Lustrous Trade

THE LUSTROUS TRADE

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THE LUSTROUS TRADE MATERIAL CULTURE AND THE HISTORY OF SCULPTURE IN ENGLAND AND ITALY, C.1700-C.1860

Edited by Cinzia Sicca and Alison Y a r r i n g t o n

LEICESTER UNIVERSITY PRESS London and New York

Leicester University Press A Continuum imprint Wellington House, 125 Strand, London WC2R 0BB 370 Lexington Avenue, New York, NY 10017-6503 First published 2000 © 2000 Cinzia Sicca, Alison Yarrington and the contributors All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. ISBN 0-7185-0209-4 (hardback) Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Sicca, Cinzia Maria. The lustrous trade : material culture and the history of sculpture in England and Italy, c. 1700-c. 1860 / Cinzia Sicca & Alison Yarrington. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 0-7185-0209-4 1. Sculpture, Italian—England. 2. England — Commerce — Italy—History—18th century. 3. England—Commerce—Italy—History—19th century. 4. Italy—Commerce—England— History—18th century. 5. England—Commerce—Italy—History—19th century. I. Yamngton, Alison, 1951 II. Tit NB616.S54 2000 730'.945'0942—dc211

Typeset by CentraServe Ltd, Saffron Walden, Essex Printed and bound in Great Britain by The Cromwell Press, Trowbridge, Wiltshire

00--022171

CONTENTS

LIST OF PLATES

vii

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

IX

NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS

xi

INTRODUCTION

1

Cinzia Sicca and Alison Yarrington 1 Re-casting George I: Sculpture, the Royal Image and the Market Barbara Arciszewska

27

2 Camillo Rusconi in English Collections Frank Martin

49

3 The Trade of Luxury Goods in Livorno and Florence in the Eighteenth Century Elena Lazzarini

67

4 Gentlemen of Virtue: Morality and Representation in English Eighteenth-century Tomb Sculpture Cristiano Giometti

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5 Contacts and Contracts: Sir Henry Cheere and the Formation of a New Commercial World of Sculpture in Mid-Eighteenth-Century London Matthew Craske 6 'Sheep, shepherds, and wild beasts, cut artificially in stone': Production and Consumption of Garden Sculpture in Genoa at the End of the Seventeenth and during the Eighteenth Century Lauro Magnani 7 Anglo-Italian Attitudes: Chantrey and Canova Alison Yarrington

94

114

132

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CONTENTS

8 The Marble Trade: The Lazzerini Workshop and the Arts, Crafts and Entrepreneurs of Carrara in the Early Nineteenth Centuy

156

Luisa Passeggia

9 Carlo Marochetti: Maintaining Distinction in an International Sculpture Market Philip Ward-Jackson 10 Belzoni's Collecting and the Egyptian Taste Susan M. Pearce 11 Between Fine Art and Manufacture: The Beginnings of Italian Medieval and Renaissance Sculpture at the South Kensington Museum Donata Levi 12 'Enjoyment for the Thousands': Sculpture as Fine and Ornamental Art at South Kensington, 1852-62 Christopher Whitehea BIBLIOGRAPHY INDEX

174

191

211

222

240 267

LIST OF PLATES

1

Michael Rysbrack, A Roman Marriage, 1723, London, Kensington Palace 2 Sculptural decoration of the garden theatre at Herrenhausen, 1689-92, Hanover, Herrenhausen 3 Giacomo Leoni, Design for a triumphal arch and an equestrian statue of Geirge I, 1719 4 Camillo Rusconi, Bust of the Madonna, Houghton Hall, Norfolk 5 Fireplace in the Yellow Drawing Room of Houghton Hall 6 Diana, Holkham Hall 7 Diana, from De Rossi and Maffei, 17 8 William Henry Pyne, The King's Gallery, from Pyne (1819) 9 John Closterman, Anthony Ashley Cooper, 3rd Earl of Shaftesbury, and the Hon. Maurice Ashley Cooper, 1702 10 James Gibbs, Design for the Monument to James Crag 11 Simon Gribelin, The Judgement of Hercules, 1713, engraving after the painting by Paolo de Matteis, 1712

433 53 55 57 59 61

12 Giovanni Battista Guelfi, Monument to the Earl of Warwic

88

William Kent, Design for the monument to Thomas Watson Wentworth, engraved by George Vertue, 1736 14 Henry Cheere, The Pleasures of Life, detail of fireplace, National Trust, West Wycombe Park, Buckinghamshire 15 Henry Cheere, Monument to Capt. Philip de Saumarez, d. 1747, Westminster Abbey 16 Henry Cheere, Monument to the 19th Earl of Kildare, Christchurch Cathedral, Dublin, 1746 17 Nymphaeum and gardens, Palazzo Lomellini-Podestà, Strada Nuova, Genoa 18 Domenico Parodi, Young Bacchus Riding a Goat, fresco, Palazzo Lomellmi-Podestà, Strada Nuova, Genoa 19 Domenico Parodi, Apollo with the Thunderbolt, garden of Palazzo Lomellini-Podestà, Strada Nuova, Genoa 20 School of Carrara, decorative sculpture for the garden of the Villa Delia Rovere, Gavotti, Albisola (Savona)

28 37

83 85 86

13

89 100 102 108 116 118 119 127

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L I S T OF P L A T E S

21 Domenico Parodi, Diana, Marmorsaal, Belvedere, Vienna 129 22 Francis Chantrey, Monument to Ellen Jane and Marianne Robinso (‘The Sleeping Children’), 1817, Lichfield Cathedral, Staffordshire 139 23 Antonio Canova, Hebe, 1808-14, Chatsworth 140 140 24 Saverio Salvioni, View of the Fantiscritti Quarry, c. 1818, Carrara 144 25, 26, 27 Views of the interior of the Lazzerini workshops in Corso Vittorio Emanuele (now Via Fratelli Rosselli), Carrara 158-9 28 Carlo Marochetti in fancy dress, c. 1856-7 175 29 Carlo Marochetti, Romantique inspiré, drawing from an album 176 30 Louis Laurent Atthalim, Studio of Carlo Marochetti at Vaux in 1843 181 181 31 Watercolour illustrations prepared by Belzoni for display of material relating to the tomb of Seti I in the Egyptian Hall 198 32 Giovanni Belzoni, pencil sketch showing Pharoah making offerings to the goddess Isis 199 33 Giovanni Belzoni, watercolour of a style sheet, showing the range of pectoral ornaments 200 34 Probably C. Thurston Thompson, Interior of the Art Museum, c. 1859 226 35 C. Thurston Thompson, Interior of the Conservatory, South Kensingto 1862 235

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The genesis for this volume was an international workshop on Material Culture and the History of Sculpture in England and Italy from the 18th to the 19th Century held at the Opera della Primaziale, Pisa, in April 1998. This was the outcome of a joint research project on the sculpture trade between Italy and England over the period 1700—1851 funded by the Universities of Pisa and Leicester. We wish to thank the Provincia di Pisa, in the persons of its Chairman Gino Nunes and Councillor Aurelio Pellegrini, and the Opera della Primaziale Pisana in particular the then Operaio Professor Ranieri Favilli, for their generous sponsorship of the workshop in Pisa, which enabled the presentation of papers and their discussion. Further financial support was provided by the University of Pisa, and we are particularly grateful to Professors Guido Paduano and Lorenzo Calabi for their unstinting backing of this enterprise. Similarly we wish to thank the University of Leicester and its then Vice-Chancellor, Dr Ken Edwards, for support, and the University's Research Board which funded Christopher Whitehead’s three-month research assistantship, under the supervision of Sue Pearce and Alison Yarrington to study the archives of the marble trade in London. In this context we wish to thank the staff of the Victoria and Albert Museum, in particular John Styles, Malcom Baker and Marjorie Trusted, for their generous contribution to the project in its early stages. Elena Lazzarini was able to carry out parallel research in the Tuscan archives under Cinzia Sicca’s supervision with funds generously provided by the Centro Nazionale Ricerche. This compilation of essays represents only a small part of the richness of those delivered at the workshop and in this context we would particularly like to thank Alberta Campitelli, Rosanna Cioffi, Marco Delia Pina, Ruth Guilding, Marius Kwint and Antonio Pinelli. Neil McKendrick, Master of Gonville and Caius College, very kindly agreed to provide the opening address. We are indebted to several people who assisted in producing this volume. Translations of the essays by Luisa Passeggia and Lauro Magnani were painstakingly provided by Piers Bursill-Hall and of Frank Martin's by Kara McKechnie. Federico Bianchi, Carol Charles and Alex Moseley decoded files sent through the ether that did not always reach their destination in a readable form. We also owe a great debt to Janet Joyce at Leicester University Press and Andrew Mikolajski,

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

the copy editor, for their help in making the book a real entity. Many others have helped individual authors in various ways, but we would like to thank staff at the Library of the Royal Academy, London, Peter Day at Chatsworth, the staff of Cambridge University Library, the University of Leicester Library, and Silvana Agueci and Sandra Bravi of the Library of the Dipartimento di Storia delle Arti in Pisa for their assistance throughout. Cinzia Sicca and Alison Yarrington Pisa and Leicester, September 1999

NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS

Barbara Arciszewska received her PhD from the University of Toronto; in 1996 she was a Fellow at the Yale Center for British Art, and in 1997-8 she was a visiting Fellow in Montreal at the Canadian Centre for Architecture. She is finishing a book on English Palladianism. Matthew Craske is a Research Fellow at the School of Humanities at Oxford Brookes University. He published Art in Europe with Oxford University Press in 1997 and has two forthcoming books: Joseph Wright of Derby and Commemorative Art in Eighteenth-century Britain. Cristiano Giometti is currently completing a postgraduate programme in the History of Art at the University of Pisa, where he graduated in 1998 with a thesis on the sculptor Giovanni Battista Guelfi. He has had internships in the Departments of Sculpture of the National Gallery of Washington (1998), and of the Victoria and Albert Museum, London (1999). Elena Lazzarini graduated from the University of Pisa with a thesis on fresco decoration in Tuscany from the seventeenth century to the eighteenth. After her degree, she completed a postgraduate course in art history at the University of Pisa with a dissertation on the trade of artefacts between Italy and England during the eighteenth century. In collaboration \vith the Gallery of Modern Art, Palazzo Pitti, Florence, she has co-curated a number of exhibitions on nineteenth-century Tuscan painting. She is currently working for her PhD at the University of Leicester on the representation of the nude in central Italy during the Renaissance. Donata Levi studied at the University of Pisa and obtained her PhD from the Scuola Normale Superiore, Pisa. For almost ten years she has been curator of the University of Pisa Collection of Prints and Drawings; in this capacity she has organized several exhibitions in a variety of national and international venues. Since 1993 she has been a professor in the history of art conservation and collecting, first at the University of Udine, and then at Pisa. A Getty Postdoctoral Fellow and Scholar, she has published extensively on Cavalcaselle

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and Lanzi. She is currently preparing a book on museums and the art market in nineteenth-century Britain and Germany. Lauro Magnani has held a professorship at the University of Padua and is currently Professor of the History of Modern Art at the University of Genoa. His research has focused on aspects of the history of painting and sculpture between the sixteenth and eighteenth centuries, as well as the architecture and decoration of gardens of the same period. The analysis of Genoese gardens and villas led to the publication of a monograph (II tempio di Venere: Giardino e villa nella cultura genovese, 1987). He has published works on Genoese artistic production after the Council of Trent, a monograph on Luca Cambiaso (1995) and essays on the development of religious themes in the seventeenth century (1990). He has been curator of the exhibitions Tra magia, scienza e meraviglia. Le grotte artificiali nei giardini genovesi (Genoa 1984; Florence 1986); Geneva nell’età barocca (Genoa 1992) and Pierre Puget (Marseille 1994-5; Genoa 1995). Frank Martin studied Art History, Christian Archaeology and Medieval Latin Philology at Heidelberg University where he presented his doctoral thesis on the stained glass of the church of St Francis in Assisi. After further work on Italian stained glass painting and Assisi he began working on Roman baroque sculpture, focusing on Camillo Rusconi. He is currently a Fellow of the Deutsche Forschungsgemeinschaft at the Biblioteca Hertziana in Rome. Luisa Passeggia graduated from the University of Pisa in 1987; since 1992 she has taught history of art in the Massa Carrara Grammar School. She has collaborated with the Soprintendenza per i Beni Architettonici Artistici e Storici di Pisa, cataloguing sculpture in the Massa Carrara area. In 1995 she discovered the private archive of the Lazzerini family, which she has studied extensively and is now publishing; her article ‘On the trail of the art industry. Danish sculpture and the Lazzerini workshop of Carrara between the eighteenth and the nineteenth centuries' is forthcoming in Analecta Romana Instituti Danici. Susan M. Pearce is Professor of Museum Studies and Dean of Arts at the University of Leicester. She has most recently published Museums, Objects and Collections (1992), On Collecting: An Investigation into Collecting in the European Tradition (1995), Experiencing Culture in the Western World (1997) and Collecting in Contemporary Practice (1998).

N O T E S ON C O N T R I B U T O R S

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Cinzia Sicca was an undergraduate at the University of Pisa and received her PhD from the University of Leicester. A former Getty Visiting Fellow and Research Fellow of Downing College, Cambridge, she taught at the universities of Leicester and Cambridge before becoming a lecturer in the history of European Art at the University of Pisa. She has published extensively on English Neo-Palladianism, on English early eighteenth-century gardens and on the building history of Downing College. She has curated the British section of the quadricentennial exhibition A. Palladio: la sua eredità nel mondo (Vicenza 1980), the Architecture and Landscape sections in the tercentenary exhibition William Kent: A Tercentenary Tribute (Ferens Art Gallery, Hull, and University Art Gallery, Nottingham, 1985). She has worked on eighteenth-century painting and sculpture in Florence and Rome, and on the transformations occurring in these fields of the visual arts as a result of English patronage. She is currently completing the catalogue of the architectural drawings in the Devonshire collection. Philip Ward-Jackson is Deputy Librarian in charge of the Conway Library at the Courtauld Institute. His PhD thesis (1970) was on J. K. Huysmans as art critic. In more recent times he has been preoccupied with expatriate sculptors working in nineteenth-century Britain. At present he is working on the PMSA’s National Recording Project to record public sculpture in the UK. Christopher Whitehead has recently gained a doctorate from the Scuola Normale Superiore, Pisa, for his thesis ‘Museum Interiors in London 1850-76’. Prior to this he was awarded an MA in Museum Studies and worked with Sue Pearce and Alison Yarrington on the research project Sculpture in England and Italy 1700—1851, and has published the findings in volume 3 of the Sculpture Journal. He has also published other articles on related topics. Alison Yarrington is Professor of Art History at the University of Leicester. She studied Fine Art and Art History at the University of Reading and received her doctorate from the University of Cambridge. She has published on the history of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century sculpture including The Commemoration of the Hero 1800-1864 (1988), and co-authored ‘An Edition of the Ledger of Sir Francis Chantrey, R.A.’ for the Walpole Society (1994). Other publications include the co-edited volume Reflections of Revolution: Images of Romanticism (1993).

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INTRODUCTION CINZIA SICCA AND ALISON

YARRINGTON

The idea of this book has grown out of our desire to work within a different methodological framework for the study of the history of sculpture produced in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries in Italy and England. We were, however, determined to shift the focus of attention from Rome to Tuscany and the region north of Carrara in the belief that a ‘different’ history of sculpture should comprehend all phases in the production and distribution of sculpture. These areas, geographically nearer to the quarries, had traditionally provided the raw material for other Italian regions as well as for the rest of Europe, while sculptors and stone masons trained here had migrated abroad taking their skills throughout Europe. Since the early Renaissance England had enjoyed very special ties with Tuscany and with the sculpture trade that was thriving there. Giorgio Vasari associated Pietro Torrigiano’s coming to England with the Florentine merchant community in London,1 suggesting that the success of the sculptor's small-size terracotta and marble works for these patrons in Florence had inspired their backing of Torrigiano’s venture into a foreign market. No specific names of merchants are mentioned by Vasari, but later on in Torrigiano’s English career his name was associated with that of Giovanni Cavalcanti ‘merchant of Florence’.2 Although Torrigiano’s arrival in England may have had more to do with the patronage he received in 1501 from the then cardinal protector of England (Francesco Todeschini Piccolomini, later Pope Pius III), rather than with Cavalcanti,3 Vasari’s statement has great significance as it is one of the clearest indications of Florentine attitudes to art which was seen as a commodity partaking of the same properties as any other luxury good traded by the merchant venturers. The principal ledgers of the company established in London since 1513 by Giovanni Cavalcanti and Pier Francesco de’ Bardi4 provide documentary evidence in support of Vasari’s reading of events: as well as exporting silks, cut velvets, cloth of gold, jewellery, glass and earthenware, the company shipped from Pisa or Leghorn raw marble, alabaster, terra di Montelupo, and pieces of sculpture.5 The Libro Mastro for 1522 to 1526 reads

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CINZIA SICCA AND ALISON Y A R R I N G T O N

as a who's who of Henry VIII’s court and gives a vivid image of its craving for luxury items. Research on the English probate inventories of the time, pioneered by Susan Foister, has shown that indeed most wealthy and middling households of the period contained artefacts, panels of a devotional nature, but even more numerous and popular were small pieces of sculpture often of a mythological rather than religious subject.6 The trade between Tuscany and England documented by the papers of the Cavalcanti and Bardi company was as exceptional as the role Cavalcanti fulfilled as a close associate of the Medici family, finding himself at the nexus between the Medicean Papacy and the English monarchy. Yet the trade links between the two countries had been very close since at least 1492 when the first English consulate was established in Pisa with the Florentine Lorenzo Strozzi as consul. Special privileges were granted to English merchants from 1586, and in 1634 an Englishman was appointed Consul in Leghorn (Livorno) which by that time had definitely replaced Pisa as the principal commercial harbour in Tuscany.7 The importance in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries of the British Factory in Leghorn and, to a lesser extent, of the one in Genoa is well known to economic historians. The volume of trade grew exponentially in these centuries, and it sealed long-established political and economic alliances. Tuscany was thus, for a variety of reasons, a very special British partner in the eighteenth century and this continued to be the case in the nineteenth century. Since the 1980s studies on the history of the art market and on the history of the demand for a broad range of what might be called ‘cultural products' have grown in number, opening up promising perspectives of collaboration between economic historians and art historians.8 This trend remains, however, very much limited to scholarship developing north of the Alps and has not yet made any significant inroad among Italian art historians, still largely faithful to a formalist and connoisseur's approach to the discipline. The new interest in material culture, in the demand for art, and in the conditions of artistic creativity, as well as in the dynamics of the various art markets in Europe and in the Colonies during the ‘long’ eighteenth century has focused primarily on painting, virtually excluding sculpture from the range of luxury products which have been the object of study of economic, social and art historians.9 This tendency is somewhat surprising in view of the exemplary scholarly literature available for the Renaissance period,10 but becomes more understandable in the context of the existing literature about sculpture in the so-called long eighteenth century.11 Malcom Baker has recently argued the need to approach and write about sculpture in ways that might reclaim its political and public role within the

INTRODUCTION

3

social history of British art.12 In doing so he does not simply advocate a reconsideration of the meaning of the visual imagery of British sculpture but also raises a number of connected issues which include defining what we should take to be British sculpture in the eighteenth century, and accepting the fact that in the reception of sculpture, viewing involved an awareness of making, and a familiarity with the qualities of materials. This latter point is vividly illustrated by Isaac Ware, who in 1756 talked of ‘the excellence of marble’ as being a matter for the connoisseur; he explained how ‘a marble becomes a curiosity because it is very scarce, because it is brought from a great distance, or because the quarry is exhausted. To the people who are devoted to those studies, a piece of marble is inestimable, because there is not another block to be had, and the generality are apt to be led away by them.’13 Baker makes an astute point when he suggests that the standard literature has so far discussed only sculpture produced in England, rather than sculpture visib in England during the eighteenth century. Like other luxury items of consumption, in particular painting, sculpture was imported from abroad, mainly from Italy and Flanders. Imports included not only carved or cast pieces, but also the raw material, i.e. marble. Unlike paintings, however, for which detailed records of import duty exist, the Inspector General's Statistical Records for the period under discussion provide only general statistics which so far cannot be checked against either sculptors' or merchants' accounts due to the apparent lack of surviving documentation of this kind.14 The emerging picture is therefore patchy and seems to indicate that sculpture imports were not part of a structured market run by dealers who were going to auction them, but rather the result of acquisitions made abroad by wealthy gentlemen and their agents, or even by artists who had spent time abroad and had seen the opportunity of some wheeling-and-dealing in the well-established fashion of marchand-amateurs. Sculpture did however reach the London sale houses in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, but this mostly occurred within the context of posthumous sales of sculptors' collections, or of the dispersal of the collection of an amateur or artist. Occasionally, however, as in the case of the 1764 Gaddi sale, a family might send their collection directly to be sold in London.15 It is evident that in any discussion of the eighteenth-century sculpture market the experience of the Grand Tour has to be taken into account. This provided the majority of British travellers with their first extensive contact with genres of contemporary sculpture differing from the funerary monument or the portrait bust; furthermore, access to private and semi-public collections revealed the variety and quality of classical sculpture exhibited in contexts which were not necessarily institutional and formal.16 The overwhelming presence of sculpture

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CINZIA SICCA AND ALISON YARRINGTON

forming the fabric of the urban environment in cities such as Florence, Rome, Siena, Vicenza and Venice made the link with the Classical past poignant,17 and gave tangible meaning to the praise of sculpture's moralizing virtues that at the same time began to resound through the writings of the 3rd Earl of Shaftesbury, Joseph Addison and George Berkeley.18 In casting their eye on the moral development of ancient Athens and Rome, these writers placed sculpture on a higher level than architecture — omitting painting altogether — and argued in support of the didactic, moral and political meaning that sculpture fulfilled in those times.19 It is interesting here to point out the similarity of this eighteenthcentury English view with that held by the Florentines in the fifteenth century, and how this civic view of sculpture subsequently led in both instances - albeit separated by three centuries — to an analogous revival of painting.20 Current trends in taste as well as the structure of the art market in Rome at this time must also have helped; sculptural commissions certainly outnumbered those for large painterly decorations, while the Ambiente Barocco — borrowing from the title of a recent exhibition held in New York and Kansas City21 – was predicated upon the interaction of painting and the decorative arts. The work of furniture makers, instrument makers, silversmiths and goldsmiths had a distinctive sculptural quality suggesting a good deal of familiarity with and possibly apprenticeship in the leading ‘high’ sculpture workshops.22 It should also be remembered that in the eyes of contemporaries the distinction between ‘high’ and ‘low’ sculpture was far more blurred than at present. Small-scale decorative sculpture provides ample evidence for this, since it often employed models from a ‘high’ context for reproduction in a variety of materials ranging from the very expensive gilt bronze to the equally expensive ivory, from porcelain23 to terracotta, down to sugar.24 Small-scale sculpture was ideal for the Grand Tourist: it was portable, and could be shipped to England with ease; it fulfilled several functions combining together the role of souvenir with that of object of virtue through which its owner could show off both his wealth and knowledge of the arts. The potential reproducibility of sculpture made it accessible to all sorts of pockets, the exclusiveness of the object now depending on the material of which it was made or the novelty of its subject matter. Copies after the most famous ancient statues appear to have driven the market, following a tradition established in the seventeenth century and which had found in Florence its centre of excellence. The tradition of refined bronzes produced by followers of Giambologna, such as the Taccas and Susinis, was continued in the eighteenth century by some of the leading sculptors, such as Giuseppe Piamontini, Giovanni Battista Foggini and Massimiliano Soldani Benzi, who found this

INTRODUCTION

5

section of the trade particularly lucrative. Florence occupied a key position in this trade for two main reasons: the Grand Ducal collection of antiquities hosted in the Tribuna of the Uffizi some of the best and most celebrated classical statues. Furthermore the city had a long and unparalleled tradition in bronze casting. However, Florentine production of sculpture after the antique, whatever the size, capitalized also on the wider sculptural tradition of the city, dating back to the fifteenth century, and objects were made in terracotta as well as scagliola. British travellers in the early 1700s found Florence an exciting sculpture emporium where they could acquire ‘Coppys of some of the finest Antique Statues, which had all the beauty of the Originals, [but were] much Cheaper than Bronze or Marble Coppys, and . . . hard enough to bear being transported, and even to be exposed to the weather [being made of a] Composition . . . of powdered Marble and Cement which grows very hard and takes a fine polish’.25 It is frustrating that eighteenth-century travellers' correspondence does not record where or how such copies were bought; the best surviving information to date concerns the work of Massimiliano Soldani Benzi who had at least two agents, Lorenzo Magnolfi and Giovanni Giacomo Zamboni,26 and who appears to have worked on commission rather than having an extensive production available ‘off the shelf’.27 Soldani used to meet his customers in his workshop at the Mint — he was in fact Master of the Coins and Custodian of the Mint in Florence - where a wide range of his work could be inspected as if it were a sample display, or catalogue. The very location of the Soldani workshop suggests that rather than simply walking in from the street it was necessary for prospective clients to be introduced by other connoisseurs or by Magnolfi.28 Thus the interaction between Soldani and his clients conformed to a traditional pattern which turned the acquisition of works of art into an exclusive and elitist act, requiring not only exceptional wealth and knowledge, but also a network of contacts. The material employed by Soldani for his works, bronze29 described by George Vertue as ‘the rarest and costliest of all materials at all periods' — legitimized such a ritualized commercial transaction. Terracotta objects, on the other hand, were apparently sold and bought in a far more casual way. George Berkeley, for instance, recorded having met in Rome in 1718’. . . a man in the Villa Medici who has some moulds taken from celebrated antique busts, I have got him to form eight of them in terra cotta (as they call it), which is much more durable than plaster of Paris or giesso, being as hard as brick’.30 In Florence too it looks as if terracotta products were easily available from the shops of minor artists and furniture makers,31 and although no visual record has yet surfaced it is reasonable to imagine shops of

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the kind illustrated by Antoine Watteau in his Enseigne de Gersaint (Berlin, Charlottenburg), or by the anonymous author of the delightful gouache of an Antiquary's Shop in Naples in a Roman private collection.32 Classical sculpture was acquired in and around Rome, although there was also a Tuscan-based market for Etruscan objects.33 Any such acquisition required the agency of antiquaries and excellent political connections to ensure the safe passage of the works out of Rome, into the territory of the Grand Duchy of Tuscany. Classical statuary frequently required to be restored prior to shipment to England, and it must have been precisely at this juncture that those English travellers who had not previously contemplated dealings with a sculptor began to navigate the world of sculpture workshops. Research on the practice of restoring and integrating Classical sculpture in the earlier part of the century is not as advanced as for later periods,34 but it appears to have been practised by the leading sculptors and their assistants. Some collectors employed restorers in Rome, others resorted to Tuscan sculptors presumably in order to ensure that the papal police could not confiscate their treasures; others, such as Thomas Fermor, 1st Earl of Pomfret brought the sculptor Guelfi back to England to restore his collection of Classical statuary, formerly belonging to Lord Arundel.35 Frequently the contacts thus established with sculptors' workshops led to commissions for new pieces, not necessarily inspired by the antique but rather drawing on the modern iconographical repertoire. The English favoured mythological and allegorical subjects, but some collectors did not disdain religious subjects either. Soldani appears to have been the only Italian sculptor to think that '. . . it would be the Most Commendable in every Nation to endeavour to Illustrate and transmit to Posterity such great and remarkable actions as their own History affords’.36 Such an unusual stance, at a time when history meant only religious or ancient history, reflects an understanding of antiquarianism shared by intellectuals in both Florence and London as well as, perhaps, some knowledge of the views on the subject expressed at the time in the correspondence between Lorenzo Magalotti and Lord Somers.37 Although six possible subjects38 were suggested to Soldani by Lord Harrold’s bear-leader none were executed on account of their cost. On this particular occasion Soldani was not left out of pocket, but at other times he, as well as many other sculptors, were left with works which were either not paid for or left uncollected by British patrons.39 In this volume Frank Martin illustrates this behaviour with respect to Camillo Rusconi, to which could be added, by way of a further example, the case of Giovanni Baratta who was commissioned in 1710 by the 1st Duke of Marlborough to create two

INTRODUCTION

7

statues representing Academic Glory and Virtue. They were left in his studio till 1721 when they were bought by James Brydges, 1st Duke of Chandos. These episodes suggest that commissions from British patrons were undertaken by Italian sculptors without the protection of a formal contract, and only upon payment of a deposit. This was certainly not the way in which transactions with Italian clients would have been set up, with both parties able to rely on a legal system of contracts and therefore controls that guaranteed their interests. There was no international law enabling an Italian sculptor to enforce a contract abroad at the time, so the artists showed a sense of realism and capacity to adapt to new market rules. Sculptors did take risks, but as Pascoli says of Camillo Rusconi,40 they could also make a profit by cashing in the deposit and selling the works later to a different buyer at a higher price than the one originally agreed. Well-established sculptors, with international reputations, were obviously the ones better placed to run these risks, less famous ones must have found it more difficult to sell such orphaned pieces. It is clear, however, that British patrons, whether in Italy in person or relying upon agents, forced some drastic changes on the Italian art market and especially on the way in which sculptors produced and sold their works. This is particularly evident in the choice of subject matter, which in the case of narrative reliefs is closely dependent upon the best established iconographies in painting, and in the selection of motifs from large-scale monuments that were exploited in smallscale sculpture as more appealing to the market.41 Despite the many opportunities and the lively demand for sculpture in key Italian towns, the phenomenon of itinerancy amongst Italian artists, and specifically sculptors, continued, indeed increased.42 They were mostly attracted by those northern European centres where a court ethos still prevailed, and where their task consisted primarily in shaping and promoting the image of the ruler as Barbara Arciszewska shows in her chapter. Whilst at home Italian sculptors were learning to adapt to changing market conditions, when they migrated abroad they did so under the protection of a single monarch or of aristocratic patrons; however, once such protection petered out they found it rather difficult to compete on the local open market as the example of Guelfi clearly shows. Indeed a comparison of the careers of Guelfi and Henry Cheere, both considered in this volume, shows that what the Italians lacked - especially in London - was a capacity to break into and manipulate the bourgeois market. Guelfi lacked the bourgeois equivalent of the aristocratic networks of friendships or family connections which had provided him with a number of commissions. In the course of his English career he had moved from one aristocratic patron to the next; such moves literally implied passing from one

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household Co the next, enjoying quarters in the palaces or country houses of hi patrons. The type of patronage he, like many others, was comfortable with was the one enjoyed by Italian artists since the Renaissance as salaried artists, wearing the liveries of a princely or aristocratic family.43 Works produced under these conditions reflected an aristocratic taste, indeed, as Cristiano Giometti shows, they identified so completely with a particular social, cultural and political elite that it became impossible for Guelfi to find a niche outside this group. This seems also to have combined with a certain unwillingness on his part to experiment with a wider range of sculptural types, thus restricting even further the possibility of extending his clientele. Huguenot and Flemish emigrant sculptors, such as David Le Marchand, Michael Rysbrack and Peter Scheemakers,44 more used to the challenges of a competitive and unprotected market, did not make similar mistakes, and consequently succeeded in establishing themselves independently of any exclusive link with aristocratic patrons. Guelfi’s long-term failure in England may also be ascribed to the fact that, unlike the Venetian painters or the Lombardstuccatoriactive in the country in the first half of the century, he lacked family and community connections, Roman and Florentine artists being fairly rare in England at the time. During the nineteenth century the Anglo-Italian sculpture trade continued unabated in a variety of forms as part of the luxury goods market. It included — as before - small bronzes, casts, marble copies of ancient and modern sculptures from the Carrara workshops, fireplaces, mosaics, columns, antiquities and souvenirs.45 In a continuation of the Grand Tour tradition one major aristocratic purchaser and collector of these pleasurable luxuries was William Spencer Cavendish, 6th Duke of Devonshire, whose passionate engagement with sculpture both antique and modern is evident in the collection at Chatsworth House and further expounded in his Handbook to the collection, published in 1844. He was an omnivorous and yet discerning collector of a range of Italian sculptural products. From Francesco Bienaimé’s workshop at Carrara he purchased eight statues and two vases for the gardens, ‘of hard marble of that place, that seems to defy the climate of the Peak, and to resist all incipient vegetation on its surface’.46 There were fireplaces made from Carrara marble by the English sculptors Richard Westmacott and Robert Sievier. Elizabeth, Duchess of Devonshire, had also during her ‘noble excavation that brought to light the pedestal and history of the column of Phocas, and the surrounding road and pavement in the Roman Forum’47 found the ‘rocchio of pale verde antico’ a precious ‘souvenir’ which she gave to the Duke as a birthday present in 1819 (she would have ‘none of the other numerous fragments that were discarded’).48 The Duke was displeased that when he later visited the site of her excavation

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her role was unrecorded in the inscription placed there, ‘not a word to mention her having undertaken so great a work, and at her sole expense’. The prized pale Cipollino column in the Chatsworth collection ‘was brought home by the Black Rod, who, when afloat, made ballast of all the goods he thought would suit me’.49 From Lord Ashley he received a ‘slice of one of the signal columns on the Promontory of Sunium’. There are many other such stories of acquisition and display amongst aristocratic collectors and connoisseurs, amongst the most notable being those of John Russell, 6th Duke of Bedford, that were destined for the sculpture gallery at Woburn Abbey.50 The pleasures of association and ownership are clear in the Duke of Devonshire's account of his collection just as they were in the eighteenth century at the Hanoverian court of George I. Sculpture was a pleasurable luxury: like sweetmeats it gave satisfaction to the viewer and the possessor, something to be shared with friends and family who would savour the strange alchemy of the sculptor's touch that transformed inert matter into the appearance of human flesh. The consumption of the carved, marble body is explored in this volume in the chapter by Alison Yarrington that focuses upon the association between Antonio Canova and Francis Chantrey, particularly during the English sculptor's Italian journey of 1819. Enthusiasm for Canova’s works amongst private patrons was particularly strong in Britain until the sculptor's death in 1822.51 There was however a concern over his introduction of colouring or tinting in his sculpture, which detracted from the genuine ‘lustre’ of the Carrara marble. As the Duke of Bedford wrote in a post scriptum to a letter concerning the commission for the Three Graces, 'We have an idea in this Country, that you use some preparation to colour your marble, and give a mellow tone to your sculptural Works; but you will excuse me for saying that I should prefer to see the group of the Graces in the genuine Lustre of the pure Carrara marble’.52 Canova’s visit to England in the autumn of 1815 was an important moment in the Royal Academy's annals and his views on the arts were sought eagerly by artists and collectors as much as his sculpture was desired by aristocratic patrons such as the Dukes of Bedford and Devonshire. British sculptors such as Chantrey, John Flaxman, John Gibson, Richard James Wyatt, Westmacott and others undoubtedly owed much to his example at a variety of levels - notably those written introductions to artists and members of polite society resident in Rome, his proposal of British candidates for associate membership of the Accademia di San Luca, the generosity of access to his studio and his time as well as the example of his sculptural technique and studio organization. In many ways professional acquaintance with Canova was a sign of ambition within an

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internationally oriented sculpture market (as indeed was the case with those who had support from or acquaintance with the Danish sculptor Bertel Thorvaldsen’s equally thriving enterprise in Rome). Consequently there was real mourning amongst the British art fraternity at Canova’s death in 1822. As David Wilkie visiting Canova’s now-deserted studio in 1826 reflected upon his treatment of marble, ‘No one appears to have got more completely rid of its weight or its hardness. Under his hand it has all the pliability of a yielding material’.53 Even among English patrons Canova’s death could be mourned in the arrangement of his works in private sculpture galleries, which in themselves often served as a memory of Italy. Canova was not the only Italian sculptor to find favour with British patrons in the nineteenth century. Amongst others were the Bergamasque Giovanni Maria Benzoni54 who to Victorian commentators seemed to carry on the Canovian tradition of transforming marble into ‘yielding flesh’ and Raffaele Monti, a protagonist of the Scuola Lombarda, who moved to London in 1848 in order to escape the political upheavals of Italy, establishing a successful studio there.35 Giovanni Fontana who worked from Rome similarly moved to London in 1850 for political reasons.56 Rinaldi, Tadolini, Tenerani and Finelli also found favour with a variety of British patrons. In this volume Philip WardJackson elucidates the complexities of the international sculpture market through his account of the career of Marochetti and his place in the ‘devious patterns of this particular trade’. As tourism developed and flourished in the nineteenth century, so the possibilities of purchase and pleasure became more generally available to a greater number of British travellers who undertook educational tours on far more restricted budgets than those of the 6th Duke of Devonshire and his friends. In their pursuit of history and art visitors were able to engage with important works by following guidebooks and associated texts. E. M. Forster later captured this bourgeois mode of touristic consumption in Chapter 2 of A Room with a View (1908), ‘In S. Croce with no Baedeker’, when Lucy Honeychurch is alone and adrift in Florence without her copy of the famous guidebook and thus temporarily bereft of her means of access to those monuments she should study. ‘There was no one even to tell her which, of all the sepulchral slabs that paved the naves and transepts was the one . . . most praised by Mr. Ruskin’.57 Ruskin’s Mornings in Florence being Simple Studies of Christian Art for English Travellers (1875) to which this is an allusion provided access for many (whether in front of the object or not) to the pleasures of looking closely at Italian sculpture. Visits could also be made to sculptors' studios — Augustus Hare lists fifteen under the section ‘Dull-useful Information’

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in his Walks in Rome (1893).58 For the more intrepid traveller there was the possibility of a visit to the marble quarries themselves, places of both association and sublime beauty. In Pictures from Italy (1846) Charles Dickens created a vivid impression of this essentially industrial base of sculptural production ‘Carrara, shut in by great hills. . . . Few tourists stay there; and the people are nearly all connected, in one way or other, with the working of the marble. There are also villages among the caves, where the workmen live’.59 The activities of the marbleworkers obviously fascinated Dickens and he noted that in the quarries ‘where they blast and excavate for marble: which may turn out good or bad: may make a man's fortune very quickly, or ruin him by the great expense of working what is worth nothing’.60 Part of the spectacle, along with the dramatic, dangerous landscape that could only be accessed by a ‘light carriage of the country’,61 were the marble workers themselves and the sculptors working in Carrara. Murray's Handbook for Travellers in Central Italy (1861) opined ‘The town is one continuous studio, peopled with artists in various costumes, who affect mostly the shaggy aspect of the German Burschen, with a wild growth of hair, whiskers, moustachios, and beard, and every variety of head covering.’62 Visiting one of the many stu (possibly that belonging to the Lazzerini family discussed in this volume by Luisa Passeggia; see figs. 28, 29, 30), Dickens describes the variety of works on sale: ‘for it is a great workshop, full of beautifully-finished copies in marble, of almost every figure, group, and bust, we know’ and marvelled at how ‘those exquisite shapes, replete with grace and thought, and delicate repose, should grow out of all this toil, and sweat, and torture!’63 This thriving market fo multiples is explored here by Passeggia and Magnani and is an underlying theme of the study as a whole. Tourists using guidebooks, less rarefied texts than those of Ruskin, could plan their itineraries and make plans to purchase suitable souvenirs to ship back home. Readers of Murray's Handbook of 1861 were informed of the production and availability of a wide range of manufactured goods from the region (silks, wools, linens, porcelain, leather, metal goods, marble and alabaster) and would be relieved to read that ‘in everything connected with the liberty of commerce, Tuscany has been the first country to take the lead in that system which has immortalised the name of Sir Robert Peel.’64 Those interested in alabaster and marble products were informed that ‘there are a great number of alabaster works at Volterra, where more than 1200 persons, forming one-quarter of the population, are employed on them, and marble and sculptured works in Florence and other places.’65 Apart from such useful ‘facts’ the guidebooks included advertisements for firms producing art and souvenirs as well as

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companies that could be used to arrange packing and shipment. In Florence Peter Mannaioni ‘sculptor in marble and alabaster, and worker in Florentine mosaic’ had his shop on the Lungarno, north side, number 2036a. Here ‘A vast collection of objects of Art of every kind is to be seen . . . such as Marble and Alabaster Statues and Vases, Ancient and Modern Pictures, Miniatures, Engravings, and Drawings, Objects of Antiquity, Bronzes &c. Artists' Books and Florentine Mosaic. Commissions taken for Marble Busts and Portrait Painting, and generally for all kinds of Architectural Works, as Monuments, Chimney Pieces, Furniture, &c.’66 In the same area was the shop ‘Galleria Bazzanti' of P. Bazzanti and Sons, which employed sculptors to make works in alabaster and marble, including Fortuno Galli (d. 1918), E. Giolli and Ferdinando Vichi, whose signatures were carved on their sculptures alongside that of the proprietor of the Galleria.67 The Pisani marble works in Florence, where Lorenzo Bartolini (1777—1850) learnt his trade as an apprentice, continued to sell sculptures from its shop at 1 sul Prato. In Livorno Hiacinth Micali’s shop purveyed sculptural works and in Pisa was the firm of M. Huguet and Van Lint, sculptors in marble and alabaster. In the latter’s shop, on the Lungarno under the Hotel Peverada ‘[t]he oldest established house in Pisa’ in the ‘extensive Show Rooms always open to Visitors' the souvenir or art-hunting tourist could choose from ‘the best assortment of Models of the Duomo, Baptistry, and Tower. Also Figures and other local objects illustrative of the Agriculture and Customs of the country, executed in the highest style of art’.68 This firm was only one of several flourishing sculptors' shops in Pisa, which, as old photographs bear witness, were sited in close proximity to the hotels frequented by British and American tourists.69 Giuseppe Andreoni’s galleryshop on the via S. Maria took orders for church monuments as well as portraits ‘en marbre naturel’ guaranteeing likeness. To encourage customers it arranged the conveyance of their purchases through agents in Livorno who shipped works to Baldwin Brothers and Co. in New York, Turner and Co. and McCracken in London, and Stavely and Co. in Liverpool.70 In the same prestigious location Antonio Leonori’s ‘gallery of works of art in marble and alabaster’ which had been established in 1851 also guaranteed safe and prompt despatch of purchases through the Livorno-based agent Cesare Tremura.71 Attilio Bartalini and Co.’s workshops in Carrara and Pisa were conceived on a similarly grand scale: ‘all marble works for ornament . . . Fountains, Busts, allegorical figures for gardens, Chimney-pieces of any style. Marble portraits and fancy Busts, Altars etc. for Churches, Funeral Monuments and private chapels. Marmorean or wooden reproductions of ancient works. Orders received.’72 From such sources sculpture along with mosaics, columns, pedestals

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were purchased for use in the decoration of interiors, gardens and in sculpture galleries throughout Europe and America. But this commercial activity was only a part of the sculpture trade. As Passeggia’s investigation of the Lazzerini workshop reveals, there was a continuing and widespread demand for high quality copies of ancient and modern sculpture made from Carrara marble. Galleries displaying these works were to be found in centres such as Rome, Paris, London and St Petersburg as well as in Carrara and its immediate vicinity. There were also important commercial connections established between the workshop and contemporary sculptors that affected the production of copies and this of course was dependent upon high quality, skilled craftsmen of which there was an abundance at Carrara. Another example is provided by Bartolini, who had moved from the Pisani marble works to France where he studied in David's studio and with Lemot, before moving back to Italy initially to Carrara and then Florence, where he was appointed Professor of Sculpture at the Accademia. His Florentine workshop was a shop-window for his own work and that of the Lazzerini firm, a commercial and artistic connection that is explored by Passeggia in the context of other entrepreneurial developments initiated by the Lazzerinis with leading sculptors of the day. Mary Berry, writing in her journal on 2 October 1819 having visited Bartolini’s studio, commented upon his commercialism: ‘He makes very good likenesses in his busts; but he works to sell, and not to immortalise his name’.73 There were many other such firms, for example that of Bienaimé (already mentioned in the context of Chatsworth) which in similar vein to the Lazzerini workshops produced marble copies. Should the British tourist fail to make a purchase or for those not wanting to travel, sculptural works could be obtained at home. In London, the ‘plaster figure maker’ Domenico Brucciani’s firm based at 5 Little Russell Street in Covent Garden74 opened a gallery in 1864 where plaster casts of sculptural works ranging from those of Classical antiquity to the present day were on display.75 By the mid-century Italians dominated the commercial enterprise of plaster casting in London representing nine out of the twelve listed in the London Post Office Directory for 1854. Elsewhere in the country there is evidence of the activities of plaster casters and death mask makers, even as far north as Golspie in Sutherland.76 The trade in marble copies, although lucrative, demanded particular skills that were time-consuming, with the need to employ an elaborate system of pointing to obtain the most accurate copy.77 As Hugh Honour has discovered, an assistant in Carlo Albacini’s studio c. 1779-80 had ‘spent fourteen months on a copy of the Borghese bust of Lucius Verus and still had another five months f

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work to do’.78 Blundell owned one such copy from Albacini’s studio,79 as well as one of the Bust of Minerva, ‘an excellent copy, without the least flaw in the marble’, and Angelini’s copy of Jupiter Serapis. For the sculptor a more ready source of income came from commissions for portrait busts and copies than from ‘poetic’ works or larger commissions. The young American sculptor Thomas Crawford, in order to generate income, ‘in a period of ten weeks early in 1837’ modelled seventeen portrait busts of his fellow countrymen visiting Rome to be carried out in marble and in addition made a marble copy of the ‘Vatican Demosthenes for Colonel Dick of New Orleans’.80 The sculpture business was truly international and throughout the nineteenth century sculptors from the western world established studios in Italy, eager not only to take advantage of the booming sculpture trade but also to learn techniques and to study from the density of canonical works available there. For British and English-speaking sculptors Florence, although less cosmopolitan than Rome, was an attractive place to set up a workshop. It was also a more tranquil and ‘open’ working environment and was considered to be an intellectual centre less subject to the vagaries of religious dogma. This was to continue to be the case until c.1870 and the unification of Italy when Rome, as the capital city, became more ‘secular’.81 Even more significantly for the sculptor struggling to establish a studio and to minimize costs, it was close to the marble quarries at Carrara and Seravezza. As the Irish sculptor John Hogan observed ruefully in 1824, in the process of trying to establish himself in Rome, ‘material is really cheap at Carrara but the greater distance makes a considerable difference in the price of it here’.82 As this book shows, obtaining high-quality materials was of great importance and making a trip to the marble quarries rather than relying upon agents to ensure a good supply was crucial. On his return from a trip to Ireland in 1830 Hogan first spent two months in Carrara selecting marble before returning to his studio in Rome.83 Should the marble block prove to be faulty replacement supplies could be more readily obtained. Joseph Gott seems to have been particularly unlucky in this respect when in 1830, working from his Roman studio, he found a ‘dent or crack’ in an apparently faultless block purchased from Carrara to make a work for an English client. A replacement block turned out to be ‘of such a soft quality’84 that he was unable to proceed; finally the work was completed in December 1831. Of course, Gott’s difficulties could have been delaying tactics to an impatient patron, but nevertheless procuring marble from a studio in Rome was cheaper than negotiating such replacements in England through marble merchants such as Giuseppe Fabbricotti at Thames Bank or Egisippo Norchi at 18 King William Street, Strand.

