Thursday, July 26, 2012


Sometimes we think of the whole panoply of art and artists as a fixed order, with all the objects, artists, and movements firmly reposing in the place they deserve.  With their characteristic air of assurance,  art-history textbooks tend to affirm this fixity. A little reflection, though, will show that reputations fluctuate, so that phenomena that rate highly during one period garner less approval during another, and vice versa.  This chapter is about changing reputations, with particular emphasis on what might be termed "redemptions," whereby artists and trends that had at one time been neglected or disparaged come forward to find their place in the sun. 
Earlier chapters showed how the Romantic movement, seeking alternatives to classical norms, fostered a new appreciation of Gothic architecture and of European "primitive" paintings. In their original setting, the clients of these two revival efforts overlapped chronologically while differing as to medium, the one focusing on architecture, the other on painting. In due course the twin processes of their recovery merged into a broader endeavor. The Middle Ages became a valued era. The return to favor of these treasures of European civilization that had been created between ca. 1150 and 1500 became a model for subsequent recuperations.
The revivals encompassed not only previously disparaged styles but also individual artists who had come to be neglected for a variety of reasons. In keeping with the postulates of the sociology of knowledge discussed in the opening chapter, an attempt will be made to suggest reasons why the rehabilitations occurred when and where they did. Since the scholars' motives for these efforts were often unconscious, explanations must always remain somewhat speculative.
Not all attempts at rehabilitation have succeeded. It is probably the case that truly insignificant artists are not candidates for elevation in this way, but by the same token not every worthy neglectee has benefited from the rescue operation.  A sensibility schooled by contemporary art is the most common predictor of rehabilitations.  In this way impressionism helped people to understand Roman art, expressionism provided access to Grünewald, surrealism fostered the revival of Hieronymus Bosch, and so forth. In all likelihood, candidates for rehabilitation still wait in the wings; they have not yet emerged because the conditions are not ripe. By the same token, though, some who deserve rehabilitation will probably never attain it. 
Ideology has played a role.i Many devotees of the Middle Ages felt that through this allegiance they were helping to bolster Roman Catholicism, or at least an older, purer form of Christianity. To some extent a religous subtext also underlies the revival of the baroque works of Gian Lorenzo Bernini, whose emotionality could be understood within the framework of Counter-Reformation piety and mysticism, with their deliberate cultivation of religious ecstasy. Politics could also play a role. Watteau and the rococo generally came to be appreciated in France because it was believed that they embodied the French spirit. Curiously, rococo works were for a time also admired by the political left. More understandable is the enthusiasm of French progressives for the realistic and down-to-earth qualities of Dutch seventeenth-century paintings. Conversely, reactionaries like Maurice Barrès were drawn to artists like El Greco, whose intense spirituality contrasted, they believed, with the crass materialism of their own age.
Many of the most successful rehabilitations--of the baroque and the rococo, of Vermeer and Botticelli--belonged to the nineteenth century. This was the age, after all, when scholars became aware of the need to do justice to past eras and personalities that had been unfairly obscured. However, the momentum continued into the twentieth century, when relatively recent phenomena, such as art nouveau style, the works of the architect Gaudí, and the later paintings of Giorgio de Chirico were revived.

The Fundamentals,
If the rehabilitation of medieval art was a model, it also retained its own special quality. For the Gothic and the "primitives" could be regarded as a necessary prologue to the main narrative of Western art, rather than something remote from it. In other words, the act of recovery widened an already unitary phenomenon, much as the extension attached to a telescope keeps the instrument a telescope. It was simply that the story of the Art of the West (to use Henri Focillon's term) began earlier than had been thought. To be sure, some enthusiasts were not willing merely to leave it at that. Such cultural radicals as A. W. N. Pugin and John Ruskin aspired to set Gothic in place of the Renaissance. Yet by and large this substitution strategy did not succeed. A compromise in which one ate one's cake and had it too prevailed: the Middle Ages and the Renaissance.
As matters turned out, then, the medieval revival offered reassurance: one could add new aesthetic pleasures without, so it would seem, abandoning the old ones.ii Hence those embarking on the rehabilitation of neglected European art of the sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries--what might be called the post-Renaissance--could take heart: there was an affinity between their labors and those of their medievalizing predecessors. Yet there was also a significant difference. Medieval styles struck classicizing taste as being deficient in naturalism and overstylized in form, while the post-Renaissance styles were typically found to have the opposite faults; they were too naturalistic and too undisciplined in form. The older era was deficient, the newer one excessive. Yet despite this contrast, a common denominator existed. The standard whereby both the medieval and post-Renaissance manifestations met resistance was their neglect of the principle of the juste milieu--the happy medium between extremes. Classical perfection was identified with balance: neither too little or too much. In this light, many rehabilitators came to recognize that the common property of the various styles they were advocating was their anticlassicism. Eventually such scholars as Wilhelm Worringer and Walter Friedlaender began to find their way to a general theory of the anticlassical.iii
The new recruits into the realm of European Art signaled a further extension of aesthetic pluralism. The expansion of the canon also promoted the idea of a kind of parliament of styles--many styles rather than one Style.iv And ultimately the identification of a plurality of styles in the European sphere fostered similar investigations among scholars of, say, Japanese and Islamic art.
As we saw, the medieval revival began in the late eighteenth century. But the ensuing revivals that occupy this chapter did not develop until the middle of the nineteenth century. Why this time lag? In a stimulating monograph, Francis Haskell emphasized the flood of works released on the art market by the French Revolution and the Napoleonic conquests.v The appearance of this saleable merchandise had two results. (1) Replenished by political turmoil, the burgeoning stocks of the dealers offered abundant specimens of previously little noticed types, above all the "primitives." The still rather specialized taste for medieval works was reinforced by a flood of previously unavailable pieces. (2) Initially, however, the effect of the release of these objects was more balanced and more conservative. By providing works by established artists such as Guido Reni and Gerard Dou the enlarged art market served, for a time at least, to reinforce established hierarchies of value. In this way, the revival of the baroque and mannerism, of El Greco and Bosch was delayed for many years.
Haskell concentrated on taste as exemplified by dealers and critics and the collectors they served. Viewed in this context, the concept of taste is complex. It is to be distinguished from the work of the art historians who austerely concentrated on particular eras and masters, without regard to commercial considerations. In any event, Haskell saw the 1840s and 1850s as years that were particularly open to a variety of aesthetic experiences, the decades after as more single-minded. Although the single-mindedness may be somewhat overstated in this contrast, the concept of the "open decades" as the immediate prologue to the more sweeping changes to be discussed in this chapter is an appealing one.
The tides of taste may be detected in various spheres. During the first half of the nineteenth century, the sensibility of the great collectors began to trickle downward through the agency of major public collections such as those displayed in the Altes Museum in Berlin and the National Gallery in London. Yet not all the enthusiasms of the rich and powerful were destined to be adopted by the middle classes, who came to make up an increasing proportion of the art-loving public. From another social standpoint, perceptive critics and art historians formed an avant-garde, singling out periods and artists that were later to become famous. Sometimes, as with El Greco and Bosch they were spectacularly successful. In other cases, as in the recent effort to revive the Bolognese painters of the seventeenth century, the effort has come a cropper. These soigné works now have honored places  in our museums, but few visitors linger before them.
Apart from their common strategic features and aesthetic background, the host of rehabilitations undertaken after the model of the medieval revival show a varied pattern. Sometimes the newly favored art falls chronologically within the bounds of accepted narrative, as in the cases of the baroque and of mannerism. These styles now had to be "inserted" in the great parade of European art. Then there was the double case of Roman and late-antique art, the successors of Greek art. But then if all these belonged in the sequence, how could these masses of objects and imposing building complexes have so long suffered disparagement? Were earlier generations that rejected them wrong? Or in reviving them are we simply being frivolous, obeying the caprices of the whirligig of taste?
Even discounting such relativism, the rehabilitator has to ponder whether one is simply doing justice to something wrongly forgotten, or whether one is creating a new image of art history, a fuller one to be sure, but perhaps also one that is obedient to contemporary needs. In other words, is the new canon of accepted styles a natural one, properly supplanting its biased and inadequate forerunner? Or is it in reality a new arbitrariness,  governed by its own preferences and selectivities?
There are also major problems that inhere in the ranking process. In the New World, for example, we see the tendency to place "high cultures" such as the art of pre-Columbian Mesoamerica and the Andes on a higher plane that American Indian and Amazon art. And what of the arts of today's consumer society, such as advertising and commercial television? In short, the problem of rehabilations is part of the larger question of the "quotations on the aesthetic stockmarket." Like its commercial counterpart, the art world is always in flux. Largely invisible though it may be, the aesthetic bourse does have one tangible projection, and that is the auction houses where changing prices mark shifting patterns of esteem.

Neglect and Obloquy.
For rehabilitation to occur, neglect and obloquy must by definition have previously taken their toll. Styles recede in our consciousness for several reasons. In the case of, say, baroque music this process is easily comprehensible. During the later eighteenth century musicians began to play baroque compositions less and less, preferring the new classical music. Before the advent of sound recordings, few listeners could actually hear baroque works. For buildings, however, the neglect is less comprehensible; they cannot be made quietly to retire into dusty libraries and archives. Gothic cathedrals and baroque palaces were features of the built landscape that were difficult to ignore and costly to eradicate. But the refined viewer could pass quickly by such "unsightly" survivals. It seems in fact that these structures were shrouded in a kind of cloak of invisibility, essentially unseen and unpondered.
The rejection of the visible required an intellectual support system; an anti-Gothic ideology, an antibaroque ideology, and so forth. In our own day we have seen a comparable process whereby the older beaux arts buildings of our cities--the last heirs of the Renaissance tradition--met scorn because they did not fit the ideology of the Modern Movement in architecture as practiced by Walter Gropius and Le Corbusier. Sadly, more than words and attitudes were involved, for in a kind of architectural pogrom, Pennsylvania Station in New York and many other such monuments paid with their lives. Opposed by architectural conservationists, the demolition of these buildings was facilitated by the ideological contempt in which they were enveloped. Thus the condition for disparaging earlier styles is not simply a change in taste, but the ascent of a new "monolithic" taste with an almost messianic self-assurance that permits it utterly to reject alternative visions. Conversely, eclectic tastes are less likely to neglect or condemn earlier styles.
Individual artists tend to suffer occultation through their situation in taste constellations. Figures regarded as all-too-characteristic of their era go down with it: thus the fates of Borromini and Guarini were bound up with the repudiation of the baroque. On the other hand, artists like Bosch who did not fit the standards of an approved era in which they worked (here the Renaissance) were also likely to suffer.

