Born into a family of seven children, Klimt was exposed to artistic activities from an early age. His father, Ernst Klimt, was a gold engraver and metalworker, while his mother, Anna Finster, was an opera singer. As a young man, Klimt pursued art studies in Vienna. Once he became a recognized painter, he never stopped rethinking and reinventing art, drawing inspiration from French and German Impressionists and Symbolists.
A Multifaceted Artist Beyond Just Painting
For ten years, Gustav Klimt worked as a decorative painter, taking on academic-style commissions. Later, he shifted his focus to modernist canvases, becoming a key figure in Symbolism. He also painted landscapes and figures influenced by Impressionism.
Beyond painting, Klimt was also a decorator, illustrator, lithographer, ceramicist, and a designer of tapestries and mosaics—a prolific and unclassifiable artist!
A Lifelong Bachelor but a Prolific Lover
Klimt lived with his mother and sisters until his death, yet he had numerous affairs, sometimes with the wives of his patrons. Many of these relationships were fleeting or intermittent, but they resulted in the birth of 14 illegitimate children. Despite his many romances, Klimt never married, devoting himself entirely to his artistic pursuits.
Emilie Flöge: His Muse and Significant Companion
At 40 years old, Klimt met Emilie Flöge, a striking and modern young woman of Jewish descent, 23 years old at the time. She ran a fashion house, and Klimt was captivated by her elegance and innovative spirit. She became his secret and discreet companion, inspiring many of his paintings—including his most famous work, The Kiss.
Emilie remained his indispensable muse, his lover, and his lifelong friend.
The Scandal of Philosophy, Medicine, and Jurisprudence
The bottom portion of the Medicine picture, showing HygieiaPhilosophy, 1899–1907. Ceiling panel for the Great Hall of Vienna UniversityJurisprudence, 1899–1907
These three works were commissioned by the University of Vienna to adorn the vaulted ceiling of its entrance hall. In 1900, Klimt presented Philosophy, depicting an enigmatic sphinx-like figure with blurred contours, symbolizing the different stages of life—from birth to death, including love. Medicine portrays a powerful femme fatale surrendering to pain, while Jurisprudence features a tormented criminal, consumed by his demons, before an impassive justice system. These paintings sparked an outcry, shocking audiences with their overt sensuality and provocative modernism.
Works Destroyed by the Nazis
The three paintings—Philosophy, Medicine, and Jurisprudence—were destroyed by the Nazis in 1945. At Immendorf Castle, where several of Klimt’s paintings were stored, Nazi forces chose to burn them rather than let them fall into Soviet hands. During this turbulent period, other Klimt masterpieces, including Portrait of Adele Bloch-Bauer, were stolen from Jewish owners, leading to modern-day legal battles between museums and the heirs fighting for restitution.
Danaë: A Sensual and Intimate Figure
At the end of his Golden Period, Klimt shifted towards softer, more intimate works, moving away from overt provocation. Yet, his female figures remained voluptuous and unsettling in their exposed nudity. His oil painting Danaë is a prime example, depicting the mythological Danaë, who, in Greek mythology, was impregnated by Zeus in the form of a golden rain. The artwork simultaneously evokes the innocence of the curled-up figure in a fetal position and the latent eroticism suggested by her pose and the prominent display of her bare body.
Erotic Posing Sessions
Women take center stage in Klimt’s work, transformed into golden, dreamlike beings. However, sensuality is a defining characteristic of many of his paintings.
His models, often Viennese high-society women, posed nude in his private studio, adopting highly erotic postures at his request. Later, Klimt would “dress” them in ornamental motifs and shimmering colors on his canvases. These scandal-tinged posing sessions only added to his mystique and notoriety.
A Career of Ups and Downs
Gustav Klimt experienced both fame and rejection for over a decade. In 1910, he participated in the Venice Biennale, which helped him regain recognition. He reclaimed his status as one of the greatest “Fin-de-Siècle” decorative artists, solidifying his place as a leading figure in Austrian painting.
A Painter Passionate About Women and Fellow Artists
Living surrounded by his cats and lovers, Gustav Klimt spent his life portraying modern, mythical, and fatal women—both real and imagined. He was deeply influenced by many artists of his time, including Rodin, Klinger, Hodler, Monet, Seurat, Matisse, and Van Gogh.
His work absorbed these influences yet remained uniquely his own, characterized by contrasts and juxtapositions—the blending of stylization with naturalism, and figuration with allegory. From academic-style decorations to modern symbolist canvases, and even impressionist-inspired landscapes and portraits, Klimt’s art encapsulated the artistic evolution of his era.
During an exhibition of his paintings, the artist wanted to discreetly observe the reactions of the Royal Academy’s examiners by positioning himself in a nearby room. One of the examiners carefully studied his works, then approached Chardin and told him he had just seen some very good paintings and now wished to see his own. To this, the artist replied: “Sir, you have just seen them.”
A Remark Pushed Him to Paint More Than Still Lifes
After Chardin mentioned to a fellow painter that any sum of money was appreciated, even for a portrait, his friend replied, “Yes, if a portrait were as easy to paint as a sausage.” This remark made Chardin deeply question himself. Fearing he would be forgotten if he only painted still lifes, he decided to start depicting scenes of everyday life.
He Was More Admired in the 19th Century Than in His Own Time
Like many artists, Chardin was not fully appreciated during his lifetime. His works, especially The Ray, were more widely admired in the 19th century. Matisse often visited the Louvre to study his paintings and even created The Buffet inspired by Chardin. Cézanne drew inspiration from his still lifes, while Proust wrote: “We learned from Chardin that a pear is as alive as a woman, that an ordinary piece of pottery is as beautiful as a precious stone.”
