of Netherlandish Art, 16(2).Available at , https://jhna.org/articles/against-the-mirror-indeterminacy-poetics-of-painting-rembrandt-woman-bathing-in-a-stream/ (Accessed 12 2024)

    RKD – Netherlands Institute for Art History (n.d.) Rembrandt van Rijn, A Woman Bathing in a Stream (Hendrickje Stoffels?), 1654. RKDimages, image no. 59022. Available at: https://rkd.nl/en/explore/images/59022 (Accessed: 14 January 2024)

  • The Last Great Commission: Rubens and the Torre de la Parada

    Peter Paul Rubens (1577-1640), The creation of the Milky Way (Ovid, Metamorphoses, I, 168-171), 1636-1638, Oil on canvas, 181.0 x 244.0 cm, Prado Museum, Madrid, on short loan to the Dulwich Gallery, London

    Peter Paul Rubens (1577-1640), The creation of the Milky Way (Ovid, Metamorphoses, I, 168-171), 1636-1638, Oil on canvas, 181.0 x 244.0 cm, Prado Museum, Madrid, on short loan to the Dulwich Gallery, London
    Peter Paul Rubens( 1577-1640), The creation of the Milky Way (Ovid, Metamorphoses, I, 168-171), 1636-1638, Oil on canvas, 181.0 x 244.0 cm, Prado Museum, Madrid, on short loan to the Dulwich Gallery, London

    Philip IV of Spain (1605–1665) had a passion for hunting and a serious programme of self-presentation. The Torre de la Parada, built in 1635–36 at El Pardo on the outskirts of Madrid around an older sixteenth-century tower, was intended to serve both appetites at once: a working hunting lodge and a theatre of classical mythology, its walls to be covered with scenes from Ovid that would transform a functional royal retreat into something considerably more ambitious. In the autumn of 1636, the commission for its decoration reached Rubens in Antwerp. It was the largest single programme Philip IV ever placed with him, and for Rubens it arrived in the final years of a life already shortened by chronic gout. Rubens responded at a pace that remains remarkable on any account: the oil sketches on toned panels were substantially complete by January 1637, barely two months after the commission was confirmed, and the canvases were largely finished by late that year. The preparatory oil sketches on toned panels were largely complete by January 1637, barely two months after the commission was placed, and the canvases were substantially finished by late that year, the whole enterprise accomplished in under eighteen months.

    The original programme envisioned more than 150 paintings in total, combining mythological subjects drawn primarily from Ovid’s (43 BC–AD 17/18) Metamorphoses with hunting scenes and other contributions by Diego Velázquez (1599–1660) and other painters. Of this total, Rubens’s workshop was responsible for approximately sixty mythological canvases.

    The method was the one Rubens had refined across decades of studio practice. He prepared a rapid oil sketch on a small toned panel, then handed the design to an assistant to execute at full scale. Among those who painted from his designs were Cornelis de Vos (c.1584–1651), Jacob Jordaens (1593–1678), Theodoor van Thulden (1606–1669), and Erasmus Quellinus the Younger (1607–1678). Cardinal-Infante Ferdinand (1609–1641), the king’s brother and Governor of the Spanish Netherlands, monitored the project in Antwerp and expressed concern at the number of nude figures across the cycle. Rubens acknowledged the objection with characteristic diplomatic ease while making no changes, noting that the works were already too far advanced to alter. The paintings were packed and dispatched to Madrid after drying thoroughly, Rubens having insisted on this delay despite pressure to send them sooner. He died on 30 May 1640 in Antwerp, of chronic gout that had by 1639 left him unable to paint, the condition having by then caused the heart failure that killed him at sixty-two. Of the approximately sixty mythological paintings, around forty survive, most now in the Prado.

    This painting is among those Rubens executed entirely himself rather than delegating to the studio, which places it within the smaller autograph core of what was otherwise a largely collaborative enterprise. The subject synthesises two distinct ancient sources. Ovid’s Metamorphoses (I, 168–171) names the Milky Way, the Via Lactea, as the luminous road leading to the palace of Jupiter, without accounting for its formation. The story of how it came into being is recorded in the De Astronomia [On Astronomy], a text attributed to Hyginus but whose authorship and precise date remain disputed among classical scholars. The text preserves several conflicting versions of the myth: in one, Juno unknowingly nurses the infant Hermes; in another, closer to what Rubens depicts, the infant is Hercules, placed at her breast by Jupiter while she slept, so that the child might gain immortality through divine milk. Juno awoke, pulled the infant away, and the milk scattering from her breast formed the galaxy. The Prado catalogue notes that Rubens based the composition on an unspecified work by Titian (c.1488–1576), consistent with his lifelong habit of reworking Venetian prototypes, though the specific source painting has not been identified in the scholarship.