The Baroque.
In the popular mind the term baroque still evokes connotations of extravagance and flamboyance, of bewildering, sometimes grotesque ornateness. Baroque, it seems, is a style that actively enlists the response of the viewer, whether positively or negatively. In these respects it is not unlike Gothic, though most would grant that the baroque arises from a radically different social context. 
Although a number of unlikely etymologies for the term baroque are still circulating, most lexicographers and students of historical semantics agree on a single origin. In the sixteenth century the Portuguese word barroco, meaning an irregular or misshapen pearl, made its way into French as baroque, whence the term spread, first as a jeweler's term and then in its extended or figurative meaning, to other European It must be emphasized that rarely, if ever, was the term baroque used to describe the dominant style during its own era; the name was a later epithet transferred to it by those who disapproved of the style. In principle this semantic heritage need not be a handicap to study and appreciation, any more than the word Gothic hinders the understanding of a period in which it was not in fact used.
In fact the etymology of the word and the contexts in which it appeared promoted a pejorative aura and this has tended to persist. Discounting these negative currents, art historians (and some cultural historians) seek to employ the term as a value-neutral expression for the seventeenth century in Europe and Latin America. The source lay in Italy, specifically in Rome, where the style reached an early climax about 1630, spreading and continuing vigorously until 1680--longer in some locales. Not all seventeenth-century art fits the model derived from the Roman baroque; problems emerge in fitting the naturalistic (Holland) and classical (France) currents into the whole.
Turning to the posited original core, typified by the Roman practitioners Bernini, Borromini, and Cortona, we find a curious anomaly; baroque counts as the first dominant style in European history to elicit strong dislike in its own day.vii In discussions held at the Accademia di San Luca in Rome in the 1630s the associates of the classicizing painter Andrea Sacchi criticized baroque painting--above all that of Pietro da Cortona--for having too many figures and appealing too broadly to the senses.viii These views were also espoused by Poussin, the leading French artist in Rome, who helped to transmit them to his native land. Thus when Bernini trave;ed to France in 1665 to design a new Louvre palace, he was disappointed to find his baroque scheme rejected. Nor did his modified projects carry the day.ix These counterbaroque tendencies, fueled by the classicism of the theorists, reached fullness in the work of the art theorist Giovanni Bellori, whose idol was Raphael.
In the Netherlands Rembrandt met criticism for not adhering to "the rules of art," and for a time after his death minor classicizing artists surpassed him in esteem. In the end the antibaroque tendencies triumphed through a barrage of critical writings culminating in the diatribes of Francesco Milizia, who actually ascribed madness to Borromini and his followers. The disdain for the baroque was also augmented by Winckelmann's criteria which presented Greek art as a very different animal, serving as a means to overcome contemporary "decadence."
French writers particularly excelled in denouncing the gout baroque, sometimes as a general epithet for bad taste, but increasingly for the period we term the baroque. A popular reference work, A. J. Pernety's Dictionnaire portatif de peinture, sculpture, et gravure (1757) defined baroque as "that which does not follow the rules of proportion but of caprice." In 1788 the influential Quatremère de Quincy stated: "In architecture baroque is a nuance of the bizarre. Of this it is, as it were, the refinement, and even, if this is permissible to say, the abuse thereof. What severity is to the wisdom of taste, the baroque is to the bizarre, that is, it is the superlative. The idea of the baroque brings with it that of the ridiculous taken to excess." (Dictionnaire de l'architecture, 1788).
For a long time German popular usage, under the influence of French taste, endorsed these strictures. In his Cicerone of 1855 Jakob Burckhardt noticed a number of Italian baroque monuments but still struggled with the old negative concept: "baroque architecture," he opined, "still speaks the same language as the Renaissance, but a barbarous [verwildert] dialect of it." In letters written in the 1870s, however, he began to speak in terms of unqualified praise. It seems that Burckhardt is also to be credited for introducing the more generic idea of the baroque as a late stage of other styles, so that in due course scholars began to speak of a medieval baroque, a Hellenistic baroque, and a Roman imperial baroque. Acknowledging this pluralism, baroque would rank as a recurrent phenomenon in art history.
Cornelius Gurlitt, a diligent compiler rather than an original scholar, undertook a trilogy on architecture: Geschichte des Barockstils in Italien (1887), Geschichte des Barockstiles, des Rococo und des Klassicismus in Belgien, Holland, Frankreich, England (1888) and Geschichte des Barockstils und des Rococo in Deutschland (1889). This trio was part of a ten-volume series covering European architecture from ca. 1400 to 1800.  Gurlitt approached the assignment objectively, paying attention to national differences as well as religious demands.
The true rehabilitator of baroque was Heinrich Wölfflin, whose first book Renaissance und Barock (1888) offered a systematic set of comparisons of works in the two styles, chosen from examples familiar to him in the city of Rome. The Swiss scholar also held that the baroque style appeared in other media, such as literature and garden architecture, thus paving the way for the use of the term to designate a whole epoch in cultural history. In Wölfflin's later work the contrast between the linear and painterly modes was self-evidently identified with the contrast between the Renaissance and baroque.
Hans Tintelnot has suggested that the achievement of German scholars in rediscovering the baroque underwent three major phases.x About 1887 there began the unveiling, through the work of Gurlitt and Wölfflin, of the solid merit of the style. About 1907 a new phase set in which enriched knowledge. Finally, a third stage started about 1923, characterized by an "expressionist" appreciation of the baroque as a vehicle for emotional intensity. To these stages one could add a further one after 1945 set largely in England and the United States. Denis Mahon sought to free the seventeenth-century painters from the inherited amalgam of prejudice, while Rudolf Wittkower emphasized the sculptors and architects, above all Gian Lorenzo Bernini. Since that time there has been a tendency to concentrate on painters. It must be conceded that the effort to resecure the reputations of the Carracci and Guercino, of Guido Reni and Andrea Sacchi as truly major masters has not taken hold, despite tenacious efforts by gifted art historians. In an era too much ravaged by totalitarianism of the right and left, an art in the service of the absolutism of the Counter-Reformation papacy was bound to seem less than fully sympathetic.
We may pause to reflect on some of the leading traits and achievements of a century of scholarship. The extension of the baroque into previously neglected areas, such as Spain and Piedmont, was actively canvassed. Less well studied, at least until recently, were baroque monuments overseas, in Mexico and the Andean region, in Goa and Macao. The commanding role of great personalities was revealed: in painting, Velázquez, Rubens, Rembrandt, and Tiepolo; in sculpture, Bernini; in architecture, Bernini (again), Borromini, and Guarini. Shifts in iconography were carefully examined.
A still vexing question is the symbiosis between the baroque and the Counter-Reformation, more specifically the Jesuit effort to proselytize. Holland, where Protestantism was dominant, makes one hesitate to identify the baroque completely with resurgent Catholicism.
Then there is the question of the link between baroque art and other media of cultural expression. Some connection with literature had already been noted during the period of occultation, when the poetry of Cavalier Marini had been condemned in much the same manner as baroque art. In due course, the prestige of Wölfflin's work led to the introduction of the concept as an organizing principle in the study of literature, where it has been fruitful not only for German and Italian works, but also for Slavic literature. In their own medium, musicologists developed a concept of the musical baroque about the same time as the art historians did in their sphere.
Some writers have stressed the element of rhetoric and persuasion, particularly as exploited by the Jesuits. In this connection, it is often said that illusion is the key to the baroque sensibility, but illusion is but a part of something larger: a kind of enactment, using many elements, to dazzle and, if possible, achieve a willing suspension of disbelief. It is not surprising that the era saw an immense development of stagecraft for spectacles and theater presentations. Festivals were particularly lavish. Opera was born at the beginning of the baroque period. Even more extended comparisons have been proposed. A new sense of the cosmos emerged, embracing such novelties as the Magellanic earth with all its complexity, irregularities on the surface of the moon, and planets moving in ellipses rather than perfect circles (Kepler). This last discovery has an architectural parallel in that the ellipse often occurs in plans of churches and chapels.
For some, these various modes of the baroque merged into a grand synthesis; these scholars detected a baroque essence in all the cultural products of the seventeenth century, including statecraft and lifeways. A particularly ambitious account is that of Carl J. Friedrich, The Age of the Baroque,xi which not only examines many of the factors just discussed, but finds that in the political realm the baroque created a new model of the state. Such holistic approaches are less favored nowadays, if only because the achievements of the period were so diverse.
As has been seen, beginning in the third quarter of the nineteenth century German scholars commenced the process of divesting the baroque of its accumulated barnacles of prejudice and disparagement, restoring a nonjudgmental, sometimes even celebratory concept. Why did baroque begin to free itself of the incubus of disparagement when and where it did? The architecture of the first two-thirds of the nineteenth century had largely followed the chaste models of the early Renaissance or the Gothic. However, the material embodiment of later nineteenth-century culture, especially in the "show architecture" of ensembles like Vienna's Ringstrasse tended to favor an ornate, effusive style. Even when, as was usually the case, the motifs themselves were not derived from seventeenth-century baroque a kinship was evident. This was more noticeable in southern Germany, Austria, and Italy where the affinities with a vibrant historical heritage of baroque were more evident than in England and France, where a muted seventeenth-century architecture had prevailed. From France, however, came a new painting of light and color, Impressionism, and the gradual triumph of this art throughout Europe fostered interest in the color of the baroque painters. In another field of aesthetic expression, the nineteenth century saw a revival of the works of the great German baroque composers Bach and Handel--whetting the appetite for understanding parallel achievements in the other arts and opening the way for the "unified field" theory of baroque. Then, too, especially in Germany the Kulturkampf unleashed by Bismarck--who sought to limit the power of the Catholic church--evoked a countercurrent that promoted the culture of Catholicism. This German Catholic baroque interest contrasts with the situation in England and France, where neo-Catholic sentiment concentrated on the Middle Ages. Finally, the growth of long-distance railway networks ("grand trunk lines") encouraged travel to Italy, where German-speaking visitors could find many impressive counterparts of their own baroque. As has been noted, a new wave of baroque research began in Germany in the 1920s, influenced by expressionism with its emphasis on raw emotion.
Appreciation of the baroque was slower to come to English-speaking countries and to France, though the Sitwells did their best in England in the 1920s. The migration of Central European refugees certainly helped, although few of them were in fact baroque specialists. Study of the baroque never became truly popular, but had an appeal for English and American art historians who were attracted by the idea of opening new vistas.