Chardin Hardly Ever Left Paris
Chardin pastel selfportrait
Born in Paris, Jean Siméon Chardin lived in the family home on Rue de Seine for many years. After marrying Marguerite Saintard, he moved to Rue Princesse.
He spent most of his time in the Marais district, at the Royal Academy, and at the Louvre. While many painters of his time traveled to Italy to refine their skills, Chardin remained in Paris. Even when he left Rue Princesse, it was to move into the Louvre, where he also passed away in 1779.
The Artist Lived in the Louvre
In 1755, Chardin became treasurer of the Royal Academy. Two years later, he received a letter from King Louis XV granting him the residence of S. Marteau, recently deceased, in the Louvre’s galleries. Chardin was so proud of this “promotion” that he read the letter aloud before the entire Royal Academy, as recorded in the official minutes. He moved in with his wife and had the renowned engraver Charles-Nicolas Cochin as his neighbor.
He Gradually Lost His Sight Due to Painting
From 1770 onward, Chardin’s eyesight began to deteriorate. He abandoned oil painting and turned to pastels on the advice of a fellow painter.
Chardin personally ground his pigments to achieve the colors he wanted. He then mixed them with a binding agent, but the mixture contained a significant amount of lead. This highly toxic substance likely caused progressive damage to his eyes.
Pierre-Jean Chardin was the first child of Jean Siméon Chardin and Marguerite Saintard. He was born a few months after their marriage, in November 1731. After his wife’s death in 1735, Chardin raised his son alone, who eventually became his student. Pierre-Jean furthered his training in Italy and even won the prestigious Prix de Rome in 1754. He returned to France in 1762 but went back to Italy in 1767, where he remained until his death in 1768.
Chardin Lost His Wife and Daughter in the Same Year
Some people speak of a curse when referring to the artist’s life. Chardin himself reportedly believed he was doomed. In 1735, just four years after his marriage to Marguerite Saintard, she passed away.
A few months later, their 20-month-old daughter, Marguerite-Agnès, also died—her fragile health likely worsened by the loss of her mother.
He Was Friends with Denis Diderot
Chardin was aware of the ambitious project led by d’Alembert and Diderot to create the famous Encyclopédie. Diderot, in turn, greatly admired Chardin’s works, as he understood their depth and intensity. Naturally, when they met, they became friends. Diderot often visited Chardin for tea in his Louvre apartment. In a small room near his studio, the artist would reveal to the philosopher paintings he had never shown to anyone before.
His Son Was Kidnapped by Pirates
In 1757, Jean Siméon Chardin gave his son the opportunity to study at the French Academy in Rome. However, Pierre-Jean’s time in Rome was marred by scandals that tarnished his reputation, including a dramatic incident in 1762 when he was captured by pirates. The details of this episode remain unclear—no one knows exactly how Pierre-Jean Chardin was kidnapped or how he was eventually freed.
Goya is almost 70 here, long deaf, with several lifetimes behind him, a career at court, political upheavals, illness, and numerous portraits, engravings, and phantasmagorical paintings. In this self-portrait, we see disheveled hair, a tired but not very old face. Goya is again receiving royal commissions, but in a few years, he will leave Spain for France forever.
Goya is an amazing person, changing simultaneously with the era and yet always recognizable, unique in his mature works. It is his engravings and drawings that will later fascinate the surrealists, it is he who was not afraid to bring out the fears and subconscious images that psychoanalysts would later deal with. But there are no monsters in the portrait — only a man with slumped shoulders and a heavy gaze who has endured a great deal.
Karl Bryullov: “Self-Portrait” (1833)
In 1833, Karl Bryullov was on his way to European fame. He had just finished the blockbuster painting “The Last Day of Pompeii,” which impressed viewers in Milan and Rome, and later in St. Petersburg. This portrait depicts a very self-satisfied young man. Contemporaries compared him to Apollo – alas, poor health and a questionable lifestyle soon left nothing of this beauty. Fashionable curls, a dark jacket – the set of a romantic, but not a lonely wanderer, rather a winner who knows his worth. Well-groomed, pampered by Italy, calm and with a touch of gloss. A tribute to romantic fashion is mandatory: furrowed brows, attentive gaze, mouth slightly open, collar unbuttoned. He is ready for a quick remark or listening attentively to the interlocutor. This is a man in his prime, full of life, like the heroes of Baroque sculpture, which he, of course, saw in his beloved Rome.
Gustave Courbet: “The Desperate Man” (1843–1845)
There is no doubt that Courbet would have started an Instagram account these days and photographed himself with a dog and in unusual poses. He loved to play and admire himself. And his early self-portraits unequivocally point to this. One of Courbet’s many roles (wounded, musician, hedonist with a pipe, etc.) is a man on the verge of despair. Was he ever in despair? Undoubtedly. Did he look in the mirror at these moments, wringing his hands and grabbing his thick hair? Unlikely.
In the self-portrait, we see an acting study: he seems to be playing a dramatic role in front of the camera. And he’s overacting a bit — which is quite in the tradition of 17th-18th century artists. At that time, many studies of facial expressions and gestures were painted, where models exaggeratedly demonstrate emotions. Courbet is the most accessible model for himself and at the same time an aesthetic object. Quite modern narcissism, quite understandable interest. The future “chief realist,” the subverter of the ideal in painting, is still practicing on himself and doing it with pleasure.