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The study of classical sculpture was not just an antiquarian and connoisseurial concern but also formed the bedrock of academic art training throughout the western world. In the early part of the century the Royal Academy in London was particularly eager to upgrade and extend its collection by obtaining good quality casts and copies after the antique.85 An inventory taken in 1814 by Westmacott and Wilkie revealed the poor state of repair of many: ‘Several of the statues most in use in the Antique Academy being, from paint & smoke so much injured as in great measure to be unintelligible to the student’.86 Among the casts newly obtained was a precious set of Niobe and her Children, a gift of the Prince Regent obtained from the Grand Duke of Tuscany. The Address from the Council of the Royal Academy expresses the importance of this gift at a time when the institution was trying to establish its international standing: ‘These casts from some of the noblest remains of Ancient sculpture will form a most valuable addition to the Antique school of the Royal Academy . . . especially, as the whole of this celebrated groupe [sic] has never before been brought to England’.87 The problems associated with the transit of such works as well as their bulk are made clear in Westrnacott’s letter to Thomas Lawrence. Here he mentions the arrival of the Niobe casts, which ‘have not received the least injury. The former by command of the Prince Regent I have deposited in my new Studio. You may judge of the weight from the stone requiring 15 horses to draw it. H.R.H. expressed the wish that the casts should be unpacked at Carlton House’.88 The trade was not one way. In Florence Thomas ‘Anacreon’ Moore wrote in his journal for 17 October 1819 of seeing the casts of the Elgin Marbles given by the Prince Regent at the ‘Academia di belle Arti’.89 Richard Westmacott, in his eagerness to improve the cast collection at the Royal Academy, was able to persuade the Ladies of England that a cast after one of the Dioscuri on Monte Cavallo, Rome would be an appropriate monument to the Duke of Wellington. Its unveiling in 1822 proved how far was the gap between the popular understanding of heroism and the demands of fine art.90 The transport of sculpture from Italy to England was not risk free and particularly on sea voyages losses were not unusual, whether caused by tempest or human intervention. A dramatic instance of the latter category resulted in a valuable cargo of sculpture from Italy coming onto the English market in May 1800. Pillaged from the Pope's apartments by the French, these ‘Capital and Valuable marbles recently consigned from ITALY’ sold at Christie's, Pall Mall, having come into British hands as a result of an interception at sea during the French Wars.91 Such incidents were the exception rather than the rule. Far more common was the instance where the Duke of Devonshire's prized cast of

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Canova’s Endymion shipped from Leghorn was lost at sea between Marseille and Le Havre ‘upon Isola Verde’ in August 1824.92 Gott experienced an equally if not more devastating blow when in 1837 his Vintager (untraced) destined for the Royal Academy exhibition was lost.93 His correspondence with Benjamin Gott (1762—1840), published by Friedman and Stevens, reveals much about the trade in sculpture as it affected his own business and his account of the shipwreck and its aftermath provides a vivid picture of the difficulties of working between England and Italy. On 23 December 1837 he shipped the Vintager from the Ripa Grande to Leghorn on the ‘Felice’, a journey that was delayed by fifteen days because of the difficulties in loading the cargo. His agents in Leghorn were Messrs Coupland and Co. who were to reship the statue to London. In order to ensure that the statue would be exhibited if it missed the deadline for the Royal Academy show Gott instructed Messrs J. and R. McCracken to forward it to Messrs Dixon, Anderton and Co. in Liverpool. Gott was not the only artist sending work to London on this consignment, as he wrote ‘there is in the same Vessel works of other English Artists intended for the ensuing exhibition, 'tis to be hoped she will arrive in time’.94 By March 1838 he had discovered that the ‘Felice’ had encountered a storm and was ‘driven on shore ... on the coast of Grossetto in Tuscany & that to lighten the Vessel it was found necessary to throw overboard all the packages that were on deck’.95 The packages below deck were saved ‘amongst which was the statue of the Vintager & some other works in Sculpture belonging to different artists in Rome & which were intended for the ensuing Exhibition’, but the Tribunate of Commerce at Leghorn had impounded the cargo until a dispute between the Captain and ‘a Greek’ over compensation for packages lost in the incident could be resolved. Foolishly Gott had not insured his goods between Rome and Leghorn ‘as the small Florentine Vessels keep along the Coast & run into some Port on the least appearance of bad weather’. From such accounts it is clear that the nineteenth-century trade between Italy and England was not restricted to fine works of sculpture, but was physically mixed in with cargoes containing a spectrum of luxury items and curiosities. In effect this indicates a continuation and expansion of that trade outlined by Elena Lazzarini in her chapter on the eighteenth-century trade between Tuscany and England. Three chapters in this book consider the different ways in which collecting and the public could interact during the nineteenth century. Susan Pearce’s chapter on the Italian entrepreneur Belzoni is illustrative of the increasing diversification of sculptural display in the early nineteenth century — moving towards the spectacular - and the audiences for which it was destined. At a popular level Belzoni’s Egyptian displays caused as much astonishment and

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wonder as the viewing of canonical sculptural works or modern interpretations of the same, indeed these could be seen/consumed in a day's genteel spectating in London. As Mrs Arbuthnot noted in her diary entry for 29 September 1821, having visited another Egyptian spectacular: ‘I went with the Duke of Wellington & a party of people to see Mr. Bankes’ curiosities which he had brought from Egypt, & the bronze cast of the statue of Alexander which is to be put up as a memorial to the Duke of Wellington by the ladies of England. It is a most magnificent statue’.96 The impulse to make casts and copies available to a wide cross-section of the populace through public museums and exhibitions became more pronounced as the century wore on. As Chris Whitehead and Donata Levi explore here, the displays at South Kensington in the 1850s and 1860s were motivated by very different collecting principles to those of private collectors forming sculpture collections for their own delectation and to which the public were allowed access only on limited terms. In the public museums the idea was the edification of the masses. In terms of post-classical (as opposed to neoclassical) taste in collecting, the resulting displays of sculpture increasingly took on a historiographical aspect as the century moved into its middle years. In the context of the public museum the primary focus ceased to be the visual consumption of the canonized single sculptural object. Instead the emphasis shifted towards a wider, historical ‘vision’ of sculpture where the concept of quality was no longer the single criterion for selection, as evidenced in the analysis of early collecting and displays at the South Kensington Museum in this volume. These museum displays continued to allude to those of the private (aristocratic) sculpture gallery and country house garden as was the case at the South Kensington Museum and the Royal Horticultural Gardens' exhibition of the work of living sculptors. However, these were forms of populist and pedagogic spectacle that did not rely upon the presentation of original works. J. C. Robinson's and Henry Cole's collecting trips to Italy were carried out with all the zeal of the big game hunter, rediscovering Florentine sculpture. In this they were not acting as agents for private individuals but for the ‘British people’, racing against their foreign rivals to ‘bag’ the best trophies to send home and display. Hence their mission may be understood as a nationally defining enterprise as opposed to a private venture. It may be no coincidence that the move towards these public displays of casts occurred at the same time that photography was recording the monuments viewed in person by tourists on their travels. Publications such as the Florentinebased magazine Ricordi d’Architettum, as Mauro Cozzi and Luigi Zangheri have recently shown, helped to promote the Italian neo-Renaissance style.97 The

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apparent absolute truth of the photographic image was ‘a calamity not only for the many copyists working in the galleries and museums, but also for the landscape-painters, engravers and numerous other craftsmen who had long prospered from the graphic "translation" of paintings, sculptures, monuments and landscapes, and who had created a conspicuous network of commercial interests'.™ The precise effect that this had upon the commercial production of sculptural casts and copies has yet to be fully investigated, although Cozzi and Zangheri state categorically that by the end of the century photography had a ‘major part to play’ in the multiplicity of copies manufactured in Tuscany. They cite the foundation in 1895 of the Manifattura di Signa which produced replicas, a development of the traditional terracotta manufacturing industry in the Impruneta area, the ‘nineteenth-century imitations of Cantagalli and the galvoplastics of Pellas to the celebrated bronze statues cast by the Clemente Papi foundry . . . Tuscan craftsmanship based its commercial success, its true ‘Risorgenza on the models of the Renaissance’.99 It is interesting to note in the conte of this study that the sculptor Enrico Van Lint expanded his Pisa-based sculpture business to include photography. In 1858 ‘il Comune di Pisa ha concesso al Van Lint per cinque anni “il permesso esclusivo di riprodurre fotograficamente le pitture del Camposanto”.’100 This suggests both interest in a new form o commercial reproduction and a realization of its impact upon more traditional ‘souvenir’ sculptural forms. What of course the photograph did, whilst providing an apparent absolute equivalent for the recorded object, was to remove that close inspection of surface so necessary to the study of sculptural form and to reduce it to two dimensions; it created a new image consumable at a single glance rather than through a multiplicity — both sequential and simultaneous — of views. The lighted taper held by Canova over his sculptures would do little more than drip wax and burn the paper rather than suggest movement and reveal modelling. The object therefore remains inert although the photograph can, in itself (such as with Alinari’s work), undoubtedly be a work of art. It may be no coincidence that as the public collections of casts multiplied so the multiple images provided by the photographer provided unprecedented access to sculptural works and a new means of Anglo-Italian exchange. Perhaps it would not have been surprising to find in the centre of the Art Museum at South Kensington in 1857 a full-size cast of Michelangelo's David standing on a plinth with a photograph showing its context in the Piazza Signoria.101

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Notes 1. '. . . ed avendo fatto ad alcuni mercanti fiorentini operette di mamio c di bronzo in figure piccolc che sono in Fiorenza per le case de' cittadini, e disegnato molte cose con fierezza e buona maniera, come si può vedere in alcune carte del nostro Libro di sua mano, insieme con altre, le quali fece a concorrenza di Michelagnolo, fu dai suddetti mercanti condotto in Inghilterra, dove lavorò in servigio di quel re infinite cose di marmo, di bronzo e di legno a concorrenza d’ alcuni maestri di quel paese, ai quali tutti restò superiore . . .', Vasari (1966-87): IV testo, 121—8. 2. Draft indenture of 5 January 1519 for a monument to King Henry VIII and Queen Catherine of Aragon, Brewer (1876): IH/i, 2. Vasari explicitly mentions Cavalcanti on two further occasions, both connected with artists working for the English market: once in the life of Baccio Bandinelli (V testo, 238—76) when he reports that upon the instructions of the papal Datary Cavalcanti commissioned from Baccio a wooden model with wax figures for the tomb of the King of England, adding that '. . . non sorti poi 1'effetto da Baccio, ma fu data a Benedetto da Rovezzano, scultore, che la fece di metallo'; and a second time in the life of R^osso Fiorentmo where he states that Rosso painted for Giovanni Cavalcanti a panel that was sent to England and which represented Rebecca at the Well. On this latter work see Sicca (1996). 3. Since 1492 Francesco Todeschini Piccolomini had been cardinal protector of England. In 1501 Piccolomini employed Torrigiano to carve a statue of St Francis for an altar in Siena cathedral. 4. Giovanni Cavalcanti came from a pre-eminent Florentine family, closely associated by marriage to the leading families of the Gondis, Acciaiuolis and Medicis (Ginevra di Giovanni Cavalcanti had married Cosimo’s brother Lorenzo, and was thus the mother of Pierfrancesco, ancestor of the first Grand Duke). He himself had married a woman from the Mannelli family and formed in Florence a business partnership with Francesco Mannelli. In 1509 he was first documented in London in partnership with Misotto de’ Bardi, of. Brewer (1876): I/i, 1509; from 1510 onwards the King's Book of Payments is filled with numerous and regular payments to Cavalcanti, whose name also occurs again and again in other State Papers, either as a recipient of grants, or as a provider of goods which, since the King's joining of the League against France in 1511, consisted primarily of small and great guns, harnesses for the royal ordnance, armours and swords, arkbuscs, gunpowder, brimstone, touchstone and saltpetre. In January 1513 Cavalcanti and Bardi subscribed as business partners to the Statutes of the Florentine Nation in London, of. Masi (1941). 5. Archivio di Stato, Florence, Venturi Ginori Lisci, Ricordanze e Copie di Conti 1521—1530, 471; there are in total 27 surviving registers. Cinzia Sicca is about to publish this material; she gave a first public account (‘Selling Art in Sixteenth-Century Europe: Giovanni Cavalcanti, Florentine Merchant, Artistic Agent and Diplomat at the Court of Henry VIII’) of the Cavalcanti documents to the session on Florentine Businessmen Abroad of the 1998 Sixteenth-century Studies Conference (Toronto, 22-25 October 1998). 6. See Foister (1981). 7. Sonnino (1909): 97. 8. The bibliography to refer to is vast but suffice here to mention what can fairly be considered as landmarks in the field: McKendrick, Brewer and Plumb (1982), Brewer and Porter (1993), Goldthwaite (1993), Bermmgham and Brewer (1995), Jardine (1996), North and Ormrod (1998). 9. See Brewer and Porter (1993), Allen (1995), and Pears (1988); a particularly good discussion of consumerism in the American colonies is provided by Breen (1986, 1988 and 1990). 10. See for instance Klapisch-Zuber (1969, 1985), Kent and Simons (1987), Delia Pma (1996),

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and more recently Bnmo Santi’s discussion of the commercialization of the Delia Robbia products (‘Una bottega per il commercio. Reperton, vendite, esportazioni', pp. 87-96) in Gentilini (1998). 11. The debate over the length of the eighteenth century is clearly summed up by Speck (1994) who addresses also the ideological differences that separate the two schools of thought. Within the present context the choice of adopting the ‘long’ eighteenth century, choosing as its cut-off date 1815 rather than 1832, is justified by the fact that although the history of British art in the eighteenth century was marked more by change than by continuity and reflects a number of ‘modern’ trends that would point in the direction of a ‘short’ century, as favoured by economic and social historians, we have to take into account its interaction with the continent of Europe. In Italy, as in the rest of the continent, an ancien régime system of both production and consumption of art persisted, with the first signs of change appearing during the first two decades of the nineteenth century as the chapter by Passeggia below shows. For the very ‘long’ periodization coinciding with the date of the Reform Act sec Elton (1992), Clark (1985, 1994). 12. We are grateful to Malcom Baker for the continued support he has given to this project and for his generosity in sharing with us the first chapter of his forthcoming book Figured in Marble: Making and Viewing of Eighteenth-century Sculpture. Cinzia Sicca aired some of the ideas discussed here concerning sculpture in the eighteenth century and its wider relation to Italian and British art at the colloquium Problemi metodologici negli studi sulla scultura all’epoca moderna organized by the Académie de France a Rome on 18 June 1999. 13. Ware (1756), Book I, Chapt. 8: 53. 14. For a detailed analysis of these sources see Whitehead (1999); for a discussion of analogous sources on the Italian side see Elena Lazzarini's chapter below. 15. See for instance the range of sculpture owned by Dr Richard Mead (A Catalogue of the Genuine and Entire Collection of Valuable Gems, Bronzes, Marbles and other Busts and Antiquities, of the Late. Doctor Mead, Sale, Langford's, London, 11 March 1755); for Gaddi, see Baker (1989). 16. The Medici collection of antiquities, displayed in the Uffizi, was at first visitable only on submission of letters of recommendation to the Grand Duke and with a pass issued by the Guardaroba; subsequently visitors were admitted each morning ‘to converse with marble gods and petrified emperors as freely as they please’, cf. Boyle (1773), letter viii (30 October 1754). In Rome the Capitolinc Museum, with its outstanding collection of classical sculpture, was opened to the public from 1734. In general access to private collections of sculpture and antiquities could be gained through letters of introduction, as documented by Montfaucon (1712), but in many instances travellers' account books point to the fact that access to Italian palaces — particularly the Roman ones — was relatively easy on days when the family was out and the doorman would guide visitors around upon payment of a fee. Unlike British country houses, it does not appear as if admission tickets were regularly issued and guidebooks produced for Italian palazzi at this time, although a notable exception is provided by the Palazzo Barberini in Rome where the doorman, Mattia Rosichino, being repeatedly asked for an explanation of Pietro da Cortona’s fresco in the saloon, eventually composed and had printed a pamphlet on the subject for distribution to the visitors, cf. Scott (1991): 136—7, 193—5. On viewing classical sculpture during the Grand Tour see also Chard (1995). 17. Joseph Spence, the Oxford Professor of History, accompanying Charles Sackville, Earl of Middlesex on his Grand Tour in 1731, noted that in Italy, and particularly in Rome, it was possible to ‘enjoy the convenience of a sort of contemporary comment on Virgil and Horace, in the nobler remains of ancient statuaries', cf. Klima (1975): 13. 18. Addison (1705), Cooper (1714) and Richardson (1722). 19. 'Those noble Arts of Architecture, Sculpture and Painting do not only adorn the Public, but have also an influence on the Minds and Manners of Men, filling them with great Ideas, and

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spiriting them up to an Emulation of worthy Actions. For this cause they were cultivated and encouraged by the Greek Cities, who vied with each other in building and adorning their Temples, Theaters, Portico's and the like Public Works, at the same time that they discouraged private Luxury: the very reverse of our Conduct’, Berkeley (1721): 19—20. 20. See Brucker (1977), Fraser Jenkins (1961), Pope-Hennessy (1969) and Paoletti (1978). 21. Cf. Walker and Hammond (1999); the exhibition was held at the Bard Graduate Center for Studies in the Decorative Arts, New York, from 10 March through 13 June, 1999, and at the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art, Kansas City, Missouri, from 13 July through 3 October 1999. This conception of the Ambiente Baroao was by no means the prerogative of Rome as shown below by Lauro Magnani’s chapter, which addresses the issue within the environment of Genoa and its surrounding countryside. 22. On this issue see Montagu (1985, 1989 and 1996), as well as Walker and Hammond (1999). 23. See in particular Lankheit (1982). Porcelain statuettes reproducing famous classical and modem sculptures, to be used as table decorations, were made by the Doccia manufacture near Florence after models and waxes originally made by Massimiliano Soldam and Giovanni Battista Foggim. In 1785 Giovanni Volpato opened a porcelain factory; described by Charles Heathcote as being ‘of the whitest porcelain similar to the French, but very superior as to design, workmanship and Art’, Volpato’s wares and their prices were illustrated in catalogues, one of which survives in the Victoria and Albert Museum Library (D 1479/17—98) with annotations by Heathcote. 24. Jennifer Montagu has recently suggested (1999: 71) that the numerous wax casts of Algardi’s models, listed in the post mortem inventory of the contents of Ercole Ferrata’s workshop, might have been used to make sugar or marzipan table decorations. A sketch by Pierre Paul Sévin, showing the sugar sculpture for a banquet hosted by Pope Clement IX Rospigliosi on Maundy Thursday 1668, depicts on the left-hand side of the table a copy of Algardi’s Christ Falling under the Cross, amongst other trionfi portraying different scenes associated with the Eucharist and Chnst’s Passion; see Walker and Hammond (1999): 234-5. Algardi’s statuette is known through at least fifteen gilt bronze versions, as well as through copies in terracotta, plaster and wood, cf. Montagu (1985): 2: n. 11, 322—4; its original function must have been devotional and decorative, although the Vienna example (Kunsthistorisches Museum, KK 8640) appears to have acted as a reliquary. 25. Letter from J. Gerrard to Henry Grey, 1st Duke of Kent (Lucas MSS, 30/8/28/23, Bedfordshire County Record Office, Bedford), quoted in Friedman (1988): 843. 26. Giovanni Giacomo Zamboni, merchant, diplomat and amateur harpsichordist, was born in Florence on 26 July, 1683, arrived in London late in 1711 and lived there until his death on 8 April, 1753. In 1723 he obtained the post of Agent for the Landgrave of Hesse Darmstadt. Zamboni was a close friend of the Italian poet Paolo Rolli and of the leading tenor Borioncmi, and it was due to his musical associations that his correspondence has come to light. He corresponded extensively with Soldani, whose interests he looked after in England; Charles Avery is due to publish these letters, but see also Lindgren (1991). Lorenzo Magnolfi was mentioned as Soldam’s agent by J. Gerrard writing to the Duke of Kent (Lucas MSS, 30/8/28/24, Bedfordshire County Record Office, Bedford, quoted in Friedman (1988): 843); his name is also frequently mentioned in John Talman’s letterbook, cf. The Walpole Society, 1997, vol. lix. 27. Writing to Zamboni on 8 July, 1717 Soldani described his workshop being stripped bare by the visit, and consequent acquisitions of Richard Boyle, 3rd Earl of Burlington: 'Quando passo di qui il S.c Conte Burlinton, prese da me tutto quello, che mi trovavo di fatto, anzi alcune cose si prezzorno senza che fusscro terminate . . . ” (‘When Lord Burlington came here he took from me every single piece that I had made, indeed we priced some items which were still unfinished’, Bodleian Library, Oxford, Rawlinson MSS Letters 132, vol. xii, f. 28v-29r).

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28. Roman sculptors appear to have operated in a slightly different way, with workshops placed in the courtyard of their homes which were often palaces of some substance, furnished with the elegance suited to receiving high rank customers and fitting the gentlemanly image they wanted to project. The trend had been established by sixteenth-century artists. Suffice here to mention the case of the homes of Raphael (the lost Palazzo Caprim, known through a drawing in the RIBA XIV/11 and the 1549T Lafreri engraving from the Speculum Romtmae Magnificentiae), Antoni Sangallo (who built for himself Palazzo Ricci-Sacchetti in Via Giulia) and Giulio Romano (whose Roman house at the Macello dei Corvi is known through drawings by Raffaello da Montelupo (Uffizi 2692 Ar-v), by Giovanni Antonio Dosio (Uffizi 2691 A) and by an anonymous Flemish draughtsman (Chatsworth, XXX, f. 53)). In the seventeenth century Bernini set an example for sculptors: his house in Via della Mercede included the ‘studio’ on the ground floor and elegant living quarters on the piano nobile where his works could be seen in the gallery as well as in the sequence of reception rooms. Bernini's noble clients could thus visit him either in the workshop in St Peter's or in his house, the different locations implying different rituals and emphasizing varying degrees of intimacy with the artist; cf. Borsi, Acidini Luchinat and Quinterio (1981). In 1716 Rusconi rented a workshop in the Vicolo della Purificazione, near the church of S. Isidore; his lodgings, which he shared with Giuseppe Rusconi and Giovanni Battista Maini, were in the Via Ferrea; cf. Olsen (1992): 257. 29. The costliness of bronze sculpture is explained by Soldani in a letter to Zamboni as a consequence of its durability and laborious production “ . . . siccome le cose di bronzo sono eterne cosi ci bisogna un lungo tempo a perfezionarle’ ('. . . things made in bronze are eternal, and it takes a correspondingly long time to bring them to perfection’, Bodleian Library, Oxford, Rawlinson MSS Letters 132, vol. xii, f. 38v). 30. Letter dated Rome, 13 November 1718. See Rand (1914): 174-5. 31. This is borne out by the systematic study of a set of manuscripts relating to the Florentine Accademia del Disegno recording the licence fees paid in order to practise an art; the series (Archivio di Stato di Firenze, Accademia del Disegno, Licenze e dAtazioni, 80—8) covers the period 1630-1775, with a twenty-year gap from 1749 to 1769, and gives names and addresses of all the practising artists in Florence. The category included menuisiers, gilders, wood carvers, etc. 32. Cf Wilton and Bignamini (1996): 217, n. 164. 33. For a discussion of art exports from Florence see Borroni Salvadori (1984), and the licences preserved in the Archivio delle Regie Gallerie, Florence; for Rome see Bertolotti (1980); for Italy in general see Emiliani, A. (1978). On collections of Etruscan antiquities see Levi (1985). 34. Cf. Howard (1982) and Rossi Pinefli (1986). 35. See the chapters by Frank Martin (especially footnote 57) and by Cristiano Giometti below. 36. Lucas MSS, 30/8/28/23-4, Bedfordshire County Record Office, Bedford, quoted in Friedman (1988): 844. 37. Archivio di Stato, Florence, Magalotti 174. This includes a set of letters written in the early months of 1710, in which Magalotti and Somers discuss possible historical subjects drawn from national history. Somers, for his part, selected the battles of Crécy and Agincourt as among the most significant episodes in British history that would lend themselves to painterly treatment and added to his letter a long description of the events. 38. The six episodes illustrated British military and diplomatic achievements from the fourteenth century to the sixteenth and were described by J. Gerrard as ‘the taking of King John by the Black Prince, the Entertaint. of the same King by Edward the 3d. att Windsor, the Marriage and Coronation of Henry the fifth att Paris, the defeat of the Invincible fleet representing Queen Elizabeth giving her Orders for the Show, or the same Queen giving Audience to Ambassadours of Holland when she took the States into her Protection, or the Siege of Toumay, when the

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Empr. Maximilian Served under King Hen: the 8th’ (Lucas MSS, 30/8/28/23-4, Bedfordshire County Record Office, Bedford), quoted in Friedman (1988): 844. 39. Charles Avery has shown that the correspondence between Soldani and Zamboni (Bodleian Library, Oxford, Rawlinson MSS Letters 132, vol. xii, f. 3v) reveals how in 1714 the 3rd Earl of Burlington had left an order for three bronze pieces (respectively the Venus and Adonis, Leda and the Swan, Ganymede and the Eagle and Apollo and Daphne) after having acquired the gilt bronze reliefs of the Four Seasons (subsequently presented to George II and still in the Royal Collection). By October 1716 the bronzes had been cast but not yet been paid for; thus Soldani did not forward them to his Lordship (Charles Avery, ‘Lord Burlington and the Florentine Baroque bronze sculptor Soldani: new documentation on the Anglo-Florentine art trade in the age of the Grand Tour’, paper given to the symposium Lord Burlington: Architecture, Art and Life, held in 1994 at the Royal Academy of Arts). 40. SeePascoli (1730): 361. 41. Such an example is provided by Ercolc Ferrata’s Boy with an Hour Glass, adapted from one of the cherubs at the feet of his St Elisabeth monument in Breslau of 1684. 42. An interesting analysis of the Italian diaspora in the eighteenth century is provided by Shearer West in her chapter ‘Visual Culture, Performance Culture and the Italian Diaspora in the Long Eighteenth Century’ (West (1999): 1-14), where the issue of sculpture and sculptors is, however, not discussed. 43. The best recent pviblication on the court artist is Warnke (1993); on the Italian aristocratic family and household see Mozzarelli (1988); on aristocratic patronage in Europe see Asch and Birke (1991), in particular Ronald Asch’s introduction on court and household from the fifteenth to the seventeenth centuries, pp. 1-38. 44. On Rysbrack see Eustace (1982); on Le Marchand see Avery (1996); for Scheemakers see Roscoe (1999). 45. See, for example, Jenkins and Sloane (1996). 46. Handbook (1844): 168. Devonshire MSS, Chatsworth, Sculpture Accounts of the 6th Duke of Devonshire: 23, shows that two statues of Apollo and Diana with a vase and a bath were purchased in March 1841 from Bienaimé at a total cost (including packing) of £375. 47. Handbook (1844: 103). See also Lees-Milne (1998: 45). 48. Ibid. 49. This illustrates the difficulties of accurately identifying sculptural objects that were shipped from Italy to England, and indeed between other European ports. Hidden amongst this broad and undistinguished category of ‘ballast’ they became invisible, useful in the avoidance of duty payment. 50. Kenworthy-Browne (1995). 51. Honour (1958); Benedetti (1998). Although Canova’s work was highly prized amongst private collectors and with the Royal Academy, at a national level his candidacy for the monument to Nelson was not countenanced. 52. Museo Civico Bassano del Grappa, MS Canoviani: 4: LXXXVIII: 1111, Letter from the Duke of Bedford to Antonio Canova 3 March 1817. 53. Cunningham (1843): vol. 2, 215. This extract from Wilkie’s Journal records a visit made in January 1826. 54. See Beavington-Atkinson (1862): 351, 318, for commentary on the Flora and Zephyr shown at the 1862 exhibition. Rota (1936) gives a list of c.27 works made for British patrons. 55. Post Office London Directory (1854, vol. 4): 1053, gives Monti's address as 45 Great Marlborough Street. 56. The Liverpool antiquarian Joseph Mayer (1803-86) was a major patron of Fontana’s works, many of which are now at the Walker Art Gallery, Liverpool.

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57. Forster (1908): 40-1. 58. Hare (1893): 1: 19. 59. Dickens (1846): 106. 60. Ibid.: 104. 61. Murray's Handbook (1861): 13. 62. Ibid.: 13. 63. Dickens (1846): 106. For the Lazzerini workshop see Passeggia’s contribution to this volume and Passeggia (1997). 64. Murray's Handbook (1861): 2. For the alabaster trade in Volterra see Cozzi (1986). 65. Murray's Handbook (1861): 3. 66. ‘Murray’s Handbook Advertiser’ (1861): 11. 67. See for example Mignon, a Girl with a Lute sold at Sotheby's 21 November 1995 (item 83) where the signature appears as ‘F. Galli, Galleria Prof. P. Bazzanti Florence’. 68. ‘Murray’s Handbook Advertiser’ (1861): 6. 69. Ciardi (1998): fig. 238, which shows the location of Huguct and Van Lint's shop. 70. Destantins-Anthony (n.d.): 63. Located at Via S. Maria 95. This source also lists the Mazzoni brothers' shop at Via S. Maria 87. 71. Destantins-Anthony (n.d.): 64. Located at Via S. Maria 58. 72. Destantins-Anthony (1902): xxxi. 73. Journals and Correspondence of Miss Berry, edited by Lady Theresa Lewis, London, 1862; quoted in Bartolini (1978): 28. 74. Post Office London Directory (1854): 4: 756; see also Brucciani’s obituary in The Builder (1 May 1880), 38: 556, where he is referred to as ‘chiefly a plasterman in calling’ but ‘an artist at heart’. We are grateful to Malcolm Baker for drawing this last reference to our attention. 75. Haskell and Penny (1981): 117, who cite Brucciani, D., Catalogue of Reproductions of Ancient and Modem Sculpture on Sale at D. Brucciani’s Galleria delle Belli Arti, London, 1864, reprinted with additions 1874. 76. Edinburgh, National Library of Scotland, Sutherland Papers Dep. 313/1071, Notes of Payment, 6 August 1833, George Granvule Leveson Gower, 2nd Marquess of Stafford and 1st Duke of Sutherland's death mask was made by an ‘Italian’. 77. Honour (1972): 153. n. 36. Honour mentions the example of a set of copies after the antique made for Wentworth Woodhouse, Yorkshire by Bartolomeo Cavaceppi, G. B. Maini and Filippo della Valle in 1750. 78. Honour (1972): 153. 79. Fejfer and Southworth (1992): 17, n. 21. The bust is on display at the Walker Art Gallery, Liverpool. Greenwood (1988): 7 reports that Blundell purchased four busts from Albacini in 1777. 80. Gale (1964): 11. Gale dismisses this as ‘hack work’ but does not take into account the skill involved in making copies. The production of portrait busts was an important base to the majority of sculptors' businesses. 81. Gerdts (1992): 68. Gerdts here discusses the relative attractions of Florence and Rome for American-born sculptors: the location as a site near to the marble quarries; a city where there was greater intellectual freedom than elsewhere in Italy as well as a sizeable English-speaking community. 82. Turpm (1982): 47. Turpm quotes from a letter written to W. H. Crawford where the sculptor looks back over his first six months in the city.

83. Ibid.: 59. 84. Friedman and Stevens (1972): 61-2. Letters from Joseph Gott to William Gott, Rome, 28

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January 1830 and 25 October 1830. The marble was required for a group of Margaret and Jane Gott as Babes in the Wood (untraced). 85. For a discussion of the role that the reproduction of ancient statuary played in the Royal Academy see Postle (1997): 89-99. 86. Royal Academy of Art, Council Minutes, 5 (1813-18), 174: 12 November 1814. 87. Royal Academy of Art, General Assembly Minutes, 3 (1810-25), 287: 1 April 1819. 88. Royal Academy of Art, Lawrence Correspondence vol. iii (1818-22): LAW/3/38. See also LAW/3/26 Letter from Farington to Lawrence in Rome 6 April 1819, where he states the figures were cast at Florence and were a gift of the Grand Duke of Tuscany. 89. Moore (1983): 233. 90. Yarrington (1998). 91. See Fejfer and Southworth (1992): 14, n. 13. Forty-five cases of marbles were on sale. The ‘lost’ cargo included the sarcophagus relief Phaeton before Helios of the late 2nd century AD which had originally been sold from the Villa d'Este. Henry Blundell of Ince who had bought the piece was then persuaded by the Pope on the advice of Visconti to allow it to remain in Rome. He purchased it once again at an inflated price at Christie's sale. 92. Devonshire MSS, Chatsworth, Sculpture Accounts of the 6th Duke of Devonshire, 6.A.15: 87, letter from the Duke's agent Gaspare Gabrielli. 93. Friedman and Stevens (1972): 8—11 give a chronology of Gott’s life which reveals that he established his studio in Rome in 1822 (with intervening periods in England) which flourished until c. 1836 when his business received no further orders for a period of two years. Gott himself attributed this to the cholera outbreak which had slowed the tide of visitors to Rome. He left the city in 1839. 94. Friedman and Stevens (1972): 65 (27). Joseph Gott to Benjamin Gott (MS. 194 2/26), Rome, 13 February 1838; Gott family papers, Brotherton Library, University of Leeds. 95. Ibid.: 66 (31). Joseph Gott to Benjamin Gott (MS. 194 2/27a), Rome, 23 March 1838, Gott family papers, Brotherton Library, University of Leeds. 96. Bamford(190l) 1: 122. 97. Cozzi and Zangheri (1997): 114. 98. Cozzi and Zangheri (1997): 97. 99. Cozzi and Zangheri (1997): 124. 100. Renzom (1997): 272. Cozzi and Zangheri (1997): 97 note that in 1839 ‘photographic experiments' were conducted at the Congresso degli Scienziati Italiani held in Pisa. 101. Baker and Richardson (1997): 53, fig. 23. See above, Plate 34 and Whitchead’s chapter, n. 21.

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CHAPTER 1

RE-CASTING GEORGE I SCULPTURE, THE ROYAL IMAGE AND THE MARKET BARBARA

ARCISZEWSKA

George Louis of Brunswick-Liineburg (1660-1727), Elector of Hanover, and from 1714 King George I of England, has traditionally been cast as a paradigmatic philistine ruler, more interested in satisfying the urges of the flesh than in pursuing cultural pleasures. This enduring image of George I, formulated in English anti-Hanoverian propaganda of the eighteenth century, has only recently been probed by historians.1 From these studies George I emerges instead as a cultivated man of considerable intellectual acumen and cultural sophistication.2 It is also increasingly clear that his court was a more significant power centre than previously assumed, capable of fostering fundamental shifts in economic, political and cultural structures •within contemporary English society. Contingent on this dynamic and comprehensive transformation were the beginnings of modern art institutions, the development of the art market, and the commercialization of cultural practices which followed the expansion of the public for art under the rule of the first Hanoverian monarch.3 It is surprising, therefore, that George I's critical engagement with the visual arts continues to be largely neglected.4 The King and his entourage not only nurtured the incipient Palladian revival,5 but also helped to re-define the rules of good taste in sculpture along similarly classicizing lines. George I commissioned, for instance, Michael Rysbrack's influential marble 'Roman Marriage' (Plate 1) that became the paragon of this new authoritative idiom. The relief, executed for one of the new state rooms at Kensington Palace,6 followed a long line of copies after ancient models and classically inspired sculptures deployed by the Hanoverian rulers in their German residences. From valuable imported bronzes all'antica to mass-produced lead copies of celebrated Roman

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Plate 1 Michael Kysbrack, A Roman Marriage, 1723, London, Kensington Palace. © Crown copyright: Historic Royal Palaces. Reproduced by permission of Historic Royal Palaces under licence from the Controller of Her Majesty's Stationery Office.