    The Brussels modello, preserved in the Musées Royaux des Beaux-Arts de Belgique, shows clearly what Rubens changed between his initial design and the finished canvas. In the sketch, Jupiter is entirely absent and Juno’s lower limbs are positioned differently. In the painting Jupiter appears to the left, inactive, identified by the eagle at his feet gripping a bundle of lightning bolts, watching the event that his own scheming put in motion. The addition of Jupiter does more than fill the composition: it shifts the painting’s internal logic from Juno’s startled reaction toward the convergence of divine forces at a moment that will produce something permanent. The dark ground against which the figures are set presses them forward toward the picture plane with something close to sculptural relief, and the scatter of bright points across the upper canvas makes the cosmic consequence of the scene literal rather than implied. The peacocks drawing Juno’s chariot in the lower right are her traditional sacred animal throughout Roman religious iconography. Their presence is not decorative punctuation but iconographic precision: Rubens’s library at death, recorded in the estate inventory, included a substantial body of classical and antiquarian texts from which he drew directly for such details across the cycle.

    What arrests attention before any question about sources is the face. The Prado catalogue states directly that the features of Juno are those of Hélène Fourment (1614–1673), Rubens’s second wife. The identification connects this canvas to the sustained practice of his last decade, in which Hélène’s face and body appear repeatedly in mythological roles at the largest possible scale. Het Pelsken [The Little Fur Coat] (c.1636–38, Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna), painted at almost exactly the same moment as this canvas, fuses her body with the image of Venus emerging from her bath. Here the same face becomes Juno, queen of heaven and the body through which the galaxy is born. The two paintings together suggest that by the mid-1630s Rubens had arrived at a complete imaginative equation between his wife and female divinity in its fullest range, from the domestic and erotic to the cosmological. That equation was carried out within a private aesthetic that had been developing through the household portraits of the Fourment circle for more than a decade, and which now, in the context of the largest public commission of his late career, found its most expansive expression.

    The subsequent history of this painting is as telling as its making. Philip IV died in 1665 and his successor Charles II (1661–1700) had neither the health nor the inclination for hunting; the Torre fell into disuse within a generation of its completion. As the War of the Spanish Succession advanced at the start of the eighteenth century, the best paintings were prudently moved to other royal residences around 1710. In 1714 Austrian troops set fire to the building. The ruins stand to this day in Monte de El Pardo, within a protected natural reserve, inaccessible to the public. The painting was first documented at the Torre in 1701, then traced through the Royal Palace of Madrid in 1772, 1794, and 1814–18. On the death of Ferdinand VII of Spain (1784–1833) it entered the Prado in 1834, where it was placed in the Sala Reservada: the reserved room in which the royal collection kept works considered too indecorous for general public display. That designation is its own kind of commentary. A canvas of Juno modelled on the painter’s wife, made for the private pleasure of a hunting king who saw no conflict between erotic myth and royal self-regard, had become, in the more regulated cultural environment of the nineteenth century, a painting that required controlled access. The distance between those two eras measures something real about how the world in which Rubens worked had ceased to exist.

    References

    Alpers, S. (1971) The Decoration of the Torre de la Parada. Corpus Rubenianum Ludwig Burchard, Part IX. London: Phaidon

    Belkin, K.L. (1998) Rubens. London: Phaidon Press

    Museo Nacional del Prado (n.d.) Rubens, The Birth of the Milky Way, c.1636–38, inv. P001668. Available at: https://www.museodelprado.es/en/the-collection/art-work/the-birth-of-the-milky-way/c7369ad2-f0ae-4d5d-bb23-21f51bd3283c (Accessed: 12 January 2024).

    Pointon, M. (2021) ‘On The Origin of the Milky Way by Peter Paul Rubens: Astronomy, Astrology and Mythology in Early Modern Europe’, Zeitschrift für Kunstgeschichte, 84. Available at: https://www.researchgate.net/profile/Marcia-Pointon/publication/356660159_On_The_Origin_of_the_Milky_Way_by_Peter_Paul_Rubens_Astronomy_Astrology_and_Mythology_in_Early_Modern_Europe/links/63e3df32c002331f72626dce/On-The-Origin-of-the-Milky-Way-by-Peter-Paul-Rubens-Astronomy-Astrology-and-Mythology-in-Early-Modern-Europe.pdf (Accessed 12 January 2024)

    RKD – Netherlands Institute for Art History (n.d.) Rubens, The Origin of the Milky Way, c.1636–38. RKDimages, image no. 248249. The Hague: RKD – Netherlands Institute for Art History. Available at: https://rkd.nl/en/explore/images/248249 (Accessed: 12 January 2024).

    Van der Stighelen, K. (ed.) (2012) Rubens in Private: The Master Portrays His Family. Antwerp: Rubenshuis/Openbaar Kunstbezit in Vlaanderen

    Vergara, A. (1999) Rubens and his Spanish Patrons. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press

    White, C. (1987) Peter Paul Rubens: Man and Artist. New Haven and London: Yale University Press

  • St Olave’s Church, Hart Street, London.