Edgar Degas: “Degas Saluting” (1865–1866)
The self-doubting melancholic and misanthrope Degas often depicted himself – but not for self-admiration, rather for research. He always has a sad-skeptical look and not too sociable appearance. It’s all the more strange that he greets us. Why? Probably, the ironic Degas repeats a popular pose from photographic visiting cards, on which gentlemen often raised their hats, greeting the addressee. At this time, Degas was already interested in photography and later briefly became an amateur photographer himself. And this time was pivotal for him: it was then that he moved away from academic contrived subjects and turned to modern life. Already in the next decade, Degas will exhibit in the company of the Impressionists and look like an innovator. For now, he is on the way.
Vincent Van Gogh: “Self-Portrait” (1889)
Van Gogh paints his face as if slowly and tensely crawling up a rock: not a single easy line, everything is excessive. In all his self-portraits, we see a dramatic experience of forms, surfaces, and color. This self-portrait — one of the last three — was painted in September 1889, 10 months before his death. At this time, Van Gogh was confined to the Saint-Rémy asylum. It was here that he painted the famous “Starry Night” – an unreal, cosmic landscape.
This portrait is also a kind of landscape — rocky, craggy, southern. There’s no straw hat, no beard, no pipe — everything is austere and bare. The face is turned so that the mutilated ear is not visible. The eyes are like voids, the nose like a mountain ridge. It seems that there is nothing to cling to in this face: it’s like a mountain against a blue sky. Van Gogh seems to become nature itself, and nature in the process of development and change. Looking into himself, the artist sees forces of a different, non-human scale.
Aubrey Beardsley: “Self-Portrait” (1892)
Dressed for a social reception (jacket, vest, bow tie), the 20-year-old Beardsley seems to be looking into a narrow mirror. He has a sickly thin decadent face, a frozen gaze, sharp cheekbones. The ears and nostrils are emphasized as if he’s listening and sniffing. Beardsley was able to make a sarcastic remark in response to critical attacks — this is reminded by the skeptical smirk. All lines are elongated, the figure with black hair resembles a gloomy night flower.
Where does such a young person get such acuteness of feelings, sickness, melancholy? Beardsley was forced to grow up early: he had been suffering from tuberculosis since he was seven. And he also became famous early, by the mid-1890s: society treated him with rejection, and the press aggressively met his works. In 1892, scandalous fame had not yet come to him, but he already looks tired and reminds one of Dorian Gray: outwardly young, inwardly an old man. Beardsley already guesses that in a few years the disease will defeat him. And the world of his famous refined-sickly drawings — artificial, fantastical — probably distracted from suffering, human stupidity, and earthly troubles.
Paul Cézanne: “Self-Portrait” (1882–1885)
Who is infinitely far from selfies as a narcissistic action, it’s Cézanne. In fact, he doesn’t care what to paint: an apple, his wife, a coffee pot, or himself. As long as the object doesn’t move. After all, Cézanne is concerned with unchanging eternal things. He molds the world anew – like a sculptor, from colorful matter. The shadows are colored, the objects are voluminous and heavy. There’s no sensuality (this is the opposite of Bryullov), no conveyance of textures. There is strength, power, clumsiness, the slowness of an analyst. As if he wants to understand the essence of objects. Cézanne painted his pictures, including self-portraits, for a long time, as if summarizing impressions from individual moments.
The artist’s task here is not to grasp the surface of the phenomenon, but to study it carefully. And you need to look at the self-portrait for a long time, like an old tree with annual rings. This is already a mature artist who has found his manner of building form. His landscapes and still lifes are self-sufficient, and he doesn’t want to please anyone. It’s impossible to guess if he has feelings and mood: he’s not looking at us and doesn’t live in the portrait for us. He is on his own. Like a mountain or an apple.
Mikhail Vrubel: “Self-Portrait” (1885)
A demonic bird-like face, dramatic light – is this an acting role or a nightmare? In many self-portraits, Vrubel peers into his face, as if trying to understand the degree of its materiality. It was during the period of creating this drawing (when he was healing his heartache in Odessa) that Vrubel finds an image that will later completely absorb him — the image of the Demon. This self-portrait brings to mind Gogol with his grotesque, night scenes, and mysticism: we see the contrast of light and darkness, a grotesque nose, vagueness of outlines.
The hatching is very bold, even rough, in some places the edges sculpt the form, and in some places one has to guess what exactly is depicted. The mouth is almost invisible, the eyes look questioningly. There is no clarity, no certainty, but there is a question, uncertainty. For Vrubel, there is a very thin line between the real and unreal worlds — and this is probably related to his future madness. And in this self-portrait, the young strange artist depicts himself not as a whole personality, but as a vision that flashed in the darkness.
Edvard Munch: “Self-Portrait with Burning Cigarette” (1895)
Munch would make an ideal character for a dark TV series. His life is excessively dramatic: handsome appearance, romantic passions, strange ideas, paranoia, outbursts of irritation, the death of loved ones, illnesses, anxieties, and fears. In his 1895 self-portrait, he reminds us of his bohemian nature: standing and smoking a cigarette as if in the spotlight. This brings to mind the artistic Berlin café “The Black Piglet,” where poets, writers, and artists would meet, as well as another self-portrait painted in 1903, where the artist depicts himself in hellish flames.