The inception of the rococo style is conventionally placed in Paris in 1715, when there was a reaction against the heavy and ornate style favored by the court of Louis XIV, who died in that year.xii The rococo is a style of small curves, gaiety, and daintiness. It is prominent in architectural decor, furniture, and ceramics--and also in painting. It owes much to the baroque that preceded it, particularly that of Flanders and Holland, but is more intimate and accessible.xiii The gentle hedonism of the rococo, so often dismissed as frivolous, in fact accords with the materialism of such philosophes as La Mettrie and Sade, who emphasized the centrality of pleasure in human motivation. Endowed with the cachet of French taste, the rococo spread to Germany and Austria,xiv and to a lesser extent to Italy and Spain.
The later years of the reign of Louis XV witnessed a turning away from elaborately curved furniture towards straight lines and simpler motifs. At the same time, painters began to show a preference for classical subjects with their subtexts of austerity and self-sacrifice. Although rococo retreated from the foreground of public interest during the latter part of the eighteenth century, artists continued to practice it into the next century.xv, Honoré Fragonard was active until he died in 1804. The older generation was succeeded by a group of petits maîtres who, though they did not become famous, continued to receive a steady supply of work. In this way the rococo survival joined hands with the rococo revival during the July monarchy (1830-1848).
One of the characteristic features of the style as it flourished under Louis XV was rockwork or rocaille.xvi It seems that this term was used before "rococo" itself, as by the architect Jacques-François Blondel, who speaks in 1772 of the fashion for rocaille as being over. The term rococo seems to have arisen as a blend of rocaille and barocco, so that the link with the former style was implicated. In any event neither the term rocaille nor rococo enjoyed currency during the efflorescence of the style itself.
The rococo fare poorly during the French revolution. The new model of the artist, exemplified by Jacques-Louis David, the chef d'école of neoclassicism, portrayed him as a civic figure, contributing to the advancement of the public weal. By contrast, the rococo artists of the ancien régime were stigmatized as lackeys of a decadent and useless aristocracy.
            As the new concept of the artist entailed an elevation of status, it naturally drew wide support. Some fanatics even went so far as to decry those practicing the old manner as corrupters of morals; in any event the latter found it best to keep a low profile during the Terror. However, Napoleon and Josephine showed an inclination for work in a gentler mode that could at least be termed para-rococo.
When the émigrés returned after 1815, the aristocrats among them naturally sought to retrieve some elements of their former lavish lifestyles. Accordingly, old mansions and chateaux were refurbished, often in the old style. In their turn, the nouveaux riches aped the nobility in order to lessen the apparent distance between their parvenu status and the class they longed to merge with. Thus the very association of rococo with the ancien régime that had hobbled it in revolutionary times now assisted it. Then the fashion for collecting rococo furniture spread abroad, as seen in Sir Richard Wallace's collection, now a public museum in London. Those who could not afford original eighteenth-century pieces, had to be satisfied with carefully produced copies. Furniture of this type became de rigueur for American millionaires during the Gilded Age, as seen in the Vanderbilt mansions.
After 1830, under the July Monarchy, a significant number of intellectuals began to interest themselves in the rococo. Théophile Gautier, the proponent of art for art's sake, lauded it in a poem of 1836. Somewhat later Charles Baudelaire evoked with nostalgia the lost world of fêtes galantes. The greatest supporters, however, were the brothers Edmond and Jules de Goncourt, who wrote a series of short monographs on the eighteenth-century painters, which were then gathered into a book, L'Art du XVIIIme siècle, 1881.xvii By this point, when France was smarting from defeat at the hands of the Germans, nationalistic motives had begun to play a role. The rococo was extolled because it was the first original style to have been originated in France since the Gothic; it had also flourished during an era in which France had been culturally dominant over Germany. In addition, rococo had some of the appeal of the baroque, but was gentler and more ingratiating.
Towards the end of the century, the rise of the art nouveau created a new interest in the decorative arts, which also proved to be in accord with the rococo. In advanced modern art a brief phase in the 1910s was termed "rococo cubism."

The received view today is that mannerism was a phenomenon that flourished in Italy and parts of northern Europe (especially Bohemia and the Low Countries) from about 1520 to about 1600. Yet opinions differ as to whether mannerism should be regarded as an outgrowth of the premisses of the High Renaissance--but more elegant, refined, and artificial--or conversely as a jarring shift towards anticlassicism marked by tension, anxiety, intellectualism, and disregard of previously established rules of art. More fundamentally, perhaps, some remain skeptical that mannerism was ever a single unified style, preferring to regard it as a cluster of tendencies unified only in their diversity.
In fact the status of mannerism remains more problematic than that of the baroque and the rococo. To this day, a few skeptics deny that it is an authentic period style in its own right, treating it as simply a cluster of phenomena within the late Renaissance. Indeed for a long time the major mannerist artists were regarded as part of the Renaissance. For this reason mannerism was rediscovered as an entity later than the baroque and the rococo, even though it precedes them chronologically.
The key to the earlier discussions of the phenomenon is the Italian word maniera, "manner, way, style."xviii (The word was probably borrowed from Old French manière.) In the shop talk of the late Middle Ages the Italian expression was employed in a fairly straightforward and general way, as the "manner of applying colors." However, by 1390 Cennino Cennini was using it to refer to the individual style of an artist ("una maniera propria per te"). The Commentarii of Lorenzo Ghiberti (about 1450) shows that in his day the word might also serve to designate the style of a period or country ("la maniera greca," more or less equivalent to the Byzantine style and its derivative in Italy). But it was Giorgio Vasari, a century later, who exploited the full semantic iridescence of the Italian vocable. In his usage, maniera could apply to the personal style of an artist, and also to a national or historical style (maniera greca, byzantine style; maniera tedesca, German or Gothic style). Vasari also used the term in the "pregnant" or absolute sense; maniera (sometimes la bella maniera) is good style. Artists either have it or they do not. (Already at the beginning of the century, the anonymous report on ancient buildings sometimes attributed to Raphael indicates that there can be buildings, constructed by the Goths, which are lacking in any manner, "senza maniera alcuna.")
This achievement of maniera in the absolute sense implied a process of study, selection, and addition, with the necessary complement of the intervention of imagination. This new quality distinguished, in Vasari's view, the newly perfected art of the sixteenth century from its fifteenth-century naturalistic predecessor. Implicit in the new ideal, however, was a conflict between adherence to rules, and the subjective powers of intuition, which must be called upon to surpass the rules. According to Vasari, Michelangelo accomplished this feat, thus excelling the hallowed models of antiquity. This height of achievement signified a peak that could not be equaled; hence the maniera of Vasari's own generation represented a descent.
The full consequences of this sobering thought were not recognized until a century later when, in 1672, Giovanni Bellori published his resonant definition of the maniera as: "a fantastic idea based upon studio practice and not on imitation [of nature and the appropriate classical exemplars]." The artificial manner of the Cavaliere d'Arpino was one extreme, the excessive naturalism of Caravaggio another; the good artist will find a golden mean between these two extremes. Bellori singled out artificiality and empty intellectualism as key defects, and his critique echoed through generations of later discussions. The context suggests that the Roman art historian was thinking especially of the closing decades of the sixteenth century, where the still regnant mannerism was confronted with its antidote: he held up the Carracci as the rescuers of Italian art who opened the way to a restoration of the balance of the High Renaissance.
Writing at the end of the eighteenth century, Luigi Lanzi underlined the negative sense of maniera, understood as an inert repetition of formulas. Lanzi pioneered in offering chronological markers as well. In Rome the rot set in after the sack of 1527, in Florence after the death of Vasari in 1574, in Venice not until the seventeenth century. He echoed Bellori in perceiving salvation with the coming of the Carracci at the end of the sixteenth century. Henceforth the painter might "divide his glances between nature and art." In this way the negative mold was set, as reflected in the terms ammanierato, manierista, and manierismo, all disparaging.
In a 1695 translation from the French of Du Fresnoy, John Dryden introduced the term "mannerist" as a pejorative designation of an art style into English. Since the early nineteenth century this negative influence has been reinforced by the common usage of the words "mannered," affected, and "mannerism," a peculiarity of pose or action, a tic.
The German founders of modern art history were naturally affected by Italian usage. Jakob Burckhardt, still hostile in his 1855 Cicerone, situates the period between 1530 and 1580. In 1887 Cornelius Gurlitt described the architecture of this period as late Renaissance, while Wölfflin in his pathfinding Renaissance und Barock of 1888 simply skipped over the era. Although various scholars noted anomalies--what might be termed slippages--in the period, in 1920 Hermann Voss still titled his survey of the era Die Malerei der Spätrenaissance in Rom und Florenz--Painting of the Late Renaissance in Rome and Florence, reinforcing the idea of continuity.
Broadly speaking, the art of the middle and the later sixteenth century--still little examined for its own sake--elicited two standard responses. It could be disdained as a mediocre prolongation of the Renaissance, perhaps harmless but unoriginal, or it could be castigated as decadence. This second, perhaps more exciting view, however, had become problematic, for the cry of decadence suffered a serious blow from Alois Riegl's rehabilitation of late-antique art. Here an art long assailed as a decline from the high standards of Greece and Rome received a clean bill of health: it was actually an advance. To be sure, established canons of beauty suffered neglect, but there was a gain in expressiveness. A similar trade-off characterized a major trend in modern art, a trajectory extending from the post-Impressionism of Paul Gauguin and Vincent Van Gogh to the Expressionism of Edvard Munch and Ernst Ludwig Kirchner. Gradually, then, a kind of conceptual space opened up in which mannerist artists could find a place, one in which the anticlassical tendencies some showed could be rebranded in positive sense.
The Viennese Max Dvořák was a major heir of Riegl. Working in the circumstances of the defeat of the Austrian empire in World War I, he took note of the revival of El Greco, which had started just before the beginning of the century.xix How was this artist, who so strikingly departed from the classical norms of the Renaissance to be regarded? Dvořák found the answer in the concept of mannerism, which now provided a lineage for the eccentric, multicultural artist. In "naturalizing" El Greco in this way, Dvořák also drew attention to interesting qualities in other artists long regarded as mannerist. Mannerism and the Middle Ages concurred in their disregard of sensuous nature in favor of spiritual concerns. Our own turbulent age, he held, is now experiencing an affinity with those earlier eras. Dvořák sensed that the neglected sixteenth-century artists, with El Greco as the presiding genius, were coming into their own as a result of a major shift in the contemporary Weltanschauung, a shift that was leading away from materialism and positivism and towards spiritual absolutes. "In that eternal struggle between matter and spirit, the scales are inclining towards a victory of spirit."
In Germany this challenge was taken up by Walter Friedlaender, who focused on the Italian artists.xx Less interested in religion, he emphasized such formal aspects as distortion of anatomy and the pressing of figures to the picture plane so the two-dimensional patterns were prominent. Measured and cautious as his approach was, Friedlaender developed a triadic ABA pattern; following the metaphor of a triptych, mannerism was an anticlassical middle section, with the classical panels flanking it on either side.
In the 1930s the rise of Surrealism pushed the inquiry in the direction of the irrational itself.xxi This led to a renewed appreciation of such bizarre artists as Arcimboldo with his fruit and vegetable compositions simulating human beings, as well as Hieronymus Bosch, as we have noted above.
After World War II, amid the tensions of the Cold War, the concept of mannerism as an art of crisis gained wide acceptance among the general public. Tireless work by the Museum of Modern Art in New York and other institutions made the classic cubist works of Picasso and Braque, with their departures from mimetic reality familiar, and also introduced the more adventurous to the abstract expressionism of Jackson Pollock and Willem De Kooning. In 1955 the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam hosted a huge, multinational exhibition called "The Triumph of European Mannerism." The same year saw the appearance of Four Stages of Renaissance Style,xxii a widely read "quality paperback" written with considerable panache by Wylie Sypher. This literary scholar turned cultural historian used a Zeitgeist approach to show mannerism as a period style in literature and music as well as the visual arts--a general cultural phenomenon falling between the High Renaissance and the Baroque. Ten years later the meme of mannerism-as-tension was consolidated in a big, though somewhat facile monograph by Arnold Hauser.xxiii Most ambitious of all, perhaps, was Hiram Haydn's idea of the Counter-Renaissance as a whole climate of opinion, a spiritual sphere, occupied by many of the leading intellectuals of Europe.xxiv
At the same time a new cohort of specialist art historians focused on the period 1540-60 , stressing such masters as Bronzino, Salviati, and Vasari. The work of these artists no longer suffered under the burden of being regarded as a watered-down version of mannerism, as Friedlaender had suggested, but were given their own bailiwick under the name maniera. The ultrarefined art of this group, created for a cultivated elite of aristocrats, stood in some contrast to the intensely expressive works of Pontormo and Rosso that had fascinated the critics of the 1920s. This shift of the center of gravity from about 1525 to about 1550 required a reappraisal of the whole notion.
Then John Sherman challenged the whole notion of mannerism as a style of distortion, tension, and spiritual anxiety. He reverted to one of the original meanings of maniera, style. The art of the later sixteenth century was, Sherman maintained, simply a refined and elegant version of the premises launched by the masters of the High Renaissance. "There is little necessity or excuse for an explanation of Mannerism in terms of tension or collective neurosis. It was, on the contrary, the confident assertion of the artist's right, which he seemed to have regained in the High Renaissance, to make something that was first and last a work of art." Within these boundaries he was able to include a whole range of accomplished figures, from Pierin del Vaga to Joachim Wtewael, from Benvenuto Cellini to Wenzel Jamnitzer, while giving short shrift to the early Pontormo, Rosso, and El Greco as overintense.
A balanced approach to the problem appeared in Sidney J. Freedberg's weighty survey in the Pelican series, Painting in Italy, 1500-1600.xxv The Harvard professor agreed with the pioneering scholars in the field that a profound break separated the High Renaissance from the mannerist generations. However, he found that tensions were already present in the later works of Raphael so that mannerism also represents the continuation of a breakup that had begun earlier. Freedberg detected a fundamental difference between the great "donative" figures such as Leonardo, Raphael, and Michelangelo, and the mass of artists. For this reason, all the lesser painters, whether contemporary with those giants or later, must necessarily be different in kind. By responding to the works of the mannerists in terms of formal analysis, however, he paid them the compliment of examining them in their own terms. In so doing, he exposed a "hidden" aspect of the revival of mannerism: the modern age was comfortable with a period of aesthetic formalism in part because of its own formalism.
A number of external features shaped the mannerist era. The sack of Rome in 1527 put an end to the confident unfolding of culture in the eternal city. The need to cope with the Protestant challenge and the difficult birth of the Counter-Reformation laid a heavy burden on Italy, the seat of Roman Catholicism. Outside of Venice political conditions remained uncertain in the peninsula. For their part artists, deprived of the support of the guild system, were more than ever dependent on the whims of aristocratic patrons, who had their own worries. This uncertain mood among artists led to a flood of highly intellectualized art treatises, such as those by Giovanni Paolo Lomazzo and Giovanni Battista Armenini. Artists clung to the High Renaissance masters, but without being able to replicate their careful balance of adherence to nature and formal subtlety. Instead the practitioners of the maniera veered ever more towards artificiality and pattern for its own sake.
Yet does all of this--and more evidence could be marshalled--add up to a unified artistic style? Can it be that scholars, and the general public for a time, were mesmerized by the verbal power of a label? Because the term mannerism suggests something unified and definite, the temptation to identify a single essence of mannerism was a powerful one. To be sure, all understanding of the past involves generalization, but some eras, such as the Gothic and the rococo seem to lend themselves more to this generalizing approach than others.
Another temptation confronted the enthusiasts for mannerism. Much modern art rests upon the myth of the lonely genius, who defies society. To put it in the vernacular, rebellion is "sexier" than conformity. As purported rebels against the tyranny of classicism, the mannerists could fit into this pattern. But how rebellious were the mannerists?
In conclusion, perhaps the greatest lesson to be learned from the quest to understand the artists of the maniera is a certain skepticism with regard to traits that come to the fore through being looked at through contemporary lenses. While this approach may provide useful tools for initiating and consolidating the rediscovery process, these helps must also be questioned and discounted if they lead too far away from the historical truth of the phenomena being studied.