    Initially built around 1050, likely as a timber structure, St. Olaf Church was rebuilt in stone in the 13th century and then again in 1450. Despite surviving the Great Fire of London in 1666, it sustained considerable damage during the Blitz of 1941. The restoration efforts that followed blended historical Gothic elements with sophisticated Tudor and Baroque wall memorials while incorporating survived furnishings from other congregations. This approach preserved a connection to the church’s storied past.

    Named after Olaf II Haraldsson (c. 995 – 1030), later canonised as Saint Olaf, the church and its London location is a testament to his enigmatic role in aiding King Æthelred II the Unready during the 1014 Battle of London Bridge against the Danes. The historical accuracy of Norwegian King Olaf’s involvement in the London liberation, primarily documented by Icelandic writer Snorri Sturluson (1179 –  1241) in his Heimskringla saga, is debated due to its absence in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle. Nonetheless, the dedication of six medieval churches to Saint Olaf in London signifies his enduring legacy. Saint Olaf’s enigmatic blend of historical, religious, and mythological folk attributes has confounded historians over the centuries. The earliest traces of a liturgical cult of Olaf are found in England already in the 11th century with prayer service, for Olaf is found in the so-called Leofric collectar (c. 1050) in Exeter Cathedral. This English cult seems to have been short-lived though

    St Olave's Church, Hart Street, London.
    St Olave’s Church, Hart Street, London.
    St Olave's Church, Hart Street, London.
    St Olave's Church, Hart Street, London.
    St Olave’s Church, Hart Street, London.
    St Olave’s Church, Hart Street, London.
  • François Duquesnoy (1597 –1643), ‘Rondanini Faun,’ c.1625-1630, and the reworked  fragment  Roman 2nd century AD.

    François Duquesnoy (1597 –1643), Rondanini Faun, c.1625-1630, and the reworked  fragment  Roman 2nd century AD, Marble sculpture, 175 cm, The British Museum, The Enlightenment Gallery (Room 1)

    François Duquesnoy (1597 –1643), Rondanini Faun, c..1625-1630, and the reworked  fragment  Roman 2nd century AD, Marble sculpture, 175 cm, The British Museum, The Enlightenment Gallery (Room 1)

    François Duquesnoy, a celebrated Flemish Baroque sculptor active in Rome and known there as ‘Il Fiammingo’, developed a restrained Baroque idiom distinct from the more theatrical manner of many Italian contemporaries.

    The Rondanini Faun combines a reworked 2nd-century Roman torso with Duquesnoy’s additions — the head, limbs, and further details — creating a synthesis of classical form and Baroque vitality. The result transforms the weathered fragment into a dynamic figure, the faun depicted in motion, clashing cymbals, a marked departure from the static nature of the ancient original. This emphasis on movement reflects the Baroque fascination with animation and expressive energy.

    The work takes its name from the Palazzo Rondanini in Rome, where it was once kept. It holds particular importance in discussions of authorship and restoration, exemplifying Duquesnoy’s ability to navigate the fine line between conserving an ancient artefact and reimagining it. His treatment respects the sculpture’s classical core while subtly overlaying it with the stylistic language of his own time.

    A related example is Duquesnoy’s Adonis Mazarin in the Louvre, where an ancient fragment is similarly completed with new elements. Together, these works define his distinctive place in Baroque sculpture, positioned between antiquity’s measured harmony and the heightened drama of contemporaries such as Bernini.

  • St Margaret Lothbury, London.

    St Margaret Lothbury, Lothbury, City of London, London

    Located behind the Bank of England, St Margaret Lothbury was first recorded in 1185. Rebuilt in 1440, it was destroyed in the Great Fire of London in 1666 and reconstructed by Christopher Wren between 1683 and 1692. The top stage of the tower, possibly designed by Robert Hooke, was added in 1698–99. Probably the third church on the site, its slightly asymmetrical plan, with a slanted far wall, reflects the constraints imposed by neighbouring buildings during the final rebuilding.

    Over the last two centuries, the church has acquired furnishings from several demolished Baroque churches in the area, giving it an exceptional collection of seventeenth-century woodwork. Notable among these are works attributed to the Dutch-English sculptor and carver Grinling Gibbons. The baptismal font, originally in St Olave, Old Jewry, was moved here after that church’s partial demolition in 1887 and is characteristic of Gibbons’ workshop style. The church also houses a rare choir screen — one of only two surviving in Wren churches — along with the tester above the pulpit, both brought from All Hallows the Great, Thames Street, in 1894 following its demolition. The screen is decorated with the Stuart royal arms and surmounted by a seventeenth-century German eagle donated by a member of the congregation. Paintings of Moses and Aaron, dating from around 1700 and formerly in St Christopher-le-Stocks, were added after that church’s demolition in 1781. The organ, made by George England, also came from St Olave, Old Jewry.

    St Margaret Lothbury is among the few Wren churches to have sustained only minor damage during the Second World War.

    St Margaret Lothbury, Lothbury, City of London, London
    St Margaret Lothbury, Lothbury, City of London, London
    St Margaret Lothbury, Lothbury, City of London, London
    St Margaret Lothbury, Lothbury, City of London, London