Darkness and flashes of light, twilight and radiance—something tumultuous, contrasting, like the music of Wagner or Sibelius. By this time, he had already begun the “Frieze of Life” series, which includes the famous “The Scream.” All of Munch’s paintings are deeply personal and autobiographical: there is always a sense of drama, suffering, fear, jealousy, and pain. This is a self-portrait of an anxious man at the turn of the century: there is no harmony in him, the future terrifies him, he is in despair and stupor.
Paul Gauguin: “Self-Portrait with Yellow Christ” (1890–1891)
This strongman with a mysterious expression constantly encrypted his paintings. Gauguin’s self-portrait is a symbolic manifesto in which he sums up his life. Here is the Breton period, when he painted “The Yellow Christ” surrounded by worshippers (whether it’s a mystical vision of Golgotha or the veneration of a statue of Christ in Brittany). And here is the Tahitian period, when he made a grotesque ceramic vessel in the shape of his own head, associating himself with something like an ancient totem. This vessel is visible in the background—so are we looking at two self-portraits? Or even three (since Gauguin considered the work of an artist to be something like the Stations of the Cross)? On the left is his past: an interest in the Middle Ages with a touch of Japanese influence, icons, and sculptures of Brittany, ancient customs. On the right, behind his mighty shoulder, is the present: he has become a primitive ceramic vessel, as if made by islanders. Here is Christianity and paganism, and here is the new prophet—Gauguin. He is a myth-maker, a demiurge, a mystifier, almost a shaman, and many other artists will follow his path into the 20th century.
The recognized modern form of European theater began to evolve in the 16th century as the range of play subjects broadened to appeal to a wider audience and the number of spectators increased. This development coincided with playwrights, designers, and actors venturing beyond the confines of church boundaries. Itinerant actors showcased their talents in palaces, noble homes, and universities as well as in the green spaces of villages and city squares.
History of Modern Theater in Europe
In this new genre of theater, alongside the legendary stories of kings and queens, everyday subjects such as jealousy between spouses, competition among villagers, and the sometimes amusing, sometimes bitter relationships between masters and servants were also narrated.
Playwrights like Shakespeare, Marlowe, and Ben Jonson, who were associated with reputable theater companies, were responsible for the transformation during the Elizabethan era in England.
In the late 16th century, the first permanent theaters, which were open-air theaters, were constructed in London. Subsequently, during the reigns of King James and King Charles I, indoor theaters were built.
Italian models, particularly those by Andrea Palladio, who built the Teatro Olimpico (“Olympic Theatre”) in Vicenza in 1580 as a recreation of the ancient Roman era, had an influence on architects.
In England, Inigo Jones, in France, Giacomo Torelli, and in Italy, Nicola Sabbatini, developed finely crafted lighting effects and movable stage sets for these venues. These innovations paved the way for playwrights, actors, and directors across Europe to have ownership in the theaters where they worked or where their plays were performed, allowing them to have more control over their productions.
Upstart Crow: Shakespeare’s Rising
Shakespeare masterfully crafted the intricate plots and vivid characters of his plays by weaving together a tapestry of knowledge derived from extensive reading and research. His sources of inspiration spanned a diverse spectrum, showcasing his remarkable breadth of influence.
When delving into English history, he drew upon the wealth of information found within Raphael Holinshed’s Chronicles, a contemporaneous historical compilation. This rich historical backdrop provided the foundation for many of his historical plays, lending them an air of authenticity and depth.
Intriguingly, the allure of ancient Rome captivated his imagination, leading him to the works of the Greek biographer Plutarch. Through Plutarch’s writings, Shakespeare unearthed a treasure trove of stories and characters that he skillfully adapted into his plays set in the heart of the Roman Empire.
Shakespeare was no distant observer; he was immersed in the bustling world of the theater. His successes and achievements within this realm did not go unnoticed, eliciting both admiration and envy from his contemporaries.
A testament to the competitive milieu of the theatrical landscape, in 1592, his rival playwright Robert Greene famously coined the phrase “an upstart crow, beautified with our feathers” to describe Shakespeare, shedding light on the fervent rivalry and ambition that fueled the dramatic arts during that era.
Theaters of Mystery and Miracle Based on the Bible
The roots of theater can indeed be traced back to the vibrant cultural shifts of the late 12th and 13th centuries, a period marked by a gradual departure from the confines of Latin-speaking churches. As communities sought to infuse their spiritual and ceremonial performances with a more relatable and accessible essence, the streets became an open canvas for their expressive narratives.
In France, the emergence of grand ceremonial plays, known as “mystery” and “miracle” plays, captured the collective imagination. These dramatic spectacles drew inspiration from the Bible, skillfully weaving together tales that brought to life the profound events of the lives of saints. It was an immersive journey into sacred stories, a communal experience that resonated with audiences at the time.
Beyond France, the enchantment of “miracle play cycles” (the earliest formal plays in Europe) extended to Northern England, where their allure spanned multiple days. With the assistance of various guilds, performers moved their mobile stages through the town in an itinerant performance that encouraged a lively exchange with the audience, who traveled alongside them.
As the theatrical landscape continued to evolve, a new genre emerged in the form of “revenge tragedies.” This genre, harkening back to the works of the classical Roman playwright and philosopher Seneca, held echoes of the medieval miracle plays, albeit with a striking twist. These dramas delved into the realm of torture and bloody events, exploring the darker aspects of human nature.
Among the compelling offerings of this period was “The Spanish Tragedy,” penned by the adept hand of Thomas Kyd in the vibrant hub of London in 1587. This play, with its gripping narrative of a bloody murder, captured the essence of its time, captivating audiences with its intrigue, suspense, and exploration of vengeance.