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statues intended for the Hanoverian gardens, sculpture was an indispensable element of dynastic image-building. Despite Judith Colton's assertion that 'the Hanoverian kings had little use for statuary',7 I will suggest, rather, that George I clearly appreciated the importance of sculpture as a tool of political persuasion and social negotiation.8 I will also argue that the consumption of sculpture in Hanover, considered here as one aspect of a multifaceted emulation of Italian culture at the Guelph court, paralleled the patterns esTtablished in contemporary court architecture, and wa used to re-define dynastic identity at the time of the family's spectacular social ascendancy. This unapologetically pragmatic approach to the arts, combined with George I's exposure to the practices of the Venetian art market, directed him away from the traditional patterns of patronage cultivated at contemporary absolutist courts, and towards new ways of harnessing the forces of the emergent cultural industry to consolidate the power of his dynasty. If George Louis's succession as the elector of Hanover in 1698 has long been perceived by scholars as a cultural anticlimax, it was partly because it followed the celebrated reign of his parents, Ernest August of Brunswick-Liineburg (1630-98) and Sophia of the Palatinate (1630-1714), a granddaughter of James I. Under their rule Hanover's reputation as one of the most flamboyant courts of the German Empire, equalling in its sophistication the foremost courts of Italy and France, was firmly entrenched. This dramatic metamorphosis of Hanoverian court life around 1700 paralleled the staggering social rise of the House of Brunswick-Liineburg, from its relatively modest beginnings as the junior branch of the Guelph dynasty, to the electoral title in 1692, and ultimately to the Crown of England in 1714.9 The visual arts provided a key element in the strategy to redefine the public image of the family at the time, as I have demonstrated elsewhere.1" Of utmost significance in this process was the espousal of a Veneto-derived classicism, and more specifically Palladian villa architecture, at the Guelph court in Hanover prior to the English succession. Although the foundations of this classicizing taste were laid by the first electoral couple, George Louis played a far more important role in this scheme than has been assumed thus far. Several designs associated with him, such as drawings for unexecuted villas of c.1710, provide a good insight into the highly sophisticated use of classicizing architectural vocabulary in the Hanoverian campaign for social advancement.'' This confident appropriation of Palladianism was intended to bolster dynastic claims to legitimacy and to visualize the cardinal ideological underpinnings of the newly won political power. Palladian classicism offered the best instrument for such social transformation through its associations with classical antiquity and with the two milieux of critical

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importance to Hanover's dynastic past and future: Britain under the early Stuarts and the Veneto.12 The arts and culture of the Veneto had been inspirational for the Hanoverians long before George I's arrival in England in 1714. The tightening of the cultural allegiance between the Hanoverian dynasty and the Veneto, prompted by the conviction that its political future could benefit by more explicit association with the family's Venetian ancestry,13 was facilitated by the frequent visits of family members to the maritime republic. Ernest August, George I's father, became so enamoured of Venice in his youth that, according to Electress Sophia, if he could not travel to Italy to satisfy his 'passione pour Venise , he was stricken by melancholia.14 Both Ernest August and Sophia constructed their concept of court culture largely on the basis of observations made during their year-long tour of Italy (1664-5) during which the couple became acquainted with the most refined courts of the peninsula, especially those of the north Italian relatives of the House of Brunswick, the Este.15 This northern Italian connection through the Este became a legacy most carefully cultivated by the Hanoverians.16 It led to arrangements for renewing the close hereditary alliance with the contemporary Este clan, sealed with the long-planned and much celebrated marriage of Rinaldo III d' Este and Charlotte Felicitas, George I's half-sister,17 and also an impressive (if belated) memorial in the form of a monument to Duke Azzo II Este, the work of Francesco Rizzi (1729-93), erected in 1776 by the successors of George I on the Prato della Valle in Padua.18 Of major importance here is the position of Venice at the time as one of the greatest markets for cultural commodities, where principles of high art collided constantly with rules of trade, and where George Louis gained a first-hand knowledge of an art industry geared to exploit the growing demand for luxury goods.19 During their visits, the Hanoverian court sampled with reported abandon the endless consumer pleasures Venice had to offer. From their permanent residence in the Palazzo Foscari on the Grand Canal,20 the Hanoverians partook in the life of the Venetian aristocracy and participated as guests of honour in the innumerable festivities, balls and regattas prepared by the city's noble families, eager to entertain German princes on whose military aid the survival of the Republic depended.21 Not all entertainments were gratuitous, however. Members of the Guelph court spent a small fortune leasing boxes in Venetian opera houses, commissioning pieces from local composers, and financing several important opera productions in the city.22 They bought clothes, jewels, books, Murano glass and works of art; extant records refer to prints and paintings, not sculptures.23 Painting was, after all, what Venice was

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renowned for. George I's uncle, Duke Johann Friedrich (1625-79), brought back from Venice no less than 237 paintings for the LeineschloC in Hanover and another 51 for the suburban residence in Herrenhausen.24 We know that the entire family sat for fashionable portrait painters who set up their businesses in Venice, such as the now forgotten Henri Gascar (c.1634/35-1701).25 They also visited local attractions, and (if one can rely on Electress Sophia's travel journal and her memoirs) were not unaware of the parallels between the consumption of art and the consumption of other luxury commodities which offered more immediate and obvious gratifications. Sophia's travel diary makes repeated comparisons, for instance, between the pleasures of eating exquisite 'confitures' (frequently provided to visitors by their gracious hosts), and those of looking at works of art.26 Amongst the most memorable moments spent in the Veneto by members of the Brunswick-Liineburg family must have been the visits to the villas of the tenaferma. On several occasions they are documented as being grandly received in villas designed by Palladio, including a lavish reception in the celebrated Rotonda. 27 In the 1680s they are known to have paid a visit to the villa Foscari, the Malcontenta,28 and were repeatedly received in the villa ContariniCamerini in Piazzola sul Brenta (r.1546) which family tradition attributed to Palladio.29 Marco Contarini, host to the electoral court,30 commemorated the 1685 visit by publishing a richly illustrated account of the elaborate festivities prepared to entertain the German aristocracy.31 It was probably through exposure to such encomiastic publications that George Louis noted the importance of print, with its capacity for mass circulation, for the project of dynastic self-representation. The pompous text composed by Contarini's court poet, Francesco Maria Piccioli, reported with relish the course of events as well as poems and the libretti of the many musical diversions prepared for the occasion. The large engraved plates, representing the members of the Guelph court participating in spectacular entertainments set against the background of Palladian architecture, conveyed the flattering image of authority and cultivation the Hanoverians so avidly sought. Such flamboyant visits to Venetian country residences, recorded for posterity, clearly offered a wealth of cultural information to be used in the Hanoverian campaign of self-glorification. Not surprisingly, the impact of Venice as a cultural model for emulation continued in Hanover even after 1686, when the journeys of the family members to the Veneto became less frequent. Unable to travel regularly, the rulers of Hanover attempted to recreate the splendour of Venice in their own capital. To effect this, they secured a steady influx of Venetian courtiers (such as the poet Hortensio Mauro), artists (Girolamo

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Sartorio, Francisco Paletta, Tommaso Giusti and Count Giacomo Querini), and musicians (Antonio Sartorio, Vincenzo de Grandis and Agostino Steffani), who provided the means for the cultivation of a quasi-Venetian court culture.32 The entertainments enjoyed by the members of the family during their stays in the Veneto provided the ultimate model for the court pageantry in Hanover, and the appealing way of life of the Venetian aristocracy, whose copious leisure time was regularly divided between the pleasures of the city and the delights of the country, was reflected in the conduct of Hanoverian society. The Hanoverian elite also enjoyed life divided between the city and the country. The culmination of the winter season was the famous 'Venetian Carnival.'33 This oddity at a Protestant court was established as a substitute for the annual festivities in Venice. The programme of celebrations in Hanover included theatre performances, operas, concerts, masques, water shows, and fancy dress balls, in addition to the grand feasts at the princely table.34 The carnival, a controlled subversion of the usual rigours of social intercourse at the court, provided as well an opportunity for the ostentatious entertainments of important guests, and as such was considered an essential part of the House new image.35 The change from the winter to the summer season was marked by the move of the court from the town palace in Hanover, the LeineschloB, to Herrenhausen, where the court usually remained from May to October.3'' Thi suburban residence (built between 1665 and 1675 by the Venetian architect Lorenzo Bedogni, and expanded by another Venetian, Girolamo Sartorio, between 1676 and 1681)37 was the locus of both otium and intellectual diversions in the tradition of Italian villas. The concerts, balls and gondola rides along the illuminated canals of the garden were a clear effort to recreate in Hanover the refined diversions of the Venetian elite.:w Although the Venetian orientation of the Hanoverian court privileged architecture, painting and music, sculpture in various guises was more common than the extant monuments would indicate.39 Most of the decorative stucco sculpture, for instance, executed during the expansion and rebuilding of the LeineschloB by a team of Italian masters headed by Giuseppe Crotogino (d.1715), Dossa Grana (active 1686-96), and Giacomo Perinetti (d.1716) is lost.4" The best work of this team was displayed in the Rittersaal (1685-88) where the opulent stucco decoration echoed the more inspired embellishments of the Venetian palazzi,41 and in the new opera house (1688-9), which was 'ganz von goldglanzenden Skulpturen . . . bedeckt'.42 Venetian opera performed in this spectacular space also called for elaborate sculptural decorations. These were generally fashioned by Venetian artists employed at the court, such as

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Tommaso Giusti (1644—1729).43 Unfortunately, almost nothing is known about the practice of this ephemeral art form in Hanover.44 The sums spent on these temporary sculptural installations, stage props and decorations were considerable, however, and their importance in the eyes of contemporary audiences was equal to that of more permanent creations.45 In a similar category of important but little documented works of contemporary sculpture, one would have to consider richly decorated gondolas, a Venetian art form par excellence. We know of those commissioned by George Louis from Pietro Madonetto, a Venetian gondola maker and a wood carver of considerable repute."' The wealth of carved ornaments on these now lost pieces can be inferred, perhaps, from decorations of comparable vessels executed for the Hanoverian court in England, such as the famous royal barge designed for George Louis's grandson, Frederick, by William Kent in 1732.47 We are much better informed about the production and consumption of sculpture within the framework of the new classicizing architecture championed at the Guelph court. The primary arena for the display of the Veneto-oriented cultural commodities and practices was Herrenhausen, which became the focus of renewed attention around 1700 when plans were sought to enlarge and modernize the residence.4M It offered two main sites for the exhibition of sculpture: the garden (laid out between 1666 and the 1690s)4'' and the residence itself with its interiors. The location of the sculptures determined their scale and materials, more durable pieces being placed outdoors, and precious bronzes and marbles sheltered from the elements in the house itself, as well as in the garden structures. The grotto, for instance, housed a collection of bronzes, probably Italian imports.'" Some subjects were clearly site-specific, such as water gods placed near fountains and water structures (such as the great cascade), nl whereas others belonged to the conventional categories of Seasons, Continents, etc. and were not arranged in a coherent programme.52 These diverse works, however, reveal certain common concerns - most notably associated with the dynastic image. The dominant formal idiom •was a restrained classicism evocative of decorations found at the majority of villas visited by the Hanoverians, with many pieces imitating classical statuary.w The production of sculpture in Hanover depended largely on the traditional patterns of absolutist patronage and was driven by the requirements of court display. In terms of labour, the Hanoverians relied on imported Netherlandish sculptors, because the Low Countries were at the time an important centre for sculptural training north of the Alps. Netherlandish craftsmen (such as Pieter van Empthusen, or Arnold Rossfeld) worked alongside some itinerant Italian sculptors, such as Antonio Laghi, and local German artisans trained in Italy,

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such as Christian Vicken.54 The appeal of craftsmen hired in Hanover must have rested on their ability to work in a strongly classicizing manner. Those familiar with the production of lead casts must also have been in demand, as they were needed to operate lead manufacture in Hanover. Phillip Jakob Bormann, a Dutchman active in Hanover in the 1680s, for instance, was a specialist in casting lead statues for fountains who was also put in charge of the local smelter.55 This local lead workshop, however, could not generate the number of pieces required for the expanding gardens of Herrenhausen. In 1689 it was necessary to negotiate an acquisition of 25 additional lead statues for a garden theatre. These sculptures were bought in Amsterdam, at around 50 taler a piece.56 It is clear, then, that the artisans active in Hanover worked on a custom-order basis, and had no broader market support necessary for developing mass manufacture (such as those in Amsterdam, or in London where another Netherlandish master, John van Nost, had a successful lead sculpture business).57 All the sculptors in Hanover depended on court commissions for their income, though there is evidence that they did occasional work for the corporate institutions in the city of Hanover.38 The professionals and middle class were not yet wealthy or numerous enough to support a local art industry.59 Therefore, once their works commissioned by the local court were delivered, most sculptors were forced to move on to another court centre.60 This dependence upon court sponsorship had another important dimension. Venetians seem to have directed the critical conceptual aspects of the sculptural production. These court disegnatori were firmly entrenched as the arbiters of taste in Hanover. The Venetian Sartorio, for instance, employed by George Louis's uncle, designed the sculptural ensemble for the Parnassus fountain (1679, destroyed) leaving its execution to the itinerant master Michael Riggus.61 All major designs prepared at the court of George Louis had to meet with the approval of the aristocratic virtuoso in residence, Count Giacomo Querini.62 The example of statues ordered from Amsterdam indicates, however, that in addition to the traditional forms of patron-artist relations between the Hanoverian court and its sculptors, the Guelphs engaged in transactions with the new types of art industry institutions. Whereas the majority of works continued to be executed locally, the Guelphs developed an extensive network of agents who could obtain desired pieces and designs from abroad. Electress Sophia, for instance, bought a sculpted portrait of her mother in Amsterdam, and in 1705 she requested designs of some English chimney-pieces, which were duly sent from London by Baron von Schiitz.63 George Louis's Venetian court architect, Count Querini, was primarily an art consultant and dealer whose services included the procurement of works of art from Italian markets for George I's

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entire family. In 1705, for instance, Querini reportedly 'from his late journey in Italy . . . brought the King (George Fs son in law, Frederick I of Prussia] some things [for his residence] w'1' either he had desired or was fond off'.'14 Querini might have also been instrumental in importing designs directly from Venice. A design for the rebuilding of the electoral hunting lodge in Wienhausen (known to us from a late eighteenth-century copy) is a good case in point.65 It contains motifs unequivocally derived from Venetian vernacular practice, such as the idiosyncratic placement of the chimney shafts which run along the external walls, conceivable only in a work of Venetian provenance.66 It is possible that drawings of sculptural motifs would have accompanied architectural designs. It is at least certain that smaller ready-made decorative elements, such as sculpted shells or vegetal ornaments for the grotto in the garden, were also purchased in Italy.67 The agents responsible for procuring these were also in charge of buying rare plants for the gardens. One Collegan, for instance, in addition to providing shell-work, was also a supplier of orange and lemon trees.68 The major sculpture-buying transaction of George Louis's reign illuminates the use of sculpture within the context of the Hanoverian residence. As befitted the public image of the House upheld by George Louis, his most important foray into sculpture collecting was the acquisition of 28 busts of Roman emperors for the gallery in Herrenhausen (built 1694—8 and stuccoed by a workshop of Italians led by Dossa Grana and Pietro Rosso).6'' The busts (thirteen of which are preserved in Herrenhausen, including the likenesses of Domitian, Caius Marius, Antoninus and Clodius) had bronze heads, with torsos made of marble and alabaster. They were purchased in Paris, probably in 1698, for the exorbitant sum of 20,000 livres.7" In this case, George appears to have encountered every consumer's nightmare. He seems to have seriously overpaid for the sculptures, being led to believe that they were ancient originals, rather than seventeenth-century Italian replicas, as they are known to be today. This ill-fated transaction has repeatedly served in scholarship as evidence of George's lack of discrimination, but from his point of view the money was certainly well spent. At the time the works were undoubtedly considered genuine and regarded as venerable objects complementing the dynastic message represented in the impressive fresco cycle decorating the ceremonial hall in which they were displayed.71 The frescoes, painted by Giusti in the tradition of the decorative programmes of the villas of the terrqferma, were based on Virgil's Aeneid.72 This epic narrative was a typological equivalent of the story of another Trojan hero, Antenor, the presumed founder of Padua and a supposed ancestor of the House of Brunswick. Therefore sculpture, together with painting and

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architecture, was employed here as a sign of the authority of the ancients and bestowed an aura of legitimacy upon a dynasty whose political gains did not go back in time beyond a single generation. Garden sculpture, a major part of the court art investments, took its final shape as a decorative system under the reign of George Louis c.1700. The materials used in outdoor statuary were cheap and durable — sandstone and lead — but most pieces were painted white to look like Italian marble.73 A surprisingly large number of lead figures were gilded.74 The workmanship of garden sculpture varies between very good (as in Vicken's monumental vases with mythological reliefs modelled after Venetian sources75) to rather indifferent (as in the often anonymous allegorical figures crowding the parterres). The most interesting sculptural ensemble is a group of statues providing a framework for the court theatre spectacles that were performed alfresco in one of the oldest garden theatres north of the Alps (Plate 2). The structure, designed by Peter Wachter and Martin Charbonnier between 1689 and 1693, was based upon Italian models.76 Theatres in Piazzola were of importance, but such structures seemed very much in fashion in Venice as well. In 1685, the Hanoverians were entertained in Venice in a 'teatrino espressamente construito a forma di Boschetto',77 and another spectacle is recorded in the garden of the Hanoverian residence in Venice where the stage set 'formava un giardino Reale.'7" The unusual auditorium of the Hanoverian theatre, in the form of an amphitheatre, might have been influenced by Palladio's reconstructions of the theatres of the ancients or by his Teatro Olimpico, visited by the electoral court.7'' The life-size lead statues marking the wings of the stage (most of them representing dancers) differ, however, from those in most other garden theatres. They are 'nach den Antiken gemacht'"" according to a contemporary source, rather than representing (as was more common) contemporary figures, or the characters from commedia dell'arte. The most notable are the copies of the Borghese warriors in the proscenium, which might have been an intentional reference to the famous pieces in the collection of Charles I, Sophia's uncle.81 The statues in the parterres demonstrate clearly the value of sculpture for the Hanoverian construct of dynastic identity. The twenty standing figures (c.1698, sandstone) and eight vases with figural decoration (c.1710, sandstone) depict the allegories of the Continents, Elements and Seasons, reinforced by mythological themes."2 The choice of subjects carries a reassuring message of a predictable stability and order in the world, reflected in the rational and benevolent rule of the members of the Hanoverian dynasty. Their life-size effigies (c. 1690, sandstone) erected in the part of the garden named Konigsbusch, together with their

Plate 2 Sculpture decoratioofftheeggardenetheatrHerrHerrenhuse91689-92, Han,. HerrenhausenfrommMUeMullervand Sasse, GartenhduserundGartenansichteenaususedemokonigtLustgarteenzuHerrenhausenseneeiannoverver..Amsterdam,amP.Schenk.175)>

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armorial devices worked into some of the statues, and clearly visible in the facade of the residence ovTerlooking the garden, functioned as visual reminders of princely authority which secured the constancy of this well-organized world.83 Four sculpted groups with abduction themes (c.1700, sandstone) executed by Laghi (the Abduction of a Sabine Woman, Apollo and Daphne, Satyr and a Nymph, Hermes and a Nymph) served as a commentary on this rational universe in sculpture.84 By using the trope of nature (female) subdued by the dominant force of culture and civilization (male), they alluded to absolute order born out of chaos, as well as to the absolute power of the ruler. The act of abduction is thus naturalized here as a culturally generative force, and constructed as a parallel to human intervention into nature, and mastery over it, epitomized in the Baroque garden. The sculpture thus expanded the ideological underpinnings of the Palladian architecture favoured by the Hanoverians. The order of classicizing architecture, together with the sculptural programme extolling the order of the universe, literally became a visual rationalization of Hanoverian rule, its apparatuses of control disguised as reason and tradition. This sophisticated combination of visual messages was directed primarily at the numerous visitors to Hanover rather than the local court where George Louis's rule met with little challenge. All of this was to change, however, following the succession in 1714, and the move of the Guelph court to England. The social, economic and political situation in George's new domain was dramatically different to that in Hanover, and the threat to his power there very real. The points raised by the Hanoverian propaganda prior to 1714 needed to be reiterated here more forcefully and disseminated more widely in order to secure the Hanoverian succession. The patterns of emulative consumption had to be reconsidered and re-invented to suit the new situation. Whereas in Hanover the practices of emulation served primarily as a divisive agent, by indicating Guelph membership in a group detached from the mainstream of the imperial aristocracy in Germany, and by separating the ruling family from the lower ranks,85 George I soon realized that he could not ignore the middle classes in Britain. The social distinction between him and his new subjects had to be constructed in a new way. The need for the naturalization of Hanoverian rule called for a more assimilative approach to emulation, for broader dissemination of the visual codes which secured the Hanoverian hold on power.86 But the new king had to enter the dynamic of emulation without appearances of vanity and impropriety. Now in a position of political dependence on his new subjects, George Louis understood that the ostentatious displays of artistic glorification that seemed appropriate for an absolute ruler were more likely to

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cause concerns over his political intentions than they were to effect deference.87 Fortunately, his dynastic agenda and its visual expressions developed in Hanover - Palladianism in architecture and classical revival in sculpture - could also benefit the English establishment. The Whigs, whose interests were protected by the preservation of the constitutional system promised by George I's rule, were just as happy as the king to espouse the visual language which at the moment of transition spelt both change and continuity. Thus for both institutions Palladianism, and classical gravity in sculpture, became the perfect idiom of political conformity, rationalizing and celebrating the Hanoverian ascendancy as a rightful succession to the early Stuart monarchy, while accommodating the aspirations of Britain's elite.88 By reviving the classicizing visual formulae strongly associated with the Stuart dynasty (such as the equestrian monument), early Georgian sculpture thus paralleled the Palladian/Jonesian revival in architecture. By lending the prestige and cultural authority of the monarchy to two publications which established classicism as a new paragon for emulation, Giacomo Leoni's 1715 English edition of Palladio and Colen Campbell's Vitruvius Britannicus (both dedicated to George I),89 the Georgian court provided stimulus for the emulative dissemination and commercialization of its tenets. The accessibility of new rules of taste through print addressed sweeping changes within the contemporary social system, with its broader power base. Proliferating pattern-books and art manuals allowed new literate consumers to acquire the means of producing replicas of the original and privileged objects associated with more prestigious patrons: the English landed elite, headed by the Hanoverian court. George I did not have to — indeed was not expected to — make grand gestures in support of a new arts policy. Whereas the consumption of cultural commodities reached increasingly wider audiences, people frowned upon ostentatious spending by the Crown on luxuries such as art, seeing this as an indication of extravagance and a tendency towards absolutism.90 The monarchy was also in chronic financial trouble.9' Not surprisingly, therefore, official spending on the arts under George I was not lavish. He made sure, however, that he was associated personally with fashionable taste. In architecture, grand designs for royal residences faltered, but George's personal retreat, a small villa in New Park, Richmond (the plans for which he approved himself),92 is arguably the most impressive example of English Palladianism. In sculpture, the Crown spent close to nothing on official monuments to the new Hanoverian king, as the regime cautiously abstained from actively promoting works of self-glorification, but the more private commissions, most

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notably the decoration of his apartments in Kensington Palace, set new standards in sculptural taste.93 In fact, perhaps the most personal piece of sculpture executed for George I in England, Michael Rysbrack's 1723 relief representing a Roman Marriage,94 reveals the complex associations between the monarchy and the new classicizin forms of visual expression disseminated through contemporary publications. This strongly classicizing composition, placed over the fireplace in the Cupola Room of Kensington Palace, introduced to England a type of sculptural decoration which was to become the standard emulated in countless Palladian houses.95 The employment of an antique-type relief in a domestic setting was a novel solution, first publicized in England in Leoni's edition of Palladio, a book firmly associated with the authority of the monarch.90 In a move to enhance the commercial appeal of the book, Leoni's work included numerous meticulously rendered interior designs which elaborated upon decorative elements of Palladio's originals. These plates were, as a rule, entrusted to the engraving skills of Bernard Picart to render them precise enough for copying. The single compositional units, such as the Corinthian hall, were treated, therefore, as compendia of sculptural details, as illustrated guides to arranging interiors in a style which combined Palladian classicism with Baroque opulence.97 Much of Georgian decorative sculpture, therefore, has its origins in the Palladian treatise associated with George I. It is clear that in sculpture, as well as in architecture, the new classicizing idiom was updated to meet the expectations of the contemporary public. It is instructive to compare Rysbrack's version of the Roman Marriage to its source, a composition from the Palazzo Sacchetti engraved by Pietro Santi Bartoli and published in Admiranda Antiquitatum Romanorum of 1693.9X Rysbrack's figures are broader and their poses more graceful. The softness of modelling, combined with subtle changes in postures, such as the more pronounced inclination of the heads and gentler hand gestures (suggesting greater emotional engagement), temper the ancient image with visual conventions of civilized social intercourse recognized by Georgian audiences.99 Just as Palladio's architectural idiom had to be given some modern, Baroque refinement 'more suitable to the nobleness of his designs . . .',""' the classical vocabulary of Rysbrack's sculpture had to be moderated through the application of current courtly protocols of body language and gesture, epitomized by works such as Rubens's Marriage of Marie de Medici (1624, Paris, Musee du Louvre) from the Medici cycle. The theme of Rysbrack's work in Kensington Palace demands some attention. It was an interesting choice considering George's own less than virtuous marriage which ended in his wife's life imprisonment and the violent death of

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her lover."" In the context of this ceremonial hall, however, this theme should be seen as an image of domeTstic life converted to state use, where the private ritual is politicized and made into an ideological construct."12 Institutionalized matrimony is thus presented as a condition and a guarantee of a virtuous and orderly society, such as one actively promoted by the Hanoverian establishment in England. There might be a relationship here as well to the values expressed in the sculptures on the south front of the Herrenhausen gallery (c.1696, sandstone), where statues of Athena and Mars joined by Amor allude to the happy conjugal union of George I's parents, and to their fortunate state ruled by a family who embody the virtues of these classical deities. There are no personal overtones in the standard official portrait statues of George I, usually commissioned by agents of patronage outside the immediate royal circle. It was politically risky to build a monument to one's own glory. George I must have been willing, however, to resume a tradition of royal portraiture which could establish yet another thread of continuity with his Stuart predecessors. The political value of asserting the authority of a new king by setting up his image in public spaces was undeniable. I(IJ The festive unveilings of royal statues developed under the Hanoverians into a mechanism of promoting political obedience, social cohesion, as well as commerce."14 A fee of 6 guineas, for instance, was charged for a seat at the unveiling of George I's equestrian statue in Dublin in 1722. "'s The same contemporary observer also noted that 'the several Companys will ride the fringes on that day and our Magistrates appear in their utmost magnificence'."16 For all ranks, therefore, occasions such as this provided a way of participating in the official culture. At the time of social unrest, however, those same statues could have easily become a focus of iconoclastic outbursts. The monument o George I set up in Grosvenor Square in 1726 was vandalized only a year later.1"7 It was preferable to sacrifice sculpture, however, than risk similar attacks on institutions of power they represented. The commissioning of royal statues was becoming not only a communal/ public undertaking, but also a commercial venture.1"8 Subscriptions were a relatively new way of financing cultural production (especially books),"" and in 1721 the sculptor Claude David (active c. 1706-22) attempted to raise by subscription the sum of ^2,500 for his equestrian statue of George I. The monument was to be placed in the centre of St James's Square, but only ,£100 was collected and the plan was abandoned."" In formal terms, the three main types of official sculpted portraits of the Hanoverian monarch follow traditional antique formulae: the equestrian monument, a standing statue in Roman dress (such as the one executed by the

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Flemish sculptor Laurent Delvaux (1696-1778) for the Rolls House in 1722; marble, London, Public Record Office),111 or the bust.112 In addition to the desired classical provenance, all these types also had important Stuart precedents: most notably Le Sueur's equestrian statue of Charles I and a bust of the same king.113 Equestrian statues were naturally by far the most prestigious genre and commanded the greatest authority with their impeccable imperial origins.114 The most famous one of George I was commissioned by the Duke of Chandos and set up at Canons around 1716 (destroyed after 1872). This large gilded bronze statue, possibly modelled by C. Burchard, was cast and gilded by John van Nost, a successful sculpture producer and trader, and his workshop.115 Nost's workshop was also responsible for three other statues of George I modelled after the Canons prototype, one for Essex Bridge, Dublin (1717, now at the Barber Institute, Birmingham), another for the garden in Stowe (c.1720, Stowe), and one for Grosvenor Square, London (1726, lost c.1838).116 These were cast in lead and gilded, in a manner typical of much Hanoverian sculpture in Germany. An equestrian statue of George Louis was also intended as the centrepiece o the triumphal arch commissioned in 1719 from Giacomo Leoni (Plate 3), the Venetian architect and editor of Palladio's Four Books. This time, the order came from Earl Stanhope, in other words from the highest echelons of the aristocracy surrounding the monarch, which testifies to the particular importance of this project.117 Although Stanhope's death prevented the execution o the design, it gained wide circulation, published by Leoni in his Designs for Buildings both Publick and Private in 1726.lltf The connection between the revival of classicizing Italianate art and the dynastic interests of the Hanoverians is made clear by the introduction of this ideologically charged royal project as the opening design in the publication containing paradigmatic examples of Palladian architecture. The image explicitly asserts that the pursuit of good taste in art and architecture leads by following the royal example. The triumph of George I is literally a gateway to the dissemination of the classicizing idiom, and the ascendancy of Palladianism and the revival of antique sculpture are synonymous with the triumph of George I. George Louis of Hanover may not have been a great patron of sculpture, yet he skilfully and effectively integrated the medium within a comprehensive programme of self-presentation. The ways of appropriating sculpture at his court offer valuable insights into the changing forms of royal and aristocratic patronage at a time when works of art were beginning to reach their growing publics through the mediation of the market. The emulation of Italian culture at Hanover exposed George I very early to the fact that art was a commodity

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Plate 3 Giacomo Leoni, Design for a triumphal arch and an equestrian statue of George I, 1719 (from 'Designs for Buildings both Publick and Private', in G. Leoni (ed.), The Architecture of Leon Battista Alberti, London, T. Edlin, 1726) (photo: author).

and that print (the mass medium of the time) was critical to establishing one's cultural consumption as a paradigm for emulation. This awareness served him well in England. The exploitation of the forces of emulative consumption (which were driving the new polite society) allowed George I to shed traditional forms of cultural control encoded in patterns of patronage typical of most contemporary absolute rulers without losing the ideological benefits of dictating the dominant cultural agenda.

Notes 1. See Hatton (1975): 21, and Hatton (1972): 191-3, for a detailed discussion of George's established image and its origins.

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2. Hatton (1978): 13-16. 3. The literature on the subject is extensive; see, for instance, McKendrick, Brewer and Plumb (1982); Langford (1989): 59-121. 4. Hatton (1978): 293-4, and Hatton (1975): 25-6. 5. Sec Arciszewska (1992): 52-3. 6. The King personally approved the designs for the rebuilding and redecoration of Kensington Palace; see Bolton and Hendry (1930): 191, 195. 7. Colton (1974): 189. 8. The traditional view has been that George had 'ein innerliches Verhaltnis zur Welt der Kunst me gefunden'; see Schnath (1938-82): vol. Ill, 518. See Hatton (1975): 23-6, for a revised opinion. 9. For details see Klopp (1875-88). 10. Arciszewska (1994). 11. Arciszewska (1992): 41-58. 12. Regarding the role of dynastic ties to the Veneto and England in the political strategies of the Hanoverians see Reese (1967): 39-44; and Fricke (1957): 14f. 13. On the Hanoverian tics to the Venetian nobility see Freschot (1707): 307-10. 14. Sophia's letter to her brother Karl Ludwig of 23 May 1674, after Schnath (1938-82): I, 379. 15. M611er(1991): 122. 16. The Hanoverian court remained in close contact with the Este court in Modena, allowing for exchange of artists between the two; see de Grandis (1966): 122. 17. Reese (1967): 160-1. 18. See Semenzato (1966): 129. 19. Haskell (1959) and Duverger (1967). 20. Schnath (1938-82): II, 386-7, and Zorzi (1989): 166. Even though the visits of the family members became less frequent after 1686, the residence was kept with all the necessary paraphernalia, including a small fleet of gondolas. 21. Sec, for instance, G. M. Alberti (1686), Giochi festivi e militari, danze setenate, macchine, boscareccia artificiosa, regata solenne et altri sontuosi apprestamenti di attegrezza esposti alia soddisfazione universale dalla generosita dell'Altezza ser. di Ernesto duca di Brunswick e Luneburgo, Principe di Osnabriick ecc. al tempo di sua dimora in Venetia, Venice, Poletti, passim, for a description of one of the elaborate entertainments enjoyed in Venice by the Hanoverians. Among the most impressive festivities witnessed by the Hanoverian court was the ritual espousal of the sea by the Doge on Corpus Christi day; see Kroll (1973): 101. 22. See Sievers (1983): 785, and Galvam (1879): 63, 124. 23. See Electress Sophia's memoirs and correspondence from Venice in Cruysse (1990): 179-210. 24. See Scheel (1966): 100. 25. The services of Gascar, who was previously active in England, were acquired in Venice in 1686; Thieme and Becker (1907-50): XIII, 224. 26. Cruysse (1990): 104, 105, 239. 27. Cruysse (1990): 205. 28. Tiozzo (1980): 57; and Bassi (1987): 63. 29. See Baldan (1986): 353-8, regarding the villa at Piazzola and the contentious issue of its attribution to Palladio. 30. Regarding the Hanoverian ties to the Contarini, see Camerini (1929): 265f. 31. Franceso Maria Piccioli's account was published in six unpaginated volumes: M. Piccioli,

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(1685), L'orologio delpiacere die mostra I'ore tie! liiletlevole soggiorno havto dall' Altezza serenissima Ernesto Augusta vestovo d' Osnabrttg, Duca di Bransuick, Luneburgo etc. nel Luoco di Piazzola dc S.E. il Signor Marco Contarini. . .; II merito acdamato. Annonici Tributi d' ossequio consacrati da S.E. il Signor Marco Contarini, Procurator di S. Marco, all'Altezza Serenissima d'Ernesto Augusta . . .; II Vatianio della Fortuna. Musicali Acclamation! consacrati . . . (etc.); La Schiavitu Fortunata di Nettuno. Voti musical? applause, consacrati . . . (etc.); II Rittrato della Gloria donate aH'Eternita. Musicali Applausi consacrati. . . (etc.); II Preludio felice. Musicali Acdamationi consacrati . . . (etc.). All volumes were published by Contarini's private press in Piazzola (Nel Luoco delle Vergini) in 1685. The engravings (very large and competently executed) are anonymous. 32. See Tardito-Ameno (1968): 127-98. 33. For the accounts of the carnival festivities in Hanover see Lampe (1963): 116-18. 34. See von Malortie (1847): 152-61. 35. Spectacular pageantry also accompanied family weddings, such as the 1695 marriage of Charlotte Felicitas to Duke Rainaldo of Modena, or the 1706 wedding of Sophia Dorothea to Crown Prince Frederic Wilhelm of Prussia; see von Malortie (1847): 178—98. 36. Schnath (1938-82): II, 388. 37. For details of the building history see von Alvensleben and Reuther (1966): 25-31. 38. Sec Lampe (1963): 121, for details. Herrenhausen was the favourite retreat of Sophia who, surrounded by people such as Gottfried Leibniz and Georg Woltcrs Molanus, turned it into a centre of flourishing intellectual life; see Scheel (1966): 83-115. 39. Hiibner (1991): 120-3, for details of other ephemeral works. 40. Ness et al. (1983): 64-5. 41. Schnath et al. (1962): 67. Regarding stuccoed decorations of Venetian palaces, see Bassi (1962): 254f. 42. 'entirely covered with gold-glittering sculptures'; see letter of Aurora Komgsmarck to the queen of Sweden (1693), after Lampe (1963): 113. The opera house, celebrated as one of the most beautiful theatres in Europe, was built at the cost of almost 25,000 Taler; see Boeck (1979). The building was demolished in the nineteenth century. 43. Regarding Gmsti's career, see Reuther (1975): 154-5. Favoured decorators were exchanged between Hanoverian family members. Tommaso Giusti, for instance, was active in Berlin around 1700 at the court of George's sister Sophia Charlotte, sec Tardito-Amerio (1968): 171-4. 44. Schnath (1962): 69-75. The Venetian theatre and opera decorations (which reflected the architectural culture of the city) were likely to have had a major impact on the Hanoverian commissions; see Bassi (1962): 378—9. 45. Wallbrecht (1974): 180, 184; and Lampe (1963): 112-16. 46. Schnath (1938-82): III, 512. 47. Beard (1970). 48. von Alvensleben (1929): 115-22; and Alvensleben and Reuther (1966): 25-6. 49. For details, see Hennebo and Hoffinann (1965): 162-6. 50. Regarding the grotto, see Verspohl (1991): 150. Alvensleben and Keuther (1966): 56, speculated that Thomas Conrad Nicolasson, an obscure sculptor employed in Herrenhausen c. 1677, might have been involved in the production of the bronzes. Considering the logistical problems involved in setting up the production of bronze statuary, and the popularity of small bronzes among the aristocratic visitors to Italy, however, it is more likely that the sculptures were Italian imports; see Haskell and Penny (1981): 79-94. 51. Alvensleben and Reuther (1966): 54-5. 52. No consistent iconographic programme can be proposed for the garden sculptures, but the

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usual role of the sculpture was to provide an additional comment on the spiritual and physical qualities of the owner of the house; see Gerkens (1974): 134, 155—6. 53. As the influential French and Dutch gardens were usually decorated with modern sculpture, this Hanoverian taste for classically inspired statues is noteworthy; see Haskell and Penny (1981): 80. 54. See Troescher (1954): 174, for information on Empthusen and Rossfeld; see ThiemeBecker (1928): XXII, 218, on Laghi, and Thieme-Becker (1940): XXXIV, 328, on Vicken. 55. Alvensleben and Reuther (1966): 56, 60. 56. The figures might have been modelled hy Rossfeld; see Troescher (1954): 174. 57. Weaver (1906): 104-6. 58. See, for instance, the contribution of the court artists to the design and construction of the Catholic church of St Clemens in Hanover (1713-18): Reuther (1971): 203-5. Among artists who decided to stay in Hanover permanently, many had family ties with the city's patriciate and to the municipal corporations; see Zimmermann (1995). 59. Lampe (1963): 103-5, 108-9. 60. See, for instance, the itinerant career of the stucco sculptor Giacomo Perinetti, in TarditoAmerio (1968): 171-4; and Zimmermann (1995): 150. 61. Alvensleben and Reuther (1966): 54. 62. On Querini's position as the arbiter of taste in Hanover, see Schuster (1904): 225—7; and Wolf (1980): 11. 63. Klopp (1973): 200-1. 64. British Library, Add. Ms. 7072; fol. 76 (letter from Sir Edmund Poley to Stepney, dated Hanover, 1 January 1705). 65. Arciszewska (1994): 166-70. 66. The distinctive concentration of articulating elements in the centre of the facade, reflecting the presence on the ground floor of a hall spanning the depth of the house, also echoes the Venetian vernacular tradition, see Howard (1987): 85f; and Goy (1989): 41-4. 67. Alvensleben and Reuther (1966): 54. 68. Alvensleben and Reuther (1966): 53. 69. See Noldeke (1932): 37-45. 70. Hubner (1991): 149. 71. Hubner (1991): 149-50. 72. The combination of painted architecture and narrative scenes might have been inspired, for instance, by the frescoed decoration of the stanza delle cariatidi or stanza del ratio di Proserpina in the Villa Contarini, see Pallucchini (1978): II, 214-15. 73. The suitability of lead for garden sculpture is discussed by Weaver (1905): 385-6. 74. Regarding gilding of outdoor sculpture see Jackson-Stops (1987): 92-3. In Herrenhausen, one Jens Petersen was in charge of painting the sandstone statues white and of gilding lead and bronze pieces; see Alvensleben and Reuther (1966): 56. 75. The vases executed by Vicken are very close to those in the Villa Quirini in Vicenza; see Alvensleben and Reuther (1966): 165. 76. Meyer (1934): 124-8. 77. Molmenri (1908): III, 156. 78. Meyer (1934): 140. 79. Ackerman (1966): 180. For Sophia's remarks on the Vicentine amphitheatre (the 'Berga' theatre?) see Kroll (1973): 102-3. 80. 'made after [the manner of] the ancients', quoted after Meyer (1934): 137. 81. Haskell and Penny (1981): 220.

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82. Reuther (1965): 79-82. 83. The life-size sandstone figures of George Louis and his ancestors: Duke George of Calenberg, Ernest August, and Sophia were executed c. 1688-90, probably by Rossfeld; see Noldeke (1932): 58-9. 84. Laghi's works show affinity to those of a Vicentine sculptor, Lorenzo Matielli, who from 1716 was active in Vienna, see Alvensleben and Reuther (1966): 165. 85. For a discussion of taste as a mechanism of constructing social distinction, see Bourdieu (1979). Regarding the role of the arts in the redefinition of dynastic identities within the German empire c.1700, see Kutscher (1995): 77-83. 86. On shifting concepts of national and class identity and their relationship to the Hanoverian succession see Kidd (1998): 334; and Klein (1995). 87. See Pears (1988): 137. 88. See Ayres (1997): 113-14. 89. See Harris (1990): 56. 90. Lubbock (1995): 213. 91. Pears (1988): 134. 92. For details of the commission see Golvin (1976): 230—3. 93. Regarding the trend-setting importance of the Kensington interiors see Sicca (1985): 310; and Sicca (1986): 142f. 94. Webb (1954): 43. 95. Baker (1982): 35-41; and Ayres, (1997): 72. 96. Inigo Jones used in his interiors some antique details taken from Palladio's treatise; see Worsley (1995): 202. Leoni's edition, however, turned the abstract sketchiness of Palladio's decorative vocabulary into concrete designs, and made them available to a wide audience. 97. Plate XXXVIII in Leoni's edition, for instance, alters Palladio's woodcut of the Corinthian Hall by changing the summarily represented decorative panels (whose medium is undetermined in the original) into antique-looking reliefs, framed by a classicizing egg-and-dart band. 98. Whmney (1988): 163. 99. Regarding the reception of sculpture in eighteenth-century England, see Bmdman and Baker (1995): 256-70. 100. Leoni (1715): I, fol. 5v. 101. Regarding George's ill-fated marriage see Schnath (1968): 174f. 102. On the intersections between the authority of the state and that of the patriarchal family within the English context, see Goldberg (1986). 103. The most spectacular of these was the figure of George I perched on the tower of St George's church in Bloomsbury. The statue was paid for by William Hucks, a parishioner and MP for Abingdon, who was also a brewer to the royal household; see Meller (1975): 5. 104. See, for instance, Legouix (1975). 105. Letter from Dublin to John, Lord Percival, 1st Earl of Egmont, of 22 July 1722; see British Library, Add. MSS 47029, fol. 27. 106. British Library, Add. MSS 47029, fol. 27. 107. Jackson-Stops (1987): 93-4. 108. Regarding the competition for George I's bust for the Royal Exchange, see Steward (1978): 216-19. 109. Speck (1982): 47-8. 110. See Gunms (1953): 121. 111. Avery (1980): 156; and Gunnis (1953): 126. For Rysbrack's statue of George I in armour (c.1739) at Cambridge, see Webb (1954): 161-2.

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112. On the bust of George I in the library of Christ Church, Oxford, see Hiscock (1946): 83. Another bust, displayed at the Royal Exchange until the fire in 1838, was a work of Edward Stanton (1681-1734); see Steward (1978): 216-17. 113. Avcry (1979): 128-9, 137. 114. Gunnis (1953): 121. 115. See Physick (1969): 24-5. 116. The equestrian statues were probably modelled by Andrew Carpenter (Andries Carpentiere, c.1677-1737); see O' Connell (1987): 803-5, for details. 117. The royal triumphal arch was, remarkably, the second commission received by Leoni in England; see Hudson (1975): 831. 118. Leoni (1726): III, Appendix, fol. 1. The arch was dedicated 'to the Immortal Memory of George I'; sec Brown (1985): 205.