Rehabilitation of Individual Artists.
In addition to period styles, individual artists also reaped the benefits of rehabilitation. In the process artists who had been relegated to the periphery were revealed to be major figures. There were significant differences. The revivals of Vermeer and Bosch were special cases, while the enthusiasm for Botticelli came in the train of the pre-Raphaelite focus on the quattrocento and the fondness for El Greco joined forces with the revival of mannerism. The changing fortunes of these four masters will suffice to bring out the main themes of the process of revival of individuals artists.

Jan Vermeer.
In this restricted gallery of individual figures, it is best to begin with the Dutch painter Johannes Vermeer (1632-1675), for while he was not chronologically the first of the quartet to have lived, he was the first to benefit from revival. Today, much more is known about the artist than in the days of his resurrection, when the very absence of facts probably contributed to the aura of mystery surrounding him. He married into a Catholic family and lived obscurely, but not unprosperously in Delft. Vermeer was influenced by the luminous realism of Carel Fabritius, who may have been his teacher. In his early years he painted religious and mythological scenes, but his mature work consists of the serene genre paintings that were his particular forte. Less than forty genuine canvases survive.
Although Vermeer's obscurity ranks as an archetype of the category of neglected genius, he was not completely unknown before the mid-nineteenth century when the Dutch master reemerged in splendor.xxvi The artist was elected four times to the ruling body of the painters' guild in Delft, and he was able to support his eleven children quite adequately--at least until war with France disrupted the Dutch economy. To be sure, his meticulous workmanship kept his output down. Few as they were, his creations were sometimes attributed to other artists. The dispersal, as it were, of his reputation made it hard to see him as a whole. After 1780, this situation reversed, and the works of other artists were commonly ascribed to him, showing that his star had begun to ascend. As late as 1843, however, the English dealer-scholar John Smith could offer but meager information about him in his Catalogues raisonnés.
Acceptance of Vermeer's works suffered to some degree from the prejudice against Dutch art in general. It is revealing to track the decline and eventual disappearance of this prejudice in France, where the shift went hand in hand with changes in contemporary production. In the early nineteenth century Flemish genre paintings, with their picturesque and turbulent action, were admired. By the 1840s, however, a shift began towards the quieter Dutch works. This mutation in the taste for Northern works reflected the rise of the realism of the Barbizon school and the increasing interest in light found among the artists who later would blossom as Impressionists. Thus the combination of quiet realism and shimmering light prepared the way for the revival of Vermeer, who from being an almost forgotten member of a lesser school came to be regarded as the epitome of an admired school.
The instrument of this transformation was a fiery journalist and critic named Théophile Thoré.xxvii Elected to parliament after the revolution of 1848, Thoré soon earned exile through his uncompromising republican journalism. The years he was forced to spend in England, Belgium, and Holland deepened his knowledge of art, and allowed him to bring a wealth of experience to his writings addressed to the French public.
On an excursion to Holland in 1842, Thoré had been thunderstruck by Vermeer's View of Delft. After that he was greatly to deepen his knowledge. During his more extended travels, he employed the pseudonym of William Bürger in order to elude the Belgian police. Since he also used that name in his writings he is known as Thoré-Bürger. After he returned to France in 1861 he spread his enthusiasm for Vermeer among his friends. He summarized his findings in a series of articles in the Gazette des Beaux-Arts in 1866. Placing Vermeer historically, he listed a canon of some seventy-five works, about half of which modern criticism has rejected.
Still, the researches of the French savant provided the impetus for Henry Havard's sober monograph of 1888. In 1906 Cornelis Hofstede de Groot compiled the first true catalogue raisonné. In 1911 Eduard Plietsch, offering new facts gleaned from the archives, was able to present a convincing reconstruction of Vermeer's stylistic development.
Since his rediscovery Vermeer has commanded exceptional allegiance from writers and intellectuals not professionally concerned with art. In 1902 Marcel Proust, who attributed a transcendental importance to the artist, called The View of Delft "the most beautiful picture in the world." In Remembrance of Things Past Charles Swann, the hedonist who transforms himself into a scholar, writes an essay on the Dutch artist. Like the melody of the Vinteuil sonata, the radiance of Vermeer gradually spreads its luster through the vast novel. The novelist Bergotte, another major character in Proust's magnum opus, actually dies while contemplating The View of Delft. In the "little patch of yellow wall" that he singles out in the picture Bergotte finds a talisman of the work that he should have written.xxviii Conversely, Proust uses indifference to Vermeer to show the lack of culture of a number of characters, and in a more general sense to set a boundary between sensitivity and unfeeling worldliness.xxix
In 1937 what appeared to be a remarkable new Vermeer canvas appeared, The Christ at Emmaus. Only after World War II did irrefutable evidence come to light that this work was one of a number of clever forgeries created with great patience and guile by Han van Vermeer had thus received a dubious, but significant accolade, the attention of a gifted forger.
Vermeer has also captured the admiration of modern artists who were not tempted to forge his works. In 1935 Pablo Picasso remarked, "I'd give the whole of Italian painting for Vermeer of Delft. There's a painter who simply said what he had to say without bothering about anything else. None of those mementos of antiquity for him."xxxi Significantly, however, in all the reworkings Picasso undertook of canvases by other artists--Cranach, Rembrandt, Delacroix and so forth--Vermeer never figures. The English painter Lawrence Gowing so revered Vermeer that he turned himself into an art historian, and an excellent one, by publishing his monograph Vermeer in 1952. As a rule, artists who admired him refrained from imitating him in their own work--as if intuiting that the virgin serenity of his world should not be violated. There was one exception to this generalization. Fascinated by The Lacemaker, Salvador Dali created several variations on this and other works by the master. For the most part his Vermeer "homages" seem grossly disfigured, as if Dali were both acknowledging, and reacting against his admiration.
The most significant contribution to Vermeer studies in recent years has been made by an economic historian, John Michael Montias of Yale University. In his book Vermeer and His Milieu: A Web of Social History,xxxii Montias has sifted the documents to produce a picture of the artist and his circle of fellow painters, his extended family connections, and patrons. Through the results of this research Vermeer has become more human, but the pristine serenity that lies at the core of his works remains.