University Wits: The Era of University-Based Theater Writers
Portrait traditionally identified as Christopher Marlowe. Image: Corpus Christi College, Cambridge.
As the late 16th century unfolded, the burgeoning popularity of theater set the stage for a hunger for fresh narratives and new artistic expressions. This insatiable demand found its answer in a group of erudite writers known as the “university wits,” individuals whose intellectual journey had been nurtured within the hallowed halls of Oxford and Cambridge. Among these luminaries, Christopher Marlowe stood tall as a playwright and poet, a maestro whose creations left an indelible mark on the theatrical landscape.
At the forefront of this group, Marlowe wielded his creative quill to craft a series of epic dramas that transcended the boundaries of convention.
Works such as “Doctor Faustus,” “The Famous Tragedy of The Rich Jew of Malta,” “Tamburlaine the Great,” and “Edward II” unfolded on the stage with a newfound sense of dynamism and potency.
Marlowe’s ingenious manipulation of free verse, specifically the unrhymed iambic pentameter known as blank verse, breathed life into his characters and narratives, ushering in a new era of English drama.
Yet, Marlowe’s genius extended beyond mere linguistic mastery; his works delved into the very essence of human existence. Themes of ambition, power, and the intricate interplay of human nature unfurled within the realms of his narratives, engaging the minds and hearts of audiences. Through his craft, Marlowe painted vivid portraits of the human psyche, a testament to his profound understanding of the complexities of the human condition.
Marlowe’s innovative use of blank verse resonated not only within the confines of the theater but also reverberated through the corridors of literary history. His trailblazing contributions reverently carved a path toward the evolution of English drama, igniting the fires of inspiration among his contemporaries and generations to come.
Indeed, Marlowe’s influence on the dramatic tapestry of his era cannot be overstated. His contributions acted as a transformative catalyst, propelling the transition from the age-old tapestry of medieval mystery and morality plays to the intellectually stimulating and artistically sophisticated works that defined the Elizabethan era.
As his ink danced upon parchment and his characters took their strides upon the stage, Christopher Marlowe became a beacon of artistic innovation, casting a radiant light upon the ever-evolving landscape of theater.
Puritan Opposition to Shakespeare and Theater
During the vibrant and culturally rich Shakespearean era, a group emerged whose stance on theater was a stark departure from the prevailing sentiments of the time. This group, known as the Puritans, bore a critical visage towards the performing arts and the hallowed stage.
Shakespeare bravely confronted the objections of the Puritans to theater and tackled a wide range of topics, critiquing oppressive rulers and exploring gender relations (which he highlighted by employing male actors for female roles in those days).
Their disapproval was deeply rooted in a tapestry of concerns that extended beyond mere artistic expression. To the Puritans, theater cast a long shadow, one that they feared could eclipse the moral fabric of society and erode the foundations of religious teachings. In their eyes, the allure of the stage had the potential to tempt individuals down a treacherous path, leading them away from the righteous and virtuous course championed by their beliefs.
The Puritans harbored a profound conviction that theater was a gateway to frivolity, ushering in a realm of entertainment and worldly pleasures that stood in stark contrast to their austere principles. This dichotomy between the allure of the stage and the solemnity of their spiritual convictions fueled their condemnation of theater as a sinful indulgence.
Furthermore, the Puritans perceived a more ominous undercurrent within the realm of theater. They saw it not merely as a spectacle but as a force that could disturb the sanctity of religious practices and disrupt the harmony of social order. The Puritan leaders, in particular, viewed theater as a potential harbinger of moral decay, a corrosive influence that could erode the bedrock of their religious values.
In response to these perceived threats, the Puritans embarked on a quest to curb the influence of theater. Their efforts manifested in various forms, from outright bans to stringent restrictions on the very essence of the art. They sought to extinguish the flickering flames of the stage, believing that by doing so, they could shield their community from the potentially pernicious allure of the theater.
The Puritans’ stance on theater resonated with their broader worldview, one that espoused a fervent commitment to piety, moral purity, and the unwavering adherence to their religious principles. In their eyes, the pursuit of artistic expression on the stage ran counter to these ideals, and as such, they were unyielding in their efforts to curtail its influence.
From Inn-Yard Theatre to Indoor Theaters
The Teatro Olimpico (“Olympic Theatre”), Vicenza, northern Italy, 1580–1585. The first permanent covered theater of modern times. (Image: Didier Descouens – CC BY-SA 4.0.
In the bustling tapestry of the late 16th century, a new chapter unfolded in the realm of theatrical enchantment with the construction of public theaters that would forever shape the landscape of dramatic expression. These open-air amphitheaters, like the Swan and the renowned Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre, stood as emblematic symbols of a burgeoning era of artistic and cultural exploration.
Drawing inspiration from the very heart of communal gathering, these theaters found their genesis in the courtyards of inns that had long been hallowed ground for communal performances. The open-air circular design, reminiscent of the captivating embrace of a courtyard, breathed life into these new bastions of the dramatic arts. In the enchanting circle of the Wooden “O,” the echoes of Shakespeare’s immortal verses reverberated, weaving tales that would endure through the annals of time.
This Wooden O’ is a quotation from Shakespeare’s Henry V, a reference to the shape of the Globe playhouse itself: a round theatre constructed out of oak. Source: Shakespeare’s Globe.
The stage itself, an expansive platform adorned with the mysteries of artistic creation, was a canvas for the convergence of imagination and reality. At its back, a sheltered enclave beckoned—a sanctuary where the unfolding drama could find its secret pulse, hidden from the gaze of eager eyes.