CHAPTER 2

CAMILLO RUSCONI IN ENGLISH COLLECTIONS FRANK MARTIN

When Camillo Rusconi, nearly 30 at the time, came to Rome from Milan at the beginning of the 1680s,1 little did he know how difficult it was going to be to promote himself as a sculptor. He began what was to be a short apprenticeship with Ferrata,- but by the time of the latter's death in 1686, he had not yet developed an artistic profile of his own or even begun to be noticed by Roman patrons. Furthermore, since nearly all important sculpture commissions of the period were carried out by French artists,' any Italian sculptor working in Rome found it that much more difficult to make any impact on the market. Nevertheless Rusconi became self-employed and opened his own workshop, struggling to achieve success for another twenty years. The breakthrough came finally with the realization of colossal statues of the apostles for the nave of St Giovanni in Laterano at the beginning of the eighteenth century. In 1708 he had just about begun the figure of St Andrew which gained such acclaim as to earn him the commission for the statues of St Matthew, St John the Evangelist, and St James the Great.4 As soon as he had finished the last, he began work on a set of new and prestigious commissions: the monument for Pope Gregory XIII in St Peter's,5 and that for Giulia Albani, aunt of the reigning Pope Clement XI.6 Then came the colossal statue of St Ignatius of Loyola for the nave of St Peter's,7 the monument for the Polish Crown Prince Alessandro Sobieski in St Maria della Concezione," a monumental relief commissioned by the Spanish king for Madrid,9 a relief for one of the pendentives in the dome of St Luca and Martina1" - the chain of illustrious orders now seemed endless. And we can presume that this success would have carried on had Rusconi not died from a stroke in December 1728: it came suddenly, but not unexpectedly, considering Rusconi's advanced age. Those rich last twenty years of his career are a huge contrast to the poor and

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deprived beginnings, when Camillo had to content himself with portrait busts, small monuments for patrons (not always from the highest ranks of society), altars for churches outside Rome, and small scale models or stucco decorations.11 At first sight these years present a less attractive artist, an oeuvre of less interest and range, but it is primarily these 'meagre' years, when Rusconi was starting to establish himself as an independent sculptor, that provide a rare insight into some of the constraints imposed on sculptors by the Roman market. We get an idea of who Rusconi's patrons were, in which circles he moved, as well as of the number and variety of orders, and consequently of their value. This is an art market lost with the great and prestigious commissions of his later years. What we know about Rusconi's first years in Rome is mainly due to the three lives written only a few years after his death.12 Lione Pascoli, Filippo della Valle and Francesco Saverio Baldinucci all agree that the painter Carlo Maratti was a key figure for Rusconi's career in Rome. Maratti seems to have recommended him to the Marchese Niccolo Maria Pallavicini, who was one of the most important connoisseurs of contemporary art in late seventeenth- and early eighteenth-century Rome.13 For instance, it may well have been through Pallavicini that Rusconi met the renowned silversmith Giovanni Giardini, who worked extensively for the Marchese and in whose estate, in fact, was to be found one of Rusconi's models.14 It could also have been in the environment of the Palazzo Pallavicini that the friendship between Rusconi and Paolo Gerolamo Piola developed.15 Furthermore, it was through the recommendation of Carlo Maratti that Rusconi may have been introduced to Padre Sebastiano Resta,16 another Milanese like Rusconi. Not only did Resta commission models for the stucco decoration of the Chiesa Nuova, but also bought one of Rusconi's silver bas-reliefs.17 It seems clear, therefore, that from the very inception of his Roman career Rusconi found himself attracted to that circle of artists surrounding Carlo Maratti distinguished by their pursuit of classicism. This allegiance and his frequentation of this circle probably brought him to the attention of clients whose strong preference for anything in the classical style had directed them towards Maratti's studio. Such were the English Milords who in increasing numbers were in Rome at the beginning of the eighteenth century on their Italian Grand Tour. What is important to note here is that the buying power of these English aristocrats very quickly influenced the very Italian market that the Maratti studio exploited, and which responded by producing the very kind of works now sought: smaller, transportable works, collectors' pieces and Grand Tour 'souvenirs', often copies and reproductions of classical or famous works.

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The impact of the English taste went beyond the artists and their productions, and extended to Italian collectors who in turn acquired a taste for what the foreigners were commissioning. Lione Pascoli provides useful evidence in this context when in his life of Camillo Rusconi he mentions an 'Ercole de' Farnesi . . . tratto . . . per un Inglese, che veduto dal . . . marchese Pallavicini, ne voile egli pure per se altro simile; e voile ancora un Apollo, che trasse Camillo dal famoso di Belvedere'.18 This note is not only of interest because of its mention of an English collector, but also because it reveals that Pallavicini would never have had the idea to commission a copy of a famous classical work of art had he not seen those Rusconi made for his English client. But once he had acquired the taste, he ordered another classical copy straight away, this time the Apollo Belvedere. Although Pascoli's reference to the English buyer is significant, unfortunately it is not detailed enough to reveal which were the copies made by Camillo Rusconi out of the large number of surviving reproductions of the Famese Hercules or the Apollo Belvedere. Pascoli does not even tell us the format of these copies, nor the material of which they were made. A vague impression of what Rusconi's copies after the antique might have looked like is provided by the collection gathered by Filippo Farsetti, and presently dispersed between the Hermitage in St Petersburg and the Ca' d'Oro in Venice.19 This is documented by an inventory compiled in 1788, in which the sculptures are listed often with the name of their author.20 It is reasonable to assume that the Farnese Hercules and the Apollo Belvedere now in the Ca'd'Oro should be those attributed to Rusconi in the Farsetti inventory,21 but there is no evidence to confirm that they were the ones mentioned by Pascoli. A recently discovered life of Rusconi dating from 1720 confirms the attribution of the Venetian terracottas, insofar as it describes the Farnese Hercules as a small-format figure ('in piccolo') and the Apollo Belvedere as a terracotta ('fu creta, con cui formo il piccolo modello').22 However, it still remains unclear whether the two Venetian terracottas are in fact those same figures that Rusconi made for his English patron, and then replicated for the Marchese Pallavicini. John Breval's account of a European tour in 1723, published in 1738 and heretofore apparently unnoticed, helps clarify the matter.23 Breval, recounting a visit to Rusconi's workshop,?A not only confirms the artist's popularity among English travellers to Rome but also provides crucial information on the English commission mentioned by Pascoli. Following a euphoric appraisal of the sculptor's qualities, Breval describes the workshop: 'Among the rest of his admirable Works I was made to observe a small Copy he had taken in Carrara

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Marble, of the famous Farnesian Hercules, for an English Nobleman'.25 This removes any doubt that Rusconi's commissioned work was a marble statuette. The interest it had aroused in the Marchese Pallavicini, who was otherwise known to be cool about sculpture,26 may well have been connected to the material it was made of and to its character as a collector's piece. The Venetian terracottas therefore may merely have been models for the marble statuettes in question. If John Breval saw the Farnese Hercules in Rusconi's workshop as late as the 1720s,27 it was due to the fact that the Englishman never came to collect the figure he had commissioned, as recounted by Pascoli in his life of Rusconi. [Condusse] un Ercole tratto del celebre de' Farnesi per un Inglese che veduto dal marchese Pallavicini, ne voile egli pure per se altro simile; e voile ancora un Apollo, che trasse Camillo dal fanioso di Belvedere, i quali dopo sua niorte furon co' nominati quattro putti a caro prezzo venduti, e trasportati in Inghilterra. Quello pero dell'Inglese resto lungo tempo in man di Camillo; perche 1'Inglese non ritorno piu in Roma, ed avendo guadagnata la caparra Camillo, il vende a un Genovese, che lo mando parimente in Inghilterra.2"

It would be interesting to know whether the copy of the Farnese Hercules was singled out amongst those in Rusconi's workshop because Breval wanted other Englishmen to know that Rusconi worked for English patrons, or simply because it caught his eye. Or was it Rusconi himself— familiar with Milords' aesthetic preferences — that drew Breval's attention to the figure? Whatever the reason may be, it is likely that Rusconi was hoping to find a buyer for a statue that had been standing in his workshop for years. It looks as if there was little or no market for such figures among Roman collectors, whereas they proved popular 'souvenirs' in England.29 This must have been known to those who offered the two copies left in Pallavicini's estate on the London market (together with the Four Seasons discussed below). The Genoese person who finally bought the Farnese Hercules was also privy to this knowledge, because he quickly put it on the market in England. It thus seems most likely that Rusconi's works were placed on the English market by art dealers who may have also had a hand in bringing into the country a Bust of the Madonna now at Houghton Hall in Norfolk (Plate 4). Hugh Honour first mentioned it in his ground-breaking article on English collectors of Italian sculpture in the first half of the eighteenth century,30 referring to a passage in Horace Walpole's Aedes Walpolianae (published in 1747), where the description of the Yellow Drawing Room reads 'Over the Chimney is a genteel Bust of a Madonna in marble, by Camillo Rusconi'.31

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Plate 4 Camillo Ruscorii, Bust of the Madonna, Houghton Hall, Norfolk (photo: author).

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No surviving document, including Aedes Walpolianae, helps us establish when or under what circumstance the bust reached Houghton Hall.32 Walpole's country seat33 was begun in the early years of the 1720s, yet its building history does not help in dating the bust since it could have been bought well before work started on the house. The fact that it does not appear in William Kent's drawings for the interior of Houghton Hall in 1725 does not account for much either.34 It is more important, however, that the bust is recognizable in Isaac Ware and Thomas Ripley's35 series of engravings from 1735. Despite its sketchiness the bust appears in exactly the place where Horace Walpole was to describe it a few years later: on the mantelpiece of the Yellow Drawing Room (Plate 5).36 The year 1735 is thus an ante quern date, and as far as how the purchase of the bust came about we can but speculate.37 Since Robert Walpole, the builder of Houghton Hall, never travelled to Italy he cannot have been Rusconi's patron in Rome. His son Horace, a connoisseur in his own right, must also be ruled out because his first trip to Italy (1739) took place when the bust was already in Houghton Hall. The eldest son, Robert (named after his father), could be a possible candidate since he was in Rome in 1723 and seems to have bought a few items for Houghton Hall.38 Thus in theory he could have ordered a bust of the Madonna, although we have to question the reasons for the acquisition of such an object by an English nobleman. The subject-matter of the bust appears inappropriate for an Anglican household, all the more so being placed on a mantelpiece in a public room. The decorative function the bust performed at Houghton Hall seems rather to indicate that, like several other works in Walpole's collection,39 it was bought to furnish the house; its attractiveness stemmed from the possibility of putting it on one of the many mantelpieces or niches designed by the architect, so as to enhance the 'pantheon' that Walpole staged at Houghton Hall. One even wonders whether Rusconi had made the bust without a proper commission, sure40 of being able to find a clergyman who would want it for his private chapel or shrine. This hypothesis is also confirmed by stylistic evidence: it looks as though the bust was made during the fallow years of the seventeenth century, when commissions were few. If we rule out the possibility that the bust remained in Rusconi's workshop for some two decades, then we must assume that for some reason it became available on the market in the 1720s when it was bought for Houghton Hall.41 Function, however, may not have been the only guiding principle in the acquisition of this bust; one wonders to what extent Rusconi's authorship might have determined the acquisition. John Breval's enthusiastic description of Rusconi's workshop in the 1720s gains new

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Plate 5 Fireplace in the Yellow Drawing Room of Houghton Hall (from Ware and Ripley (1735): plate 35. By permission of the British Library, shelfimrks 649B9 and 6014). significance in this context, as well as consideration of the extremely high sum the Four Seasons fetched around the same time (as will be discussed in greater detail). Rusconi's popularity in England increased with the century: around the 1750s his name had become synonymous with Roman sculpture as such; a

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measure of this success is offered by sale catalogues of the time recording endless attributions to him which, however, cannot always be sustained.42 A relief at Rousham House, Oxfordshire, may fall within this category.41 The estate was transformed and enlarged under General James Dormer, and after his death it was inherited by Sir Clement Cottrell, who drew up an inventory in 1743. The passage on the library reads 'In the Chimney piece Leda a Bas Relief of Camillo Rusconi'.44 This relief remained in its original place even after the library was converted by William Kent into the Great Parlour in 1746. There are a number of problems with the attribution of this work to Rusconi. Format and composition give the impression that the relief was specially made to fit this mantelpiece, but it has yet to be explained how Rusconi, who died in 1728, could have managed this, since the design for the fireplace seems to have been made by William Kent in the years between 1738 and 1741.^ Additional stylistic doubts are raised by both Leda, who is too matronly to be a work by Rusconi, and by the tree on the left side of the relief, which is much too small in relation to her. Both features are much more in accord with the works of Carlo Monaldi.4'1 Among the physiognomic characteristics of his oeuvre are a prominent, nearly round chin, and a mouth with full and curved lips as are to be found on Leda's face on the relief at Rousham.47 Should the Leda relief really be the work of Carlo Monaldi, the chronological doubts would be irrelevant: Monaldi, who was a generation younger than Rusconi and died as late as 1760, could have easily produced the relief in the 1730s. He too used to work for English clients, amongst them Matthew Brettingham4* who lived in Rome from 1748 to 1754 acting as agent for English collectors, on whose behalf he commissioned and bought works of art. Matthew Brettingham is responsible for another attribution to Rusconi •which is nearly as problematic. It dates from 1761, when he wrote in connection with an antique statue of Diana (Plate 6) at Holkham Hall: 'The Cavalier Camillo Rusconi, an eminent Sculptor of great Merit, whose Fame is well known in Italy, added the Head and some of the Fingers, which are the only parts of it that are Modern'.49 The reconstruction of the purchase casts doubts on Brettingham's attribution of these additions to Rusconi, because the figure seems to have been altered at the time of its acquisition. Thomas Coke, the builder of Holkham Hall, went on an extensive Grand Tour, which took him to Rome from February until June 1714, then again from June to September in 1716, and finally in April 1717.'" Coke showed a rare combination of wealth and philosophical and historical interests, as well as an instinct for quality. This combination made Holkham Hall the home of one of the

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Plate 6 Diana, Holkham Hall (photo: Archive for the Research of Antique Sculptures).

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most important private collections in England51 with its outstanding collections of paintings, sculptures, drawings and manuscripts. On his travels, Coke drew on the experience of William Kent (who had already been living in Italy for some years and supplemented his income by acting as an advisor to Grand Tourists).52 Kent travelled around Italy with Coke and negotiated some of his purchases. In the spring of 1717, Thomas Coke had tried to smuggle the newly acquired figure out of Italy, because he had reason to believe that permission to export it would not be granted. But the deal was uncovered and the intervention of the Grand Duke of Tuscany was necessary to prevent Coke from being arrested and imprisoned. Kent's involvement in this affair is confirmed in a letter to Burrel Massingberd dated 15 June 1717, in which he writes that he was at one point worried about being expelled from Rome.53 In principle, we have to agree with Brettingham's assessment of the head of the figure as too modern: this is evident when comparing the Holkham Diana with de Rossi's description in his Raccolta di statue antiche of 1704, when the figure had a clearly visible knot at the back of its neck (Plate?).54 In Coke's neatly kept account-book, contrary to Brettingham's statement, this addition is not attributed to Camillo Rusconi, but to a certain Luca Corsi, who was paid for a new Diana head not in Rome but in Florence.55 Rusconi's involvement in the restoration of the Diana is not supported by further evidence, and it should also be remembered that there is only scant documentation of him doing other restorations.56 It appears even more unlikely when considering that at the time he was busy with the statue of St James the Greater for the basilica of St Giovanni in Laterano, and had two commissions awaiting his attention: the monuments of Gregory XIII for St Peter's, and that of Giulia Albani for Pesaro. The history of the Diana statue and William Kent's involvement in this affair lead us to consider the role he may have played in the acquisition of Rusconi's Four Seasons, already mentioned above. All biographers placed the Four Seasons at the beginning of Rusconi's friendship with Carlo Maratti, who had drawn Pallavicini's attention to them. After the Marchese's death in 1714, the four statues had remained in the palace where Edward Wright saw and described them when he was accompanying Lord George Parker on his journey to Italy in 1721.57 Before 1730, however, the Four Seasons must have been sold to England, together with the small-format marble copies of the Farnese Hercules and the Apollo Belvedere. In fact Pascoli's Lives of the Artists, published in that year, show that he already knew of the figures' new location on the other side of the Channel.5" Filippo della Valle appeared to be even better informed than Pascoli, remembering the price ('quattromila scudi') and the intended location

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Plate 7 Diana (from De Rossi and Maffei, 1704: Table cxlv) (photo: author).

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('regio gabinetto')59 of the Pour Seasons when writing his life of Rusconi in 1732. The best account - as is nearly always the case with Rusconi's work in the Pallavicini collection - comes from the Florentine Francesco Saverio Baldinucci, who not only mentions the name of the English monarch, but adds that the sale had been arranged by dealers: Queste quattro bellissime opere, per la morte del detto Pallavicino esserido state vendute ad alcuni inglesi chi a Londra le portarono, furon vedute dal Re Giorgio, il quale non voile che escissero delle tnani sue; e comperate per quattromila scudi, le ripose nclla sua Regia Galleria, dove sono custodite e da ogni dilettante sommamente ammirate/'"

Despite Baldinucci's statement there is no evidence of the Four Seasons'?, presence in the English royal collection throughout the eighteenth century. Their first appearance is in William Henry Pyne's view of the King's Gallery as seen from Kensington Palace (1816), where the figures appear on the window side (Plate 8)/'1 Shortly afterwards, in 1820, they were mentioned for the first time in Faulkner's guide to Kensington. This however does not exclude their earlier presence in the palace, since older descriptions usually did not mention sculptures.62 As with the bust of the Madonna at Houghton Hall, surviving documents cast no light on the date of the introduction of these statues in the King's Gallery. The change in ownership of the Four Seasons must therefore be reconstructed on the basis of individual clues.63 It is important in this context that the King's Gallery does not seem to have been altered much during the eighteenth century; it is thus possible that the four figures were placed there at a much earlier date. This assumption confirms Francesco Saverio Baldinucci's hint that the figures had been bought for the 'Regia Galleria di Re Giorgio' - and indeed the King's Gallery had been based on plans by William Kent under George I and had been designed as a picture gallery in 1725-27. On this occasion George I,64 who was not a connoisseur in his own right, bought a number of paintings not so much inspired by love for the visual arts but rather by the need to conform to the requirement that his new royal residence could compare with those of his courtiers, not to mention other European royal palaces. Thus, the choice of acquired paintings does not show much passion or enthusiasm, since pictures by Rubens and Guido Renito could not have demonstrated more clearly that the prime purpose was to show works of renowned artists. It is also interesting that these pictures were bought for the Great Drawing Room just at the time when William Kent was overseeing the decoration of the room as well as the acquisition of paintings and furniture to

Plate WilliamilliamKing'senryneyne,yTheoKing'sbGalleryar(from6Pyn

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suit the renovation of Kensington Palace. The King's Gallery could fit within this scheme of refurbishment: Rusconi's Four Seasons might have been purchased for the Royal Collection, because sculptures were needed for the decoration of the Gallery. Like the paintings mentioned above the four figures could simply have been among the works of art offered to George I by dealers. Even if the monarch himself had not been seduced by the charm and quality of the figures, William Kent certainly appreciated the fact that a series by one of the most important sculptors of his age and from one of the most important private collections in Rome was a chance not to be missed. The 4000 scudi that were paid for the figures testify not only to the high value attached to the works but also to Rusconi's fame. If this hypothesis is correct and the Four Seasons really were sold to the English court in the mid 1720s, Camillo Rusconi might have heard about it himself and would have made it known to his biographers. He might have been reminded with amusement of his meagre years in Rome, of the importance the Four Seasons had had in the development of his career during those fallow years. Furthermore, the sum of 4000 scudi exceeded the 3500 scudi, which he was supposed to receive from the Spanish King for the colossal relief (over 4m high and more than 2m wide) he was then working on.66 His career had come full circle, his success had spread well beyond Rome, and in England he had become almost a living legend.

Acknowledgement I have been helped in the writing of this chapter by a three-month bursary at the Warburg Institute in London; I wish to acknowledge in particular my gratitude for its unique library facilities.

Notes 1. On Rusconi's arrival in Rome, see Bacchi (1995). The latest publications on Camillo Rusconi are Enggass (1976): 89-106; Androssov and Enggass (1994); Martin (1996, 1998). 2. A catalogue of Ercole Ferrata's works has long been overdue. Andrea Bacchi's catalogue gives at least an approximate idea of the sculptor's oeuvre (see Bacchi (1995): 802—5). 3. See also Johns (1989). 4. See also Breeder (1967); Conforti (1977); Enggass (1976): 99ff. 5. See also Martin (1996, 1998). 6. See also Montagu (1975). 7. See also Engass (1976): 208; Noe (1996): 349-60. 8. See also Engass (1976): 103-4.

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9. Although this relief was commissioned by the Spanish king and is one of Rusconi's main works, hardly any research has been done on it. It is mentioned in Schlegel (1969), esp. 31; see also Engass (1976): 91-2. 10. See also Nochles (1969): 115, 184, 361, doc. no. 150. 11. Concerning Rusconi's oeuvre, see Enggass (1976): 89—106. 1 would also like to mention my article on a previously unknown life of Camillo Rusconi to be published in volume 32 of the Romisches Jahrbuch (autumn 2000, in preparation). For the other lives of Rusconi, see also note 12. 12. See also Pascoli (1730): 359-70; Delia Valle (1732): 310-23; Baldinucci (r.1735); cf. also Martin (see note 11). 13. For Niccolo Maria Pallavicini see Rudolph (1995); for the works commissioned to Rusconi by Pallavicini see the summary in Martin (note 11). 14. See also Martin (note 11). 15. See also Ratti (1769): 185-7 (Vita di Paolo Girolamo Piola); the letters Rusconi wrote to Piola can be found in Bottari and Ticozzi (1754-73): vol. 6, 178-83. 16. A drawing by Maratti in the Devonshire Collection at Chatsworth (no. 584) is regularly used as evidence of this friendship, as it shows Sebastiano Resta; see Warwick (1997), esp. 630. 17. 'un baso nhevo che esprime una Beata vergine, che dolcemcnte accarezza il suo Diino Pergoletto, ai di cui piedi in atto di adorazione fassi vedere un S. Giovannino'; tf. Martin (see note 11). 18. Cf. Pascoli (see note 12), 361. Pascoli states that Rusconi carried out the Englishman's commission while working on the tomb for Gregory XIII. This cannot be correct since work on the monument was not started until 1715, whilst Pallavicini, whose copies w~ere made even after those for the English patron, had already died in 1714. 19. For the Farsetti collection, sec the introductory essays by Sergei Androssov (La collezione Farsetti) and by Giovanna Nepi Scire, Le tdiquie estreme dd Museo Farsetti, in Androssov (1991): 15—21, 23—9, as well as Kalveram (1997), and Nepi Scire (1998). 20. There is a facsimile of the inventory in Androssov (1991): 141—53; see also the transcription in Nepi Scire (1998): 84ff 21. For the Farnese Hercules (Venice, Galleria Giorgio Franchetti alia Ca' d'Oro, inv. no. 94) and for the Apollo Belvedere (Venice, Galleria Giorgio Franchetti alia Ca' d'Oro, inv. no. 93), see Androssov (1991), cat. nos. 66, 67. 22. Cf. Martin (see note 11). The life confirms the attribution not only for the two figures, but also for the Venetian terracotta statuette after the Belvedere torso, which was also connected with Rusconi in the Farsetti inventory. 23. Cf. Brcval (1738); for John Breval himself see IngameUs (1997): 123-4. 24. '1 cannot leave Rome without taking some Notice of so eminent a Man in his Way, as the late excellent Sculptor Camillo Rusconi. I saw him at his Chisel, with several young Eleves about him, who express'd a generous Emulation'; cf. Breval (1738): 125. 25. Ibid. 26. This information throws new light on Camillo Rusconi's small marble copy of an antique faun; see also Martin (1996): 126-31. 27. The figure must have been standing in Rusconi's workshop for at least ten years, since Niccolo Maria Pallavicini (who died in 1714) was still alive when Rusconi made the copy of the Apollo Belvedere (cf. also note 18). 28. Cf. Pascoli (1730): 361. 29. In this context, see also the example of Pompeo Batoni's portrait of Charles John Crowles in the Louvre. In the background, we can make out a small format copy of the Farnese Hercules (pictured in Moreno (1995), cat. no. 7.7). 30. Cf. Honour (1958), esp. 223-4.

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31. Cf. Walpole (1747): 51; see also Moore (1996a), cat. no. 19. 32. For Houghton Hall, see Moore (1996a) and John Cornforth,'The Creadon of Houghton: Works of Art from the Collections of the Cholmondeley Family and the Late Sir Pliilip Sassoon', Christie's sale catalogue, London (8 Dec. 1994), iv-xxvi. 33. For the building history of Houghton Hall see Sindermann Mittmann (1982) and also Harris (1996), who obviously did not know about the study by Sindermann Mittmann. 34. See, for example, Moore (1996a), cat. nos. 32, 38-40, 47, 58. 35. Cf. Ware and Ripley (1735): pi. 30. Horace Walpole's handwritten inventory from 1736, 'A catalogue of the Right Hon.ble Sir Robert Walpole's collection of pictures, 1736', today in the Pierpont Morgan Library in New York (PML 7586), only lists paintings. I am grateful to Christine Nelson from the Pierpont Morgan Library for sending a photocopy of the page in question. For this inventory, see also Moore (1996a), cat. no. 17. 36. In the inventory compiled in 1745 on the occasion of the death of Sir Robert Walpole, there is only a comment on 'One Busto over the Chimney'; for this inventory see also Moore (1966a), cat. no. 21. More detailed is the 'Inventory of the Elegant Household [. . .] taken at Houghton Hall in Norfolk June 17th 1792 and following days' ( 'over the Chimney A small Head of a Madonna'). The attribution to Rysbrack made in the document is crossed out in another hand and corrected to 'by Camillo Ruscom'. 37. Cf. Moore (1996a): 48-55, and Bottoms (1997). 38. For Robert Wapole the younger see Moore (1996a): 107, cat. no 27, and Ingamclls (1997): 976-7. 39. See note 38. 40. Perhaps Rusconi behaved in a similar fashion to the youthful Carlo Maratti, of whom Pascoli writes: '. . . e siccome era divotissimo dclla beata Vergine. dipigneva bene spesso sue immagini, e subito fatte le vcndeva'; cf. Pascoli (1730): 204. 41. In Aedes Walpolianae Horace Walpole names various art dealers who sold items to his father. In this context see also Moore (1996a). 42. London auction catalogues from the second half of the eighteenth century carry regular attributions to Rusconi. A large number of these were probably prompted by the business sense of the dealers. The claim contained in a note by Jonathan PUchardson from 1722 cannot be verified. In it, he stated his father was the owner of a small terracotta copy by Camillo Rusconi of Bernini's fountain of the four rivers ('My Father had a Model of the Fountain by Camillo Rusconi'), cf. Richardson (1722): 107. According to Horace Walpole, there were four other busts by Rusconi at Houghton Hall besides the Madonna (Roma, Minerva, Antinous, Apollo Belvedere; cf. also Aedes Walpolianae, see note 32). The busts were replaced at an unknown date by nineteenth-century copies after the antique. At Narford Hall there is a fireplace relief in the parlour, which depicts Roman Charity and is attributed to Camillo Rusconi in an inventory from 1820 (cf. Moore (1985): 31). So far I have been unable to gain access to Narford Hall and verify the attribution. 43. For Rousham House in general, see Holmes (1986): 219, and also Hussey (1946) andjourdain (1948): 54-5. 44. 'List of the General's Bronzes, Statues, Bas Reliefs etc, left by Him at Rousham and entered now by me in this book, July ye 20lh 1743'; cf. Webb (1956). 45. Concerning Kent's changes to Rousham House, see Hussey (1946), passim, and also Jourdain (1948): 54-5. 46. For Carlo Monaldi in general, see Enggass (1976): 183-8, and also Enggass (1981), Kieven (1985, 1989). 47. In this context see for example the relief (made in 1728) showing the Rest during the Flight into Egypt in the Pantheon; cf. also Bonaccorso and Manfredi (1998): 41.

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48. For Matthew Brettingham's Roman stay, see Kenworthy-Browne (1983): esp. 86, 96. The precise summary in Ingamells (1997): 121-2 is also very informative. 49. Cf. Brettingham (1761): 4. The Diana figure stands in the Sculpture Gallery of Holkham Hall; for the statue itself cf. Michaelis (1882): 308-9, no. 24; Verrneule and von Hothmer (1959): esp. 15; Oehler (1980): cat no. 57. 50. For Thomas Coke see Moore (1985): 33-40; Ingamells (1997): 225-6. 51. For Holkham Hall in general, see Holmes (1986): 136; the architecture was last discussed by Schmidt (1980a, 1980b); for the interior of Holkham Hall and the collection see Moore (1985), cat. nos. 45-58; Cornforth (1991). 52. For William Kent in general see Jourdarn (1948); Wilson (1984); and Sicca (1996b). There is a small amount on Kent's occupation as art dealer during liis time in Rome in the first two chapters of Wilson. 53. 'I told you in my last of an imbroglio I have had about a fine Antique Statue Mr. Coke bought got it safe away to Leghorn when it was descover'd here they sent a corrier and had it sequestered and would have confind Mr. Coke and I was to have been sent away from Rome, but at last all was ajusted and he has got the statue.'; cf. Lincolnshire, County Archives, MSS 2MM. B21. There are copies of Kent's letters to Burrel Massingberd in the Brinsley Ford archive of the Paul Mellon Centre for Studies in British Art in London. The ongoings surrounding the illegal export were also known to Brettingham, who recounts them as follows: '. . . purchased and sent out of Rome by the Earl of Leicester; for which offence His Lordship [known at that time by the name of the Cavalier Coke] was put under arrest, but released soon after at the instance of the Grand Duke of Tuscany', quoted from Michaelis (1882): 309. 54. Cf. de Rossi and Maffei (1704), pi. CXLV. 55. See note 54. 56. As for Rusconi as a restorer, we only know of two fauns in the Villa Albani that might have been completed by him (cf. Martin, see note 26). Kusconi was nevertheless consulted as an expert for the sale of Queen Christina of Sweden's antique collection to Philip V of Spain. It was his job to estimate the value of die collection; see Leon (1993), esp. 16-22. 57. For George Parker, see Ingamells (1997): 737-8. 58. See note 29. 59. 'Questi poi furono dopo la morte del detto marchese trasportati in Lnghilterra, e sono adesso ncl rcgio gabmetto mediante il prezzo di scudi quattro mila'; cf. Delia Valle (1732): 315. 60. C/Baldmucci (c.1735): 91. 61. Cf. Pyne (1819); I am grateful to Hugh Roberts, who brought Pync's view to my attention. The older descriptions and guides to Kensington Palace do not include any reference to the Four Seasons because sculptures were generally not considered. Cf. also among others Bickham (1755): vol. 1, 25-32, and 51-3; Martyn (1766): vol. 1: 149-50. The tables with Japanese lacquer cabinets, made by Thomas and Rene Pelletier around 1704, are probably those visible between the Four Seasons. For this, sec Murdoch (1998), esp. 363 and 111. 7. 62. '. . . between the windows arc placed, on alabaster pedestals, four cupids with attributions of the Seasons'; cf. Faulkner (1820): 383. It is stated in a hand-written inventory from around 1828 that the Four Seasons were taken to Windsor Castle (as kindly pointed out by Hugh Roberts), where they still are today. In Law's Kensington guide (Law 1899) they are accordingly not mentioned. Anne-Lise Elkan did not know of the new location of the figures in her dissertation in 1924 (Elkan (1924), esp. 24). Only in 1970 did Andrew S. Ciechanowiecki point out the originals in Windsor Castle in the context of two terracotta models (Ciechanowiecki (1970), nos. 79, 80). 63. According to Robert Enggass's hypothesis (1976: 93) the figures were bought in Rome by James Francis Stuart, son of James II (also known as the Old Pretender) and came into the Royal

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Collection through Cardinal York. This is not very likely, because the Cardinal died as late as 1808 and the Four Seasons were already in England in the 1730s (according to the various lives of Rusconi). 64. For George I as a collector and patron, see Barbara Arciszewska's chapter in this volume. 65. In 1723, George Vertue noted that 'the King bought 6 Large paintings of Mr. Laws. Venus a dressing with her Nymphs of Guido. Andromeda. Of Gmdo. Two other of Rubens & two besides for all which he paid 4000 pounds. Many more paintings was brought over by Mr. Laws'; cf. Esdaile, Hake and Strangways (1930-55), vol. 22 (Vertue III): 19. For the two paintings, see Levey (1964): 92, and Department (1973): 522, cat. nos. 87, 90; Pepper (1984): 244, no. 83, 273-4, no. 158. 66. See note 9.

CHAPTER 3

THE TRADE OF LUXURY GOODS IN LIVORNO AND FLORENCE IN THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY ELENA LAZZARINI

This chapter is the result of research into the records held in archives in Florence and Livorno (Leghorn), the primary objective of which has been to identify and examine extant records and research materials relating to the production, marketing and consumption of art works in general and of sculpture in particular in Italy and England from the eighteenth to the nineteenth century.1 This wide-ranging historical and economic survey has made it possible to shed light on the mechanisms of the acquisition and export of luxury goods, the professional figures involved in the art trade, as well as the key role played by the port of Leghorn and the capital of the Grand Duchy, both of which proved to be pivotal in organizing and regulating such activities. Leghorn became the focus of British commercial interest in the second half of the sixteenth century with the establishment of the British community, whose influence increased in the following century through the commercial activities of the British Factory, making it the second largest community in the Labronic city in terms of its volume of business.2 Having maintained close links with England, which had become a great economic and maritime power, the community was in a position to hold sway over Leghorn and the Grand Duchy, as testified by documents issued to safeguard the privileges enjoyed by British traders and merchants active in the city. Resolutions that were designed to impose the authority of the state throughout the Grand Duchy on foreign communities and groups residing in Leghorn ordered to become subjects of the Grand Duchy were refused by the British community on the grounds that the huge amount of trade between Italy and Britain would be undermined. As we

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shall see, Britain controlled most of the commerce in Leghorn and the Grand Duchy in general, particularly with regard to artefacts. Unfortunately, only a few documents on sea traffic, particularly on the arrival and departure of ocean-going ships, have come down to us owing to the destruction in 1887 of most of the customs records, including all records prior to the unification of Italy, leaving only a few traces of what would have been the primary source for the economic history of Leghorn.3 In view of this paucity of archive material, attention was focused on the public health records in the Archivio di Stato di Livorno. The documents produced by this office span more than two centuries, from 1606 to 1860, and therefore afford both an uninterrupted and significant source of information.4 This office, which medi ated between the combined and often opposing forces aimed at safeguarding public health while protecting commercial interests, issued a wide range of documents dating from the 1700s. Such documents include reports regarding sanitary conditions in other countries, trials on sanitary conditions, government directives, correspondence with Tuscan consuls abroad, as well as reports concerning the inspection of incoming vessels carried out by public health officials. These men were responsible for checking conditions on board the ships and issuing the appropriate bill of health: 'clean', 'suspect' or 'foul'. If a 'suspect' bill of health was certified, the vessel's entire load and crew were sent to the lazzaretto of San Rocco, established in 1590 as a quarantine station for people and commodities from countries believed to be harbouring contagious disease. On the other hand, if the arriving vessel was suspected of carrying contagious diseases and therefore issued with a 'foul' bill of health, its goods and passengers \vere detained at the lazzaretto of San lacopo, which was founded in 1643 and located a mile from the city. Another quarantine station, the lazzaretto of San Leopoldo, was set up in 1779 for the same purpose. These lazzaretti contained large warehouses where merchandise was kept in isolation and watched over by a number of guards. Once the quarantine was over and the port dues had been paid, a certificate of clearance was issued. The inspection certificates issued by the Public Health Office contain information ranging from the captain's name, the date and place of departure and arrival at the ports of call and a list of goods carried. By examining all of these documents we can gather statistical data on international sea traffic, on the main sea routes followed by cargo ships, as well as on the kinds of commodities traded.5 However, these documents only provide data on th amount and kinds of goods transported. For further insight the registers of the Ufficio Sicurta have proved to be the primary source of information.6 The Ufficio Sicurta, which was responsible for registering insurance policies,

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was founded as a result of a set of measures established on 16 March and 18 April 1686 by the Governor of Leghorn, Marco Alessandro dal Borro. These measures were aimed at providing an income for the Pia Casa, a poorhouse for beggars established four years earlier to deal with the problem of mendicancy, which had been exacerbated by the huge influx of migrants from the countryside.'' The first of these measures required the obligatory use of printed policies issued by this new office and that registration fees be paid to the Casa Pia; any contract not registered within eight days would be deemed void. Besides providing a particularly useful body of data on the insurance market in Leghorn, the registers of the Ufficio Sicurta also contain detailed descriptions of goods insured by intermediaries on behalf of private traders. Local tradesmen turned to the most established insurance brokers, most of whom were proprietors of Insurance Agencies proper. It was customary to submit an invoice declaring the value of the goods and all other details concerning the shipment. If a policy was drawn up for a third party, the intermediary would submit the order paper. The policy holder was obliged to provide all the necessary details to enable the correct risk evaluation and corresponding premium which the broker was instructed to propose to the insurance agent. In practice, the notification of the risk consisted of nine statements, the particulars of which varied but which had to specify the following: the name and type of vessel, the captain's name and nationality, the policy-holder's name, a description of the insured goods, the risk evaluation, calculated on the basis of the likelihood of the goods being lost, details of the ship's course, the duration of the risk, as well as any extrinsic and accidental circumstances relating to the contract. Although the value of the goods was occasionally estimated, it was common practice to calculate the risk assessment on the basis of information provided by the insured party in the order paper, which contained the amount paid and the various shipping expenses.s A number of interesting points have emerged from this survey covering a relatively short period (1760-1810). Not only can we trace the commercial relations between the parties involved in these transactions from the names of the agents and brokers that appear in these policies but also gather information regarding the sale and consumption of goods, whether they be pieces of sculpture or other items. Furthermore, these documents bring to light other aspects concerning the trade of luxury items, such as alabaster produced by Marcello Inghirarm (1772-1846). On 18 January 1793 Inghirami first insured alabasters produced in his workshop in the Conservatorio di San Dalmazio in Volterra through the well-established broker Nascio, who in 1760 had become

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proprietor of the leading Leghorn Insurance Agency.9 Inghirami's alabasters were shipped not only to major European countries, such as Britain, France and Germany but also to the Americas, the Indies, and the Cape of Good Hope. From 1791 to 1792 the international trade of these goods coincided with Inghirami's workshop being organized in a truly cosmopolitan fashion. That this workshop was in the vanguard is confirmed by a memorandum dated 1792, not published until 1821 and now kept at the Guarnacci Library of Volterra. This document shows that Inghirami's workshop was manned by European workers and implemented European techniques. The •workshop's art director was the Frenchman Barthelemy Corneille (1760—1812), who was assisted by the Flemish model maker Van Lint.10 These materials have been useful in a number of other ways, assisting in the identification of key intermediary figures active in the trade of luxury goods, such as the engraver, collector and art dealer Thomas Patch. Patch, who was involved in the export to England of Giambologna's Fata Morgana, acted as intermediary for James Stuart.11 On his behalf, Patch insured at the brokers Mariani trunks of paintings and other valuable goods dispatched to Dublin.12 One important figure of the 1800s was Giacinto Micali, owner of the largest alabaster workshop in Leghorn, specializing in the production of copies of sculpture and of Greco-Romano and Etruscan works of art. Micali's clients included the Grand Duke Pietro Leopoldo. Throughout the nineteenth century Micali's workshop maintained links with the court and attracted countless visitors eager to get their hands on valuable souvenirs.13 On 27 June 1810, on behalf of the agent Faini, Micali insured fourteen chests of worked marble and alabaster which were dispatched to the Empress Josephine, a fact which demonstrates that the empress, like her sister-in-law Elisa Baciocchi, had a predilection for sculpture at least as far as her patronage of Italian art was concerned.14 On the occasion of her marriage to Napoleon Bonaparte in 1796 the empress ordered the shipment from Italy of porcelain and glassware, small bronze statues and marble busts, which were to be offered as gifts to the wedding guests.15 Also of interest is the documentary evidence showing that insurance policies were taken out for the shipment to St Petersburg of nineteen chests containing arches and vaults from Raphael's loggias.16 The date of this document, 3 February 1768, casts doubt on the date in which the works ordered by Catherine II actually began. In a letter dated 1778 addressed to Grimm, her cultural advisor in Rome, Catherine II confesses her wish to have a copy of the loggias after viewing the famous reproductions of Teseo del Volpato and Ottaviani. This work was commissioned from a group of artists working

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in Rome, all pupils of Mengs and under the supervision of the celebrated painter Unterberger, who sent the first canvas paintings to St Petersburg in 1779.17 A survey of the registers issued by the public auction office and the Auditor's and Governor's Office has ascertained the principal sales houses of artefacts in Leghorn, or at least of the goods traded in the port.1" Until 1584 the public auction office was the responsibility of the camarlingp" but was subsequel contracted out to private citizens from the city, who collected the revenue from the auctions organized outside the gates of the customs house, and from 1636 under the Logge della Comunita. The sale of commodities was either voluntary or enforced. In the first case, goods were put up for sale by private citizens and tradesmen. The enforced sale took place for goods that had been impounded by creditors or that were put up for auction by a court order. These included either unredeemed goods at pawnbrokers or goods plundered at sea. The sale of the latter was ordered by the foreign consul in charge of such merchandise. Extant documents contain the consul's name and a list of goods put up for auction. The Auditor's and Governor's Office was an administrative, police and military body, responsible for both civil and criminal proceedings.20 The registers from this office between 1550 and 1808 are particularly useful in that they bring to light the key role played in the art market by shopkeepers, innkeepers and merchants of Leghorn, about which little was known until recently. According to these documents, all of these traders encouraged the circulation of artefacts, which was one of the reasons why the Labronic city became a flourishing port in the seventeenth century. A number of facts can be discerned from these registers, which contain documents ranging from disputes between ship-owners and sailors, accidents at sea of vessels either arriving in or leaving the port, to countless lists of paintings, particularly landscapes, views of cities, still lifes, small plaster casts and alabaster sculptures. These artefacts were sold in the city's shops, inns and taverns and in the event of bankruptcy or the owner's untimely death were sequestrated and warehoused awaiting sale. An example of this is a description of an inn, called the 'Cuoi d'oro', so named because the walls in some of its rooms were decorated with goldstamped leather upon which hung a number of religious and allegorical paintings, still lifes, and landscapes.21 It is through such descriptions that one can sense this vanished world, which attracted artists and foreign visitors to the port, bustling with activities aimed at fostering the trade in artefacts and promoting the arts in general. Although these were not 'high' art collections,

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they shed light on the widespread circulation of artistic products and contribute towards a better understanding of the tastes and predilections of the period. So far this chapter has considered some of the ways in which extant documents held in the Archivio di Stato di Livorno can assist our comprehension of both the local and international trade of art works. Attention will now focus upon the Court of Florence, and the Grand Duke's official residence, where exports from the Grand Duchy were regulated. The documents issued in Florence include export licences as well as reductions and discounts granted for the shipment of luxury goods to princes and dignitaries, who were exempt from paying duties on such goods by order of the Grand Duke. The correspondence between the Grand Duke's secretary Coriolano Montemagni, his successor Giovanni Antonio Tornaquinci and British envoys at the Court of Florence - in chronological order Lambert Blackwell (1699-1705), Henry Newton (1705-11), John Molesworth (1711-14)22 - found in the Appalti Generali delle Regie Rendite,2* shows a number of valuable goods for which 'niente hanno pagato', 24 and considered the property of British citizens by prior consent of the Grand Duke. Such shipments included a chest containing clocks and worked marble sent to Sir Lambert Blackwell's home in London between 1699 and 1705.2= Thirty-six bushels of jade were sent by the merchant Gould to the home of Henry Newton in 1711.26 In the same year an even more valuable shipment consisting of four bronze statues executed by Massimiliano Soldani (1658—1740) was dispatched to the Duke of Marlborough.27 These were almost certainly copies of the four classical marble statues in the Tribuna (Palazzo Pitti, Florence), that is, the Venere de' Medici, the Fauno Danzante, the Arrotino and the Lottatori, which Soldani made for the Duke in that year and are still to be found at Blenheim Palace. These statues were sent to Leghorn and were put on one of the ships docked in the port.2S There are a great many applications for maritime passports requesting the shipment of 'crates and parcels' where no mention was made of the content, giving only the addressee's name, and the name of the boatsman in charge of handling the goods at the port of Leghorn. The secrecy surrounding these shipments may be an indication of the high value of the items dispatched and a possible means of avoiding the payment of duty. The year 1754 marks a turning-point for the export of art works as a royal decree was issued ruling that 'any person of whatever nation, rank, or standing' was prohibited from removing 'any kind of ancient manuscript, medals, statues, vases, bas-reliefs, busts, heads, fragments, pedestals, pictures, ancient paintings, and any other work' from either the city of Florence or from anywhere in the Grand Duchy without the consent of the Court; any person doing so or

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attempting to do so would be forced to pay twice the value of the object removed.29 This decree was intended to supplement an edict issued in 1606 by the Florentine Accademia del Disegtio aimed at protecting the works of eighteen artists: Michelangelo, Raphael, Andrea del Sarto, Rosso Florentine, Leonardo, Francia Bigio, Perm del Vaga, Pontormo, Titian, Salviati, Bronzino, Daniele da Volterra, Fra' Bartolomeo, Correggio, Parmigianino, Perugino, Sebastiano del Piombo and Filippino Lippi, 'since their works were being continuously removed from the city to the detriment of its art'. Such measures were instituted to safeguard the entire artistic production within the boundaries of the Grand Duchy only from 1754, a date which coincides with the first registers drawn up by the director of the Royal Galleries containing requests and export licences for works of art. These registers are particularly helpful in assisting the understanding of the export of art works from Tuscany from the year 1754 and throughout the 1800s. They give the name of the agent who submitted the request, frequently providing information about the patron as well as the work of art requested, which was often described down to the finest detail. From this it may be estimated that over three thousand pieces of sculpture and paintings were officially exported from the Grand Duchy during the eighteenth century, excluding copies and works passing illegally through customs by bribing customs officers. The disappearance of such a huge amount of art works coincides with an economic crisis which had worsened during the Lorraine Regency Government, established in 1737. Owners of art works sold their possessions to wealthy buyers, who riot infrequently asked antiquaries and intermediaries of high social standing to induce the owner to sell. Key Englishmen involved in such transactions include the painter and collector Ignazio Enrico Hugford,3" the ambassador Horace Mann,31 the caricaturist Thomas Patch,32 the architect William Kent33 and the merchant John Udny.34 Extant documents show that in the second half of the eighteenth century British citizens were the main protagonists in the export of art works. Despite the edict of 1754, the Galleria degli Uffizi frequently issued export licences for works of great historical and artistic value, resorting to any artifice to justify the removal of such goods. One such case is the licence granted to Roger Wilbraham (1743—1829) in 1773 permitting the export of most of the antique collection belonging to the antiquary Anton Francesco Gori (1691-1757). According to the report written by the then director, Raimondo Cocchi, the vases concerned could be removed from the gallery as they were 'not remark-

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able', a statement which seems to contradict the interest shown by Wilbraham, known for his involvement in the exchange of art works.35 A similar justification can be found in the licence granted to Thomas Patch for the export of Giambologna's Venus. Bencivenni Pelli (1729—1808), who was director of the gallery from 1779 to 1793, was aware of the provenance and value of the work, which had belonged to Vecchietti and was displayed in the fountain of his villa // Riposo. This had been described in Borghini's treatise as 'very fine'.36 This value judgement is not reflected by the one given by two experts, the painter Giuseppe Magri and the sculptor Jansen. They were engaged by the Director who advised the Grand Duke accordingly to part with the statue selling it at a price reflecting its artistic value.37 It is therefore clear that export licences were granted whenever an economic advantage could be gained, a fact confirmed by a note written in the margin of the permission given to Carlo Coltellini (1751—1819), stating that the purchase of Italian paintings by foreigners brought in money and increased the value of other works in public sales, since these were often sold for much less than they were worth.38 This is the justification offered by Pelli in order to explain the dynamics of the art market, which led to the removal of countless works to the detriment of the Grand Duchy's artistic heritage, in which public and private figures were driven by a common desire for money. This was the reason behind the licence granted to Lorenzo Benvenuti, an intermediary acting on behalf of Hugford, to export three small bronzes and four clay models which the director of the Gallery considered to be of minor interest. However, the detailed list of the works shows that one of the bronzes and one bozzetto were by Giambologna.39 From these documents it is clear that British citizens were among the chief buyers of Italian art works during the years when Pelli was Director of the Galleria, a period which coincides with the transfer of the largest number of art works until the annexation of Tuscany by Napoleon, when art works were removed to Paris. This investigation has highlighted some of the complex dynamics characterizing the commerce in art works from the Grand Duchy to other European countries from the eighteenth to the nineteenth century. Investigations of this kind, carried out both in the United Kingdom and Italy, may help us form a more complete picture of the art market in terms of the production and consumption of art works in general, and of sculpture in particular, assisting the understanding of their critical fortune, of changes in taste, as well as helping to refute or confirm past and future attributions.