Sandro Botticelli.
Firmly ensconced in the late fifteenth century, the work of the Florentine Sandro Botticelli (ca. 1445-1510) nonetheless reveals a marked individual stamp characterized by mellifluous line and a mildly enigmatic atmosphere. His personality was neurotic and thrown off balance for a time by the religious crisis at the end of the century. The esteem Botticelli enjoyed is shown by the invitation he received in 1481 to paint sections of the walls of the Sistine Chapel in Rome. For the last twenty years of his life he made a good living turning out Madonnas and other religious paintings of a gently devout kind.
Why did Botticelli's reputation fade? The "upstaging" of his Sistina frescoes by Michelangelo's titanic later additions is one factor. Other works, kept in private collections and seldom-visited churches, were hard to see. Aesthetically, Botticelli adhered to a linear expressivity that was alien to the High Renaissance art of the sixteenth century, when artists sought to evoke mood through sfumato and to achieve beauty through serene equipoise. During his later years Botticelii had already come to seem old fashioned. Then the ensuing Counter-Reformation was unsympathetic to Christianized neo-Platonism, so that the paganism of his Mythologies seemed overly celebratory. Although it served to keep his name alive, Vasari's perfunctory biography of Botticelli confirmed the Florentine master's marginalization by wedging him in with a group of naturalists marking the end of the second of the writer's three major eras. Curiously, Botticelli's homosexuality never seems to have been a factor in his demotion--perhaps because so many noteworthy Renaissance artists were homoerotically inclined.
The Botticelli revival came only in the nineteenth century.xxxiii In 1815 the Primavera and The Birth of Venus, later to be ranked among the most famous paintings of the entire Western tradition, were hung in the Uffizi, but attracted little notice. The French neo-Catholic art writer Alexis-François Rio paid some attention to Botticelli, communicating the interest to Ruskin in the 1850s. The attention of the pre-Raphaelite painters, notably Edward Burne-Jones and Dante Gabriel Rossetti, was a significant factor in renewing interest. However, the decisive turning point was the publication of Walter Pater's eloquent essay in 1870, incorporated in his 1873 book The Renaissance. Pater captured a mood of ambiguity exquisitely suited to the late-Victorian period, where the rising Botticelli cult fit in perfectly. For some his Madonnas are exemplary images of piety; for others they show uncertainty. The turning away from literal meaning in favor of qualities of line and mood suited the Aesthetic Movement. For some who were drawn to Botticelli, the fascination with the enigmatic character of Botticelli's work may reflect an uneasiness about art itself. It is significant that the revival of Botticelli took place mainly in England, a country still strongly embued with distrust of Catholic religious art. That Botticelli could be perceived as having himself internalized some of this reticence increased his appeal. And this perception may not have been altogether unjust, for late in life Botticelli had given support to Savonarola's proto-puritan campaign against "vanities."
The Pater concept was consolidated by a scholar who gave much of his life to Botticelli, Herbert Horne.xxxiv Like other English homosexuals of the day, Horne (following in Pater's footsteps) was influenced by the Aesthetic Movement. If the revival of Botticelli was a "gay taste," it was not exclusively so. In his dissertation of 1892 the heterosexual Aby Warburg offered a different reading in which Botticelli became less important for his own sake and more a kind of vector for the intersection of literary and other currents. By then, however, the perception of Botticelli in terms of the values of the Aesthetic Movement had become fixed, and the artist's reputation passed, with this doctrine, into the orbit of twentieth-century formalism. That Botticelli has continued to fascinate, even after the fading of this critical doctrine, is probably due to the complexly coded messages of his Mythologies, which still have not gained consensus readings.xxxv

El Greco
This artist (1541-1604) was born Domenikos Theotokopoulos on the island of Crete, where he seems to have received his early training. Moving to Venice he made a major adjustment in his style; he gave up producing icons in the Byzantine manner, and adopted an advanced style of oil painting. After a stay in Rome, he moved to Spain where he resided from 1577 until his death. El Greco's hopes of gaining royal patronage were disappointed by the cool reception of his ambitious The Martyrdom of Saint Maurice in 1583. Although he failed to achieve lasting success at the Madrid court of Philip II, he blended in well with the intellectuals and clergy of Toledo, where he enjoyed the status of a prosperous, if provincial celebrity.
Even though interest among professional art historians has declined somewhat in the late twentieth century, El Greco retains his appeal among the general public. More than any other feature in that remarkable city, El Greco attracts visitors to Toledo. Despite the fact that he was not native born, El Greco is thought to define some inherent capacities of the Spanish temperament: mystical religiosity and remoteness from ordinary worldly concerns. He is also regarded as one of those artists who bridge the gap between his own era and the modern one. He seems to prophesy the anxious temper of the twentieth century.
Many of his present-day admirers would be surprised to learn that he encountered problems in his own day. He adapted well to Toledo, but in the long run this was not an advantage. As the city became a backwater his art came to seem old fashioned. After his death in 1614 the Cretan master fell into almost total oblivion.xxxvi The response of Spanish art writers was muted: they respected his technical mastery but found his taste wayward and hard to accommodate to their own predispositions for it was neither naturalistic nor classical. Fifty years after his death the Aragonese painter-critic Jusepe Martínez was calling his work caprichosa and extravagante. The Cretan painter might have been almost totally forgotten had he not found a place in Antonio Palomino's standard history (1724). Palomino approves of his early works under the influence of Titian, but claims that he perversely changed his manner so as to appear more striking. Yet the results, with their "disjointed drawing" and "unpleasant color," were merely ridiculous. The spread of neo-classical taste in Spain in the later eighteenth century only served to confirm this negative judgment.
As travelers from other countries did not usually visit Spain to examine its art, they were not in a position to correct these opinions. However, the appearance of the railway made the country accessible and attractive, especially to French travelers. Influenced by the romantic movement, individuals like the writer Mérimée and the painter Manet helped to propagate the notion of Spain as a country with a distinctive national character. The interest of these observers in capturing "local color" accorded with a parallel indigenous trend known as costumbrismo. These interests prepared the way for the reception of an artist who did not fit the mold of general European currents, but would offer something distinctive. Thus in 1840 Théophile Gautier found El Greco's paintings extravagant and a little mad, endowing these conventional judgments with a new, positive connotation. In 1869 the art critic Paul Lefort went further, denying that he was deranged and singling him out, despite perceived mistakes, as "an audacious, enthusiastic colorist." His originality was that of a genius not a madman. However, even so well informed an art critic as the German Carl Justi, who had a special knowledge of Spain, was repulsed. In 1908 he claimed that El Greco was the prime example of artistic degeneration. The acclaim that such a pathological type was beginning to receive could only be regarded as a symptom of fin-de-siècle perversity. In this way Justi brought the old charges up to date by adopting the fashionable notion of degeneration so successfully promoted by Max Nordau. However negatively, he granted that El Greco had a special attraction for the age.
A variant of the degeneration hypothesis was the "medical materialism" of the Spanish physician and alienist Dr. Gregorio Marañón. El Greco suffered from a defect of vision, an astigmatism. Therefore the viewers are merely applauding a product of sundered sight.
The turning point in the El Greco revival was an 1886 article by Manuel Cossío, who was to emerge as the painter's great champion. In 1902 El Greco was honored by an exhibition at the Prado. Cossío's 1908 monograph offered the first serious and reliable account of the artist's career. Cossío argued that only his residence in Spain catalyzed the emergence of his original style, which was therefore a quintessential expression of the Spanish spirit. His words, which first raise the question of national character in relation to El Greco, reflect the climate of critical patriotism typified by the writers known as the Generation of 1898. Cossío also spotted for the first time the link with the Spanish mystics of the painter's time. Eloquent as these claims were, they neglected the Greek and Italian elements in El Greco's formation, a point made by a number of foreign critics. Others found in El Greco a forerunner of the phase of modern art that began with Cézanne, with its exploitation of apparent distortions for visual and emotional effect.
The German critic Julius Meier-Graefe even elevated El Greco above Velázquez, setting the stage for a rivalry that in some respects recalled the Michelangelo-Raphael duel. Helped by Meier-Graefe's praise, an almost feverish enthusiasm arose in a Germany that was beginning to take up Expressionism as a contemporary style. In 1911 the museum director Hugo von Tschudi, a major proponent of modernism, showed eight works to great effect at the Alte Pinakothek in Munich. The following year the master appeared with an almost talismanic value in the Blaue Reiter Almanac, an anthology of articles and reproductions collected by the painters Vassily Kandinsky and Franz Marc. Marc wrote that "Cézanne and El Greco are spiritual brothers," holding that, with their "mystical inner construction," they both stood in the closest connection with the new ideals in art.xxxvii
As has been noted above a new positive interpretation of mannerism began in the wake of World War I, emphasizing its purported anxiety and expressive distortions. Wrestling with the problem of mannerism, the Viennese art historian Max Dvořák offered--in a lecture originally delivered in October 1920--a new interpretation of El Greco that stressed his relationship to a Europe torn by the conflicts engendered by the Reformation.xxxviii He also explained the reasons for the painter's rehabilitation, which are in his view rooted in the turning away from materialism. The old world view is yielding to something different. "[L]iterature and the arts have turned towards spiritual absolutes, as they did in the Middle Ages and in the period of Mannerism. . . . There is a uniformity in all these events, which the mysterious law of human destiny seems to guide towards a new, a spiritual and antimaterialist age."xxxix
Despite the particular spin he proposed, Dvořák seemed to have succeeded in anchoring the cosmopolitan Spaniard by adoption in an artistic context so that for many art historians the matter was settled: El Greco was a mannerist, to be discussed in the same breath as Pontormo and Bronzino. The general public, however, more wisely continued to regard him as a great original. Recent discoveries of writings by El Greco suggest that he was more of a rationalist, in the Renaissance tradition, than a mystic. Other studies seek to place him more in the local milieu of Toledo.
In view of these revisions, why has El Greco retained such a hold over the general, art-loving public? Perhaps the explanation lies in the general absence of the iconographical and source-derived subtleties that make other works such a happy hunting ground for the professional scholar. Despite their religious subject matter, El Greco's paintings speak directly to the modern viewer--if not to the learned. It may be that the disdain that is still felt by many living art historians for avant-garde modern art spills over into a dislike of an artist who, despite their efforts to press him into a mannerist or local (Toledo) pigeonhole, so clearly foretells major aspects of twentieth-century art.