It was a symphony of angles, with seating encircling the platform on three sides, forging an unbreakable bond between performers and audience and bridging the realms of illusion and engagement.
As the theatrical landscape continued to evolve, the next chapter unfolded with the emergence of indoor theaters in the early 17th century. These majestic edifices stood as testaments to the profound changes in both architecture and society.
Within their hallowed halls, the invisible curtain of class was drawn, distinguishing the refined sensibilities of the upper echelons from the open-air performances that had once united the masses.
Ben Jonson: Festivities, Music and Murder
A character with unmatched wit and satirical skill emerged from the vibrant tapestry of literary history and took the stage where the brilliant Shakespeare once performed. Ben Jonson, a towering playwright of his era, carved his name into the annals of dramatic ingenuity through a unique blend of sharp intellect, biting humor, and audacious creativity.
In one of the most hallowed corners of London’s intellectual discourse, the Mermaid Tavern, Jonson engaged in legendary “wit-combats” with none other than the bard (Shakespeare’s nickname) himself.
In these verbal jousts, a symphony of words and ideas collided, leaving an indelible mark on the very fabric of artistic camaraderie. It was a testament to the rich tapestry of literary camaraderie that weaves the legacy of creative minds.
Jonson’s pen dripped with the ink of satire, crafting masterpieces that held a mirror to the follies and foibles of his society. In “Every Man in His Humour,” he unfurled a tableau of human idiosyncrasies, while “Bartholomew Fair” became a caustic exploration of the chaos and carnival of life. “Volpone,” a jewel in his theatrical crown, wove a tapestry of deception and greed, painting a vivid portrait of human nature’s darker shades.
The royal court of King James I beckoned, its opulent corridors a stage where Jonson’s genius could shine. Amidst the grandeur, extravagant musical entertainments unfurled, a symphony of artistry that mirrored the majestic tapestry of the court itself. It was a realm where Jonson’s talents found a harmonious resonance, echoing through the corridors of power.
Yet, even amidst the brilliance of his creative mind, shadows cast their pall. In 1598, Jonson’s reputation for violent outbursts took a tragic turn when a heated argument escalated into a fatal encounter. The life of an actor and his friend was cut short in a heart-wrenching tragedy born from a moment of fiery confrontation. In the crucible of that tragic altercation, Jonson’s life would forever be marked by the irrevocable stain of regret.
The scales of justice tilted, and Jonson narrowly escaped the executioner’s embrace. But the scars of his actions remained, etched into his flesh as a branded reminder of the price of anger and impulsiveness. Behind the bars of a prison cell, he confronted the weight of his deeds and the darkness of his own humanity.
In the mosaic of history, Ben Jonson emerges as a paradoxical figure: a playwright of unparalleled genius and a man touched by the tempestuous currents of his own emotions. His words ignited laughter and contemplation, and his wit carved pathways through the human psyche.
And yet, his journey was marked by both the soaring heights of artistic brilliance and the depths of personal tragedy. In his legacy, the echoes of “wit-combats” at the Mermaid Tavern and the resounding notes of his satirical symphonies endure, a testament to the complexities of the human spirit and the indomitable power of creativity.
Richard Burbage and William Kemp: Stars of the Elizabethan Era
In the annals of theatrical history, a profound transformation unfolded during the Elizabethan era as actors cast off the cloak of vagabondage to rise as respected artisans upon the stage. This metamorphosis was a symphony conducted by the harmonious chords of patronage and regal encouragement, elevating the status of actors from wandering minstrels to esteemed artists.
Nobles of distinction, such as the illustrious Earls of Leicester and Southampton, unfurled their patronage like a rich tapestry, adorning the realm of thespian artistry with threads of honor and prestige.
A regal presence graced the stage itself as Queen Elizabeth I extended her personal encouragement, casting a radiant light upon the path of thespian endeavor. It was a time when the shadows of uncertainty were replaced with the splendor of recognition, and the actors emerged from the wings to take their rightful place in the spotlight.
Among these luminaries, two stars blazed with unparalleled brilliance: Richard Burbage and Will Kemp (William Kempe). Their artistry became the touchstone of a new era, leaving an indelible mark on the canvas of dramatic history.
English Elizabethan clown Will Kempe dancing a jig from Norwich to London in 1600.
Richard Burbage, a tragedian of unparalleled depth, stood as a colossus upon the stage. The very foundations of the Globe Theatre, an iconic emblem of Elizabethan artistry, were laid by his brother Cuthbert. As the curtain rose, Burbage breathed life into a pantheon of Shakespearean characters, each a masterpiece of emotion and complexity.
From the hunchbacked malevolence of Richard III to the star-crossed passion of Romeo, from the martial valor of Henry V to the tormented introspection of Hamlet, Burbage wove a tapestry of humanity onto the stage. Othello’s searing jealousy and King Lear’s heart-rending descent all found their embodiment in Burbage’s performances, each a symphony of emotion that resonated within the hearts of the audience.
Beside him, the irrepressible spirit of William Kemp danced like a playful gust of wind. As a comedian, Kemp wielded laughter like a magician’s wand, captivating audiences with his antics and jests. His feet seemed to have a mind of their own, tracing lively patterns on the stage as he portrayed characters with boundless exuberance.
In a world where tragedy and comedy coexisted, Kemp painted smiles upon the faces of those who watched, his performances a reminder that even in the depths of human drama, the light of mirth could never truly be extinguished.