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Notes 1. This chapter results from research undertaken as part of a joint research project run by the History of Art departments of the Universities of Leicester and Pisa. The survey of British archival sources in the corresponding period was undertaken by Dr Chris Whitehead and is now available in print; see Whitehead (1999): 44-52. 2. For further information on the British Factory in Leghorn see Hayward (1978): 81-95; Castignoli (1980): 37-56; Hayward (1980): 78-99. 3. Archivio di Stato di Livorno (A.S.L.), in Ministero per i Beni Culturali e Ambientali (1983). 4. A.S.L., in Ministero per i Beni Culturali e Ambientali (1983): 539—49. For further information on this office see Prunai (1959): 485—501. 5. A..S.L.Uffido Sanita, 1606-1860, filze 627 (1606-8), 75V (1702-9), 78 (1717), 80 (1720-2). 6. A.S.L., in Ministero per i Beni Culturali c Ambientali (1983): 540-9. 7. See Addobbati (1996): 9-36. 8. A.S.L. Vfficio Sicurta, 1729-1861, filze 36, 56, 60, 73. 9. A.S.L. Vfficio Sicurta, filza 56, c. 61 v. 10. On Inghirami's workshop in Volterra sec Cozzi (1986). 11. On the identification of this sculpture see Bury (1990) and Avery (1990). 12. A.S.L. Uffido Sicurta, filza 60, n. 127. 13. On Micali's activities in Livorno see Lazzarini (1996). 14. A.S.L. Uffido Sicurta, filza 73, c. 263 v. 15. On Elisa Baciocchi's art policy in Italy during the Napoleonic period sec Ciardi (1984b). 16. A.S.L. Uffido Sicurta, filza 36, c.n/n (3.2.1768). 17. SeeDacos (1986): 9. 18. Avchh'io di Stato di Livorno - Asia puhblica, Ministero per i Beni Culturali e Ambientali (1983): 538-9 and A.S.L. Asia pubblica. 19. A camarlingo was a public administrator who had charge of the treasury and accounts of a comrnumry. 20. Archh'io di Stato di Livomo. — Capitano, Goi'ematore, Auditors vicario, Ministero per i licni Culturali c Ambientali (1983): 542-3, and A.S.L. Auditore e Govematore, 'Vendita di pegni pretori, dal 1630 al 1690' (filza 1), 'Vendita di oggetti gravati, per gli anm 1688-97, 1706-12' (filze 4, 5, 8, 12, 14), 'Registrazione di mercanzie c di bastimenti oggetto di preda marittima, per gli anni 1744-8, 1755-9, 1761-2, 1771, 1779' (filze 20-2, 24, 26, 29, 39, 45). A.S.L.Auditore e Govematore (filza 20, n/n 1774, 1776): T.e seguenti venditc sono eseguite con ordine dell' Illustrissimo Sig. Console Burlington, console di Sua Maesta Britannica in Londra con le convenziom e accordi come segue: 3 Navi fatte vendere dal Sig. Burlington Goldnevishy Console di S.M.B. in Livorno le quali navi sono quelle dclla disputa che corrcva con il Sig. Davidc Wispar.' The sale of goods from this ship included a painting with gold gilding sold for 7 scudi. 21. A.S.L. Auditore e Govematore, filza 150 n/n 518-647. 22. A.S.F. Mediceo Del Prindpato, filza 4236. 23. A.S.F. Appalti Generali delle Regie Rendite, filza 722. 24. 'nothing was paid'. 25. A.S.F. Mediceo Del Prindpato, 4236, c. n/n, 'Carteggio del Sig. Senatore Montemagni col Signor inviato d' Inghilterra Cavaliere Lamberto Blackwell tcrminato con la partenza del medesimo il 23 Maggio 1705. Dal 1699 al 1705', c. n/n 'Robe diverse per 1'illustrissimo inviato d' Inghilterra.

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Di Livorno marmi lavorati, carrate due e mezzo, di questo e stato pagato come marmi greggi, un oriuolo, queste robe sopramenzionate appartengono a me L. Blackwell'. Blackwell was the younger son of Capt. John Blackwell of Ireland, governor of Pennsylvania; cf. Ingamells (1997): 96. 26. A.S.F. Mediceo Del Principato, 4236, c. n/n, 'Carteggio del Sig. Senatorc Montemagm col Sig. Enrico Newton, straordinario inviato di sua maesta Britannica. Dal 1705 al 1711 lettere e minute. Mercante Gould fa passare per Newton trentasei stai di giada'. Daniel Gould (£.1672— 1732) died in Leghorn where he spent most of his life between 1702 and 1732, cf. Ingamells (1997): 413. 27. John Churchill, 1st Duke of Marlborough. 28. A.S.F. Mediceo Del Principato, 4236, c. n/n, 'Carteggio del Sig. Senatore Montemagni col Sig. Molesworth Inviato d'Inghilterra dal 1711 al 1714. Al Sig. Inviato d' Inghilterra li 8 settembre 1711. Domattina si mandera in dogana 1'ordine opportuno perche siano lasciate estrarre di questa citta le quattro statue di bronzo qui fabbricatc di commissione del Sig. Duca di Marlborough, e che dcvono andare a Livomo per esserc imbarcate sopra una delle navi che ivi si trovano'. 29. A.R.G., I, doc. 1 and Borroni Salvadori (1984). 30. Hugford was born in Pisa in 1703; cf. Ingamells (1997): 532-3. 31. Mann was ambassador to Florence from 1738 to 1786; cf. Ingamells (1997): 635-6. 32. Patch arrived in Florence in 1775 and almost immediately acted as intermediary in the transfer of the Vecchietti collection; cf. Ingamells (1997): 745-6. 33. Kent acquired most of the valuable collection belonging to Francesco Maria Gaburri who died in 1742; cf. Ingamells (1997): 571-2. 34. John Udny (1727-1800), a merchant and collector, became Consul General to Leghorn in 1776; cf. Ingamells (1997): 961-3. 35. A.R.G., filza 6, 16 March 1773. See Borroni Salvadori (1984). 36. SeeBorghim (1584). 37. A.R.G., tilza 9, 14 October 1776: Termesso accordato a Tommaso Patch di estrarre per una vecchia mglese, la Vcncrc del Giambologna, appartenuta al Vecchietti nella fontana della Villa II Riposo, ncl Riposo di Borghini e detta Fata Morgana, cosa bellissitna, ma il pittore Magri e lo scultore Jansen che la conoscono mi riferiscono che non e opera di primo rango, ma di disegno tozzo e per questo sarci del parere che V.A.R. potesse concedere la grazia che il supplicante implora vendcndola a caro prezzo, per il merito di quell' opera.' 38. A.R.G., fdza 9, 6 November 1776. 39. A.R.G., filza 9, 3 October 1776.

CHAPTER 4

GENTLEMEN OF VIRTUE MORALITY AND REPRESENTATION IN ENGLISH EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY TOMB SCULPTURE CRISTIANO GIOMETTI

The name of Lord Burlington has always been linked with architecture and with the rediscovery of Palladio in England. One aspect of his activity as a patron of the arts that has received limited scholarly attention is his promotion of sculpture, where he played a role in the definition of a new kind of funerary monument. In the meaning attributed to the statuary and to the architectural frame, this new type of monument departs from the iconographic tradition of British tomb sculpture of the first decades of the eighteenth century. I shall argue that the monuments to James Craggs, Thomas Watson Wentworth and the Earl of Warwick share some iconographic features, the elaboration of which must be mainly ascribed to Burlington and to the wider circle of intellectuals and artists that surrounded him. Through a detailed analysis ot these three monuments I shall illustrate the meanings that the Burlington circle wanted to attach to the new funerary monuments. Richard Boyle, 3rd Earl of Burlington and 4th Earl of Cork,' began to exercise his influence as patron from about 1711 with the aim of reviving the arts in England. This scale and quality of patronage was not only promoted by Burlington, but involved a considerable number of the aristocracy who wanted to replace George I and his German courtiers in the promotion of a national taste and style. This, in their opinion, could not be created by the Hanoverians because they were foreigners. At the same time also emerged the desire to resume that tradition of 'enlightened' patronage particularly associated with Charles I, but interrupted by the outbreak of the Civil War and his subsequent execution in 1649.

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At the beginning of the eighteenth century, the most enlightened members of the nobility drew inspiration and authority from the moral philosophy of the 3rd Earl of Shaftesbury.2 According to him, the great freedom fostered by constitutional government created in England the necessary conditions for art and science to flourish. In 1710, Shaftesbury wrote Soliloquy; or, Advice to an Author, explaining his theory of a causal relation between the liberty of a nation and the flowering of the arts. Analysing the political situation in Rome during the time of the Caesars, Shaftesbury wanted to prove 'how fast the World declin'd in Wit and Sense, in Manhood, Reason, Science, and in every Art, when once the ROMAN Empire had prevail'd, and spread an universal Tyranny and Oppression over Mankind'.3 Cultural life was affected by the repression of liberty so that barbarism took possession of the arts before the barbarians would overrun the empire. Taking as his model Ancient Greece, 'the sole polite, most civiliz'd, and accomplish'd Nation',4 Shaftesbury established a sort of comparison between the conditions of expressive freedom that allowed the Athenians of Pericles' age 'to lead the way in Elegance of every kind'5 and the conditions in England at the beginning of the eighteenth century, when liberty based on good constitutional government re-established the ideal conditions for the renaissance of the arts and the growth of national taste. In his Letter Concerning the Art, or Science of Design, written in Italy in 1712, Shaftesbury declared that 'when the free spirit of a nation turns it-self this way; Judgments are fortn'd, Criticks arise; the publick Eye and Ear improves; a right Taste prevails. . . . Nothing is so improving, nothing so natural, so con-genial to the liberal Arts, as that reigning Liberty and high spirit of a People'.6 Furthermore, Shaftesbury assigned the task of leading this rebirth not to the Crown but to the nobility, to those 'landed gentlemen who were embodiments and guardians of English virtue and liberty'.7 He also proposed as models of correct taste the great examples of the art of the Italian renaissance and of antiquity; the ideal perfection of Raphael's paintings, and the harmony of ancient sculpture and architecture. Shaftesbury's thought was an essential part of young Burlington's education. In fact, amongst his guardians was Lord Somers, an eminent representative of the Whigs with whom Shaftesbury shared his political credo, and to whom he dedicated the Letter Concerning the Art, or Science of Design.8 In conformity with Shaftesbury's writings, Burlington was a refined patron from his youth, his interests embracing various arts, although it was music that received his early attention. Burlington's taste in the visual arts was equally refined and, between 1711 and 1716, the best Venetian painters in England worked for him.9

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It seems that 1715 was a very important year for the definition of the artistic programme that Burlington wanted to pursue. During his tour of Italy, and especially during his stay in Rome, he was confronted with the model of connoisseurship and patronage provided by Cardinal Pietro Ottoboni, and the artists that gravitated around the latter's Palazzo della Cancelleria. On his return to England Giacomo Leoni's translation of the Quattro Libri dell'Architettura by Andrea Palladio, and the publication of the first volume of Vitnwius Britannicus by Colen Campbell, appear to have contributed in galvanizing Burlington's attention on architecture. Above all 'Campbell's call for a return to the decorum and correctness of the Ancients, of which Andrea Palladio and Inigo Jones were the most respected representatives, had an unresistible appeal for Burlington'.10 In 1717 Campbell himself was commissioned to refashion Burlington House and redesign its facade. Taking as his model the Palazzo Porto Colleoni in Vicenza, Campbell created one of the first examples of a Palladian house in London. Burlington, however, needed artists to carry out his programme not only in architecture but in painting and sculpture as well: he engaged the painter (and future architect) William Kent and the Italian sculptor Giovanni Battista Guelfi. If the association with Campbell came to a rather premature end, the partnership with Kent was much more long-lasting and profitable. 'From . . . December 1719 until Kent's death over 28 years later, the two were virtually inseparable; together with Lady Burlington — a woman of independent taste and influence - they constituted a powerful artistic partnership'." Guelfi arrived in England at the end of 1720 to restore the Arundel Marbles at the invitation of Lord Leominster. Once he had completed this work at Easton Nestoii, Guelfi joined Lord Burlington's circle of artists, and was highly encouraged and supported by this patron who 'much commended him to the Nobility for an excellent Sculptor [and] procurd him many works'.12 Apart from restoration work Guelfi also carved several portrait busts and funerary monuments; this latter category includes the three works which are the subject of this discussion. Guelfi was a perfect instrument upon which Burlington could play in order to realize his own ambitions in sculpture design, particularly as Guelfi, used to working with the antique, did not have a strong Baroque style. It is worth dwelling upon the different meanings attributed to the funerary monument in early eighteenth-century England before examining these works in detail. At a time of deep social change and unprecedented social mobility, the growth in wealth considerably extended the class of potential customers of such luxury goods. The main motivation for a family to invest a large amount of money in a monument was due to its social function. Besides commemorat-

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ing one man or woman and his or her virtues for future generations, the funeral monument became the ideal means to promote a political creed, to increase the prestige of the family name, or to give greater respectability to a profession. In the case of a rich landowner, the estate church was the perfect place to erect the monument that would perpetuate to posterity the memory of the family's power and wealth, as well as of his own pre-eminent position in the rural community. By virtue of such power, these landowners could act with a certain freedom within the estate church, and literally occupy whole areas of the church with their tombs. In London the situation was quite different, and the regulation of space in ecclesiastical buildings more rigid. Nevertheless, a monument in Westminster Abbey could certainly guarantee a great deal of interest both in town and throughout the country. It was also a destination for local and foreign visitors, and a growing number of periodicals such as the Gentlemen's Magazine and the Spectator began to review the newly erected monuments. Similarly, guidebooks to London, published during the second and third decades of the eighteenth century, lingered briefly over the architectural history of Westminster but devoted a great deal of attention to the description of the tombs. The first guidebook to the Abbey, entitled An Historical Description o Westminster Abbey, was published in 1753 by David Henry. In this book, the author proposed a tour of Westminster through its monuments, describing them carefully and recording the epitaphs in full. Moreover, Henry wished to focus the attention of the reader on the educational function of the visit, since also 'the Unlearned will be enabled by it to converse with the Monuments of the Dead, with the same pleasure of the Learned'. 13 In the first half of the century the nave of the Abbey was slowly occupied by the monuments of public figures such as politicians, scientists and intellectuals, who had earned the right to be commemorated in the national pantheon. In Bindman's words, 'the nave's entry into the public sphere' 14 was paved in 1727 by the monument to James Craggs, designed by the architect James Gibbs and carved by Guelfi. James Craggs the younger had quickly reached the top of his political career, and in 1718 succeeded Joseph Addison as Secretary of State. 'Handsome in appearance, with charming manners and ready tongue', 15 Craggs died suddenly of smallpox on 16 February 1721, aged 35. His monument was commissioned by his three sisters, Margaret, Elizabeth and Anne, but it was Alexander Pope, Craggs's intimate friend, who supervised the development of the work and composed the epitaph. It would be legitimate to think that the three ladies wanted to commemorate their brother who, being unmarried and without male issue, had bequeathed them a considerable inheritance. However,

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their determination was caused by a different and particular reason, probably more important and certainly more urgent than simple commemoration. A few weeks before his death, Craggs had been involved in the scandal of the South Sea Company, an aflair of inflated shares that was threatening Sir Robert Walpole's government. Although evidence against him was rather weak, Craggs felt compelled to proclaim his innocence in Parliament. His sudden illness and subsequent death neutralized the efficacy of his defence and it therefore fell upon his family to support their relative post mortem. In this context raising a monument in Westminster Abbey may be seen to be the best visual manifesto for reasserting Craggs's probity to the whole nation. Pope's epitaph, besides being a sincere homage to a friend, also formed a clear warning addressed to Craggs's enemies, who unfairly accused a man who was 'friend to truth! Of soul sincere, In action faithful, and in honour clear! Who broke no promise, serv'd no private end'."> The monument to Thomas Watson Wentworth in York Minster was erected for similar reasons. The commemoration of his father was the apparent motivation that led the Earl of Malton, son of Thomas Watson, and a preeminent representative of the Whig party in Yorkshire, to commission the work. Here once more the epitaph is the means of disclosure with praise of the deceased's virtues relegated to the lower section of the inscription. By contrast the whole upper half is devoted to elucidating the complex family ties that allowed Thomas Watson to inherit Wentworth Woodhouse, bequeathed to him by William Wentworth, his maternal uncle, who in 1695 died without male heirs. It is evident that in this monument Lord Malton was proclaiming the legitimacy of his claim to the properties inherited by his father.17 The monument to Edward Rich, 7th Earl of Warwick and 4th Earl of Holland, in St Mary Abbots, Kensington, can be included in the group of socalled 'dynastic monuments'. 1 " This kind of tomb sculpture was commissioned by the last descendant of a dynasty who, dying without heirs, wanted to perpetuate the past greatness of the family with a monument. Lord Warwick died prematurely in 1721 without male heirs, and his tomb was commissioned by his mother, the Countess of Warwick, who in 1730 paid Guelfi £100 for this work.19 Closely allied to these social considerations were the equally important issues of representation, a domain in which Burlington and his artists played a very important role. I shall contend that they worked out the complex iconography of the monument to James Craggs, which was subsequently used in the monuments to the Earl of Warwick and to Thomas Watson Wentworth.

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Comparison with other contemporary monuments will help define more clearly the stylistic and iconographic innovations promoted by the neo-Palladians. The Craggs's monument was designed by James Gibbs,20 an architect who from 1704 to 1708 had lived in Rome and studied in the workshop of Carlo Fontana. After his return to England, Gibbs designed some monuments inspired by the most splendid examples of the Roman late-baroque tradition, both in their complex architectonic structure and in polychromatic profusion of marbles. For the monument to John Holies, 1st Duke of Newcastle, in Westminster Abbey (1721—2), Gibbs took as his model the great altar by Carlo Rainaldi in the church of Gesu e Maria in Rome (1671-80). Besides the rich polychromy, Gibbs borrowed from this work the configuration of the altar, convex in shape and with Corinthian columns to support the convex and broken pediment. Furthermore the two statues of Wisdom and Charity, standing beside the Duke, jut out in the space of the viewer in the manner of baroque statuary, whilst Newcastle, reclining on a severe sarcophagus and resting on his right elbow, adopted a posture already popular in English monumental sculpture.21 Burlington and his circle took sides against contemporary monumental standards, choosing for themselves, in the private sphere, antithetic solutions to traditional models. Alexander Pope, for example, decided to commemorate his parents and himself with a simple marble slab, only decorated with a Latin inscription, whilst Burlington never had a funeral monument, as if to declare his deistic faith. According to this creed, his memory would have been perpetuated not by a monument after death, but by the deeds and works of his life. In the public sphere, the neo-Palladians promoted a typology of funerary monument characterized by extreme formal simplicity, but enriched with references to classical art and to Shaftesbury's philosophy. Their most important innovations are found in the field of sculpture. The three neo-Palladian figures no longer appear in modern dress and wearing wigs, but instead wear a tunic and a large cloak wrapped around the body, a kind of costume considered to have been the ancient Greeks' way of dressing. In 1701 the 3rd Earl of Shaftesbury and his brother Maurice were portrayed by John Closterman wearing such clothes in the Grecian fashion (Plate 9).22 Taking as their model Shaftesbury's portrait and his doctrine, we can assume that with these statues the neo-Palladians wanted to represent their ideal of gentleman of public virtue, of landowner-philosopher who, through his qualities of sociability and politeness, was governing his properties and leading his people. These gentlemen did not face death with dramatic gestures, turning their eyes towards the sky as does the Duke of Newcastle. They were not even represented on

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Plate 9 John Closterman, Anthony Ashley Cooper, 3rd Earl of Shaftesbury, and the Hon. Maurice Ashley Cooper, 1702, oil on canvas, London, National Portrait Gallery, by courtesy of the National Portrait Gallery, London.

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their deathbed but, for the first time, they were standing, portrayed in informal pose and, according to Shaftesbury, showing those characteristics of 'mobility rather than stiffness, informality over formality . . ., conviviality rather than solemnity and gravity'.23 Moreover, the neo-Palladian monuments are also peculiar for the extreme reduction of the decorative element, and for the simplification of the architectonic structure. In these works Corinthian paired columns disappear; pediments are no longer convex and broken but become rectilinear; bunches of flowers, if included, are simple and sober; and polychromatic marbles are replaced exclusively by white marble. These innovations are all perfectly shown in Gibbs's design for the monument to Secretary Craggs, a design in which Burlington's role in the choice of Craggs's pose, and the sober architectonic frame, must have been crucial (Plate 10). On a high funerary cippus acting as a pedestal, and only decorated with an inscription, the statue of Craggs stands with ankles crossed and arms bent so as to create an elegant contraposto. The right arm rests on the hip, whilst the left leans on a large um, the only reference to death in the whole monument.24 Craggs, with his head raised and slightly turned, and with his long hair to the shoulders, wears the tunic and cloak like Shaftesbury and his brother in Closterman's portrait. The pose of the statue could have easily been inspired by classical sculpture that Burlington and Gibbs could have seen during their stay in Italy. The precedent appears to be the cross-legged Mercury of the UfHzi, which had been in Florence since at least 1568, when it was recorded for the first time in the inventory of the Palazzo Pitti.25 However, it seems more likely that Burlington took once again as his model Shaftesbury's example, and in particular the painting representing The Judgement of Hercules. This had been commissioned by Shaftesbury to the Neapolitan painter Paolo de Matteis, and was engraved by Simon Gribelin in 1713 (Plate II). 26 Shaftesbury arrived in Naples in November 1711, hoping to find relief for his chronic asthma, and devoted the last months of his life to writing the treatise A Notion of the Draught or Tablature of the Judgement of Hercules, to which he appended as an introduction the famous Letter Concerning the Art, or Science of Design dedicated to Lord Somers. Meticulously dictating to de Matteis every single feature of the scene, Shaftesbury decided to represent the end of the dispute between Virtue and Pleasure, when Hercules, already won over by Virtue, made his choice 'of a life full of Toil and Hardship; under the Conduct of VIRTUE for the deliverance of Mankind from Tyranny and Oppression'.27 The complex funerary iconography created by Burlington and the neo-Palladians is evident: Craggs and his successors pose as Shaftesbury's Hercules, because like him, they chose to live under the guidance of Virtue, and to become members of the ideal

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Plate 10 James Gibbs, Design for the Monument to James Cmggs, 1724, ink and watercolour, London, Victoria and Albert Museum (photo: Victoria and Albert Museum, London).

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Plate 11 Simon Gribelin, The Judgement of Hercules, 1713, engraving after the painting by Paolo de Matteis (1712), London, British Museum (1859-6-25-143) (photo: PestiUi 1990: 113).

Shaftesburian Republic that would have heralded the renaissance of British art and society.28 Craggs's monument, unveiled on 14 December 1727, met with favourable public opinion and appreciation from contemporary commentators. In his Guide to London, published in 1734, Ralph wrote: 'the attitude of it is delicate and fine; the thought of resting on an urn, pathetique and judicious. . .; The architecture is alike plain, and the embellishments few, and well chosen. In a word, many tombs have more beauties, none fewer faults'. 29 Burlington must have carefully supervised this monument in all its stages of development, from conception to erection, well aware of its manifesto-like value, since it was going to be erected in the nave of Westminster Abbey. With the two other monuments, his control appears to have been less strict, allowing a certain freedom to Guelfi and to the architects that worked with him, who as

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a result introduced some variations to the original iconography. The monument to the Earl of Warwick in St Mary Abbots, Kensington, was carved by Guelfi at the end of 1730 (Plate 12). The preparatory drawing for this work has not yet come to light, so it is impossible to tell whether it was conceived by an architect, or by Guelfi himself. Compared to Craggs's monument, the most evident alteration here concerns the pose of the figure. In fact, the Earl is still dressed in the Grecian fashion, and is still leaning on an urn, but instead of being standing he is seated. The monument to Thomas Watson Wentworth in York Minster was carved by Guelfi in 1731,•"' after a design by William Kent.31 Kent started his career as a painter, studying in Rome in the workshop of Giuseppe Chiari, but in the late 1720s turned his attention to architecture. The design of the Wentworth monument (Plate 13) is still reminiscent of Kent's Roman training. In fact, he emphasized the chromatic contrasts using two different marbles: white for the statuary, and grey for the pedestal and the pyramidal background — the pyramid being a clear reference to Raphael's Chigi Chapel in Santa Maria del Popolo in Rome.3- Thomas Watson is still wrapped in the classical cloak, his left arm resting on an urn, but this time he is not alone. Seated beside him is his wife, Alice Proby, one of the first mourning ladies in the history of British sculpture.33 The figure of the widow, bemoaning the death of her husband, trying to move the viewer with her sighs and dramatic gestures, is very often represented in the monuments by Louis Franfois Roubiliac.M The monument to the Duke of Montagu (finished in 1753, Warkton, Northamptonshire) provides an example of how Roubiliac created a tableau-vivant, staged on two different levels. On the upper level Charity, assisted by a putto, holds a medallion bearing the Duke's portrait. The Duchess watches the scene from the lower level, standing directly on the floor and sharing the same space of the viewer. She 'is not, however, a passive spectator; her open mouth and wide-eyed expression, and the sharp contraposto of her body and agitated movement of the drapery, indicate tempestuous grief.35 In the neo-Palladian monument, the mourning lady plays her part inside the space of the monument; she does not lean out, and does not even call for the attention of the viewer with emphatic gestures. As Thomas Watson faces death holding his head high, proud of his virtuous living, so his widow suffers her husband's death with dignity, letting sadness transpire only through the melancholy of her expression and inclined head. The extreme composure of this group was very much due to Guelfi's carving. He, in fact, interpreted Kent's design, rounding off those folds of the cloaks still vibrating and baroque, and smoothing over certain angularities of the draperies. The Wentworth monument, erected in York Minster, was the last of the

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Plate 12 Giovanni Battista Guelh, Monument to the Earl of Warunck, 1730, marble, London Borough of Kensington, St Mary Abbots (photo: author).

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a.: n flirt/! tr tr/binnm/ rf'/ii.i rtqatt/^fir ,nif/i a 'fitrt/it, friitri/'Mtfj t/u.i'Pt.

Plate 13 William Kent, Design for the monument to Thomas Watson Wentworth, engraved by George Vcrtuc, 1736, Oxford, Bodleian Library. © The Bodleian Library, University of Oxford (shelfmark Gough Maps 41 K, fol. 37).

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neo-Palladian series, ending this experience promoted by Burlington which had involved not only his artists but also his friends and relatives acting as patrons. In fact, the three monuments carved by Guelfi were commissioned by persons close to Burlington either because of family ties or friendship. Alexander Pope, who supervised the development of the Craggs's commission, 'was very close to the Earl's heart and among many signs of generous friendship towards the poet, Burlington paid for the interior fittings of his house at Twickenham'.36 The Earl of Warwick was also a member of the same circle; in 1718 he bought a building plot belonging to Burlington at 33 Old Burlington Street, London; Lord Malton had married Mary Finch, daughter of the 7th Earl of Winchelsea, and Lady Burlington's relative.37 Its elitist origin and restricted usage within the Burlington circle prevented the neo-Palladian funerary monument from eliciting public favour on a large scale. Although the standing figure leaning on an urn was employed again by other artists later in the century, the pose was generally de-contextualized and denuded of the Shaftesburian associations that so endeared it to the neoPalladians. The architects that worked with Burlington on the creation of these tombs did not appear to be committed to the new iconography and often carried on designing monuments still inspired by the late Roman baroque tradition. James Gibbs, who in 1724 had designed the monument to James Craggs, in his 1730 design for the monument to Sir Edward Seymour (Maiden Bradley, Wiltshire) reverted to the use of the recumbent figure set against a complex architectural background. With this kind of design Gibbs catered for a conservative type of patronage, still fond of the most traditional aspects of the funerary representation: the more important the deceased, the more the monument had to be splendid in its architecture and precious in the marbles it employed.

Notes 1. Richard Boyle (1694-1753). 2. Anthony Ashley Cooper, 3rd Earl of Shaftcsbury (1671-1713). 3. Miscellaneous Reflections, Shaftesbury (1914), III: 77. 4. P.R.O. 30/24/20/143, Shaftesbury to Michael Ainsworth, 3 December 1709, quoted in Klein (1994): 199. 5. Soliloquy, Shaftesbury (1914), I: 250. 6. Quoted in Klein (1994): 211. 7. Klein (1994): 143. 8. The whole tide of this work is Letter Concerning the Art, or Science of Design to My Lord ****; the dedicatee was in fact Lord Somers.

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9. These were Giovanni Antonio Pellegrini, who worked for the young nobleman between 1711 and 1712, and Sebastiano Ricci who was employed for the first time in 1713. After Burlington's return from his Grand Tour in 1715, Ricci was commissioned to decorate the rooms newly restored by James Gibbs in the Earl's house in Piccadilly. 10. Sicca (1996a): 610. 11. Sicca (1996b): 900. 12. Vertue (1933—4), 111: 73-4. For a more detailed examination of Guelfi's career in England and of his partnership with Burlington and Kent see Giometti (1999). Burlington was not only a connoisseur, a patron of artists and a collector of paintings and architectural drawings but was an architect himself. In fact, according to Shaftesbury, architecture was considered an expression of social virtue, and through it the nobility could govern the people, 'since architecture shapes man's environment and organises, through its rational control of space, the public and private activities of different and conflicting social classes' (Sicca (1996a): 610). To use Campbell's definition, 'the First Essay of his Lordship's happy invention' was the design for the 'Casina or Bagnio' in the garden of the villa at Chiswick, designed by Burlington in 1717. His career as an architect went on with more ambitious projects for public buildings, like the Dormitory for Westminster School in London (1721), and the famous Assembly Rooms in York (1730-2). 13. Quoted in Bindman and Baker (1995): 11. 14. Bindman and Baker (1995): 15. 15. 'James Craggs', in The Dictionary of National Biography, p. 441. 16. The epitaph reads: Statesman, yet friend to truth! Of soul sincere/ In action faithful, and in honour dear!/ W]w broke no promise, serv'd no private end,/ Who gain'd no title, and who lost no friend;/ Ennobled by himself, by all approved,/ Prais'd, wept, and honour'd by the Muse he loved. These verses were originally inscribed on the plinth, now destroyed, that supported the statue of Craggs. The second part of the epitaph is in Latin, and is inscribed on the urn on which he leans. This inscription reads: JACOBUS CRAGGS, REGI MAGNAE BSITANNIAE A SECRETIS ET CONSILIIS S A N C T 1 0 R I B U S , PHINC1PIS PARITER AC POPULI ET DELICIAE: VIXIT TITULIS ET INVIDIA MAJOR, ANNOS HEU PAUCOS, XXXV.

17. Thomas Watson Wentworth was the third son of Edward, 2nd Baron Rockingham of Rockingham Castle, and of Anne, sister of William Wentworth of Wentworth Woodhouse. After having inherited from his uncle Wentworth Woodhouse, Thomas Watson changed his surname to Watson Wentworth. The epitaph on his monument in York Minster reads: The honourable THOMAS WATSON WENTWORTH, Third son of Hdward lord Rockingham, By Anne eldest daughter of Tlwmas earl of Strafford Lord Lieutenant of Ireland. He succeeded to the antient estate of Wentworth family By the last will of his uncle William earl of Strafford; He married Alice the only daughter of sir Thomas Proby of htton in Huntingtonshire; By whom he had one son 'Thomas lord Malton and two daughters who died in their infancy; He departed this life at Harrowden in Northamptonshire October 6, 1723. Aetat. 58. His virtues were equal to his descent: By abilities he was formed for pubiick, By inclination determined to private life: If that life can be called private, which was dayly imphyed In successive acts of beneficience to the pubiick. He was in religion exemplary, in senate impartial, In friendship sincere, in domestick relation Tlie best husband, the most indulgent father. His justly afflicted relict and son Tliomas Lord Malton, To transmit the memory of so great worth to future times, Erected this monument. 18. The definition of 'dynastic monument' was kindly suggested to me by Matthew Craskc (oral communication, Pisa, 25 April 1998); Lord Warwick was Joseph Addison's stepson. 19. 'Received Xber ye 14th 1730 of the Right Honble Countess of Warwick One hundred pounds on account of the monument to the agreement by me £100-00-00, John Baptist Guelfi'. London, British Library, Manuscript Room, Bills, Inventories, and Rent Rolls of the Countess of Wanvick. MSS. Eg. 1973. The epitaph of this monument, inscribed on the plinth, is almost

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completely illegible. Guelfi carved three other 'dynastic monuments', all of them commissioned to him by Thomas Fane, 6th Earl of Westmorland, under the will of his wife Katherinc Stringer. In 1708, Fane married (Catherine Stringer, only daughter of Thomas Stringer and heiress to her father's estate at Sharlston, in Yorkshire. The Countess died without heirs on 14 February 1730, and with her came to an end the Stringer family too. To perpetuate the memory of her family, the Countess wanted the erection of monuments to her parents (Kirkthorpe, West Yorkshire), to her first husband Richard Beaumont (Kirkheaton, Huddersfield), and to her distant relative, Colonel Thomas Stringer (Enfield, Middlesex). 20. James Gibbs (1682-1754). 21. The monument to the Duke of Newcastle was carved by Francis Bird (1667-1731), and was finished in 1723. For the comparison between Newcastle's monument and the altar by Rainaldi in the Gesu and Maria in Rome, see Friedman (1984): 87—9. 22. The double portrait by Closterman is in the National Portrait Gallery, London. The monument to Thomas Watson Wcntworth is related to the portrait of Shaftesbury and his brother also by Malcom Baker in his forthcoming book Figured in Marble: The Making and Viewing of Eighteenth-century Sculpture. I wish to thank Dr Baker for kindly granting me access to the typescript of the first chapter of his book. 23. Quoted in Solkin (1993): 12. 24. Another reference to death can be found in the palms of martyrdom, placed under the pediment, and probably related to the unfair political martyrdom suffered by Craggs a few weeks before his death. 25. A bronze copy of this Mercury was recorded also in the Farnese collection. See Haskell and Penny (1981): 209-10. The Leaning Satyr in the Musei Capitolini in Rome also shows the same pose in contraposto as in the Craggs's statue; cf. Haskell and Penny (1981): 209-10, and Meyer (1995): 46—7. It should be noted that there was no modern precedent in Rome of standing figure sculpture in funerary monuments, cf. Enggass (1976) and Bacchi (1996). 26. The model (49cm x 62cnl) for dc Matteis's Judgement of Hercules is ill the Baycrischc Staatsgemaldesammlungen, Munich; the finished painting (198.2cm x 256.5cm) is in the Ashmolean Museum, Oxford. A second version, smaller than the original painting (64.6cm x 77.3cm), is in Leeds City Art Gallery and Temple Newsham House. Simon Gribelin engraved two different versions of the Judgement; the one mentioned above, made in 1713 (British Museum 1859-6-25-143), and a second version published in the 1737 edition of Shaftesbury's Characteristics (British Museum 1859-6-25-324). 27. A Notion of the Historical Draught or Tablature of the Judgement of Hercules, in Shaftesbury (1914), Ml: 351. I wish to thank Prof. Cinzia Sicca Bursill-Hall for bringing to my attention the fundamental article by Pestilli on Shaftesbury's last commission in Naples; cf. Pestilh (1990). 28. Craggs, the Earl of Warwick, and Thomas Watson are represented alive, because the deistic faith of Burlington and Shaftesbury denied the existence of life after death. Shaftesbury himself, in fact, was 'also well known as a deist of a strongly anti-ecclesiastical bent' (Klein (1994): 1). 29. Ralph (1734): 73. The pedestal and the pedimented background were destroyed in 1931, and the statue was moved to the corm'ce of the south-west tower of the Abbey. 30. The monument is signed (Guelfi Romanus fecit. 31. William Kent (1685-1748). 32. The monument was originally erected in the east end of the church, near the monument of William Wentworth, from whom Thomas had inherited the estate. The monument is now placed in the south-east corner of the nave, the original background was dismantled and elements are reported to be in various locations of the Minster. The pyramid, as symbol of the endless construction of the world by freemasons, could suggest one further interpretation linked to

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freemasonry. Both Burlington and Pope were freemasons, but since it is impossible to determine if Thomas Watson and Lord Malton were freemasons too it is unwise to attribute this meaning to the pyramid. Nevertheless, it should be noted that those virtues of sociability and politeness proposed by Shaftesbury, are very similar to the dignity, liberality and education that 'il massonc doveva possedere per costruire 1'architettura di sc stcsso' (Cioffi (1987): 106). 33. To my knowledge the only previous 'mourning lady' is Catherine, Duchess of Buckingham, in the 1721—2 monument to John Sheffield by Peter Scheemakers after a design by Plumier. The Post Boy for 17—19 July 1722 noticed her representation in the monument thus: '. . . At his feet a figure representing her Grace the present Dutchess Dowager in a Mourning Posture, bewailing the Loss of her Lord and Children', quoted in Roscoe (1999): 180. 34. Louis Francois Roubiliac (1702—64). 35. Bindman and Baker (1995): 126-7. 36. Wittkower (1974): 179. 37. See Carre (1993): 116.