Hieronymus Bosch.
The Dutch painter Hieronymus Bosch (ca. 1450-1516) lived and worked in the town of s'Hertogenbosch.xl Although the majority of his surviving works depict Christian subjects, he lent a powerful element of fantasy to all of them, as seen especially in the great triptychs The Garden of Earthly Delights, The Haywain, and The Temptation of St. Anthony. The meticulous detail with which he executed his scenes adds to their phantasmagoric impact.
Bosch was esteemed during his lifetime, and seems never to have been idle. However, after his death the penetration of Italian classical standards in the Netherlands relegated him to obscurity. Insofar as he was mentioned at all, it was as a mere "concocter of deviltries."
Oddly enough, Bosch's fame lingered longest in Spain, where Philip II was devoted to his work. Spanish collectors rescued a number of important paintings from the Netherlands; regrettably many other works there fell victim to Calvinist iconoclastic fury, or mysteriously disappeared later. Theorists such as Felipe de Guevara and Argote de Molina sought to justify Bosch's paintings by placing them in the tradition of disparates, descriptions or depictions of unequally mixed things presented in a moralistic spirit so as to show the vanity of the world. But in Spain, too, the growing tradition of classicism caused writers to fall silent about him.
Appropriately enough, it was in Spain that Carl Justi (1832-1912) rediscovered Bosch in the 1880s. Preparing his great biography of Winckelmann, Justi had spent the requisite two years in Italy, but he sought to broaden himself by trips to Spain, which he visited eight times. Looking at many neglected works, he sharpened his connoisseurship skills and gathered the material for his book on Diego Velázquez. Influenced by contemporary naturalism, Justi was not disturbed by the picturesque detail of Bosch's works, and saw that they might convey "coded" meanings, though he had no concrete suggestions to illuminate their iconography, a problem that became central to twentieth-century research. His Austrian contemporary Hermann Dollmayr, who published the first catalogue of Bosch's surviving oeuvre in 1898, emphasized their apocalyptic character in relation to the Four Last Things of Christian theology. Other writers interpreted Bosch as a recorder of the Dutch scene, seeking to assimilate him to established ideas of the national character of Netherlandish art. A new theme after the turn of the century was the idea that he was a "sick personality" with sadomasochistic tendencies. These notions betray the interest in psychosexual aberrations initiated by Richard von Krafft-Ebing and continued by Sigmund Freud, Albert Moll, Havelock Ellis and others. Along these lines, efforts were made to link the supposed psychosexual abnormality of Bosch's work with similar tendencies found in modern art, inspired by Max Nordau's notions of degeneration.
Not until 1936 was the first great retrospective exhibition of the Dutch artist held, at the Museum Boymans in Rotterdam. From this exhibition came the monograph of Charles de Tolnay (1937), which stressed among other things the relation of Bosch's work to late medieval visionary and dream literature. Clearly, a factor in the new appreciation of Bosch was the contemporary art movement of surrealism.
After World War II Wilhelm Fraenger proposed that Bosch's most enigmatic works were intended as the altarpieces of a heretical sect, the Adamites. While this approach yielded a number of interesting observations, it has not gained consensus. Another attempt to find the key to Bosch lay in the field of alchemy. While there may be a few such elements in Bosch's work, this does not seem to be the answer.
The solution seems to lie in the insight that Bosch was an original thinker, one working with traditional materials drawn from the Bible and folklore, but one whose full message has not yet been deciphered. Misunderstood or not, Bosch is now firmly ensconced as one of Europe's greatest artists, his Garden of Earthly Delights being known to the entire educated public. The trajectory of his fame is virtually a resurrection. Consigned to oblivion about 1630 throughout Europe, he was revived be specialists from 1889 to 1936, and then achieved his triumph.
Twentieth-Century Revivals: Women Artists.
The preceding case histories are some outstanding examples of artists whose "stockmarket quotations" have fluctuated. The discussion has shown that the questions raised by these revivals have continued to be discussed for decades, prolonging a nineteenth-century endeavor through the twentieth century. Other revivals have been launched in the twentieth century itself. Indeed the process seems destined to be a continuing one.
In the 1970s the second wave of feminism fostered a vigorous upsurge of women's studies. In art history this endeavor involved not only a reconsideration of the varied contributions made by women as producers of art, but more complex questions of the role of gender in viewing and evaluating all art. These questions will be considered more fully in the last main chapter of this book, which treats new methodologies of the present.
Relevant to the present context is the revival of women artists. Women scholars noticed that even in styles that had been revived, such as the baroque, the role of women in them continued to be largely ignored. As Linda Nochlin observed in a widely read article, "Why Are There No Great Women Artists," there were fewer women artists because of professional barriers, such as not being able to attend life drawing classes where nude models were used, that served to restrict the number of trained artists who happened to be female.xli Still there were some, and one of the first tasks undertaken by women art historians concerned with these issues was to rescue women artists from invisibility. The task was first approached comprehensively, showing a variety of neglected artists
in order to illustrate the richness of the field. In this first phase, which may be termed "collective revival" there were two major landmarks. In Our Hidden Heritage: Five Centuries of Women Artists,xlii Eleanor Tufts created a kind of women's Vasari, a set of exemplary biographies of twenty-two notable women artists from the Renaissance to the present, accompanied by scholarly references and representative samples of their work. Then in 1976-77 Ann Harris and Linda Nochlin curated a big exhibition "Women Artists: 1550-1950" at the Los Angeles County Museum which not only had considerable impact on the general public but launched a number of young art historians on a course that would bring much new information to light and afford new insights.
A second stage consisted of weighty monographs reconstructing the oeuvre of individual women artists and showing their relation to their time. Representative studies are the monographs of Mary Garrard on Artemisia Gentileschi, Frima Fox Hofrichter on Judith Leyster, and Ilya Sandra Perlingieri on Sofonisba Anguissola--all seventeenth-century artists.xliii The rich documentation afforded by these books supplants the meager coverage available before. Still, one must not rush to the conclusion that nothing at all was known about these artists before the late twentieth century. Saluting them for diligence rather than genius, Vasari mentioned a number of women artists, including Barbara Longhi, Sofonisba Anguissola, and the sculptor Properzia de' Rossi--though without honoring any of them with a biography of her own. In Felsina Pittrice, chronicling the painters of Bologna, Carlo Cesare Malvasia actually included two biographies of women practitioners, Lavinia Fontana and Elisabetta Sirani. During the first half of the twentieth century Dutch scholars conscientiously gathered data on Judith Leyster. Still, the neglect was palpable, and the first task of today's women's scholars has been to repair it. 
Revivals of Modern Figures.
The cycles of neglect and recovery of fortune are not restricted to past times, but have occurred virtually under our own noses. A spectacular example is the English architect Edwin Lutyens (1869-1944). Phenomenally successful as a builder of country houses, Lutyens was commissioned to design and build a capital of British India at New Delhi. Critics loyal to the International Style, however, stigmatized him as a hopeless eclectic, virtually obliterating his reputation. With the emergence of postmodernism in architectural practice, however, Lutyens came back, so that today he is regarded as one of the century's premier builders.xliv
The great Catalan architect Antoni Gaudí i Cornet (1852-1926), the creator of the still-unfinished church of the Sagrada Familia in Barcelona, has become closely associated with the nationalism of his native region.xlv, His highly imaginative work posed a challenge to the standard teleological interpretation of modern architecture, which honored Adolf Loos' severe admonition that "ornament is crime." With the rise of architectural functionalism in the 1920s, it was felt that Gaudí's "bizarre eccentricities" must be exiled far outside the mainstream. However, the art nouveau revival in the 1950s compelled attention, and with postmodernism triumphing in architectural practice itself his status now seems assured as one of the major architects of our epoch. Despite many delays, work on the Sagrada Familia proceeds apace, though a sharp debate has raged in Barcelona about the merits of some of the new work. During the closing years of the century Gaudí's masterpiece even gained admirers in far-off Japan--admirers who are contributing generously to the completion of the building. With all the enthusiasm, one aspect of Gaudí's makeup has largely escaped notice: his fervent Catholism. Living a life of almost monastic asceticism, he adhered to the Circle of St. Luke, a guild of artists inspired by the Thomistic aesthetic of bishop Torres i Bages. These religious ideas found their fullest expression in the visual symbolism incorporated into the architect's "garden city," the Güell Park, financed by a wealthy industrialist.xlvi
A complex case is that of Marcel Duchamp (1887-1968). His notorious Nude Descending the Staircase, with its fusion of cubism and futurism, achieved a succès de scandal in the crowded field at the Armory Show in New York in 1913. Then his "ready-mades"--including the urinal and the bottle rack--posed the question of what is art. Few then recognized the guiding principle in all his works, for he extracted from cubism the sense that art is more concerned with concept than percept, providing a range of applications not encompassed by the parent movement. For the last forty years of his life Duchamp seemed to have retired from the art world to practice chess. (He continued to work in private, but this activity was little known). By the early 1930s his reputation had paled almost to the point of invisibility, though his inclusion in the 1938 Paris Surrealist exhibition showed that he still enjoyed residual respect as a pioneer.xlvii After World War II the triumph of abstract expressionism created a visual sensibility antithetical to Duchamp's work, also earning him a certain pariah status as an emblem of Parisian inconsequentiality. Yet in the 1960s a new generation, inspired by Jasper Johns, Robert Rauschenberg, and Pop Art, rediscovered him, based on his ironic attitude towards art and its relation to life.xlviii With its emphasis on concept rather than "retinality," minimalism further enhanced his status, while such literary luminaries as Octavio Paz and Jean-François Lyotard pondered the significance of his work. Contemporary artists, in full revolt against the formalism advocated by the once-all powerful figure of Clement Greenberg, treated Duchamp as their patron saint.
Sometimes segments of an artist's career are subject to fluctuation. The early work of Paul Cézanne, prior to his involvement in Impressionism in 1872, has long been neglected. In his influential monograph of 1927, Roger Fry did discuss these early works with their dramatic subject matter and heavy brushwork, while segregating them as products of a kind of unbridled romanticism that was antithetical to the formal subtlety of his later work.xlix Thus these paintings came to be largely disregarded as embarrassing apprentice work happily superseded by his mature manner. If granted an existence in their own right, they were treated as, in effect, "not Cézanne." After World War II, Meyer Schapiro and Theodore Reff did discuss individual works of the early period, but largely as indicators of the artist's psychological development. It was only with the opening of the Royal Academy of Arts exhibition "Cézanne: The Early Years 1859-1872" curated by Lawrence Gowing in 1988 that these works came into their own.l Why was this recognition so long in coming? As indicated these works did not accord with the formal serenity stereotypically attributed to Cézanne. The dramatic subject matter of many of them, including such themes as The Murder and The Orgy, went against the high modernist prohibition of "anecdotal" values in painting. As these bans were lifted a more positive element came into play, for elements of the pluralistic orientation of the contemporary art scene in the 1980s facilitated the reemergence of these fascinating, atypical canvases by a great master.
If the early Cézanne had been neglected for over a century, more recently this fate overtook the later work of Giorgio de Chirico (1888-1978), who in the 1920s began to produce works that look like pastiches of the old masters, satirizing his earlier Metaphysical paintings by occasionally producing weak copies of them.In the 1970s and 80s, however, the later works enjoyed a certain favor among contemporary Italian neo-Expressionist artists. They were then taken up by a kind of camp taste that hailed the later Chirico work as "so bad it's good." Time will tell whether a revival on this basis can last.
Some other dismissals seem likely to prove final. Critical opinion, without any great display of fireworks, accomplished the relegation of the once-fashionable painters Raoul Dufy and Bernard Buffet--though without persuading collectors to rid their homes of them. An effort has in fact been made to rehabilitate Dufy, as seen in a big monograph by Dora Perez-Tibi, which pleads for the recognition of his "great qualities."li Most critical opinion, however, persists in viewing him as a lightweight producer of fashionable confections. A more mysterious case is the slow and dignified fading of the reputation of Georges Braque, which the 1989 Museum of Modern Art joint exhibition with Picasso may have stabilized, but could not restore to its former radiance.lii Much--though not all--of Henry Moore's sculptural work is now felt to be hollow and unrewarding. Perhaps this indifference stems more from the "official" status that has attached to Moore as a creator of public monuments than any intrinsic deficiency.
Why has there been so little public discussion of these falling "stock quotations" of artists' status? Is it fear of rocking the boat in the art market itself? Perhaps commercial interests have little to worry about here. Forgeries are an indication of continuing demand--that Dufy is so often forged shows that collectors do not always obey the ukases of critics and taste makers. Yet when an artist, once fashionable, ceases to attract the attention of forgers, one may assume that the individual's popularity has passed.
A cynic would say that many revivals are engineered to bring in fresh products for the art market. This lure may have played some role in the upsurge of interest in art nouveau in the 1950s or in the boom in Mexican folk art today. Surely, however, this is not what a Burckhardt or a Cossío had in mind when they did their rethinking; it was afterwards that the dealers descended. Also, buildings and (usually) altarpieces in churches were not for sale, so that the revivals of periods featuring these genres are unlikely to have been driven by commercial considerations.