And so, within the hallowed halls of the Elizabethan theater, a transformation took root. Actors emerged from the shadows of societal disdain, ascending the stage to claim their rightful place as artisans of expression.
The patronage of nobles and the benevolent gaze of a queen turned the tide, raising the status of actors to new heights. Among them, Richard Burbage and William Kemp stood as luminous beacons, their performances breathing life into the immortal verses of Shakespeare and kindling a fire of respectability that would burn for generations to come.
Le Cid: The Beginning of French Drama
Portrait of Pierre Corneille after the statue sculpted by Jean-Jacques Caffieri.
In the realm of French theater, the pages of history bear witness to a dramatic evolution that unfolded with the majestic sweep of time. Until the 17th century, the stage resonated with the echoes of Italian playwrights’ classical works, their verses painting vibrant tapestries of human emotion.
Yet it was the visionary cardinal, Richelieu, a maestro of intrigue and governance, who would cast a transformative spell upon the theatrical landscape of France.
Under his watchful gaze, the curtains of a new era were drawn aside, and a resplendent theater emerged in the heart of Paris. It was a testament to Richelieu’s determination to foster the blossoming of native creative expression.
The year 1637 heralded a momentous turning point as Pierre Corneille, a luminary of poetic artistry, unveiled his magnum opus, “Le Cid.” Through the tale of the Spanish hero El Cid, the very essence of French drama began to unfold, weaving a tapestry of passion and destiny that would captivate hearts for generations to come.
Title page of 1637 printing of Le Cid. Image: Wikimedia.
But Corneille was merely the herald of a theatrical renaissance, a harbinger of the grandeur yet to come. In the 1660s, a name echoed through the corridors of time, a name synonymous with classical tragedies that would ignite the imagination of countless souls: Jean Racine.
With poetic brushstrokes, Racine crafted masterpieces like “Andromaque, Iphigenie, Britannicus” and the hauntingly poignant “Phèdre.” His quill became an instrument of divine reckoning, and his verses became a mirror to reflect the passions that both bind and emancipate humanity.
In 1677, as his fame soared to its zenith, Racine chose to withdraw from the proscenium’s embrace, forsaking the realm of playwriting to inscribe the annals of history with the chronicle of King Louis XIV’s reign. It was a testament to the multifaceted genius that flowed through his veins, a testament to the profound interplay between theater and the grand tapestry of the world.
Playwrights of Spain’s Golden Age
Calderón de la Barca is one of the most important figures of the Spanish Golden Age theater. Image: Flickr.
In the shadows of Seville’s prison walls, a tale was born that would blaze across the pages of literary history like a star streaking through the night sky. Miguel de Cervantes, a man of both misfortune and brilliance, found solace amidst his debts by weaving the fabric of an extraordinary narrative.
It was in the year 1597 that the first brushstrokes of “Don Quixote” were painted, a masterpiece that would forever etch his name into the annals of literary greatness.
Through the hallowed pages of “Don Quixote,” Cervantes conjured a world where madness and valor intermingled, where a gallant knight pursued windmills with the fervor of a crusader, and where the very essence of human nature was distilled into an epic odyssey.
The resonance of this novel reached far beyond the confines of ink and parchment, finding its way into the very heartbeats of a nation. So profound was its impact that even King Philip III himself found his curiosity piqued by a man ensnared in laughter while reading the tale, remarking that he must be either “mad or reading Don Quixote.”
Yet, Cervantes’ artistry extended beyond the realm of prose, for he was a maestro of the stage as well. Over thirty plays flowed from his pen, each a testament to his creative prowess. However, in the early 1600s, it was Lope de Vega who stood as the colossus of Spanish theater, his words igniting the stage with a fervor that could not be contained.
Amidst the rustic drama of “Fuenteovejuna,” penned in 1614, Lope masterfully depicted a social uprising, a rebellion that echoed through the ages as Europe’s first portrayal of its kind.
Cervantes, Lope, and the devout playwright Pedro Calderón danced upon the tapestry of Spanish theater, their collective brilliance igniting the Golden Age.
Together, they kindled the flames of human emotion, their words breathing life into characters and tales that would resonate across borders and generations. The stage became their canvas, a realm where human nature was explored in all its facets, and the heart of Spain found its voice in the eloquence of their verses.
And so, within the quill strokes and spoken words of these literary titans, the Golden Age of Spanish theater was ushered into existence.
It was a time when ink and imagination melded seamlessly, when the echoes of laughter and applause reverberated through the air, and when the power of storytelling shaped the destiny of a nation and illuminated the pathways of the human soul.
Louis XIV’s Theater Revolution
Paris, the Salle Richelieu, as designed by the architect Victor Louis. In 1799 it became the home of the Comédie-Française. Image: Gallica Digital Library.
In the year 1680, a momentous chapter unfolded in the realm of theater as King Louis XIV of France orchestrated the establishment of the world’s inaugural national theater.
This audacious endeavor was undertaken with a grand ambition: to extend the embrace of theater across the expanse of his entire kingdom. To materialize this vision, King Louis XIV orchestrated the amalgamation of three theatrical companies situated in Paris.
Among these, one was under the stewardship of the acclaimed actor and playwright Molière. This amalgamation culminated in the birth of the new theater, christened the Comédie-Française, a distinction that set it apart from its counterpart, the Comédie-Italienne.
The allure of the Comédie-Française beckoned theater enthusiasts far and wide, enticing them with a rich tapestry of comedies that elicited laughter and commanding dramas that stirred emotions.