CHAPTER 5

CONTACTS AND CONTRACTS SIR HENRY CHEERE AND THE FORMATION OF A NEW COMMERCIAL WORLD OF SCULPTURE IN MID-EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY LONDON MATTHEW CRASKE

The mid-1730s must have been anxious times in the majority of London's sculpture and masonry yards. One shop, that of the Antwerp-born Michael Rysbrack (1694—1770), was the talk of London and securing a high proportion of the most prestigious contracts. If the society columns of London's newspapers are to be believed, Rysbrack presided over the busiest and most visited polite arts establishment in the city. Some of the most eminent national figures competed to place commissions with Rysbrack's shop. He was patronized by the 'Prime Minister' Robert Walpole as well as by the leading figures of the opposition, William Pulteney and Viscount Bolingbroke. Queen Caroline's visits to his shop in Oxford Road were announced in the papers. On one occasion her whole court entourage appears to have been in his studio to have their portraits modelled for a large allegorical terracotta group to be set up in Merlin's Cave, Caroline's rural grotto at Richmond. With this high profile support Rysbrack became so successful that he was, on occasion, able to announce as many as four major new commissions in a single newspaper edition. A decade earlier, when sculptors were only rarely mentioned in the newspapers, the London sculpture world had no obvious dominant figure. Rysbrack, and another Antwerp-born sculptor, Peter Scheemakers (1691—1781), had been established for about five years and were becoming rivals. However, at this

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stage they had a host of effective competitors, any one of whom was able to beat them to a major contract. Although many leading workshop masters of this era were reaching the tail end of their career, they remained very powerful figures. In the mid- and late 1720s Francis Bird (1667—1731), Thomas Green (1659-C.1730), Andrew Carpenter (167?-1737), Joseph Rose (bankrupt 1735) and Robert Hartshorne (last recorded work 1728) all competed for the most prestigious contracts. By the mid-1730s all of these figures were out of business: either dead, retired or bankrupt. Some English-born sculptors did rise to replace them but the majority found themselves picking over the bones of the carcass of the metropolitan market, tendering for low-profile contracts and supplying compositions derivative of the best-known works of Rysbrack and Scheemakers. Peter Scheemakers was, as George Vertue noted, the sculptor to see most clearly the imperative of entering into aggressive competition with Rysbrack during the 1730s. In 1732 he made much publicity out of competing for the most newsworthy contract of the decade, the equestrian statue of William III for Bristol. From that moment Scheemakers was always at pains to maintain his press profile by announcing as many of his commissions as possible in the society columns. However, he was not alone in this business strategy. The contracts of 'the famous Mr Cheere of Westminster' were strategically announced in the press alongside those of Rysbrack. With this vigorous campaign of self-promotion in the press, Henry Cheere (1703—81) made sure that the newspaper-reading public of the 1730s knew he had attained contracts of the same importance as Rysbrack and Scheemakers. Shortly after Rysbrack had secured the patronage of Queen Caroline, Cheere managed to secure a major contract for her statue at Queen's College, Oxford. Similarly, he challenged Rysbrack's and Scheemaker's monopoly of monarchical statuary by executing a fine statue of William III (completed in 1734) for the Bank of England. In both cases Cheere saw that these commissions were heavily 'puffed' in the London papers. Cheere's determination to survive the Flemish monopoly can be interpreted as part of the drive of the so-called St Martin's Lane Group to resist the pressures of cosmopolitan connoisseurship. Unlike his associate William Hogarth,1 Cheere cannot be directly associated with the published complaints made in the 1730s against English connoisseurs' preference for foreign works. However, his sympathy with Hogarth's views are found in a speech he delivered in 1756 to the newly formed Society of Arts, Manufacture and Commerce in which, taking on the role of representative of the St Martin's Lane Group, he proposed the foundation of a national academy of the arts of

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design. In the prologue he communicated his sense of shame and outrage at the long subjugation of the native arts by those who put their trust in the tastes of foreigners.2 Cheere's initial strategy - that of the 1730s - seems to have been to survive foreign competition by raising the standards of carving, modelling and design in his own shop to those of the Flemings. Flemish success was built upon a strong grasp of the conventions of antiquity and the elegant employment of classical form, and Cheere saw the necessity of emulating this type of art. Such characteristics impressed connoisseurs such as Lord Burlington and Richard Mead whose opinions on art held sway in fashionable society. In order to secure the standards and sophistication of foreign sculptors he began business in partnership with Peter Scheemakers' brother, Henry. This partnership lasted for seven years (1726-33), long enough to allow Cheere every opportunity of acquiring the highest standards of modelling and classical design. Although Cheere shop's initially produced some work of a slightly flaccid quality, in the mid-1730s it began to turn out works of the sort of suave, refined character that attracted the patronage of such noted cognoscenti as George Clarke, the great amateur architect of the Oxford college system. Despite this success, Cheere's ultimate strategy appears to have been to bypass this sector of the market. Increasingly during the 1740s his commercial target was the Westminster gentry, where there was little claim to the mantle of 'connoisseur'. He was able to approach such patrons, after many years in lucrative business, as their social equal. At this stage in his career he no longer needed to engage the cosmopolitan prejudices of the connoisseurial elite. His shop began to produce designs in the modern French, Gothic and Tudor/ Stuart modes which did not even attempt to resemble the refined classicism of the Flemings. By the mid-1740s it was apparent that Cheere was doing much more than just surviving the competition of Scheemakers and Rysbrack. He had invented new markets and moved into new types of design which rendered their competition increasingly irrelevant. At this time he commenced a career of public service that would secure him a baronetcy by the time of his retirement in the mid-1760s. In terms of sheer volume of commissions he came, in the 1750s, to run the most successful sculpture business in London. By this stage a business that he had set up with his brother John at Hyde Park Corner had itself 'cornered the market' in plaster and lead casts and was even beginning to export.3 A measure of this phenomenal success may be seen in the fortune (c.^80,000) left to his son, a cleric of modest ambition Beyond Cheere's extraordinary ability as a designer, the key to his business

CONTACTS AND C O N T R A C T S : SIR HENRY CHEERE 97 was his ability to make social contacts. No mason or sculptor of the previous generation could have aspired, as he did, to mix as a social equal with gentry and distinguished professional patrons. No sculptor of his own era, with the possible exception of his own one-time assistant Robert Taylor (1718—88), who also became a baronet, was able to match his energies as the consummate social climber.4 Like the majority of English-born sculptors who had served apprenticeships in English yards of the early years of the eighteenth century, Cheere's background had little to do with the practice of the arts or crafts. For some reason (possibly the low status and insecurity of the trade at this juncture) very few sculptors or artists who knew working conditions from the inside were placing their sons and/or relatives into the business.'' The very presence of Cheere amongst the apprentices of this era indicates that there remained a few 'outsiders' who considered the making of sculpture a suitable occupation for young gentlemen of great expectations. Cheere was a well-educated young man arising from a very well-connected family, coming from social circles that gave him an immediate advantage over his predominantly humbly-born competitors. He was the son of a Huguenot merchant living in the prosperous suburban village of Clapham just south of London that had a small community of wealthy French-speaking merchants and bankers, led by the Lethieullier family. A few of these, most notably the Dobrees, hailed from elite Huguenot society in the Channel Islands, one in which Cheere mixed throughout his life and from which his own family probably arose. Although it is not possible to trace his family tree in any great detail, we can be confident that this background brought him nearer to the social circles of his finest professional patrons than his fellows in the sculpture trade. The polished prose of Cheere's letters forms a marked contrast to the poor spelling and syntax of the surviving correspondence of many contemporary English sculptors, and that of some of his foreign competitors. He was almost certainly educated at Westminster School, where he sent his eldest son.6 It is reasonable to suppose that whilst attending this school Cheere came into contact with sculpture workshops located in the adjacent streets and became an apprentice to Robert Hartshorne.7 This workshop was probably a branch of the Stanton family business, next door to whose property in St Margaret's Lane, Westminster, Cheere began his own enterprise in 1726." Cheere was in some way related to John Chardin (II), son of the great Huguenot explorer Sir John Chardin9 by the daughter of Monsieur D'Arc, the first president of the parliament of Rouen. John Chardin (II) was one of a breed of highly cultivated, well-born Protestants who found refuge among

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England's aristocratic elite.10 Refugees of Chardin's type lived very differently to the majority of prosperous Huguenots who moved into London's skilled luxury trades. We find in the letter and memorandum books of Sir John Chardin (II) a remarkable account of the life of a leisured courtier. Chardin counted himself a figure whose tastes conformed with what was 'delicate, genteel and fit for the politest courtier'. As such he kept the company of the era's most famous man of manners, the Earl of Chesterfield, whose 'squibs' and 'gay company' gave him the greatest pleasure. Describing himself as a man of 'retired pleasures', Chardin cast a protective eye over relations dedicated to professions such as Henry Cheere, whom he addresses as 'my dear and worthy kinsman'.'] Cheere was able to capitalize upon his acquaintance with his prestigious relations. He produced the monument in Westminster Abbey to the memory of Sir John Chardin (I), the explorer. This was set up by John Chardin (II) in 1746, many years after the explorer's death, as he became aware that his own death was approaching. According to the letter books of Sir John Chardin (II), a further monument was made by Cheere for Chardin and a Huguenot relation from Dublin, Major Blosset, in memory of Cornet St Leger, a young family member who was killed in action in Germany. This monument, first intended for the south aisle of Westminster Abbey, is now unfortunately untraceable. In the church of St Margaret's Westminster, Cheere produced a monument (paid for by himself in 1762) for the related Musgrave family of de la Hay Street in that parish and Edenhall in Cumbria. It was Chardin's nephew, John Chardin Musgrave, who eventually inherited the estate in Sunbury.12 Living on an estate at Sunbury in Middlesex, John Chardin (II) found his greatest delight in organizing hunts on his estates for Frederick, Prince of Wales. He regarded the Prince as a friend, writing to him regularly on courteous but familiar terms. His politics were those of the rival court, especially of those he describes as the 'new young patriots who Lord Chesterfield likes'. As a good friend of the most influential dispenser of court patronage, Charles Bodens, he secured positions for his relatives at court. A letter survives recording his successful attempts to find a court office for his cousin Daniel Boone, the son of the illustrious Governor Boone. According to Chardin's memorandum book, Bodens and Boone were frequent visitors to his Sunbury estates along with prestigious courtiers such as Charles Calvert, Lord Baltimore, Groom to the Bedchamber of the Prince of Wales (1731-47), and the Marquis of Caernavon, son of the Duke of Chandos. Cheere was, clearly, one of those relations for whom Chardin gained favours at Frederick's court. A letter penned by Chardin and addressed to the Prince of

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Wales, dated 13 August 1736, is entirely devoted to the praise of Cheere's 'celebrated statue' of Queen Caroline, and states that with Charles Bodens he had a visit to Oxford especially to see the statue. Chardin's association with the Prince of Wales's court seems to have brought Cheere into favour at the rival court. Cheere's shop produced a monument for the Marchioness of Caernavon in 1738, and a set of wonderfully elaborate chimneypieces for Lord Baltimore which formed the centrepieces of rooms at Woodcote Park, Surrey. He also received a number of commissions from the Prince's political manager, George Bubb Dodington and his associate at that court, Sir Francis Dashwood of West Wycombe Park. In the early 1750s the shop produced a major monument for Francis Ayscough, Clerk to the Prince of Wales's Closet.13 This monument was erected to the memory ofjohn Merik of Northcutt, Middlesex (d. 1749), who appears as a 'school friend' in Chardin's memorandum book. Merik, who was accorded a life-size reclining statue, had left his estate to the Ayscough family. Francis Ayscough, the principal heir, was commemorated some years later by a monument erected to the side of that of his benefactor. Much of the work Cheere produced for Frederick's court circle was of that light, curvaceous, conspicuously 'modern' design now referred to as 'rococo'. In turning to such design in the 1740s, Cheere may well have been helping to provide the Prince of Wales's rival court with a visual realm distinct from the august if somewhat cheerless and earnest classicism of Rysbrack appropriated by the Court and Administration in the 1730s. A light and exuberant style of presentation may well have suited the social profile of the rival court as pleasure seekers of the most polite and moral kind.14 Prince Frederick and his entourage made regular appearances at Vauxhall pleasure gardens, the freehold of which he owned. Here they were entertained by Jonathan Tyers, the manager of the gardens, a friend of Cheere and other members of the so-called St Martin's Lane Group. Even the plaster components of the edifices dedicated to the Prince of Wales at Vauxhall were supplied by the shop of Henry Cheere's brother, John. Vauxhall Gardens emanated a sort of light-hearted, though not flippant, rusticity which contrasted amply with the gravitas of court ruralism seen in Frederick's mother's Hermitage at Richmond.15 Here Rysbrack's and Guelfi's busts of, amongst others, Boyle, Newton, Woolaston and Clarke could still be viewed as communicating abstruse and slightly ponderous ideas on natural religion. Cheere appears to have picked up on the quality of light rusticity preferred by the rival court and purveyed it to the public as an alternative type of product to that supplied by the Flemish workshops. This attitude to sculpture

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Plate 14 Henry Cheere, The Pleasures of Life, detail of fireplace, West Wycombe Park, Buckinghamshire (The National Trust). Photograph: Photographic Survey, Courtauld Institute of Art. had its apogee in the fine chimney-pieces with scenes fromyEsop's Fables, most probably made by William Collins (1721—93) on Cheere's behalf, which came to grace interiors such as Picton Castle, West Wycombe Park and Langley Park (Plate 14).1A Knowledge of Cheere's family roots and education are very important when analysing the character of the designs that emerged from his shop. An element in his background enabled him to sympathize with the culture of genteel pleasure and leisure and so produce designs which forcefully encapsulated those values. Cheere was able to inject into his designs for domestic interior fittings a light-hearted atmosphere of worldly pleasure. He even brought this sense of delight into designs for funerary monuments of the 1750s. No other monument in Westminster Abbey, for instance, has less morbid gravitas than that which he

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designed for his neighbour, the Channel Islander Captain Philip Durrell, in memory of Captain Philip de Saumarez (d. 1747; Plate 15). It should be noted that the notion of polite 'commerce' with which Cheere identified himself through his service to the Society of Arts, Manufacture and Commerce conformed much more strongly with that of 'pleasure' than any concept of trade. There is, and was, something dour and pleasureless about the concept of trade and the tradesman; this is probably derived from the suspicion that the tradesman is too concerned about the labour of his craft and tnaking money to enjoy life.17 Commerce, by contrast, can be and •was regarded as a system of exchange which opened up the polite public - which included the genteel sculptor - to the sensations of pleasure. Cheere's speech to the Society of Arts centred upon the argument that a work of art should display society's appetite for pleasure. The public's desire to be pleased was, he argued, a legitimate stimulus for the production of the polite arts: And as curiosity is, in a manner, boundless so are the powers of the imagination too; hence the idea of excellency would be diversified into a thousand shapes; and as soon as the mind is satisfied with one pleasing object it should be relieved by another. Thus the more attention we bestow upon the arts, the quicker relish we acquire for them, the more enlarged the province of pleasure becomes; and what is equally worthy of consideration the pleasure of individuals thus derived and obtained becomes so many inexhaustible sources of profit to the public.

Cheere's role as a man of commerce, as opposed to a tradesman, allowed him to inject a sense of enjoyment into his designs which was missing in the work of trade masons. It is significant that representatives of the old-fashioned 'City' masons' trade were inclined to retain the use of macabre and dismal memento mori in funerary art at a time when truly polite sculptors made every effort to avoid producing work that depressed the spirit.1" I contend that there was a tendency for the products of trade to be gloomy which caused, as a reaction, the products of Cheere's 'commerce' to be exuberant and lifeenhancing. The quality of Cheere's designs in the 1740s and 1750s is inseparable from the polite character of residential life in the Westminster parish. It was part of the character of Westminster life, as opposed to that of the City of London, that its commercial professionals aspired to a type of gentility that had little to do with 'City' values. Andrews Jelfe, a Westminster mason/contractor who worked together with Cheere on the Westminster Bridge project, sought, for instance, to secure for his son the life of a refined military officer. 19 In the upper echelons of the London's Masons' Company family ambition

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Plate 15 Henry Cheere, Monument to Capt. Philip de Saumarez, d. 1747, Westminster Abbey (photo: Conway Library, Courtauld Institute of Art).

CONTACTS AND CONTRACTS: SIR H E N R Y CHEERE 103 was serviced in a different way. Robert Taylor the elder (1690-1742), a Company member, climbed the social ladder in a manner typical of prominent merchants of the Port of London. He acquired a family estate in Woodford, an area of Essex very popular with the 'hard core' entrepreneurs of London. Like Taylor, Thomas Dunn, a very successful Southwark mason who occasionally took on sculptural commissions, rose to fortune by mixing in City society. Dunn's will shows that he was a nephew of Edward Peck, a City luminary who served on the Council for the Erection of City Churches, whose monument, with a very fine bust, he had carved for Christ Church, Spitalfields, in 1736. It seems likely that such connections enabled Dunn to acquire City contracts and offices such as mason to the Grocer's Company and masoncontractor for the building of the Mansion House. The profits of these contracts were, in turn, transformed into a large portfolio of properties in the City of London itself.2" Cheere also used his fortune to acquire properties which he restored using components such as fireplaces from his own workshops. However, the character of the properties in which he speculated was different from those chosen by Dunn. Cheere specialized in renting very refined properties to, and leasing properties from, the aristocracy.21 In these affairs, as in all else, he aligned himself with the values of genteel residential society to the west of London rather than the City. He was, emphatically, a creature of polite residential London and the polite art of statuary, and as such formed a heavy contrast with a figure such as Dunn who was a creature of the City and the prosperous trade of masonry. As an employer of many indigenous sculptors, Cheere's personal affiliations with the polite residential culture of London were to prove important. He dragged a substantial proportion of the native trade with him away from the culture of the Masons' Company. The majority of Cheere's employees — notably his closest colleagues Robert Taylor, William Collins, John Cheere and Richard Burrell - maintained no formal links with the Masons' Company. However, one of his principal employees, Richard Hayward (1728-1800), remained loyal to the Company. A member of the family of Christopher Horsnaile, one of the most prominent 'City' masons, Hayward served as Renter Warden of the Company. A measure of the decline of the Company is provided by Cheere's employment of Hayward for much of the latter's career. Under Cheere Hayward became very wealthy. He married Horsenaile's niece, who had a considerable settlement, and was able to secure a fine estate around family properties in Warwickshire.22 Despite his wealth he did not seek total independence and the greater profits which would have accrued from that

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state. This may well indicate that he needed Cheere to acquire contracts. If so, his career with Cheere can be regarded as symbolic of the inability of the sculptor of the traditional Masons' Company type to survive independently the demands of securing patronage from the residential communities of the metropolis. The decline in the power of the Masons' Company changed the whole character of indigenous sculpture in England. It can be seen in the context of a general decline in Company culture under the pressure of the rise of a polite public who preferred to deal with elegant professionals rather than with Company practitioners. These, though often wealthy, emitted too strong a whiff of trade. As detected in the tone of certain comments in Daniel Defoe's Complete English Tradesmen (published 1725 and 1726), genteel folk of this era who found the growth of polite retailing exceedingly exciting and progressive could come to regard City Company culture as old-fashioned, pompous and unrefined. 23 The disgraceful collapse of the South Sea Company may well have contributed to the hostility that some portions of genteel society felt towards the City. Signs of the diminishing authority of the Masons' Company were evident long before Henry Cheere's rise to riches. Friction between polite statuaries, who chose to settle to the west of the City, and the Company began in the late seventeenth century. Grinling Gibbons (1648—1721), who certainly aspired to be recognized as a practitioner of the polite arts, situated his shop in the Covent Garden area and refused to pay fees to the Masons' Company.24 During the 1680s sculptors aspiring to command the favours of fashionable society began to abandon the City of London en masse, preferring shops to the west of the City and within the City of Westminster, the location of the majority of the fine residential developments.25 Sites were preferred where polite society would be most at ease. Favoured locations for the shops of ambitious sculptors from the 1720s onward were around Westminster Abbey, the St Martin's Lane and Covent Garden area, Hyde Park and Maryleborie. By the mid-eighteenth century this shift of location had clearly divided the elite sculpture profession from the City mason trade. Workshop masters with affiliations to the Masons' Company, or reliant upon City contracts, situated themselves in locations such as Southwark and Holborn, areas associated more with labour and warehousing than polite retailing. Here they came to occupy an almost entirely separate social domain from that of the powerful West End sculptors. This split in trade was associated with a divergence in attitudes to running workshops. The great shops in residential areas became well-known places of public resort, operating partly as forms of commercial galleries, whereas

CONTACTS AND CONTRACTS: SIR H E N R Y C H E E R E 105 the mason shops continued to operate strictly as working environments. Every fashionable person in London came to know what the Cheere brothers' lead and plaster cast shop on Hyde Park Corner looked like from within.26 Nobody wrote about visiting mason's shops such as those of Thomas Dunn (d. 1746) in Southwark27or of his associate Richard Spangen (d. 1757) in Camberwell.28 This shift of the sculpture profession towards residential areas seems to have provided Henry Cheere with a new means of climbing the social ladder through the pursuit of public office. In his youth it was conventional for sculptors and masons to attempt to achieve public office to improve their social profile. Positions in the City's trained bands of Militia were popular, two sculptor/masons being known by the title 'Captain'.29 Other sculptors, such as Christopher Horsnaile, achieved minor civic office in the City Wards. The main objective of seeking such office was presumably to maintain a profile in City society which would open access to public and company contracts. Cheere applied the same strategy but in the residential environment. From the mid-1740s onward he seized every opportunity for public office available in St Margaret's, Westminster. Beginning as a principal vestry man, he moved into the dispensing of local justice and an assortment of roles such as Juryman (first appointed 1742), Controller of Duties at the Free Fish Market of Westminster (first appointed 1749), and Justice of the Peace (first appointed 1750).30 The consequence of this service in Westminster was that Cheere built a social reputation not in the City but within the residential community. This served general commercial interests biased towards gaining large numbers of commissions from the residential community rather than winning City contracts. Cheere's access to the market of the residential community of Westminster carne through his attendance at church and his work as a vestry man at St Margaret's, Westminster, which appears to have functioned as a sort of ecclesiastical club for local men. The attractions of a big metropolitan vestry to ambitious men of this penod can be compared to that of the coffee house, freemasonic fraternity or charity board. In such environments all portions of prosperous society mingled if not on an equal, then at least on a convivial, basis. The records of pew rentals for this parish at this time give an idea of the extent of social interchange between aristocracy, gentry, prominent professionals and eminent tradesmen.31 For professionals or artists, serving in a metropolitan vestry such as this and organizing church activities had the important function of demonstrating to all an ability to take responsibility for the conduct of polite society. These opportunities were denied to Catholics such as Scheemakers and Rysbrack, who not only were isolated from main-

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stream parish life but also were prevented by constitutional law from any form of official public service. Cheere was able to show his organizational skills in this social capacity by leading a group of prominent Westminster tradesmen in a number of important parish projects through which they demonstrated their abilities to take charge of affairs. Accounts survive demonstrating Cheere's active role in the preparation of the Westminster Bridge project, the highly controversial 'restoration' of the east end of St Margaret's, Westminster, and the construction of a pageantry for King George Ill's coronation.32 An indication that by the 1740s Cheere was beginning to monopolize the contracts available within Westminster's residential community is given by the movements of two of his competitors. In 1741 Peter Scheemakers' shop relocated from Palace Yard, where Cheere leased a house, to Vine Street, Piccadilly. This move seems to suggest that the Westminster trading environment was not big enough for two. Robert Taylor's bid for independence from Cheere in the mid-1740s underlines the sculptor's trading power in Westminster. Instead of staying in the immediate vicinity Taylor set up shop about a thousand metres east of his former master, near the King's Mews. Thus Taylor oriented his whole business strategy eastward, towards the City of London rather than Westminster. Having won the main City contract for the pedimental sculpture of Mansion House, Taylor concentrated his efforts as architect and sculptor upon the merchant community of the Port of London. Taylor avoided all potential conflict with his powerful former employer by moving into City markets that had opened up following the decline of the Masons' Company's influence in the sculpture market. The extent of Cheere's business acumen is made clear by the fact that two families inhabiting houses within a few metres of his residence in Old Palace Yard were amongst his best clients. On one side lived a family of maiden sisters who had inherited considerable estates in Dorset at the death of their brother, Sir Samwell Newman (d. 1746), a gentleman lawyer. The surviving sister commissioned Cheere to make a monument — of the highest quality — commemorating the last six members of her family and erected in a specially designed mausoleum chapel at Fifehead Magdelene. The houses on the other side of Cheere formed the social centre of a large kinship group of wealthy Channel Islanders led by the sculptor's friend, Admiral Philip Durell.33 The family commissioned two major monuments for Westminster Abbey, two large mural monuments for St Helier, Jersey, and one for the destroyed Church of St Andrew's, Plymouth. The quantity of commissions Cheere secured from his immediate neighbours

CONTACTS AND CONTRACTS: SIR H E N R Y CHEERE 107 and the inhabitants of nearby streets seems to indicate his ability to generate rather than simply service markets. Families such as the Durells and de Saumarez had not previously commissioned sculpture, but became avid patrons of the art form after living alongside him. A great proportion of Cheere's patrons in the 1740s and 50s fell into this category. In the 1740s he made the transition from reactive businessman, who responded to the pressures of competition, to active entrepreneur creating his own markets controlled on his own terms. The days had passed when Cheere's shop was dominated by the production of a few but splendid pieces, such as the grand monuments for Susannah Thomas and Viscount Newhaven (both 1732). By the 1740s he had switched to a high turnover of more modest commissions, occasionally accepting a very large contract such as the monument for the 19th Earl of Kildare (Plate 16). This change coincided with Cheere's move to set his brother up in the Hyde Park Corner shop devoted to the ultimate high-volume, low-cost end of the market, the production of plaster and lead casts. Henry Cheere continued to hold a stake in this business until his death and introduced into his own shops some notion of concentrating on the use of cheap raw material. In the mid1740s monuments and fireplaces emerging from Cheere's St Margaret's, Westminster, premises began to include components modelled from marble pastes rather than carved from blocks.'4 The Cheere shops at this period also began to employ a great deal of polychromy. Thin layers of highly coloured marble were used to create strong visual contrasts giving an impression of opulence without an extravagant expenditure on raw materials. This was a style of sculpture best suited to the aesthetic proclivities of gentry wishing to appear wealthy, rather than those of the affluent aristocracy who could afford to indulge in understatement. Whatever their London location the latter continued to favour Rysbrack, who was known for the discreet use of white, grey and black marbles. The Cheere family's movement towards high-volume, modest-cost trade was so marked that it must have been a planned strategy. Trade of this sort certainly improved the social power of the sculptor in relation to his patrons. Working on the universal principle of divide and rule, Cheere seems to have appreciated that many patrons of similar social status to himself were easier to control than a small number of nobility. The nobility at this time were notorious for ignoring tradesmen's bills and changing their preferences for artists at the whim of fashion. Any business relying upon such inconstant favours was vulnerable to bankruptcy,'"1 whereas a large company with many smaller commitments could sustain trade far more reliably and profitably. It was certainly no coincidence that Cheere moved towards this latter type of trade at precisely the point when he began to seek public office. The move towards

Plate 16 Henry Cheere, Monument to the 19th Earl of Kildare, Christchurch Cathedral, Dublin, 1746 (photo: Conway Library, Courtauld Institute of Art).

CONTACTS AND C O N T R A C T S : SIR H E N R Y C H E E R E 109 high-volume trade placed greater emphasis on his ability to generate and secure a great number of commissions. From this time onwards, Cheere probably began to expend less energy on carving than on the Westminster social round. His main art at this time was the quasi-miraculous transformation of public service into private interest. We can, in the final analysis, be sure that Cheere was a great businessman, but not that he was instead a magnificently skilled artist. Although associated with much of the finest English sculpture of the mid-eighteenth century, what he actually carved or modelled will always be a mystery. What is clear, from the sheer volume of works associated with his shops, is that his physical participation in many, it not most, commissions must have been limited to the drawing board. He began his career as a sculptor and ended it as a designer of sculpture. It is an indication of his stature as a business innovator that he is the first English sculptor, and the only one of his day, who could with little controversy be described as a manufacturer. Despite the problems surrounding the quality and extent of his handiwork, Cheere deserves to be seen as one of the most influential representatives of the English early-modern sculpture profession. He was largely responsible for the continuation of an English tradition of sculpture through what transpires to have been its final trial of foreign domination. Some of his shop's best work of the 1740s and 50s, in particular the monument to the 19th Earl of Kildare, retains the fine qualities of English figure sculpture as had emerged from the shops of late seventeenth-century masons.36 He was in some ways the most important artistic heir to the Stanton family in whose shops he had trained. Cheere did, indeed, have the confidence late m his career to return to the kinds of monumental composition associated with old English tradition, such as his monument at Amersham to Elizabeth Drake (d. 1758), which is clearly a revival of a Tudor/Stuart type. The traditional qualities of Cheere's shop are indicated in the fact that Richard Hayvvard was a prominent upholder of the traditions of the Masons' Company. Hayward, long accredited with the execution of some of Cheere's most traditional compositions, was declared in his obituary an 'admirable' relic of'the old school'.37 Despite signs of sympathy for the old-world values, Cheere, more than any other contemporary English sculptor, presided over the end of the traditional mason trade. He was the first English sculptor to join a public society, the Society of Arts, Manufacture and Commerce, dedicated to the formation of a new London art world in which sculptors would promote their skills at exhibitions and young sculptors compete for prizes in competitions. Within this society he led a strident campaign for the foundation of a national academy

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for the education of practitioners of the polite arts. Here, he argued, clear divisions should be made between the province of the artisan and that of the artist. In so doing, Cheere was hastening the break-up of the world of mason contractors within which he had been trained. He foresaw that a system which had enabled him to compete with continental practitioners did not satisfy the broader public interest of an ambitious national society or the needs of forthcoming generations of English talent. In this respect he was proved right. The following generations of English sculptors, aided by academies and exhibitions, were able to put an end to the domination of the country's sculpture trade by sculptors trained abroad. More important still, Cheere's very distance from the manual production of sculpture in his shops, and his capacity to preside over a large workshop which efficiently produced works to his designs, was a portent of things to come. It was no coincidence that Cheere and Josiah Wedgwood corresponded.3" Cheere, like Wedgwood after him, undoubtedly understood that the market for the polite arts was open to dramatic redefinition and expansion. He also appears to have grasped the idea that it was possible, through manufacturing efficiency, to sell one man's tastes to an entire public. Cheere's career can be seen to mark a point of transition from the world of the traditional English mason's trade to the world of the polite and commercial professional sculptor. From a modern perspective, we might say that Cheere was responsible for bringing sculpture a step closer to the emerging culture of'consumerism'.3"

Acknowledgement The notes of this chapter contain reference to Malcolm Baker's work. This, however, is small measure of the assistance he has given me on this subject, and this chapter should be regarded as the fruits of a collaboration.

Notes 1. Cheere's nomination of Hogarth for membership of the Society of Arts, Manufacture and Commerce may indicate their friendship. A full list of those nominated by Cheere for this society can be found at the archive of the Society of Arts, extracted from the society minute books. 2. A copy of this speech is available at the Society of Arts Library, Dr Templeman's Transactions, Vol. 1 (1754-8). The general tone of the speech is xenophobic, a curious thing for a man who appears to have been half French and \vhose brother left money to a French charity. Cheere's claim that import of foreign art damaged the prestige of the nation is typical: 'But loss on the point

CONTACTS AND C O N T R A C T S : SIR H E N R Y C H E E R E 111 of money is not to be so much regretted, as loss in the point ot character. In this one particular at least we voluntarily yield the palm to every petty state that has happened to produce a painter.' 3. This business was established in 1739. John Cheere seems to have supplied a great quantity of lead figures to the Palacio Nazional Qucluz, Portugal. A clause in Henry Cheere's will relieving his brother of any debt to him concerning the financial ownership of the Hyde Park premises suggests that Henry continued to have an economic stake in the lead business after its inception. It is reasonable to regard John Cheere's business as a kind of off-shoot of that conducted in St Margaret's, Westminster, a semi-independent concern rather than a separate business. 4. There is as yet no thorough account of Taylor's career as a sculptor. A good impression of his 'networking' prowess and City identity may be gleaned from Binney (1984). 5. The first three decades of the eighteenth century was a period when the male heirs of eminent sculptors tended not to go into the business. The last heirs of the Stanton and Bird businesses, for instance, seem to have gone into the stone and marble supply trade. A high proportion of successful native workshop masters born at approximately the turn of the century James Annis, Thomas Adye, Henry Chccrc, Thomas Carter the elder, etc. — had no known family connection with the business. 6. Henry Cheere is very likely to have been the Cheere who was at Westminster School in 1715—16. His son William attended the school in 1742. This information is drawn from The Record of Old Westminsters (London: 1928), vol. I, p. 179. 7. Cheere's apprenticeship in 1718 to the flourishing workshop of Robert Hartshorne, an associate of Horsenaile and Stanton, was first discovered by Webb (1957). 8. The Poor Rate Ledgers for the late 1720s (Westminster Public Library Archives Division) show that Cheere and Henry Scheemakers started their shop in St Margaret's Lane next door to premises owned by a certain 'widow Stanton'. 9. Cheere's relation to the Chardin family is demonstrated in the Letter Books of Sir John Chardin (II). These very important letters were rriismed in the Musgrave papers at Cumbria Record Office, no attempt having being made to identify the author of the letters which was entirely self-evident, as they are all signed.The letters are not simply important for the purposes of this paper. They are full of valuable historical information on the social life of the court circle of Frederick, Prince of Wales. This primary material may he found in the Musgrave papers a.s D/Lons,'Letter Book of Sir John Chardin Musgrave'. The Musgrave papers also contain an important memorandum book of Sir John Chardin (II), unfortunately in a somewhat fragile state. 10. A list of the prestigious French and English families to which John Chardin regarded himself as related to appears in his memorandum book. 11. All quotations in this and the following paragraph derive from Sir John Chardin's Letter Books. 12. The Musgraves inherited Chardin's estates by virtue of the marriage of Sir Christopher Musgrave of Edenhall to Julia, sister of Sir John Chardin (II). 13. Ayscough's role in the commission of the monument can be discerned from the will of John Merik (PCC 1749, 151). 14. Connections between the growth of the 'rococo' style and the Court of Frederick Prince of Wales were first made by Mark Girouard. For his debate of these issues see Girouard (1966a; 1966b). 15. Vauxhall Gardens have been the subject of considerable interest in recent years in analysis of the public culture of leisure. A general introduction to the tone of proceedings may be attained from the reading of Edelstein (1983) and Bindman (1997). For a wider discussion of the commercialization of polite leisure, see Plumb (1983).

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16. Baker (1984), 307-8, makes a good case for the idea that Collins, who appears to have been a relief carving specialist, executed the majority of Cheere's best 'jolly pastoral' chimneypieces. This appears in his catalogue entry for the very fine Relief of a Shepherd and Shepherdess. 17. That 'trade' was popularly considered gloomy and depressing can be seen, for instance, in the view of physicians at Bedlam that 'the deadness of trade' lay behind the admission of tradesmen to the hospital. See Andrews (1991): 419-20. 18. A full account of the decline of macabre imagery will appear in my forthcoming book to be published under the title Death and Decorum. 19. Sec the entry on Jclfe in Colvin (1985). 20. A detailed list of Dunn's properties can be found in his will (PCC 1746, 146). 21. Cheere owned a substantial number of properties, so many, indeed, that he seems to have employed his son, Charles, as full-time agent for his property affairs. These properties were often very grand London houses. One of his tenants was the Secretary of State, Charles Jenkinson, who inhabited a house in Canon Row fitted with Cheere fireplaces which may well be evidence of Cheere's involvement in speculative building projects. 22. For an account of Hayward's career see Lord (1997). 23. The historical distinction between City or Company culture and commercial culture is, obviously, a complex subject. Whilst the phenomena cannot be neatly distinguished, it was also, manifestly, possible to be a passionate advocate of commerce and yet suspicious of the City. These sentiments were not simply a factor of competition between small independent entrepreneurs and the great powers of trade and finance. A relatively independent Whig commentator such as Defoe found himself an enthusiastic supporter of the new retail culture of London, and yet scoffed at the 'dreadful gewgaws of City pageantry', seeming to regard Company culture as a sort of pompous anachronism in an age of understated politeness and refined commerce. 24. Knoop (1938): 78. This book reproduces the Search Books of the Masons' Company in which lists of names and addresses of those masons paying Company fees are recorded. In the 1694 search Gibbons 'would not give any.' 25. Compare the 'General Search' of the Masons' Company for 1678 with that of 1694. These appear as Appendix A and C of Knoop (1938). By comparison of these lists, where the addresses of all the major companies are listed, one can see the shift westward which occurred in the 1680s. 26. For the fame of John Cheere's shop consult the introduction to Friedman (1974). 27. The close association between Dunn and Spangen was unknown to Gunnis (1953). However, the evidence of Dunn's will, in which Richard Spangen is left a very handsome bequest, indicates that they had a close working relationship over an extended period. 28. Richard Van Spangen seems to have been a prosperous sculptor. His date of death Gunnis does not list it - appears to have been 1757. He describes himself in his will (PCC 1757, 68) as 'a Citizen and Mason of London' who resides in Camberwell. 29. Robert Taylor (snr) was commonly known as 'Capt. Taylor' and Samuel Tufnell was known as Captain and later Colonel Tufnell. 30. A list of Henry Cheere's main public offices can be found in Webb (1958). 31. The complete pew rental books of St Margaret's, Westminster, survive for Cheere's lifetime in the collection of Westminster Public Library, Manuscripts Division, E 3240-3246. Cheere shared a pew with the distinguished country gentleman Thomas Wyndham csq. 32. Substantial records for all these projects survive in the collection of Westminster Public Library, Manuscripts Division. A typical project was the highly controversial repair of the east end which ended in a legal battle between the vestry and the Dean and Chapter of Westminster Abbey concerning the use of religious icons in a Protestant Church. Chccrc was at the centre of this project along with individuals such as the prominent local upholsterer and undertaker William

C O N T A C T S AND C O N T R A C T S : SIR H E N R Y C H E E R E 113 Goff. For full proceedings see the books of the committee for the repair of St Margaret's, Westminster, of 1758. Westminster, E 2619. 33. Cheere's persona] friendship with Durell, who was a keen amateur draughtsman, is witnessed by the fact that he proposed him as vestryman of St Margaret's, Westminster, and for membership of the Society of Arts, Manufacture and Commerce. 34. I have no great claim to understanding the paste technology developed by Cheere. All my knowledge derives from looking closely at broken pieces of Cheere monuments in various parish churches. (See the monument to Jeremiah Hollings at St John's, Halifax, of the early 1750s.) Thin pieces appear to be some sort of amalgam of which the principal constituent seems to be powdered white marble. I also suspect that Cheere employed stains to enhance the colours used in his late polychrome pieces. 35. James Lovell (ft. 1752—78) is an example of a sculptor who became over-committed to a single type of patronage. He worked considerably at Stowe, for the Grenville/Lyttleton set, and became somewhat of a favoured figure of Horace Walpole. His patronage circle being very narrow and aristocratic, he went bankrupt in 1768 (London Magazine (1768): 711, List of Bankrupts). 36. The figures of the Kildare monument seem to have much in common with the hgure sculpture of William (1639-1704) and Edward (1681-1734) Stanton. 37. See Ilayward's obituary in the Gentleman's Magazine (1800): 909. 38. For the association between Wedgwood and Cheere see Friedman (1974): 20. 39. For a basic debate on the chronology of the development sec McKendrick at al. (1982) and Brewer and Porter (1993).

CHAPTER 6

'SHEEP, SHEPHERDS, AND WILD BEASTS, CUT ARTIFICIALLY IN STONE'* PRODUCTION AND CONSUMPTION OF GARDEN SCULPTURE IN GENOA AT THE END OF THE SEVENTEENTH AND DURING THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY LAURO MAGNANI

The presence of Pierre Puget in Genoa between 1660 and 1670 and the continuing demand from high-class patrons in the years immediately following the departure of the artist highlight the central role of sculpture in the larger project of baroque decoration that had developed in the city. Recent publications1 occasioned by the exhibitions dedicated to Puget held in Marseilles and Genoa (1994—5) have focused attention on the intimate ties and interchanges between Puget and the leading representatives of the local school of painting. These intimate links relate to issues of pictorial sensibility and treatment of materials, formal composition, and spatial relationships. However, it should be recalled that the very arrival of Puget in Genoa stems from the role played by the city as an important marble-trading centre at the heart of the Mediterranean, and frequently as a starting point for the Europe-wide commercialization of both rough and carved marble. Within this context should also be set the activity - for a long time monopolistic — of the workshops of marble workers and sculptors of the 'Lombard nation'; these were particularly thriving * The quotation is taken from John Evelyn's diary of his visit to Genoa, 6 November 1644.

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in the sixteenth century, and continued to be active during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. In the last decade of the seventeenth century the workshop of Filippo Parodi embodied a significant integration in the field of sculpture of the decorative cycles of grand painters such as Domenico Piola and his workshop, as well as Gregorio De Ferrari on the one hand, and — on the other — a conception of sculpture as subsumed within decoration and as an element in the definition of an architectural space. Decorative sculpture gains a special role acting as a link between the space given over to nature and that of architecture, where there is a substantial equivalence between the illusionistic spaces of interiors and the real spaces of the garden. The architect-sculptor, strengthened by the experiences gained in the last decades of the seventeenth century, was able to mould space through a series of decorative elements. Thus it is not accidental that in the early decades of the eighteenth century, Domenico Parodi, son of Filippo, planned the intermediate space connecting the Palazzo Lomellini on Strada Nuova to the garden to the rear and that this space should contain a large nymphaeum with rich sculptural decoration (Plate 17). The whole area of the garden — intimately connected with the interior spaces decorated in the same years by Domenico Parodi, Lorenzo De Ferrari, as well as Marcantonio Franceschini and Giacomo Antonio Boni — is a space furnished with figures in plaster or Carrara marble. To start with, the courtyard was transformed by the introduction of a theatrical nymphaeum. This masks the drop in level between the street and the garden by means of the introduction of an imposing giant order in which are carved the figures of Tritons supporting the connecting parts, and framing the scene of the fall of Phaethon. The dramatic movement of the scene both marks and links the different heights of the building.2 The whole operation relies on the skills of the 'sculptor and architect' — according to the definition of a role previously fulfilled by Filippo Parodi in Padua3 — to conceive homogeneously and autonomously space and decoration. Thus it seems reasonable to suggest, as did Ratti, that we can attribute to Parodi the 'model' of the whole scene and the 'gustosa invenzione' of the fall of Phaethon, together with the other 'mutamenti di architettura'. 4 The drawing (inv. 11. 4667) in the Palazzo Rosso is in the graphic style of Domenico Parodi; Ratti furthermore talks of plaster work being done by Francesco Biggi, formerly a member of the workshop of Filippo, and sculptor and plasterer who carried out the designs of these masters. Biggi might well be the author of the monumental sculptural group which, on the same axis of the nymphaeum, blocks the central view of the upper garden with a Silenus drinking from a gourd held by a satyr behind his shoulders and surrounded by putti holding bunches of grapes. This Dionysian scene can be

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Plate 17 Nymphaeum and gardens, Palazzo Lomellini-Podesta, Strada Nuova, Genoa (photo: Archivio Fotograflco Comune di Geneva).