Problematic Revivals of Styles.
Beginning about 1970 a strong effort was made to revive nineteenth-century academic ("pompier") artists, who had been driven from their pedestal and consigned to kitsch status by the exaltation of such modernists as Manet, Cézanne, and Van Gogh. (In his youth--from 1885 to 1896--Proust regarded Jean-Louis-Ernest Meissonnier as his favorite painter.) Although prices paid at auction for these once highly sought-after canvases have improved, they have not returned, relatively speaking, to previous levels. Moreover, no general picture of the pompiers as a group has emerged. Instead there is a concentration on "swing" figures like Thomas Couture and Jules Bastien-Lepage with a foot in both camps, and on the Orientalist preocupations of Jean-Léon Gérôme and Henri Regnault. The latter trend has recently drawn much flak from an anticolonialist and multiculturalist standpoint--supplanting the former formalist obloquy: one disparagement replaces another. Thus the pompiers represent at best a case of partial revival.
The ambivalent status of the pompier rehabilitation transpires from the controversies over the establishment of a new nineteenth-century museum in Paris in the 1980s. The Musée d'Orsay was installed in a former railroad station of 1900, which was redesigned for the purpose. The installations include both "progressive" works and academic ones. The acceptance of the latter, while it had been welcomed in theory, proved disconcerting to many visitors in practice, showing that the stigma that these works had acquired in previous decades had not been shed.liii
The pompier question raises the matter of state patronage. Many of these works owe their creation and preservation to the generosity of the French state. The role of institutional intervention of this kind clearly deserves careful study.
Public support, though scarcely lavish, figured in a major American trend. During the 1930s the most prominent school of American artists was that of the regionalists, headed by Thomas Hart Benton of Missouri, John Steuart Curry of Kansas, and Grant Wood of Iowa.liv The regionalists created figural paintings with bright colors and simplified forms usually depicting typically American scenes of agriculture, industry, and entertainment. The work of this triumvirate was surrounded by a large penumbra of muralists who were subsidized by federal money to execute work in public buildings throughout the Collectively, this whole trend of Depression-era work was called American Scene painting. Its chief protagonists, aided by critics like Thomas Craven, posed themselves aggressively against the European modernists and their New York allies, who were regarded as effete formalists, lacking in social significance. Sometimes the attacks reflected nativism; dislike of immigrants and "city slickers" mingled with currents of anti-Semitism and homophobia. Ironically, Benton had studied in Paris and had practiced a distinctively modern idiom before being converted to the kind of populist naturalism for which he is best known.
With the coming of World War II, the regionalists faded from public attention, to be succeeded by the abstract expressionists. Curiously, Jackson Pollock had been a pupil of Benton.lvi Regionalism enjoyed a kind of revival in the 1970s, conditioned by several factors. First, pop art had made recognizable subject matter acceptable again, and had helped to dissolve the boundaries between high and low. (Many American Scene painters had done commercial art to make ends meet, and the effects seeped over into their "serious" work.) Then the New Left rallied to these artists as populists who produced an art with social significance. The new outdoors mural art of minorities, especially in Southern California, harked back to regionalist message-bearing. Yet even some of those who wrote about the American Scene phenomenon found the work hard to accept aesthetically. And with the rise of the "political correctness" trend at the end of the 1980s, the chauvinistic and nativist leanings of the 1930s artists became harder to overlook. Publications timed for the centennial of Benton's birth in 1989 encountered a mixed response.lvii Thus the revival of regionalism a.k.a. American Scene painting seems to have enjoyed some initial success, and then got bogged down.

Closing Observations.
Some revivals encountered a smoother path than others. The spread of pre-Raphaelite taste virtually guaranteed that eventually Botticelli would be a beneficiary. By contrast the radical challenge of Bosch's supposedly nightmarish scenes long hindered his resurrection. Then there were different degrees of obnubilation. Mannerism was much buffeted, but rococo never really went completely off the map.
It is possible that some artists are willy-nilly mounted on the wheel of fortune so that as they went down and then up, they are fated to go down again. In fact there has been some recent fading of enthusiasm for Botticelli and El Greco, though more among scholars than the general public which continues to cherish them. The gap between the educated lay public and art historians is often patent: some creative writers would place Vermeer above Rembrandt, art historians specializing in the Dutch seventeenth century do not. Apparently, once an artist or group of artists gains status in the canon of popular taste dislodgement is difficult. A comparable case is that of the seventeenth-century poet John Milton: T. S. Eliot and F. R. Leavis tried to demote him, but readers would not acquiesce. However, if rehabilitation has not been completed, the benefits of such a "heat shield" are lacking; the uncertain terms of the recovery of mannerism have left its status uncertain.
The moral of this gallery of rejected-resurrected styles and artists may at first sight seem a relativistic one. It appears that any style or artist, like some victim of deportation to one of Stalin's Gulags, can go on a hit list, to be instantly, or almost instantly demoted--to become a nonstyle (as Croce thought baroque actually was) or a nonperson. Conversely, it seems that any decadent old style or musty old artist can be trotted out and made exemplary.
In reality, the process is less simple and arbitrary. Looking at past evaluations through the eyes of those who made them, there is considerable consistency in the rejection of styles and artists felt to be wanting in adherence to classical norms. The centuries-long success story told by Vasari was a hard-won affair, and to cast its results aside for caprice or the momentary appeal of heightened emotion was, in this view, to prefer titillation to quality. Ultimately the whole question needs to be framed in a perceived context of moral urgency--a utopian context, if you will. Does one believe that there is essentially one style (with individual variations) that is suited to foster the realization of the good life? Or does one subscribe to the view that our very humanity requires the affirmation of numberless cultural forms?
Examining the matter pragmatically, it does not seem that unsubstantial styles and trivial artists can be effectively revived. To be sure, some professionals harbor doubts about El Greco, and some more recent candidates, such as Gérome and Dufy, seem dubious as long-term prospects. Here the traditional concept of "the test of time" still seems valid.lviii Masters like Titian and Raphael, whose works have been tempered by this test, are very difficult to dislodge.lix One can inveigh at length against the cult of the old masters, but the works of the artists themselves perdure. By contrast, figures that have been insufficiently tempered by this process of annealing cannot easily be restored to favor. Although prejudice can convert a major artist into a minor one--sometimes even for centuries--it is very hard, after the requisite phase of sorting has taken place, to make a minor artist into a major one. Before the test of time has been allowed to work, however, there may be oscillations--as seen in contemporary or near contemporaries whose ultimate status is still hard to predict. Moreover, it is always possible that the works of unrecognized major figures lurk in the storerooms of museums and in obscure private collections, one day to be rediscovered--or perhaps never to be rediscovered.
As the case studies above have shown, rehabilitating neglected styles and masters is a complex and sometimes uncertain endeavor. On occasion, present-mindedness has run rampant, and ideological axes have been wielded. Still it would be unwise to give way to an easy cynicism, concluding that all is relative. Rehabilitations have yielded a great harvest--much knowledge and much enrichment of the store of objects worthy of our attention. Moreover, these local advances add up: they contribute significant jigsaw pieces to the ultimate construction of a history of world art. Starting with things that one knows and loves, and persisting in the endeavor, is likely to lead to increasingly higher levels of understanding.