Following a year-long trial phase, a pivotal shift occurred: actors were accorded stable and guaranteed remuneration. Subsequently, the trajectory led to the offering of permanent positions and the assurance of a dignified retirement for these thespians.
This evolutionary stride marked one of the most momentous advancements in the annals of modern theater in Europe.
King Louis XIV’s vision materialized into an institution that bridged both artistic and societal spheres, shaping the trajectory of theater not solely within France but echoing across the world and imprinting its indelible mark on the theatrical tapestry of history.
Commedia dell’arte
Commedia dell’arte Troupe on a Wagon in a Town Square by Jan Miel (1640). Image: Vitico de Vagamundo.
In the bustling squares and narrow streets of Renaissance Europe, a vibrant and dynamic form of theater emerged, captivating audiences with its spontaneity, humor, and vivid characters. This was the realm of Commedia dell’arte, a theatrical tradition that danced to the rhythms of Italian folklore and ancient carnival revelry.
During the span of the 16th, 17th, and 18th centuries, Commedia dell’arte flourished as a lively and improvisational art form. At its heart were skilled and talented actors, virtuosos of their craft, who brought to life an array of characters in a realm where creativity knew no bounds.
Unlike the structured scripts of traditional theater, Commedia dell’arte was a celebration of actors’ ingenuity—a symphony of wits and talents that unfolded within a fundamental framework.
These actors, known as “arte” or “artisans,” embraced their roles with fervor, weaving intricate tales of love, intrigue, and misadventure. The canvas on which they painted was a basic outline, a blueprint that allowed the spontaneous creation of actions, dialogues, and interactions.
It was a theatrical dance of unscripted brilliance, where actors breathed life into characters and narratives flowing from their imaginations.
To enrapture audiences with an ever-evolving tapestry of entertainment, Commedia dell’arte performers adorned their acts with a dazzling array of artistic elements. Mime and movement, dance and song, acrobatics and jests—all found a home within this vibrant realm.
The actors donned masks to portray characters, each mask serving as a window into distinct personalities, a world of quirks and idiosyncrasies adding a unique flavor to the unfolding drama.
With every gesture, every step, and every word, the players conjured iconic figures that transcended time and language. The nimble and mischievous Harlequin, characterized by his colorful costume, embodied a playful spirit.
On the other hand, Pantaloon gave the impression of being a lovelorn and despondent figure due to his pursuit of affection and endless romantic misadventures.
Additionally, the brash and boastful Scaramuccia (English: Scaramouch), a swaggering captain whose arrogance was matched only by his comedic mishaps, completed the ensemble of characters.
Dialects danced in the air, giving rise to delightful misunderstandings and uproarious exchanges that left audiences in fits of laughter. The world of Commedia dell’arte was a spectacle for the senses, a mosaic of talents and emotions that painted a portrait of life’s complexities, joys, and foibles.
In the tapestry of European theater, Commedia dell’arte stands as a vibrant and enduring masterpiece, a testament to the power of human creativity and collaboration.
Its legacy continues to echo through the ages, a testament to the enduring allure of theater, which celebrates the boundless ingenuity of the human spirit.
One of Pablo Picasso’s most renowned paintings, Guernica (1937) shows the bombardment of the titular city during the Spanish Civil War and is widely regarded as a strong allegory for the horrors of war.
Representations of the Spanish Civil War in Guernica
Pablo Picasso, then a Parisian artist, was commissioned by the Spanish Republic to produce an artwork for the 1937 World’s Fair. But he still needed to find a topic, since the Spanish artist lacked inspiration in the late 1930s.
As political upheaval spread throughout Europe, he saw his own creative process stall. There has been a horrific civil war between Republicans and Francoists in Spain since 1936.
Pablo Picasso, Guernica, 1937, Centro de Arte Reina Sofia
On April 26, 1937, the Basque city of Guernica was bombed by the German Condor Legion, an ally of Franco’s, in an effort to intimidate the local populace into switching sides and abandoning their support for the Republicans.
m. and continued for more than three hours, turned the landscape into one of dread. The streets of the destroyed city are littered with the remains of the dead. 1,645 people out of a total population of 7,000 were killed, with another 889 injured.
The following day, at the Café de Flore in Paris, Pablo Picasso read the newspaper and found out the news. It was settled; he would be studying this topic.
The horrors of war are shown all over the 11.5 ft x 25.5 ft (3.49 m x 7.77 m) painting. Michelangelo’s Pietà, in which the Virgin weeps for her slain son, may be alluding to the woman bearing her dead child in her arms and gazing up at the sky in a scream of grief in Guernica.
Picasso’s depiction of the horse has a skull and crossbones in its mouth and nostrils, if one looks carefully enough. The bull’s intense stare, which represents Spain, appears to implore the observer to come to its aid.
However, the artist depicts a few symbols of peace, such as the dove, which is there but unobtrusively between the horse and the bull, or the lady who arrives at the window carrying a lamp, which may signify hope or the illumination of an event of global importance.
Guernica is a work of democracy
The 1937 Paris World’s Fair was when Guernica first gained international attention; it went on to be shown in a number of other countries before being acquired by the Museum of Modern Art (MoMA) in New York. As long as Spain was not a democracy, Picasso had no interest in having his art shown there.
Pablo Picasso passed away in 1973, and then Franco two years later. The Spanish Senate began the process of returning the work to Spain in 1977 on the grounds that “freedoms are guaranteed.”
The piece was first restored to the Prado Museum in 1981, after the country’s democratic win, and then moved to the Reina Sofia Museum in Madrid in 1992.