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connected with the frescoes painted in the palace by Domenico Parodi. In a sitting room of the piano nobile at the garden level Domenico had painted a Bacchus with Ariadne Transformed into a Constellation.^ In the different levels of the decoration of this fresco Parodi (here acting as a painter) plays with the relationships between the figures on the walls (that simulate marble reliefs), the corner figures of putti (painted to simulate real bodies), the pairs of young satyrs (painted to look like bronze), and finally the central life-size scene in which the god is surrounded with putti playing amidst bunches and branches of grapes. Thus besides the continued dialogue in the fresco between the life-size figure and the representation of sculpture — both simulated in the illusionistic painting — the link between sculpture and plaster work in Young Bacchus Riding a Coat (Plate 18) becomes more direct. This scene is represented in an over-door relief and can be connected to a sculpture on a similar subject (stylistically close to Parodi) formerly housed in a villa owned by the Lomellini family, and known only through an historic photograph.6 One must note the conceptual unity typical of a generation of artists who move with complete ease amongst drawing, painting, decorative plasterwork and marble sculpture, albeit without innovation as they lost the capacity to explore with the same free imagination as their baroque predecessors. Yet they were capable of exploiting to the full the ambiguity and humour inherent in the play between the three-dimensional and its illusionistic depiction, and which brought into the realm of decoration both the Arcadian spaces of the garden and the intermediate spaces (whether real or artificially represented) between the garden and palace. The spaces of the Palazzo Lomellini provide us with an example of those areas where the decorative projects for the interior and exterior are tightly linked: this is to be seen in the relationship between the small piano nobile galleries and the garden directly connected with them. The decoration of the eastern gallery, by Lorenzo De Ferrari,7 simulates an open balustrade with large flowerpots overlooking the garden. The western gallery, decorated by Domenico Parodi, leads onto a (real) trellised walkway which, echoing the frescoed decoration of the gallery, carries on to a rustic grotto at the end of the terraced garden. The narrative is continued with a marble statue of Apollo with the Thunderbolt (Plate 19) turned towards the inside of the grotto. This sculpture, of good quality, is probably by Domenico Parodi, and conceptually should also be directly linked with the frescoes on the vault of the eastern gallery, where the deities appear to be related to the myth of Gaia-Earth. In the gallery the frescoes by Lorenzo are intertwined with plaster figures representing the Four Parts of the World which, as noted by Ezia Gavazza in her essays on Lorenzo

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Plate 18 Domenico Parodi, Young Bacchus Riding a Goat, fresco, Palazzo LomellmiPodesta, Strada Nuova, Genoa (photo: Archivio Fotografico Comune di Geneva).

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Plate 19 Domenico Parodi, Apollo with the Thunderbolt, garden of Palazzo LomellmiPodesta, Strada Nuova, Genoa (photo: author).

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De Ferrari's treatment of this subject,8 are derived from a drawing by Paolo Gerolamo Piola. These figures were probably made by Biggi, the same artist working in Domenico Parodi's team as the executor of large plaster sculptures in a nymphaeum with satyrs and Bacchus for the gardens. The links between painters and plasterers, and painters and sculptors, were very close and stemmed from the unity that then existed amongst these decorative arts. It is in this perspective that one can justify my attribution to Domenico Parodi of two drawings in the Palazzo Rosso showing two complex fountain projects.9 On the other hand Fausta Franchini has recently attributed these drawings to Paolo Gerolamo Piola.10 She suggests that the Narcissus at the Fount (inv. n. 4406) might represent the idea for a lost sculpture group meant for a terrace at the Palazzo Balbi and carved, according to Ratti, by Bernardo Schiaffino; this would therefore be another group conceived for an intermediate space between the interior and exterior of a palace in what appears to be a constant desire to construct a dialogue between architecture and nature. Franchini has also identified drawing number 4355 as the project for the fountain showing Venus on a Shell with Tritons carved by Bernardo Schiaffino for Santa Cruz de Tenerife and subsequently taken to an unknown location in England. In the collection of drawings of the Palazzo Rosso there is another drawing (inv. n. 2186) in a different hand but of the same subject, thus showing the circulation of models. It was with the work of Filippo Parodi, particularly in the two last decades of the century, that the distinction between internal and external spaces had become blurred, extending it to sculptural decorations. Evidence of this is provided by the group of Ttie Metamorphoses in the Palazzo Reale in its original location, by the 'invasion' of the natural elements in the carved wall mirror of Albisola where the myth of Narcissus provides the subject and stimulus for the decoration as in the drawing previously mentioned." Alvar Gonzales Palacios, and before him Ezia Gavazza, have rightly pointed out that the architectural decoration in these Genoese palaces encompasses furnishings - that are treated as if having the same conceptual status as sculpture. It is in this perspective that one should consider the so-called Brignole carved mirror, and similarly Gonzales Palacios's remarks on the relationship between the drawing for the Tenerife fountain and the design of some side tables. Further examples are provided in Parodi's output and that of his followers in the first decades of the eighteenth century by the numerous wall sconces where Tritons move between shells and plant forms.12 The drawings in the Victoria and Albert Museum for a Fountain with Putto and for a torchere with a merman and Cupid, both attributed to Domenico

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Parodi, as well as the one of a triton and Nereid formerly in the Manning Collection and now in Austin,13 provide evidence of Domenico's interest in exploiting the intermediate spaces between aristocratic dwellings, decorative spaces, and gardens. The fountain groups for the Palazzo Brignole further demonstrate this point through the positioning \vithin the palace interior of waterworks as an evocative device alluding to the natural world outside. Parodi's drawing for the group representing Romulus and Remus Suckled by the Wolf'm the drawings collection of the Palazzo Rosso (inv. n. 3407) is wellknown. It might well be that its companion piece showing Castor and Pollux Hatched from Leda's Egg, sculpted by Bernardo SchiafFmo, was based on a similar drawing by Domenico. The two sculpture groups decorated the room with the Judgement of Paris in the private apartments of the Palazzo Brignole; Parodi's design for the room hinged on the use of the visual ambiguity of a myth transposed into reality. In the apartment, as Franchini has noticed,14 the erotic overtones of the literary narrative are underscored by the trick — a device already familiar to Filippo Parodi - of the use of mirrors to transport the observers into the mythological scenes depicted about them. 15 Similarly, such Arcadian jollity is at the basis of Domenico Parodi's decorative scheme in the Palazzo Brignole, as it is also to be found in the designs of the 'boscareccia amenita' for the Durazzo family's villas at Pino and Romairone.16 In the Palazzo Brignole Domenico Parodi pushes to the limit the equivalence between reality and representation; in the richly illusionistic paintings the artist does not spare craftsmanship in order to make his characters 'real' amongst actual onyx rocailles framing mirrors in which the image of the patron-actor is surrounded by the images of the heroes-actors of the myth. The two sculpture groups are on the same level of play with the realistic representation of nature (however obvious the illusion): all the skills of the artists are used to deal with the materials which are worked with a wealth of naturalistic detail - although the finished sculptures were without the extensive use of water-play present in the drawn project (and which would have been excessive for an internal space). In the lay space of the dwelling, as in a religious space, the artist works within an illusionary representation of nature: a garden space (i.e. a grotto) forms the backdrop for a Bath in the drawings collection of the Palazzo Rosso (inv. n. 4789 ); similarly in the drawing in the Victoria and Albert Museum a grotto-nymphaeum becomes the place in which the Virgin of Mercy of Savona makes her appearance. It is likely that this idea was at the basis of the group carved by Biggi for the Pammatone Hospital.17 The capacity to make the space of representation resound with the echoes of nature's presence is evident in the

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works produced by Filippo Parodi, and can also be traced in the later works by or after Gregorio De Ferrari: in the Palazzo Rosso drawing (inv. n. 2159) showing A Fountain with Putto and Basin, this beautiful conceit can be associated with the idea for a Fountain (inv. n. 57651) in the same collection. Such inventions and drawing style find a direct correspondence in the lively handling of the frescoes as well as of marble sculpture, particularly in the contemporary basins for terraces and gardens ranging, for example, from those for the Palazzo Balbi Seneraga through the parterre of the Villa della Duchessa di Galleria in Voltri, and to the beautiful nymphaeuni fount in the Villa Spinola De Mari in Sestri Ponente.18 Despite its weaker quality another drawing in the Palazzo Rosso collection (inv. n. 5765) is of interest: it exploits the conceit in a lesser scale for a fountain, basin or table decoration. The project for the gallery in the Palazzo Reale transformed the engaging baroque space (as represented by the group of The Metamorphoses for the Palazzo Reale in its supposed original location)19 into an eighteenth-century scene where, despite the use of similar devices, the concept of space has undergone a considerable change. Once again Domenico Parodi conceived here an architectural and painted structure — perhaps completed at mid-eighteenth century — in which the decorative elements, such as the wooden frames of the wall mirrors or the carved racemes, recall the external space exclusively through symbols. The statuary - all of heterogeneous origin and inclusive of Filippo Parodi's Metamorphoses, no longer treated as a group — is distributed along the walls following the rhythm of the painted allegories celebrating the virtues of the patrons.20 The Rape of Proserpine was supposedly carved in the third decade the century21 by Francesco Maria Schiaffino after his return from Rome and followed a model by Rusconi, although it is also influenced by Bernini's example. It is placed in a space where the inspiration of nature resides in a garden-like vision consisting of shining looking glasses surrounded by floral elements that reiterate themselves in wood and plaster, whilst losing their vitality to a completely decorative function. Between the end of the seventeenth century and the beginning of the eighteenth the creative unity of the visual arts began its collapse at the edges of the palace, more specifically in those spaces bordering on the garden. The renewed garden spaces were decorated, from the fourth decade of the eighteenth century, by craftsmen from Carrara, who had originally moved to Genoa attracted by the brisk activity of the local market. At the Villa Balbi allo Zerbino the spatial concept so powerfully expressed inside by the great vault created by Gregorio de Ferrari in the saloon is cannily re-invented outdoors in the form of a great reflecting water basin in the parterre and underground in the

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emptiness of the grotto. The statuary decorating the garden is, however, very standard; in 1739 Fabio Carrusi from Carrara is documented as having executed the Pegasus, group, 'two statues representing two Rivers', 'four swans', and the dolphin in the large basin.22 Of higher quality is the putto with dolphin decorating the circular water basin of the lower parterre surrounded by all'antica busts. These became a recurrent feature, frequently produced to not particularly high standards, as shown by the 1722 drawing (inv. n. 1848) in the Palazzo Rosso. Craftsmen from Carrara or belonging to the 'Lombard Nation' controlled this corner of the market, characterized by cheaper and less innovative products. In the 1750s the subjects of Bacchus and Diana were treated in a two-layered screen arrangement with paired statues in the villa of Girolamo, son of Agostino Durazzo, at Albisola. A few years later, between 1756 and 1757, a group of stone-cutters and sculptors from Carrara, including Francesco Binelli, were employed in the decoration of the Villa Delia Rovere, later Gavotti, one of the few estates in Liguria where the gardens were fashioned according to the modem taste and populated by numerous garden statues. Their quality is uniform and somewhat typical of works produced in considerable numbers; greater inventiveness is to be found instead in the decorative elements of vases and armorials which were frequently conceived in competition with the Lombard plasterworkers who decorated the pediments and piers of the great estate.2-^ Also from Carrara came the authors of the statuary which, between 1766 and 1778, decorated the garden of the villa at Cornigliano belonging to the Durazzo family. In the gardens, reshaped according to designs by Giacomo Filippo Durazzo, \vere placed statues of Hercules, Neptune and Faithfulness, as well as of Asia and Africa, all imported from Carrara. Whilst the names of their authors are unknown, surviving documents list members of the Carrarese Binelli family as suppliers and producers ot the marble vases, balustrades, mouldings and water basins.24 The gardens of the Durazzo and Delia Rovere villas are the last examples of ancien regime pleasure gardens, yet an extensive use of statuary distinguishes even the modern garden of Doge Agostino Lomellini which is one of the early examples of the landscape garden in Genoa. The parterre near the palace, which captured the attention of Fragonard, retained a rococo flavour with its elliptical shape and surrounding marble statues, whilst the woodland recesses were decorated between the eighth and ninth decade of the century with works in that neo-classical taste typical of artists such as Casaregi or Traverse; the latter had worked in the royal park at Monza, but also, around the turn of the century, at the Villa Durazzo (formerly Di Negro) at San Teodoro.25

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There is no doubt that the quality of the sculpture produced during the second half of the eighteenth century did not match that of the first half, yet the volume of marble products either passing through or actually carved in Genoa confirms the central role of the city in the European market. Whilst for the sixteenth century one can only refer here to the classic studies of KlapischZuber, Mannoni, Luigi Alfonso and Rosa Lopez Torrijos,26 it should be noted that for the seventeenth century evidence of the key role played by the Genoese sculpture industry has been provided by Piero Boccardo's investigation of Solaro's activity in Spain,27 and by Herding's findings28 on Pierre Puget' involvement in the flourishing trade of carved and raw marble between Genoa and the south of France. In the seventeenth century a new line of business with England began to develop in conjunction with the presence in Genoa of Francesco Fanelli. Fanelli was originally from Tuscany and associated with Lombard stone-carvers active in the city before his departure for England, "where he worked for Charles I and Charles II, and then, after a subsequent sojourn in Paris, once again in Genoa.29 Before extending an investigation of the penetration of the European marble trade by Genoese products into the eighteenth century, it is advisable to describe the state of the local market, which had a complex organization and numerous players. In the eighteenth century the structure of the marble trade in Genoa revolved around three main working systems: a) the traditional guild of Lombard sculptors and storie-rnasons active in Genoa. For this organization Belloni provides, on the evidence of the surviving documents of the Bacigalupo firm of solicitors,30 the reports and minutes of the guild meetings from 1715 to 1734. These reveal the presence of the great Orsolino, Sivori, Garvo, Aprile, Quadro, Torre, Solaro and Casella families who subsequently were to attempt to control the marble market as well as the production of marble sculpture. b) the local workshops which, after the establishment and success of Parodi towards the end of the seventeenth century, reclaimed their freedom of action, introducing a new concept of artistic practice and higher quality standards. Of particular relevance here is a document dated 1715 which refers to an earlier appeal jointly submitted to the authorities by Domenico Parodi, Filippo's heir, and by Giacomo Antonio Ponsonelli, a relative and collaborator of Parodi and originally from Carrara. 'The practice of sculpture', reads the appeal, 'like that of any other liberal art, has been in this town as in Rome, Venice, Paris and other principal cities in Europe, free from the formalities of guilds, and not controlled by rules or consuls.' The two masters requested therefore that 'such freedom should be confirmed in spite of those stone masons of the

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Lombard nation' who aim to restrain 'masters of sculpture and ornamental architecture . . .'31 c) the masters from Carrara, some of whom had been employed since the turn of the century in the workshops of local masters under whose guidance they had developed. This was the case, for example, with Ponsonelli under Filippo Parodi, Domenico Olivieri and Cacciatori under Francesco Maria Schiaffino. Others, as noted by Franchini, were called by patrons: this was the case with Giovanni and Francesco Baratta, and with Carrusi.32 Others still worked in Carrara and operated in the marble trade, which was frequently run by the Lombards. With this latter issue it is clear that we need to attempt a geographical reconstruction of these activities, as well as to document through the archives the networks that underpinned them. One can only outline here certain broad lines of research likely to bear fruit: the well-known 1703 post mortem inventory of the contents of Filippo Parodi's workshop offers some hints as to the chances we might have of reconstructing the size and importance of these workshops. The list of tools, which is vague at times ('97 iron tools', '31 rasps') and more detailed on other occasions, along with the inventory of the models left in the workshop, and of the collection of paintings owned by the artist," are all useful elements when read in parallel with a range of information contained in the archives. It is therefore possible to reconstruct a map of the location and distribution of workshops showing their relationship to the various sections of the trade. Such locations, as was the case with the warehouses and workshops of the Lombards in the quarter of Ripa, \vere strategically chosen with respect to communication routes, urban viability and access to the docks. We know the exact location of Danielle Solaro's magazeno (warehouse) outside the Vacca gate, of the workshops of Puget and the Parodis, respectively in Strada Balbi and at Fassolo; we also know that Gaetano Quadro's shop was situated in the Via del Carnpo, with the main front on Strada Marina, while Francesco Maria Schiaffmo's was in Strada Giulia. Of special interest is the extraordinary cache of documentary material relating to staff rolls, techniques and materials of the great yards preserved in the highly detailed promissioms operae (contracts).34 The example set by Tiziano Mannoni's work on the 'magistri antelami'35 has shown that this kind of research is particularly fruitful if undertaken systematically rather than selectively. Another fruitful trail for the study of the marble trade is provided by the study of the ship records detailing arrival and departure in and from the port of Genoa of the vessels transporting marble. The Genoa State Archive contains all the papers relating to the Archivio della Casa di San Giorgio, which was the

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body that managed and controlled a large proportion of the duty paid by ships and cargoes. Within this series the files relating to the Camtorum Maris Orientalis provide a panorama of the arrivals from several ports east of Genoa, listing provenance, a brief description of the nature of the cargo, and the name of the person due to receive it. A sample year of these files that has been examined (April 1730 to March 1731) shows the arrival of over twenty leuti (a type of small boat) from Carrara; the cargoes consist primarily of raw blocks of marble to be sculpted. The quantities are considerable, varying between four and eight carrate for the most relevant cargoes (equivalent to c. 120—240 cubic palms or 4000 to 8000kg), either in blocks or pieces of considerable size, which were either destined to be carved in Genoa or to be sold on the Genoese market.36 Together with these raw materials the ships brought in from Tuscany sizeable quantities of carved marble, ranging from square flooring tiles to columns, balustrades, tombstones, chimney-pieces, holy-water stoups, and even included decorative garden pieces such as carved marble vases and finished sculptures. In the course of this particular year ten sculpture pieces arrived in Genoa, destined for aristocrats (Francesco Maria and Giovanni Giacomo Imperiale, Alessandro Pallavicino and Bartolomeo Lomellino) who had either commissioned them or were involved in the marble trade, or for members of the 'Lombard nation' belonging to the guild of sculptors and stone-masons (namely Gaetano Torre, Gaetano Quadro, Domenico Aprile, Giacomo Gaggini) who clearly acted as importers of ready-made marble products. In addition to the volume of marble arriving at the Genoese docks, there was also further marble delivered to other harbours of the Riviera nearer to the building sites where they were required; for example this is the case of the Villa Delia Rovere Gavotti (Plate 20) in Albisola where the material was brought directly from Carrara by sea.37 The volume of work involving the Genoese workshops in the production and trade of marble artefacts was such as to suggest a consumption that went well beyond the city alone. For example, marble could be acquired raw on site, as was the case with Puget when he acquired the block for Fouquet's Gallican Hercules in Genoa, which he then had rough-hewn with the help of the local skilled workers. Alternatively, the marble, having been transformed into finished works, could travel to other destinations in the Mediterranean or beyond the Straits of Gibraltar. Furthermore, marble which had arrived already transformed into artefacts, primarily statues, found in the local marble carvers active dealers who distributed it to the European market. What is already known of this export activity by the various Genoese marble workshops is just the tip of a large iceberg. Ratti's notes on Domenico Parodi's works for Prince Eugene of Savoy's Belvedere in Vienna point to a prestigious

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Plate 20 School of Carrara, decorative sculpture for the garden of the Villa Delia Rovere, Gavotti, Albisola (Savona) (photo: author).

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patron; however, the Ariadne and Bacchus that he mentions are not the only works clearly attributable to the workshop of Domenico, but the series of six sculptures to be found in the Marmorsaal in Vienna should also be attributed to the artist, whose style was still clearly influenced by the example of his father (Plate 21).^ The beautiful statuary sent by Giacomo Antonio Ponsonelli to Valencia to decorate the gardens of Canon Pontons, and now identified by Franchini with a piece in the Glorieta park,39 confirms the level of patronage obtained even in garden sculpture by an artist who had received prestigious commissions such as those for the Viennese palace of Prince Johan Adam of Liechtenstein with the busts of Diana and Mars, and probably also the heads of Virtue and Vice.m Ratti mentioned Ponsonelli's work for notable patrons in Spain and Portugal, and noted that through the agency of the Marquis Marcantonio Grillo he had been commissioned for works for 'London, the Netherlands and the Indies'.41 As for the seventeenth century it is only through the odd archival fragment that one begins to perceive existing commercial links with England; besides Ponsonelli it was Domenico Parodi, son of Anton Maria (and not to be confused with the above mentioned son of Filippo Parodi), who worked for British patrons. He carved the portrait bust of General Charles Mordaunt Peterborough executed, according to Ratti, either in 1705 (when the sitter, who was in charge of the allied troops sent to Spain, was in Genoa during a stop of the fleet in the harbour), or in the course of the subsequent decade during a diplomatic mission.42 Ratti has also remarked upon the interest shown by English patrons for the work of Queirolo, particularly after his stay in Rome and Naples, noting that Queirolo was commissioned to produce 'works for the English who were very fond of his style', and who brought home 'some very precious statuary'.43 The study of English merchants and trading companies active in Genoa is still in its early stages: a first survey has been undertaken by Edoardo Grendi in one of his recent essays, whilst further research is under way.44 The English mercantile presence in the city could also play a significant part in directing collectors and travellers. We see this in the case of John Evelyn who was guided around Genoa 'to see rarities' by the merchant Thompson, and later on with Mrs Ann Miller who in her Letters of 1776 shows knowledge and appreciation of the sculptures by Parodi and by Francesco Maria Schiaffmo in the Palazzo Reale.45 More extensive research along these lines might eventually produce some information in support of the attribution to the Parodi workshop of statuary of the quality of the Windsor Castle Apollo or Hyacinth, formerly at Hampton

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Domenico Parodi, Diana, Marmorsaal, Belvedere, Vienna (photo: author).

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Court (brought to England, together with other interesting pieces of statuary, by Robert Ball in 1702).46 Roberto Ciardi has suggested a Genoese provenance for this work, and it is indeed very close to such late works by Filippo Parodi as the Adonis Tied by Love, formerly in the Villa Durazzo at Romairone and now in the Palazzo Spinola.47 New impetus and orientation to art historical research will come from further systematic archival research as well as from the complex parallel investigations of historians and economic historians, such as the identification of the solicitors acting on behalf of the British Factory in Genoa, or the analysis of outgoing cargoes.

Notes 1. Vial and Georget (1994); Gavazza et al. (1995). 2. For the nymphaeum see Magnani (1987): 176—7, figs 224-31. 3. See the documents referring to payments to Filippo Parodi for his project and execution of the Cappella delle Reliquie in the Basilica del Santo, Padua in Bresciani Alvarez (1964): 170-6. 4. Ratti (1769): 222. 5. For this fresco see Gavazza (1977): 126, who published the Uffizi drawing (G. U. 7165) with an attribution to Domenico Parodi remarking that 'to some extent the trompe 1'oeil of the simulated plaster monochrome becomes the signature of the painter'. 6. Archivio Fotografico del Comune di Geneva. 7. Gavazza (1965): 19-21. 8. Gavazza (1965): 20—21, and 65 footnote 55; in this article Gavazza published the drawing by Paolo Gerolamo Piola preserved in the Palazzo Rosso collection (inv. n. 4434). 9. Magnani (1987): 206. 10. Franchini Guelfi (1988b): 49. 11. See Magnani (1988a: 130-1, 1988b: 152-4, and 1987: 159-62). 12. Gavazza (1981): 29-37; Gonzales Palacios (1996): 67-114. 13. For the two drawings in the Victoria and Albert Museum see Gonzales Palacios (1996), figs 123 and 124; for the drawing fomerly in the Manning Collection and presently in the Blanton Museum of Art, University of Texas at Austin, see Ncwcome (1972): n. 121, 46—7. 14. Franchini Guelfi (1988a): 234. 15. See the analysis of the Spinola frame or mirror and the discussion of the mirror presently in the Villa Faraggiana, formerly Durazzo, at Albisola in Magnani (1988a): 130-1, as well as the catalogue entry in Gavazza and Terminiello (1992): 314. 16. See Magnani (1992a): 214. Interesting suggestions on Parodi as fresco painter are provided by Piccinno (1995). 17. Sec Franchini Guelfi (1988b): 53, figs 4-5. 18. See Magnani (1987): figs 201 and 249, and (1991): 50, fig. 10. 19. See Magnani (1992b): 219; 317-20, figs 198-201. 20. Lodi (1991): 40-1. 21. Franchini Guelfi (1988a): 217, figs 281-3. 22. Magnani (1987): 157, figs 195-8; 164, footnote 25. 23. Magnani (1987): 195-208, figs 259-62, 267, 269.

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24. Bonora (1991): 165-75, figs 161 and 163. 25. Sborgi (1988): 310-17; for the sculptures mentioned sec Magnani (1987), figs 286-8 and 295-7. 26. See Klapisch-Zuber (1969), Mannoni and Mannoni (1978), Alfonso (1985), Lopez Tornjos (1987). 27. Boccardo (1988). 28. See Herding (1979); new interesting findings have been made by Francesca Fabbri in the course of her tenure (1997—8) of a postgraduate scholarship jointly offered by the University of Genoa and the Musee des Beaux Arts de Marseille (see F. Fabbri, Tangenze nella cultura e nelk presence artistiche tra il territorio della Repubblica di Geneva e k regioni della Francia sud orientak: maestranze e cantieri nei secoli XV11—XV1II, unpublished dissertation). 29. See the entry by Maria Clelia Galassi on Francesco Fanelli in La Scultura a Genova e in Liguria dal Seicento al primo Novecento, Genoa, 1988: 79. 30. Belloni (1988): 240-51. 31. Archivio di Stato di Genova, Notaio Paolo Francesco Bacigalupo, 29 October 1715; the document adopts the same tones of a petition submitted in 1694; see Belloni (1988): 203; Franchini Guelfi (1990): 84, and Magnani (1992b): 296. 32. Franchini Guelfi (1988a): 290. 33. Archivio di Stato di Genova, Notaio Domenico Ponte, 6 June 1703. The inventory was drafted after the artist's death on 22 July 1702. 34. For Puget see Vami (1877) with mention of the documents then in the Sauli archives, presently in the archives of the Durazzo Pallavicini-Giustiniani family. For Parodi see note 33 above. On Solaro see Archivio Storico dei Padri del Cornune, Genoa, 229—100, 18 July 1681. On Quadro see Archivio di Stato di Genova, Notaio Paolo Francesco Bacigalupo, 14 May 1716. For Schiaffino see Franchini Guelfi (1988a): 284. 35. Mannoni (1996). 36. Archivio di Stato di Genova, Archivio di San Giorgio, Caratomm oriente, Sala 14. 37. Archivio di Stato di Genova, Notaio G. Sartorio, 3 December 1743, 4 May 1756, 2 July 1757. 38. Cf. Ratti (1769):164 and 169; Ratti reported the statues to have been six. For Parodi's sculptures at the Belvedere see Milano (1996): 99—102. I agree with the attribution to Parodi of the statues of Venus, Adonis, Apollo, Diana, Bacchus and Ariadne, originally conceived as pairs, but do not share the attribution of the Satyr to the same sculptor. 39. See Franchini Guelfi (1988a): 239, fig. 318. 40. See Franchini Guelfi (1988a): 236, figs 313-14; for the busts representing Vice and Virtue see Metropolitan Museum of Art (1985): 25—6, nn. 15—16. 41. Ratti (1997): 239. 42. See Ingamells (1997), sub vocem Peterborough, Charles Mordaunt, 3rd Earl of: 761-3. 43. Ratti (1769): 120-1. 44. Ratti (1997): 215. 45. Miller (1777); Grendi (1996): 347-74. 46. Oral communication by Susanne Groom. 47. Sec Magnani entry n. 54 in Gavazza et al (1995): 228-9.

CHAPTER 7

ANGLO-ITALIAN ATTITUDES CHANTREY AND CANOVA ALISON

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The starting point for this investigation of Anglo—Italian sculptural alliances is, at first glance, simply an example of early nineteenth-century graffiti. In the Accademia di Belle Arti at Carrara, in the rock next to the ancient Roman Fantiscritti relief of the 3rd century AD,1 Antonio Canova's name is carved with the date 1800 underneath.2 Beneath this another 'signature' appears, that of the English sculptor Francis Legatt Chantrey, one that is rarely noted.3 Although smaller in scale than Canova's mark it takes a similar form ('Chantrey 1819') as does the scritti of another English sculptor carved above it 'R. J. Wyatt 1820'. Whilst Wyatt's admiration and emulation of Canova are well known, and his subsequent Rome-based career, the relationship between Chantrey and Canova is more recondite. The physical conjunction of their two names at Carrara therefore serves as a visual reminder of their association and the aspiration of the one to equal — if not surpass - the other. These are, of course, not grafFlti in the modern sense; they are not arbitrary marks, but signs of a most precise signification. Just as Byron carved his initials on the Temple of Poseidon at Sounion, this public witness is not carved on an everyday object seen by a graffitist (and the intended audience) upon a daily basis. Indeed Byron carved his initials exactly because he did not foresee a return to the temple. We are now more likely to see such marks of association as a species of existential statement, possibly as a result of post-romantic thinking, where the subjective impression is a valuable and lasting testament. But I would argue that the Chantrey graffito stands at a confluence point, focused and placed amongst quite different traditions. In the simplest terms it also serves to provide further evidence of the sculptor's first Italian journey of 1819, knowledge of which has previously derived primarily from George Jones's biography, itself based upon

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conversations with the sculptor and lost pocket and sketch books.1 These graffiti or inscritti have more significance than providing physical evidence of the sculptor's presence in the Carrara marble quarries. In the context of Canova's name they also act as a sign of Chantrey's aspirations in the sculpture market c. 1815-19 and a previously little explored instance of Anglo—Italian cultural exchange. Chantrey's role as the 'national' sculptor of early-nineteenth-century Britain has been argued cogently by Alex Potts, who rightly points to the sculptor's manipulation of the market through the production of portrait sculpture that was in tune with then current national aspirations.5 In many ways his business practices may be seen as a continuation of those that helped Cheere to flourish in the eighteenth century, explored by Matthew Craske in this volume. Central to Chantrey's success was the idea that his work embodied national identity, near to nature in its simplicity and studied understatement and untainted by foreign influence. His particular brand of neoclassicism meant the rejection of false anecdote in the form of allegory and the pursuit of a purity of form that combined nature and the antique, in that order. The evocation of 'fleshiness' beneath the surface, so necessary to likeness, was created by paying great attention to subtle nuances of surface. It should therefore be seen to differ from that evisceration and drained body that John Barrell has noted in the context of Flaxman's and Reynolds's interpretation of the neoclassical body in late eighteenth-century Britain.'' ('La camosita or fleshiness was a quality observed in the best antique statues and one that Canova amongst others admired and emulated in his own work.7) The keynote of Chantrey's interpretation of the figure -was absolute repose and tranquillity, allowing nothing to detract from its essential purity. Thus, notably during the 1820s, he may be understood as a sculptor -who self-consciously rejected those accoutrements of the ideal - the use of allegory in particular - as displayed within international neoclassicism in the pursuit of truth. His apparent refusal to participate in such imaginative play, by forging an identity as a native-born sculptor who drew his inspiration primarily from 'island influences', was proclaimed publicly immediately after his return from Italy (and it must be assumed with his approbation) by his close friends, the writers Ebenezer Rhodes and Allan Cunningham,8 and this was perpetuated by Jones. This mythic view tends to cloud the nature of Chantrey's known admiration for Canova and the connecting links between them. Chantrey's documented encounters with Canova, either in person or through his art, occurred at key moments in the development of his business practice and will be examined in detail here. The differences between the output of the two sculptors is comparatively easy

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to define. Canova's international reputation and his popularity with his English patrons were based primarily upon his exquisite interpretations of ideal and mythological subjects; Chantrey's reputation and huge fortune amassed by his death in 1841 were built upon the lesser genres of portrait busts, portrait statues and church monuments. This contrast may crudely be understood as the difference between poetry and prose. Ebenezer Rhodes, in his Peak Scenery or Excursions in Derbyshire: made chiefly for the purpose of Picturesque Observation illustrated by Chantrey and fully published in 1824, included a memoir of his friend. This was written after the sculptor's return from Italy and links his name with Canova but points to the problems that he faced in achieving a similar reputation: That this eminent artist should have devoted so much of his time to the execution of busts, may perhaps be regretted. There is a higher walk in sculpture, in which all the excellencies of his profession are required, and all the energies of the mightiest talent may be displayed. Here the genius of Chantrey may move amid beings of his own creation, and establish for himself a name and character not less elevated in art than Canova's. He has attained much, but more remains to be accomplished.9 It is apparent that the sculptor deliberately chose not to pursue the 'elevated' path of Canova. Mythological and poetic subjects are rare occurrences in his oeuvre, and this was recognized by his contemporaries. For those like Benjamin Robert Haydon, whose antipathy towards the sculptor was strong, this demoted him in the context of other British sculptors, notably John Flaxman, Edward Hodges Baily, Westmacott and Charles James Felix Rossi. Through Haydon's eyes in 1826 we see a sculptor who unlike these 'poetical men . . . has just imagination to elevate his model without losing the likeness' and who kept his 'paddock of poetry under lock & key'.10 At the outset of Chantrey's career there is little indication that he was keeping 'the preserve of pure poetry for the time when his hand may have uninterrupted leisure, and the cares of providing for existence shall no longer have any right to interfere with fancy'.11 His first exhibit at the Royal Academy in 1808 was a colossal head of Satan (untraced)12 and in 1820, shortly after his return from Italy, he received orders from the Duke of Devonshire13 and Lord Dartmouth 14 for 'poetical figures'. In 1819 and again in 1820 he received an open commission 'to execute a Figure or Croupe — Subject and price and time left to the determination of the Sculptor' from Lord Yarborough.15 All these were 'abandoned' according to the studio ledger, although at what stage is unknown. The latter commission may have been set aside as a consequence of Lord Yarborough's death. However, he was to complete one significant

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commission issued at this date for the sculpture gallery at Woburn Abbey. The Duke of Bedford had requested him to make two Homeric reliefs to flank his new Temple of the Graces: Penelope with the Bow of Ulysses (1828, marble, Woburn Abbey, Bedfordshire) and Hector Recommending His Son to the Protection of the Gods (1828, marble, Woburn Abbey, Bedfordshire). By the time he left for Italy Chantrey had already completed a small statue of Bedford's daughter Louisa (1819, marble, Woburn Abbey, Bedfordshire) exhibited at the 1818 Royal Academy exhibition.16 This statue and Thorvaldsen's of Georgiana Russell (1818, marble, Wobum Abbey, Bedfordshire) were placed in the niches of the vestibule to either side of the temple doors. Thus Chantrey's poetic portrait of the small girl holding a dove (perhaps an allusion to the recent cessation of war between England and France) stood on the edge of the charmed circle of feminine grace, the epicentre of which was Canova's Three Graces. This arrangement was recorded by J. Wyatt in a drawing also exhibited at the 1818 exhibition.17 It would have been difficult for the sculptor to 'abandon' the Homeric reliefs (as he did the other poetical subjects commissioned in 1820) given the forward state of the planning of this section of the Woburn sculpture gallery. More significantly it offered him the chance to be recognized in this exclusive site as sculptor of equal standing to Canova and Thorvaldsen. However, this excursion into poetical sculpture was equivocal. For Waagen, who did not enjoy the 'heavy, awkward, inorganic appearance' of the sculptor's work,18 the Wobum sculptures were 'devoid of style' and stood in contrast to Thorvaldsen's correctness and beauty of'leading lines'. 19 Despite Chantrey's abandonment of poetic subjects c. 1820, it is quite clear that prior to his visit to Italy his intention was to pursue 'the higher walk in sculpture'. His work and wages book shows that between May and September 1817 a small model of Milton's Satan (now lost) was underway in his studio, with F. A. Lege, one of his leading assistants, being employed for three days and five hours on its preparation.2" This was a familiar task for Lege, who in 1814, before being employed in Chantrey's studio, had exhibited his own (untraced) statue of Satan in Edinburgh and then at the Royal Academy, where it was described in the catalogue with lines from Milton's Paradise Lost: 'so stretched out, huge in length, the arch fiend lay/Chain'd on the burning lake'.21 In 1822 Lege exhibited another sculpture of'Satan' at the British Institution. The extent to which Chantrey's Satan stemmed from Lege's ideas is impossible to gauge, but given later speculation about the extent of his involvement in the creation of some of Chantrey's most celebrated works it must remain an open question. In 1820 Lord Egremont confirmed a commission for a statue of Satan 'pursuant to a sketch' from Chantrey for his new 'British' sculpture gallery at

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Petworth, where it would have been placed alongside poetical works by Flaxman, Rossi and Carew with subjects taken from Milton and Thomson.22 It was on his return from Italy that Chantrey abandoned this and all such commissions. According to Holland it was a failure of nerve on the sculptor's part: 'he knew that expectation had been raised, and he felt at once the difficulties of the task, and the peril — or, rather, the certainty of failure'.23 It may also be interpreted as a calculated move on Chantrey's part, as Potts suggests, to ensure that his business prospered, responding to the demand for portraiture over ideal works by promotion of the essential 'Englishness' of his enterprise. But why at this point, after the visit to Italy, did his obvious desire to create poetical works (demonstrated by the model of the Miltonic Satan in preparation and the initial acceptance of figures for aristocratic collections) dimmish? Had he realized that the competition in this area from Italy and from Italian-trained sculptors such as Westmacott at home was too strong? How does his admiration for Canova key into this sudden decisive and determining move? Unlike many of his contemporaries Chantrey did not travel to Italy until his career was well underway. There is no indication that he ever wished to set up a studio in Italy in order to take advantage of its then pivotal role in the European sculpture industry. He was keenly aware of and responsive to a British market that was based upon a steady demand for portraiture over and above ideal works, as Rhodes pointed out: 'The religion of the country, and the diffusion of knowledge, render allegory almost inadmissible in modern art',24 a view echoed later by Cunningham in his review of S. Memes's Memoirs of Antonio Canova with a critical Analysis of his Works, and an Historical View of Modern Sculpture, where he writes of 'the cold petrifications of allegory, which speak a language the mass of the people will never learn'.25 The tendency in Britain, as evidenced elsewhere in this volume, was to employ fashionable, often foreign, sculptors to make ideal works, such 'poetic sculpture' mostly standing 'in the galleries of the noble and the rich' and therefore 'inaccessible to the 'general' [public]'.26 This restricted area of the British market was precarious for those who dealt in it, but entry to it was necessary if the 'higher path' of sculptural practice was to be attained. It provided not only the rare opportunity to create works of pure poetic fancy but also, where the formation of new, private sculpture galleries 'was concerned, the opportunity to work for an influential social elite. It is to Chantrey's credit that he forged a path in sculpture that put this to one side, focusing upon the demands of the market for 'likeness' and making exceptions only in the case of the Chatsworth and Wobum collections, both of which significantly were formed by men whose admiration for Canova was paramount.

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Chantrey could not but be aware of the massive, competitive, sculpture industry flourishing in Italy. He witnessed this himself in 1819 and was reminded of it by fellow artists who travelled in Italy. For example, his friend, the Scottish narrative painter David Wilkie, wrote of the 'profusion of sculptors' he found in Rome in 1826: But it is sculpture here that is the great object of attention and encouragement. The numbers of hewers and cutters multiply by every day's further knowledge of Rome: the chisel and the hammer are heard in every corner. Amidst such competition great talents have risen and are still rising. Tme it is, that seeing at all hands statues and groups growing into life with almost faultless form, and in pure Greek taste, diminishes not a little one's notions of imitating the antique - while it lessens in some degree our respect for the antique itself.27 Two years later, another mutual friend, J. M. W. Turner wrote to Chantrey from Rome giving a similar picture of the flourishing and highly competitive sculpture industry and news of his British rivals who had established studios there: Sculpture, of course, first, for it carries away all the patronage, so it is said, in Rome; but all seem to share in the goodwill of the patrons of the day. Gott's studio is full. Wyatt, Rennie, Ewing, Buxton, all employed. Gibson has two groups in hand, 'Venus and Cupid', and 'The Rape of Hylas'. . . . Thorwaldsten |sicj is closely engaged on the late Pope's monument [Pius VII]. Portraits of the superior animal, man, is to be found in all. In some the inferior - viz. greyhounds and poodles, cats and monkeys, &c. &c.- K Chantrey's trip to Italy may be seen to be a defining moment in his ambition to become the Canova of England as Rhodes infers him in Peak Scenery.-' For Chantrey to see himself following in Canova's footsteps — as the carving of his name at Carrara in 1819 suggests — was in one sense to proclaim his ascendancy in the British sculpture market and to mark his aspirations in the international sphere. This was a view that was carried further by the careful manipulation of his connections with the Italian sculptor. 'Know thy enemy' might have been his motto as he pushed his career forward. In this context the appellation 'Canova of England' takes on a new and more pertinent meaning. Rhodes claims that Chantrey 'became acquainted' with the Italian sculptor in Paris as early as 1814.3" They certainly met in Paris on 19 September 1815 at the Musee des Monuments Francais, at the time when Canova was concerned with the delicate diplomatic task of ensuring the restitution of sequestered works of art to Italy. Immediately after Waterloo Chantrey, like many other artists, had taken the opportunity to study from and to obtain casts of the

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canonical works as well as viewing the many modern works on display in Paris before their dispersal. Chantrey was with Alfred Joseph Stothard when he met Canova and they discussed together the confused removal of the Dutch pictures then taking place.31 Canova's subsequent visit to London in the autumn of 1815 is well documented, and shows the Italian sculptor on what can only be described as a 'charm offensive', winning the support of English patrons and artists alike. His ability to please was consummate. As part of his tour of duty he visited the studios of many British artists, including those of John Bacon, J. M. W. Turner, James Northcote, Flaxman and Westmacott.32 Invariably he found the right thing to say: for example he described Turner as a 'grand genie' [great genius] when visiting the painter's gallery.33 He charmed Wilkie with a letter, when he was unable to take his leave in person.34 In 1815 Chantrey was rapidly building his reputation as a fashionable sculptor, with premises in Pimlico where he employed at least ten assistants. Although there is no record that Canova visited Chantrey's studio during his London visit there is one instance of their professional contact. According to Northcote, Chantrey took Canova to see his most prestigious commission to date that confirmed his status as a society sculptor. The Statue of George III (1811-15, destroyed), 'cut out of a single block of beautiful Italian marble, with the exception of one of the arms, and cost 1200 guineas before the chiscel [sic] of the sculptor had touched it', was viewed by the two men in the Guildhall at the head of the Old Council Chamber.35 In the interim between contact with Canova in London and his Italian journey Chantrey's career prospered. In 1816 he was elected an Associate of the Royal Academy,36 in February 1818 was elected a full academician37, and then in December of the same year to the Council and as Visitor to the Life Academy.38 In 1817 he was doing well enough to continue work on his own house and gallery, underway since 1814, and to build a house for Cunningham.39 It was during this year that his work was viewed and measured against Canova's sculpture in public exhibition; a juxtaposition used to promote the idea that he was indeed the English Canova. Chantrey exhibited his marble Monument to Ellen Jane and Marianne Robinson at the 1817 Royal Academy exhibition to much critical acclaim (Plate 22). It is significant that this, Chantrey's most successful work to date, was on view alongside statues belonging to Canova's British patrons: the marble Hebe (Plate 23) and the Head of Peace (1814, marble, untraced), both made for John Campbell, 1st Baron Cawdor; and Terpsichore (1814-16, Cleveland Museum of Art) made for Simon Houghton Clarke. The ensuing critical response made

Plate 22 Francis Chantrey, Monument to Ellen Jane and Marianne Robinson ('The Sleeping Children'), 1817, Lichfield Cathedral, Staffordshire (photo: © Crown copyright, NMR).