i Haskell, Rediscoveries in Art: Some Aspects of Taste, Fashion and Collecting in England and France, London: Phaidon Press, 1976. pp. 42, 64-70.
ii To be sure, some artists such as the Bolognese "eclectics"--the Carracci, Albani, and Reni--did fall from favor, but their dislodgement flowed more from the new cult of originality than from a vengeful sense that in order for some works to rise others must fall.
iii Wilhelm Worringer, Abstraction and Empathy: A Contribution to the Psychology of Styles, trans. by Michael Bullock, New York: International Universities Press, 1953 (first published in German in 1908); Walter F. Friedlaender, Mannerism and Antimannerism in Italian Painting, New York: Columbia University Press, 1957 (translations of two papers originally published in German in 1925 and 1928-29).
iv Of course many observers, especially those concerned with literature, continued to use style in an absolute sense, as a particular quality of excellence that subsists regardless of its particular vehicle. It is both an advantage and a disadvantage that "style" can be used in three ways: as an absolute; as the unifying features of a period or nation; and as the special qualities or "idiolect" of an individual creator.
v Rediscoveries in Art. The neglect of Germany and Italy in Haskell's purview serves to shortchange the accomplishment of the art historians, who became concentrated in those countries.
vi C. T. Carr, "Two Words in Art History, I. Baroque," Forum for Modern Language Studies, I (1965), 176-90. Many examples of usage appear in Otto Kurz, "Barocco: storia di una parola," Lettere italiane, XII (1960), 414-44; and René Wellek, "The Concept of the Baroque in Literary Scholarship," in his Concepts of Criticism, New Haven: Yale University Press, 1963, pp. 69-127.
vii For a synthesis of the contemporary understanding of baroque art, and some account of the "internal resistance" to it, see John Rupert Martin, Baroque, New York: Harper & Row, 1977. It might be noted that the Amarna style of the fourteenth century B.C. in Egypt evoked strong dislike, if not during its brief flowering, then immediately afterwards. With its naturalism and expressive distortions, the Amarna style has some affinities with baroque. An even better parallel is the mid-Hellenistic style of the second century B.C., which is often termed baroque by modern scholars. There is evident in the art of the first century B.C. (and in Pliny's commentary in the following century) of a strong reaction, though it is not certain how far this can be located in the period itself. The Roman baroque still seems unique in engendering such contestation at its very height of development.
viii Rudolf Wittkower, Art and Architecture in Italy: 1600-1750, 3d ed. New York: Penguin, 1973, pp. 171-73.
ix Cecil Gould, Bernini in France: An Episode in Seventeenth-Century History, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1982.
x "Zur Gewinnung unsere Barockbegriff," Die Kunsformen des Barockzeitalters, Bern: A. Francke, 1956, pp, 13-91.
xi New York: Harper & Row, 1962. This book belongs to the prestigious "Rise of Modern Europe Series," edited by William L. Langer.
xii Still standard for the inception of characteristic decorative schemes is Fiske Kimball, The Creation of Rococo, New York: Norton, 1943. Information on individual artists and works is conveniently accessible in Wend Graf Kalnein and Michael Levey, Art and Architecture of the Eighteenth Century in France, New York: Penguin, 1972.
xiii Philippe Minguet, Esthétique du Rococo, Paris; Vrin, 1966; Anthony Blunt, Some Uses and Misuses of the Terms Baroque and Rococo as Applied to Architecture, London: British Academy, 1973. Just as some hold that Mannerism is simply the late stage of the Renaissance, others regard the rococo as the final stage of the baroque. In the present context of discussion, this tendency may be regarded as both prolonging the neglect of the rococo (a neglect that has always been only relative) or affirming its value by "hitching it to a rising star."
xiv Henry-Russell Hitchcock, Rococo Architecture in Southern Germany, London: Phaidon, 1968.
xv Carol Duncan, The Pursuit of Pleasure: The Rococo Revival in French Romantic Art, New York; Garland, 1976.
xvi C. T. Carr, "Two Words in Art History. II. Rococo," Forum for Modern Language Studies, I (1965), 266-81.
xvii English translation: French Eighteenth Century Painters, London: Phaidon, 1948.
xviii This discussion draws on the lucid account of Marco Treves, "Maniera, the History of a Word," Marsyas, 1 (1941), 69-88. See also Luisa Becherucci, "Mannerism," Encyclopedia of World Art, New York: McGraw-Hill, 1964, cols. 443-78; and Salvatore Battaglia, ed., "Maniera [etc.]," Grande Dizionario della Lingua Italiana, IX, Turin: Unione Tipografico Editrice Torinese, 1978, pp. 676-84.
xix "Ueber Greco und den Manierismus," in his Kunstgeschichte als Geistesgeschichte, Munich: Piper, 1924, 259ff. [trans. by John Coolidge in Magazine of Art, 46 (1953), 14-23.]
xx "Die Entstehung des Antiklassischen Stiles in der Italienische Malerei um 1520," Repertorium für Kunstwissenschaft, 46 (1925), 49-86 (English version in his Mannerism and Antimannerism in Italian Painting, cit).
xxi Fascinating, though sometimes forced examples of this parallel appear in Gustav René Hocke, Die Welt als Labyrinth: Manier und Manie in der europäische Kunst, Reinbek: Rowohlt, 1957.
xxii Garden City, N.Y.: Anchor Books, 1955.
xxiii Mannerism: The Crisis of the Renaissance and the Origin of Modern Art, New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1965.
xxiv Hiram Haydn, The Counter-Renaissance, New York: Scribner's, 1950.
xxv New York: Penguin, 1971. See the stimulating review by Henri Zerner, "Mind Your Maniera," New York Review of Books, August 31, 1972, pp. 25-28. More recently, see Hessel Miedema, "On Mannerism and Maniera," Simiolus, 10 (1978-79), 19-46.
xxvi Albert Blankert, Vermeer of Delft: Compete Edition of the Paintings, Oxford: Phaidon, 1978, pp. 60-67.
xxvii Stanley Meltzoff, "The Rediscovery of Vermeer," Marsyas, 2 (1942), 145-66.
xxviii Martin Pops, in the Preface to the special issue on Vermeer of Salmagundi, 44-45 (1979), p. 4.
xxix René Huyghe, "Vermeer & Proust," Salmagundi, 44-45 (1979), 78-88.
xxx Marijke van den Brandhof, Een vroege Vermeer uit 1937: achtergronden van leven en werken van de schilder/vervalser Han van Meegeren, Utrecht: Spectrum, 1979.
xxxi Dore Ashton, ed., Picasso on Art, New York: Viking Press, 1972, p. 167.
xxxii Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1989.
xxxiii Michael Levey, "Botticelli in Nineteenth-Century England," Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes, 23 (1960), 291-306; Frank Kermode, "Botticelli Recovered," in his Forms of Attention, Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1985, pp. 1-31.
xxxiv Alessandro Filipepi, Commonly Called Sandro Botticelli, Painter of Florence, London: G. Bell, 1908.
xxxv See, inter alia, Ernst H. Gombrich, "Botticelli's Mythologies: A Study in the Neoplatonic Symbolism of His Circle," Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes, 8 (1945), 7-60; Charles Dempsey, "'Mercurius Vir': The Sources of Botticelli's 'Primavera,'" Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes, 31 (1968), 251-73; idem, "Botticelli's Three Graces," Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes, 34 (1971), 326-30; Mirella Levi d'Ancona, Botticelli's "Primavera": A Botanical Interpretation Including Astrology, Alchemy, and the Medici, Florence: L. S. Olschki, 1983; Umberto Baldini, Primavera: The Restoration of Botticelli's Masterpiece, New York: Abrams, 1986; Lillian Zirpolo, "Botticelli's Primavera: A Lesson for the Bride," in Norma Broude and Mary D. Garrard, ed., The Expanding Discourse: Feminism and Art History, New York: HarperCollins, 1992, pp. 100-09.
xxxvi The following paragraphs benefit from the trenchant account of Jonathan Brown, "Introduction: El Greco, the Man and the Myths," in El Greco of Toledo, Boston: Little, Brown, 1982, pp. 15-33.
xxxvii Wassily Kandinsky and Franz Marc, eds., The Blaue Reiter Almanac, new documentary edition by Klaus Lankheit, New York: Viking Press, 1974, p. 59.
xxxviii "Ueber El Greco und den Manierismus," cit.
xxxix Kunstgeschichte als Geistesgeschichte, Munich: Piper, 1924, pp. 275-76. The essay on El Greco was translated by John Coolidge in Magazine of Art, 46 (1953), 14-23.
xl This section mainly follows Marshall Neal Myers and Wayne Dynes, Hieronymus Bosch and the Canticle of Isaiah, New York: Cabirion Press, 1987, pp. 133-86. See also Roger-H. Marijnissen et al., Jheronimus Bosch, Brussels: Arcade, 1972, 525-42; and Walter S. Gibson, Hieronymus Bosch: Annotated Bibliography, Boston: G. H. Hall, 1983 (notices about 1000 items).
xli The essay, first published in 1971, may be conveniently consulted in Nochlin, Woman, Art, and Power and Other Essays, New York: Harper & Row, 1988, pp. 145-78.
xlii New York: Paddington Press, 1974.
xliii Mary D. Garrard, Artemisia Gentileschi: The Image of the Female Hero in Italian Baroque Art, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1989; Frima Fox Hofrichter, Judith Leyster: A Woman Painter in Holland's Golden Age, Dornspijk: Aetas Aurea, 1989; Ilya Sandra Perlingieri, Sofonisba Anguissola: The First Great Woman Artist of the Renaissance, New York: Rizzoli, 1992.
xliv Lutyens had always had his conservative admirers, but they had been isolated--outside the pale, as it were. A sign of the change in the "advanced" circles heralding architectural postmodernism was the article by Robert Venturi and Denise Scott Brown, "Learning from Lutyens, Royal Institute of British Architects Journal, 76 (August 1969), 353-54. The title anticipates the authors' iconoclastic book Learning from Las Vegas which appeared in 1972.
xlv George R. Collins and Maurice E. Farinas, Bibliography of Antonio Gaudí and the Catalan Movement, 1870-1930, Charlottesville: University Press of Virginia, 1973; George R. Collins and Juan Basegoda Nonell, The Designs and Drawings of Antonio Gaudí, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1982. For the context, see Marilyn McCully, ed., Homage to Barcelona: The City and Its Art, London: Thames and Hudson, 1986; and Robert Hughes, Barcelona, New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1992. There seems to be no study tracing the revival of Gaudí's fortunes outside of Spain.
xlvi Conrad Kent and Dennis Prindle, Hacia la arquitectura de un paraíso, Madrid: Hermann Blume, 1992.
xlvii Calvin Tomkins, The Bride and the Bachelors: Five Masters of the Avant-garde, New York: Penguin, 1976.
xlviii For the critical response see Joseph Masheck, Marcel Duchamp in Perspective, Englewood Cliffs, N.J: Prentice-Hall, 1975.
xlix See Roger Fry, Cézanne: A Study of His Development, Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1989, new edition with introduction by Richard Shiff. Note also the catalogue: Lawrence Gowing, et al., Cézanne: The Early Years 1859-1872, New York: Harry N. Abrams, 1988. See also Mary Tompkins Lewis, Cézanne's Early Imagery, Berkeley: University of California Press, 1989.
li Dora Perez-Tibi, Dufy, New York: Abrams, 1989. See reviews by Ronald Alley, Burlington Magazine, 132 (1990), 644; and Gabriel P. Weisberg, Arts Magazine, 65 (October 1990), 127.
lii William Rubin, Picasso and Braque: Pioneering Cubism, New York: The Museum of Modern Art, 1989.
liii See, e.g., Linda Nochlin, Robert Rosenblum, and Alain Kirili, "The Musée d'Orsay: A Symposium," Art in America, 76 (January 1988), 84-107.
liv Mary Scholz Guedon, Regionalist Art:Thomas Hart Benton, John Steuart Curry, and Grant Wood: A Guide to the Literature, Metuchen, N.J.: Scarecrow Press, 1982. For an incisive review of the research context, see Wanda Corn, "Coming of Age: Historical Scholarship in American Art," Art Bulletin, 70 (1988), 187-207.
lv See, e.g., Karal Ann Marling, Wall-to=Wall America, Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1982.
lvi Erika Doss, Benton, Pollock, and the Politics of Modernism: From Regionalism to Abstract Expressionism, Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1991.
lvii Henry Adams, Thomas Hart Benton: An American Original, New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1989; idem, Thomas Hart Benton: Drawing From Life, New York: Abbeville, 1990; Thomas Hart Benton and the Indiana Murals: The Making of a Masterpiece, Bloomington: Indiana Art Museum, 1989.
lviii Anthony Savile, The Test of Time: An Essay in Philosophical Aesthetics, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1982.
lix A few scholars have undertaken an audacious effort to demote Shakespeare, on the grounds that he is not "politically correct." It is doubtful that this attempted depreciation can succeed.

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