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Plate 23 Antonio Canova, Hebe, 1808-14, Devonshire Collection, Chatsworth (photo: Photographic Survey, Courtauld Institute of Art), reproduced by permission of the Duke of Devonshire and the Chatsworth Settlement Trustees.

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much of the comparison between the two sculptors' aesthetic, to Chantrey's advantage. The Literary Gazette, for example, commented upon how Chantrey had 'consulted nature . . . for the sentiment; looked into his own heart; and produced a work of warm and genuine feeling'.4" It was the sensibilities aroused by contemplating it that were considered paramount. In the next sentence Canova's Hebe and Terpsichore are praised, partly in terms of Canova's European reputation and because of their 'peculiar beauties'. A further point, and an important one, is made with regard to the lasting quality of such sentiment in art: 'when we quit [Canova's statues] they pass too soon from our sight and our mind', but Chantrey's children 'like the beauties of the Medicean Venus,, the Niobe, or the Apollo, which are treasured among our eternal recollections' remain. Such a positive, critical response to the juxtaposition of works by the two sculptors shows that Chantrey's role as the 'English Canova' was in full dress rehearsal. The commission for the Sleeping Children, as the monument to the Robinson children was popularly known, had been agreed on 10 August 1815 'pursuant to an approved Design' shortly before Chantrey travelled to Paris; and on 17 January 1816, after Canova's London visit, work on the model commenced, continuing throughout the year and into the next.41 It is clear that it was Chantrey's intention that this would be his prime exhibit at the 1817 Royal Academy Exhibition, an example of his own form of ideal sculpture, imbued with poetic sensibility. The progress of work on the model, its transfer to the marble block and its final completion are mapped in the surviving work and wages book. The two children lying in each others' arms formed the climactic point of the whole monument. The transfer of the figures from the plaster model to the marble was carried out between 10 August and 30 November by Cunningham with the assistance of Whitton, so that Chantrey and Lege could commence work on carving the figures of the children in early December.42 Work was to continue on this until 19 April. Some sense of the intensity of work on this sculptural group may be ascertained from the fact that in a period of just under five months Lege alone worked for 142 days and seven and a half hours.43 There can be no question that Chantrey was fully aware of how the contrast between the two works would appear to the public. The two figures of the Sleeping Children were executed whilst Chantrey had the Hebe in his studio, presumably to make a cast and engravings from it before the Royal Academy Exhibition opened.44 On 7 January 1817, Cawdor had instructed Chantrey to remove Hebe to the sculptor's Eccleston Street studio before it was transferred to the Royal Academy Exhibition rooms in April.'1 In this instance the

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apparently menial and minor employment involved in packing, transporting and making casts of works and arranging for engravings to be carried out proves to be of significance when viewed in the context of Chantrey's ambition. (Similar services that he provided for William Cavendish, 6th Duke of Devonshire after his Italian tour will be considered later.) The whole group was then transferred, with Canova's works, to the exhibition. Chantrey's studio assistants, Dunbar and Whitton, are further recorded as 'cleaning' the Robinson monument at the exhibition, perhaps, as with painters' varnishing days, allowing a certain amount of covert 'finishing' to take place in situ. It seems that Canova's Head of Peace and Hebe remained in Chantrey's studio for two years, the former until spring 1819 when it was returned with engravings to Cawdor; in August, immediately before leaving for Italy, Chantrey ensured that Hebe was packed in a new case and sent to the wharf.46 On 16 August 1819 Chantrey departed for Italy in the company of the painter John Jackson, John Read, a life-long friend from his birthplace, Norton in Derbyshire, and Bramsen acting as 'guide & interpreter'.47 It is not known precisely what route was taken but it may well have been similar to that recommended to Thomas Lawrence in January 1819.48 But as far as Chantrey's visit to the marble quarries was concerned there was no question: 'They also paid an agreeable visit from Florence to the celebrated marble quarries at Carrara'.49 Jones recounts how Chantrey was taken to see where 'the most beautiful portions of the choicest marble had already been selected for his approval' after initially being shown inferior samples.5" Two letters from Chantrey to an 'illustre signore Passani' survive, suggesting that he made two visits in late September/early October and the second some five or six weeks later on his return from Rome. The emphasis in the first is upon his requirement for marble of'excellent quality': . . . Come intendo ritornare a Cararra fra cinque o sei settimane, spero che preserverete del marmo di ottima qualita e intieramente scnza difetti che posso scegliere una maggiore quantita. Bisogna che pezzi piccoli per busti sono particolarmente puri, o saranno inutile, e sono con tutta stima vostro servitore obligate Firenze, 9 Ottobre 1819 Francesco Chantrey51

There were of course other reasons for Chantrey to visit the site. Apart from commercial concerns, as a keen geologist he would also have been eager to visit this location.52 Turner was later to make ironic reference to Chantrey's profitable connections with the area when writing to George Jones, Chantrey's

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biographer, in a letter dated 13 October 1828 from Rome describing his journey south: Genoa, and all the sea-coast from Nice to Spezzia is remarkably rugged and fine; so is Massa. Tell that fat fellow Chantrey that I did think of him, then (but not the first or the last time) of the thousands he had made out of those marble craigs which only afforded me a sour bottle of wine and a sketch; but he deserves everything which is good, though he did give me a fit of the spleen at Carrara.l3 The Fantiscritti quarry had great significance for sculptors. As a site of spectacular natural beauty, 630 metres above sea level, it was worth viewing, but it was its historical and spiritual associations that appealed to sculptors and antiquarians (Plate 24). They had carried out an act of association by carving their names into the rock of this ancient site, leaving their imprint on this source of some of the most beautiful sculptures of antiquity and more modern times, and where revered names such as Michelangelo and Giambologna were to be found. Canova on his visit to the Del Medico family in 1800 had added his name to the hall of fame: it was in every sense a site of great historical resonance: Infinite sono le firme d'italiani ed oltramontani chc si vedono scalpellate da ogni parte del bassorilievo dal risorgimento delle arti fino al 1702. Le pm intclligibili sono quelle di un Melchior Cencu, di Gio: Victor Soder nel 1556, di Michelangelo Buonarroti nel 1525, di Gio: Bologna anno 70 [sic], di Gio: Maderno nel 1606, di Antonio Cavallini nel 1551, e modemamente di Antonio Canova, ed Antonio d'Este.54 By 1819 the quarry where the Fantiscritti relief was situated had ceased to be commercially viable"15 but it was still a place visited by sculptors who continued to carve their names into the rockface. According to Mazzini's analysis of the scritti the majority of the names that survive appear to have been made between 1820 and 1840.56 Given the historical significance of this site it is interesting that Jones does not record the symbolic act of Chantrey carving his name into the marble below that of Canova. For Jones the Italian visit was interpreted as a commercial expedition (as his account of the Carrara visit indicates) and in aesthetic terms almost practical: 'Chantrey's journey through Italy seems to have been in furtherance of his desire to learn what to avoid rather than what to adopt'.S7 The exiled poet Thomas 'Anacreon' Moore, whose journals provide the most complete picture of Chantrey's social and artistic activities in Rome and on their journey back to Paris, does not record the event as it seems to have

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Plate 24 Saverio Salvioni, View of the Fantiscritti Quarry, c. 1818, Carrara, Accademia di Belle Arti (photo: C. Whitehead).

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occurred before their meeting in Rome.718 As far as practical reasons for visiting the Carrara quarries were concerned Chantrey had several important commissions tendered after his success of 1817 to complete. In similar mode to the Sleeping Children was the Monument to David Pike Watts (1826, marble, Holy Cross Church, Ham, Staffordshire).59 The small model for this was underway in the studio between July and December 1817''" and payments in the ledger indicate that the initial and full-scale model were complete by November 1818. Payments in August 1821 and in 1829 suggest that carving the monument took place after marble had been selected in Carrara. A Statue of Francis Homer for Westminster Abbey (for which Cunningham was examining a suitable site in the summer of 1817) provides a more obvious point of contact with Tuscany.61 Homer died in Pisa in 1817 and was buried at the British cemetery in Leghorn, an important site of Anglo—Italian cultural exchange. In 1818 Chantrey had completed a commission for a Bust of Homer (1818, marble, National Portrait Gallery of Scotland, Edinburgh) with an edition of eight casts.62 This was followed by a commission for a portrait medallion (untraced) for the sarcophagus that was presented by the sculptor as a gift to Horner's brother, Leonard, in 1820." However, the most prestigious commission for which Chantrey would have been selecting marble at Carrara was his statue of George Washington for Boston, a commission received in February 1819 from the United States Consul in London, Samuel Williams through Benjamin West.64 As Ilene Lieberrnan has shown in her detailed study of the commission, Francis Boott, who claims to have been instrumental in the early stages of the commission, states in a letter written in 1860 that in 1822 Chantrey asked him to his studio to view his model for the statue, stating that he wanted to make a 'simple manly dignified statue' that would contrast with Canova's more classical conception. Chantrey had first-hand knowledge of Canova's design for a Statue of Washington (1818, plaster model, Gipsoteca Possagno; 1820, marble, destroyed 1831) made for the North Carolina State Capitol at Raleigh. Moore records that he and Chantrey viewed the work on one of their visits to Canova's studio made on Saturday 6 November 1819. 'His Washington does not please me' he writes ' — the manner in which he holds the pen is mincing & affected — Chauntrey [sic] is employed by the Americans on the same subject.' Canova's model for the seated figure was finished in April 1818, with the marble completed in 182165 and represented Washington seated dressed as a Roman general, writing his farewell address. Chantrey's statue is - deliberately, as Boott implies - the antithesis of Canova's conception with the figure standing in modern dress, heavily draped in a cloak and holding the address in his right hand.

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This was just one of several visits Chantrey made to Canova's studio in Moore's company. It is from this source that the clearest picture of Chantrey's activities in Rome emerges, a record that begins from the date of Moore's arrival there on 27 October 1829. Moore's diaries tell of dinner parties, fashionable entertainments and social interaction with polite society. They also provide important information about Chantrey's professional activities, in particular his contact with other sculptors and most significantly with Canova. Moore first encounters Chantrey staying at the Hotel de Londres, where Sir Humphrey and Lady Davy were also in residence, friends of Canova who had entertained him during his London visit of 1815.66 It was a fashionable location and Lady Davy was a leading light of the English social elite in Rome. As Moore notes 'The Duchess fof Devonshire] & Lady Davy, I find, are the rival Cicerones of Rome'.67 Three days after his arrival Moore visited Canova's workshop with Chantrey and Jackson 'and saw the cast for his colossal bronze equestrian Statue of the last King of Naples - Canova is to do a statue of the last Pope, to be placed over the Sepulchre of St. Peter, that gorgeous spot — round which the lamps are ever burning - as Chauntrey [sic] said, what a place to work for! What an exciting thing for an artist to know that his creation will stand in the midst of such splendours & under that glorious cupola!'.68 On 31 October Chantrey and Moore went to Canova's studio where they examined the Tlieseus and the Centaur, a cast of the Magdalen and the Endymion (1819—22, marble, Chatsworth House, Derbyshire). Canova had agreed (at Chantrey's behest) that Jackson should paint his portrait and as a consequence several visits ensued with more opportunities for professional and social interchange. On 6 November Moore once again visited Canova in the company of Chantrey and Jackson, admiring the recumbent Magdalen", he then 'went with Chauntry [sic] through his studio, and was enchanted - what creations his women are! the Hebe, the Dansatrice - the Dirce (the model of which is not yet finished)- the female leading the old man, for the Monument of the Archduchess Christine of Austria - the delightfully grouped Graces for the Duke of Bedford and the Love & Psyche . . . This is exquisite'.69 Another visit to Canova took place on 13 November when they 'looked over his treasures'7" before taking their leave of the eternal city on 17 November. Chantrey made a point of visiting the studios of other artists in Rome. On 4 November he visits Massirniliano's [Francesco Massimiliano Laboureur (1767— 1831)?] studio where Chantrey explained to Moore the difference between the Italian and English system of pointing a statue.71 Immediately after this, he visits the painter Vincenzo Camuccini, 'the first painter in Rome', and Principal of

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the Accadernia di San Luca. He then moves on to Thorvaldsen's studio, 'the rival of Canova', where they view 'very fine things in his Studio' including Mercury, a. Peasant Boy, Ganymede and the Eagle, The Triumph of Alexander and Venus with the Apple. There is no indication that Moore's view that 'he ought not to have attempted the Graces after Canova' was shared by the English sculptor. They visited Johann Gottfried Schadow's studio on 8 November and viewed Achilles Defending the Dead Body of the Queen of the Amazons.12 On 15 November he visits Pacetti's studio, 'a sculptor of some eminence here' as Moore notes.73 On Canova's recommendation he also visited John Gibson's studio in the Via Fontanella but failed to impress the young sculptor who was then working on the Mars and Cupid for the Duke of Devonshire.74 Jones states that 'he [Chantrey] left no account of his intercourse with the great sculptors of Rome, yet that it was of the most friendly and intimate character is known by his conversation'.75 He expresses surprise that Chantrey was more 'frequent and familiar' with Canova than Thorvaldsen, given the latter's apparent closeness to the English sculptor's sculptural style.76 But Chantrey's courting of Canova was based upon more than easy sociability. Through him, given the Italian's pre-eminent status in the international Romebased art world, there was the possibility of attaining formal recognition there. Canova was instrumental in Chantrey's (and Jackson's) election to the prestigious Accademia di San Luca, both receiving the title 'accademico di merito' on 12 September 1819.77 Chantrey era membro della prefata accademia Reale nonche di quella imperiale e realc di Firenze e nella nostra fu annoverato il 12 Settembre 1819 per proposizione fattane dall'immortale Canova.7" A professional visit was made in the company of Moore, Thomas Lawrence, Turner and Jackson to the Venetian Academy of Painting in Rome, where they viewed the striking poses of the naked model: 'From thence we all went to the Academy of St. Luke's, where there were near a hundred students drawing & modelling from another naked figure, not quite so good as the former'.79 Canova also provided him with access to collections and polite society in Rome. On 1 November he was able to gain admission to the Capitol '& with some difficulty got in — (this being a Festa on Chauntry [sic], showing his order from Canova . . .)'.x" According to Penny, Chantrey also purchased several casts with the help of Canova during this visit."1 Canova was responsible for Chantrey being given access to a most private work, and here the depth of Chantrey's admiration for Canova's work becomes apparent. He recognized Canova's interpretation of antiquity when responding

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to the Creugas (1795—1801, marble, Musei Vatican!, Rome) on view in the Vatican collection: 'if by any trick the Creugas of Canova could be buried & dug up in fragments as an ancient statue it would produce a great sensation'.**2 The contrast between this heroicized body and the sensual form of Canova's portrait of Pauline Borghese as Venere Vindtrice (1 804-8, marble, Galleria Borghese, Rome) on view privately to only the most select caused an even greater sensation. The Princess herself seemed to encourage speculation about the closeness between her real body and its carved doppelganger, exhibiting her 'beautiful little hand' and allowing her 'matchless' foot to be felt by supplicants granted audience, the favoured being allowed casts of it to treasure."3 Chantrey was enraptured by the marble form over which Canova conducted an intimate 'guided tour' for the benefit of his English and Irish friends: at half past five Chauntry & I went by appointment to Canova to be taken by him to see his beautiful Venere Vincitrice (the Princess Borghese) at the Borghese Palace, a great favour to be permitted to see it ... Saw the statue by Candle-light - Canova himself holding the light & pausing with a sort of fond lingering on all the exquisite beauties of this most perfect figure.84 Chantrey's response to viewing this figure is recorded in Moore's later poem Fabksfor the Holy Alliance and Rhymes on the Road: Wonderful Artist! praise like mine, Though springing from a soul that feels Deep worship of those works divine, Where Genius all his light reveals Is little to the words that came Prom him - thy peer in Art arid Fame, Whom I have known, by day and night, Hang o'er thy marble with delight And while his lingering hand would steal O'er every grace the taper's rays Give thee, with all the generous zeal, Such master spririts only, feel That best of fame - arival'spraise."5 Chantrey's encounters with Canova's poetic sculpture continued after his return to England in December 1819. In the role of agent and intermediary he became directly involved in the acquisition and display of Canova's works at the new sculpture gallery at Chatsworth. This allowed him to further his firsthand knowledge of the Italian sculptor's works.86 It is easy to recognize his responsiveness to this source when the statue of Madame Mere (1808, marble,

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Chatsworth House, Derbyshire) is considered. Acquired in 1818 by the Duke of Devonshire this has been described as 'an exquisitely finished statue [that] powerfully suggests a recollection of some of the most beautiful works of art'.s? In July and August of 1822 Chantrey was employed by the Duke to collect and transport goods purchased at the Wanstead Sale. In October he and his wife visited Chatsworth, staying at Edensor, and he was shown 'over the place' by the Duke and in the company of the architect Wyatt.8X A few weeks later the Duke called on the sculptor in London and 'brought him to see some fine columns',"9 for which he then arranged conveyance to Chatsworth.* A further two columns were purchased in January 1823 - possibly those which Chantrey had brought to the attention of the Duke in London. These are described by the Duke in his Handbook as being cheap at 300 guineas and that the vendor threw in two further unpolished oriental porphyry blocks that were then used as pedestals for the Hebe and Head of Napoleon. All these items were repolished locally at the Ashford Marble Mills before being placed in the sculpture gallery. Chantrey's studio undertook more packing and loading of columns at Devonshire House. There is every indication that Chantrey acted as an intermediary in Devonshire's purchase of the Hebe from the Cawdor estate in 1823 when Chantrey was entrusted with the shipment of the work. In his diary entry ot Wednesday 25 June the Duke noted 'I settled books for Chatsworth & walked to Chantrey's. I have bought Lord Cawdor's Hebe for £1200. I then walked with Milton to Vauxhall to Messieurs Francis & Whites marble wharf where we saw some v. dark veined marble of Carrara which wd. do for the floor of my gallery, it is called Burdella'.'" A letter from Chantrey to the Duke dated 6 August 1823 gives precise details of the transport of the statue from Stackpole Court, Pembrokeshire to Chatsworth: The caravan with three Horses attended by a steady man & a boy left London this morning 4 oClock. Mr Cunningham shall go by mail in time to have the statue packed before they arrive at Stackpole'. Chantrey states that the travel will be at 30 miles per day but because of the 'welsh hills' and unforseen delays estimates that the prized sculpture would not reach Chatsworth until three weeks later.92 In the event it was Cunningham who, as the Duke records in his diary on 23 August and later in the Handbook: 'placed her [Hebe] behind my seat in the old dining room, where on her removal, it felt strange to have a meal without her'.''1 In another letter written to the Duke at the time of Hebe's arrival the sculptor states that Cunningham 'will be far more useful to your grace from his practical experience than 1 could be in directing men who are not in the daily habit of handling fragile materials'.'" The Duke already had clear evidence of Chantrey's and Cunningham's skills.

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In January 1822 Cunningham, whom the Duke described as 'foreman, sculptor, poet'95 was completing the repair of another sculptural treasure from the Roman studios, in this instance a statue of Venus by Thorvaldsen which had arrived at Chatsworth broken in three places.90' A letter from Cunningham describes the repair in detail: 'I have used all my skill in making it. firm and fair and the copper fastenings are employed in such a way as nearly to elude observation . . . The internal softness and at the same time delicacy of the marble - the tenderness of the parts injured with the small space which the fractures afforded of fastening the figure rendered my task a difficult and hazardous one.'97 In his Handbook to Chatsworth and Hardwick the Duke noted with satisfaction that the statue had since been moved several times and that to disguise the fracture in the arm he used a bracelet belonging to Princess Pauline Borghese 'when she went into mourning for the death of Napoleon, and she gave me for this object.'95* The juxtaposition of such items of luxury, souvenirs of other events and places that had specific personal meanings are not unusual in the context of Chatsworth. In the context of this volume it is interesting to note that later the Duke had medallions made of iron from Elba set into the base of his Statue of Pauline Borghese (1824-40,.marble, Chatsworth, Derbyshire) by Thomas Campbell. These medallions were part of a collection of twenty-six that had been commissioned by Napoleon during his stay there and which he then took to St Helena. Like the bracelet they were given to the Duke by Pauline who found them 'curious for their history and material, more than from any merit of their execution'.99 Without doubt the prize of the Duke's collection was Canova's Endymion. It was appropriate that he commissioned Chantrey to make a bronze cast of it for the gardens at Chatsworth particularly given that the sculptor had established his own bronze foundry c. 1827 and could thus oversee the work in person. The commission provided Chantrey with the chance to reacquaint himself with a sculpture which he revered, evidence of which had been expressed in his letter to the Duke of 23 August 1823, when he was making the final arrangements for the unpacking of the Hebe: Those who are governed by their feelings are unbounded in their praise - the more learned qualify their praise a little - & the more cautious pronounce it the finest of Canova's works the opinions of the former I value most. For my part 1 have 110 hesitation in saying that it has the rare merit of being natural at the same time it is classical.1"" Chantrey had viewed the Endymion in Canova's studio although there is no indication of his response. The Duke discussed the possibility of casting the

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statue in bronze when he called on Chantrey on 16 October 1830: 'Called on Chantrey — Endymion to be cast in bronze perhaps . . .'"" and this was confirmed by Chantrey's ledger entry for 15 March 1831. This also shows that the cast was commissioned and executed by Chantrey102 and sent to Chatsworth in September 1834, and was fixed in place on 13 September 1834.'"3 This is in contradiction to the view generally held that Chantrey finished a bronze cast sent from Rome. Here he is fulfilling the Duke's ambition to have a bronze cast in the gardens at the south front, looking down on its sleeping form. This most prized possession of the Duke's had been eagerly awaited after Canova's death and a cast of it sent at the same time had been lost at sea.1"4 As the Duke writes in the Handbook: What anxiety for its voyage to England! A cast of it, sent from Leghorn to Havre, was lost at sea; it was to have been copied in bronze at Paris. In other respects good fortune has attended all my cargoes, and the contents of this room [the sculpture gallery] afford me great satisfaction and pleasure, and are among the excuses for an extravagance that I can neither deny or justify, nor (when I look at Endymion) repent. 1 "' On the bronze cast of this prized work Canova's and Chantrey's names are visible once again in a similar conjunction to those carved into the quarry face at Carrara, above 'Canova Sc.', below 'F. Chantrey Founder'. Here the informal inscritti of their names at Carrara appear translated into a more conventional record of their sculptural association on the body of the work itself. But ultimately, unlike the bronze cast, Canova's example was not a direct source or an easily assimilable inspiration tor Chantrey, but rather can be seen to operate as a tahsmamc fascination.

Notes 1. This institution was founded in 1769 by Maria Teresa Cybo Malaspina d'Este. The ancient Fanriscritti relief was removed from its original site in the quarry along with some of the later inscriptions surrounding it in 1863. For a history of the Academy see Lazzoni (1867), Ciardi (1984a), Russo (1992). For histories of the Carrara marble quarries and trade see Klapisch-Zuber (1973), Delia Pina (1979. 1984). 2. Mazzini (1919): 161-73, includes a line drawing of the imcritti made around the relief showing the site of Chantrey's 'inscription'. 3. Since Mazzini (1919) and (1920) this has largely been forgotten. I am grateful to Christopher Whitehead for drawing the 'inscription' to my attention. 4. Jones (1849): 23-96. 5. Potts (1981). 6. Barrell (1992): 150.

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7. See for example Moore (1983): 240, 28 October 1819, where Moore comments upon the Stuart Monument in St Peter's, Rome: 'finely executed & the fleshiness of the two figures (Canova's great forte) admirable . . .'. 8. Cunningham (1820); Rhodes (1824). 9. Rhodes (1824): 288. 10. Haydon (1826): 3, 145. 11. Cunningham (1826): 132. 12. The Exhibition of the Royal Academy (1808): 902. 13. Yarrington et al. (1994): 139-40.

14. Ibid.: 141. 15. Ibid.: 142. 16. Derby Local Studies Library MS 3535: 294: a plaster bust of Louisa was cast by Smith between 9 August and 6 September 1818; Legc was working on the model during the period 4 October-1 November 1818 and the 'sawing' of the marble was executed by 30 November 1818. This suggests the plaster was shown at the RA. 17. The Exhibition of the Royal Academy (1818): 39 (907). 18. Waagen (1838): 2, 157. 19. Ibid.: 3, 353. Waagen here is referring in particular to Thorvaldsen's relief Briseii 'I'aken away from Achilles purchased by the Duke of Bedford in Rome in 1815. 20. Yarrington et al. (1994): 140—1. For details of the work on this commission see Derby Local Studies Library MS 3535: 254. 21. Gunnis (1968): 237; The Exhibition of the Royal Academy (1814): 46, 35 (773). The quotation included in the catalogue entry was given as being from Milton's Paradise Lost, Book 1: 210. 22. Yarrington et <j/.(1994): 140-1. The date of this commission is given as 1819 and 1820 according to the ledger entry. 23. Holland (1851): 215-16. 24. Rhodes (1824): 283. 25. Cunningham (1826): 134. 26. Ibid. 27. Cunningham (1843): 2, 223-4. Letter from Wilkie to Abraham Raimbach, Rome, 10 January 1826. 28. Wilton (1987): 156-7. Letter to Chantrey dated 6 November 1828 from Rome. 29. Rhodes (1824): 283-4, 288. 30. Ibid.: 284. It seems likely that Rhodes is confused here as there is no other record of any such meeting. 31. Eustace (1997): 15. Here Eustace takes her account of the meeting from that of the Scottish miniaturist Andrew Robertson. For a discussion of Chantrey's acquisition of casts from the antique see Kurtz (1997): 45. 32. Eustace (1997): 19—28. Eustace provides the fullest account of Canova's visit to England in her essay '"Questa scabrosa missione": Canova in Paris and London in 1815'. 33. Wilton (1987): 126. The visit took place on 28 November. 34. Cunningham (1843): 1, 441. Letter from Wilkie to John Anderson, Kensington, 10 December 1815. 35. Huropean Magazine (1815): LXVII: 56, 'Abstract of Domestic Intelligence'. The work had been commissioned by the City of London and was unveiled on 3 June 1815, the King's birthday. 36. Royal Academy, London, General Assembly Minute Book III (1810-25): 221 (4 November 1816).

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37. Ibid.: 262 (10 February 1818). 38. Ibid.; 227 (10 December 1818). 39. Derby Local Studies Library MS 3535: 107-14, 142. 40. Literary Gazette and Journal of the Belles litres (1817): 359. 41. Derby Local Studies Library MS 3535: 157. 42. Ibid.: 157-9. Lege exhibited A Sleeping Infant at the RA in 1821 (118). 43. Ibid.: 159-60. Lege is recorded as having spent a period of 142 working days and seven and a half hours working on the monument, perhaps lending further credence to the notion later in circulation that the work was unfairly accredited to Chantrcy. 44. Yarrington et al. (1994): 130. The ledger entry also records that 'Walkers Cast with the Head of Peace' were completed in February. 45. Ibid. (1994): 130. 46. Ibid. The entry here is unclear and it must be assumed that it refers both to the cast and to the marble Head of Peace. 47. HoUand (1851): 100; Moore (1983): 258, 17 November 1819 names Bramsen amongst Chantrey's party returning to England. 48. Royal Academy, London, Laurence Correspondence, vol. Ill (1819-22): LAW/3/9. 49. Holland (1851): 101. 50. Jones (1849): 24. 51. Mazzini (1920): 68. 'As I intend to return to Cararra in five or six weeks time. I hope you will keep some marble of excellent quality and entirely without defect so that I can choose [from] a greater quantity. It is important that small pieces for busts are particularly pure, otherwise they are useless. I am your obliged servant etc.' The second letter from Chantrey (Mazzini (1920): 68-9) was written to Passani from London and dated 1 February 1820, thanking him for his hospitality. 52. Both Chantrey and J. M. W. Turner had been elected members of the Geological Society in 1814. 53. Wilton (1987): 156. 54. Mazzini (1919): 166. 'infinite are the signatures of Italians and foreigners that are visible sculpted onto every part of the [Fantiscritti] relief from the risorgimento of the arts until 1702. The most legible are . . .' Guattini whom Mazzini cites then lists the names. 55. Klapisch-Zuber(1969): 47-8. 56. Mazzini (1919): 166. 57. Jones (1849): 36. 58. It is not known whether Moore and Chantrey met prior to their Roman sojourn. Moore's journal (Moore (1983): 225) records his visit to the Library of St Mark's in the entry for 8 October 1819, where he comments upon If da and Jupiter that 'Chauntry said this is wretched'. It is not known whether this was a view that was given at the time or later. 59. Yarrington et al. (1994): 82. 60. Derby Local Studies Library' MS 3535: 264. 61. Ibid.: 284. 62. Yarrington et al (1994): 79-80. 63. /feiW.:108-9. The medallion is no longer in place on the sarcophagus having either been subsequently removed or destroyed. It is probable that Chantrey followed the portrait of Horner by the sculptor John Henning. See Maiden, J., John Henning 1711-1851 '. . . a very ingenious Modeller. . .'. Renfrew District Council, 1977, where two drawings (National Portrait Gallery, London and Parliament Hall, Edinburgh) and a medallion (Scottish National Portrait Gallery, 1806) are illustrated.

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64. Lieberman: 'Washington's Statue', in Yarrington e.t at. (1994): 119—20. Sec also Lieberman (1989): 254-68. 65. Pavanello (1976): nos. 301-6. 66. Moore (1983): 240. 19 October 1819. Chantrey had a suite of five rooms at this hotel. Eustace (1997): 18, 21 provides instances of the Davys' friendship and hospitality to Canova. Powell (1987): 35 notes that J. M. W. Turner was certainly in Rome by October, as was Thomas Lawrence. 67. Moore (1983): 240. 28 October 1819. 68. Ibid.: 243. 30 October 1819. 69. Ibid.: 251. 6 November 1819. 70. Ibid.: 257. 13 November 1819. 71. Ibid.: 249. 4 November 1819. 72. Ibid.: 251. 8 November 1819. 73. Ibid.: 256. 15 November 1819. 74. Matthews (1911): 53-4. Gibson described him as 'a man of no genius'. 75. Jones (1849): 28. 76. Ibid.: 29. 77. Accademia Nazionale di San Luca, Archivio Storico 68: n. 57, letter from Canova to the Secretary of the Academy, G. A. Guattani, 15 November 1819, relates to the confirmation of this honour and was written on the day of their visit to the Accademia (sec below note 78). 78. Accademia Nazionale di San Luca, Archivio Storico 100: n. 228, Congregazione Generale, 27 December 1841. 79. Moore (1983): 257. 15 November 1819. 80. Ibid.: 247. 1 November 1819. 81. Kurtz (1997): 45. Kurtz does not provide footnotes but refers to Penny (1991). 82. Moore (1983): 244. 30 October 1819. This was viewed during a visit to the Vatican Collection. 83. Moore (1983): 240. 28 October 1819. Moore reports: 'showed her beautiful little hand, which I had the honour of kissing twice & let me feel her little foot' (Lees-Milne, 1998: 61). 84. Moore (1983): 253. 9 November 1819. 85. Rhodes (1824): 286. 86. Yarrington et al (1994): 172-3. 87. Rhodes (1824): 261. 88. Devonshire MSS, Chatsworth, Diary of the 6th Duke of Devonshire, Thursday 17 October and Friday 18 October 1822. The latter entry states that Chantrey was in 'ecstacies' over the Rookery. 89. Devonshire MSS, Chatsworth, Diary of the 6th Duke of Devonshire, Monday 11 November 1822. 90. Yarrington et al. (1994): 172. In November 1822 Chantrey charges for packing and loading the columns in strong cases and shipping to the wharf. 91. Devonshire MSS, Chatsworth, Diary of the 6th Duke of Devonshire, 1823. 92. Devonshire MSS, Chatsworth: frontispiece illustrated and annotated large paper copy of the Handbook (1844): 4. Letter from Chantrey to the 6th Duke of Devonshire, 6 August 1823. 93. Devonshire MSS, Chatsworth, Diary of the 6th Duke of Devonshire, 1823; Handbook (1844): 4, 101. 94. Devonshire MSS, Chatsworth, Sculpture Accounts of 6th Duke, 6A.15: 43. Letter from Chantrey to the 6th Duke of Devonshire, 23 August 1823. 95. Handbook of Chatsworth and Hardivick (1844): 101.

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96. Devonshire MSS, Chatsworth, Diary of the 6th Duke of Devonshire, 1821: the diary entry for 18 December 1821 states: 'It was broken during the nailing up of the case by Peter Furness in several places, both legs, an arm, & drapery.' 97. Devonshire MSS, Chatsworth, Sculpture Accounts of the 6th Duke of Devonshire, 6.A.15: 44. Letter to the Duke of Devonshire from Allan Cunningham, 4 January 1822.

98. Handbook (1844): 102. 99. Ibid.: 93. 100. Devonshire MSS, Chatsworth, Sculpture Accounts of the 6th Duke of Devonshire, 6.A.15: 43. 101. Devonshire MSS, Chatsworth, Diary of the 6th Duke of Devonshire, entry 16 October 1830. 102. Devonshire MSS, Chatsworth, 6D Private Account Book of the 6th Duke of Devonshire. Entry for 16 February 1831: 'Chantrey for bronze Endymion half— more or less, as he finds from the Expense 16 X 30 £210'. 103. Devonshire MSS, Chatsworth, Building Accounts of the 6th Duke of Devonshire: 4, 449; 432: 13 June the concrete foundation was laid; 437: 19 July 'working steps' put in place; 446: 30 August the pedestal was being worked and built. 104. Devonshire MSS, Chatsworth, Sculpture Accounts of the 6th Duke of Devonshire, 6.A.15: 87. Letter from Gaspare Gabrielli (the Duke's agent) to the Duke dated 14 August 1824 reporting the sad loss of the French ship lo sailing from Marseille to Le Havre with the cast of the Endymion.

105. Handbook (1844): 105.

CHAPTER 8

THE MARBLE TRADE THE LAZZERINI WORKSHOP AND THE ARTS, CRAFTS AND ENTREPRENEURS OF CARRARA IN THE EARLY NINETEENTH CENTURY LUISA PASSEGGIA

Leonardo's definition of sculpture as not a 'science, but a most mechanical art, because it produced sweat and tired the body of its practitioners'1 seems to continue to exercise to this day a profound influence on any writing on art. The literature on the history of sculpture still focuses on the analysis of the finished object, considered as an expression of the individual creativity of the artist and of the historical and cultural context from which it sprang, but almost never taking into account the processes that preceded its making. Only the pragmatism of Anglo-Saxon scholarship permitted Rudolf Wittkower to focus his attention on 'working methods' that were necessary not only to discover the 'ideas and convictions' of the artists, but also to 'open up avenues for the beholder's approach to sculpture',2 using a combined understanding of the conception and execution, planning, and choice of materials and tools. It is no accident that a considerable amount of Wittkower's analysis of the finished piece of sculpture relates to the methods used by sculptors and the results thereby obtained on the marble or stone, thus highlighting the style of the work as well as the technical processes by which it was achieved. However, what remains unresolved even in this type of analysis is an understanding of the connection between the planning and execution of the work (usually seen as two sides of the same coin), taking into account the relations that exist between the artist and those others who, through the application of

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their technical skills, bring about the creation and distribution of a particular artistic product. The examination of the private archives of the Lazzerini family - who ran without break from 1670 to 1942 one of the longest-standing workshops of modelling and sculpture in Carrara (Plates 25, 26, 27) - thus enables us to shed some new light on the more material aspects of the making of works of sculpture. Furthermore, it demonstrates that these craft practitioners played a far more important and creative role than has generally been thought. From an analysis of the materials and techniques, as well as of the economic and artistic relations entertained by the workshop, the objective has been, as Andrea Emiliani has said, to 'bring to the mind of the observer the complete panorama of the forms of expression, the materials, . . . the locations of production, . . . and the linguistic means by which — in a technical dialect, as in a local dialect — altogether in turn' are constructed worlds of forms, each of which 'still retains its own individuality whilst exhibiting at the same time its integration with a larger stylistic language of forms'.-1 The family is first documented in 1670 when Francesco Lazzarini (b. Urbino 1624; d. Carrara 1702), a master stone-cutter (maestro lapidda) from Pescara, decided to leave the Grand Duke's court in Florence to move permanently to Carrara, where he bought a residence in Via dell'Arancio. 4 The family name was changed to Lazzerini by a bureaucratic error in 1831, as we learn from the family history compiled in manuscript in 1960 by one of the last members of the family. Francesco Lazzarini arrived in Florence in 1644 in the train of the Grand Duke Ferdinand II who had just returned from a visit to the former possessions of his wife, Vittoria della Rovere.5 Lazzarini was lodged in one of the outbuildings of the Palazzo Pitti, and was taken in by Carlo Fontana and Alfonso Parigi, then working on the remodelling of the residence and the Boboli garden.6 Of work done in this period the manuscript mentions only the restoration of'one of the gladiators which later was placed along with the other by Domenico Pieratti, at the beginning of the Viale dei Cipressi'.7 Although there is no direct documentary evidence for this, there is at least some confirmation in Francesco Maria Soldini's // reale Giardino di Boboli (1789), which mentions that next to the gladiator of Pieratti there is another, a restored Roman classical statue, although Soldini makes no mention of the restorer.* However, it should be noted that at the time it was entirely normal that a career such as Francesco's should have begun in this manner, given the size of the contemporary market for the antique.'' Over the ensuing years Francesco's work frequently took him to the quarries of Siena, Rapolano, Versilia and Carrara to supervise the selection, purchase

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THE LAZZERINI WORKSHOP

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Plates 25, 26, 27 Views of the interior of the Lazzerim workshops in Corso Vittorio Ernanuele (now Via Fratelli Rosselli), Carrara (Archivo Fotografico Famiglia Lazzeriiii).

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and transport of marbles, and thus led him to choose Carrara as his eventual and definitive location. This, however, was a choice against the tendency of most in the field, who generally did not find sufficient reason to locate themselves permanently anywhere along these itinerant routes, but preferred to go elsewhere to seek their fortunes. Andrea Bolgi and Domenico Guidi are only two of the best-known examples of this form of artistic emigration, a phenomenon still lamented at the beginning of the nineteenth century when Ludovico Lizzoli complained about the number of Carrarese sculptors who left for other European countries, or the United States.1" In addition, the extent to which the marble industry was subject to an economic recession that took hold between the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries must not be forgotten. This was aggravated by both the uncertain political situation1' and the lack of any structures that regulated professional activity in the industry. Even the oldest company organization in the area, the Ars marmoris, had from its beginning in the sixteenth century been used by the major quarry owners to obtain workers at low cost, rather than supporting a regular system of apprenticeships to guarantee the formation of the necessary body of artisans.12 This situation became critical not so much as a result of the diminishing demand for their products, but rather because of the general incapacity of the entrepreneurs — accustomed to easy profits from marble extraction — to respond to the changing demands of the market by diversifying their production.13 However, alongside the particular range of products — balustrades, tiles, mortars, fireplaces - made by some local companies, the new workshop added a further 'service' which ranged from the realization of large architectural ornaments to the modelling, roughing out and sculpting of individual works of art. Positive results were soon evident when in 1722 the Lazzarini business opened a display gallery in Rome, followed by a second in Pisa in 1749. In 1759 a larger and more central second residence in Carrara, in the Via del Carmine, was acquired, which included a gallery for the display of finished products. It is at this time that the Lazzarini clientele came to include names of note, such as Giovan Battista Piranesi, Carlo Rainaldi, Giuseppe Torretti and Giovan Battista Foggini in Italy; Guillaume and Nicolas Coustou, JeanAntoine Houdon and Denis-Antoine Chaudet from France; John Flaxman from England; Johann Christopher Sturtnberger from Denmark; and Francois Pinch from Poland. Whilst this list cannot be supported directly from other sources it can at least be partially confirmed by the recent identification of plaster busts held by the Scuola del Manno of Carrara:14 Maria Leczinska by Guillaume Coustou, Madame du Barry by Augustine Pajou, Mile Guimard by

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Gaetano Merchi and Marie Antoinette, probably ascribable to the circle of Jean-Baptiste Lemoyne. The causes of the Lazzerini workshop's success are found in its particular circumstances and artistic culture that were absent in the other workshops of the region, particularly as it was at this time that the economic difficulties in the area were such that the Ars marmoris closed. Too late to save the latter, the local commercial establishment attempted to remedy the situation by persuading the Grand Duchess Maria Teresa Cybo Malaspina d'Este to attempt to regulate activities in the marble industry by introducing three guilds of marble sellers, teachers, and workers, which would be under the overall control of an appointed magistrate. Such anachronistic and obsolete forms of commercial regulation were undoubtedly at the origin of the foundation, seven years later, of the Accademia di Belle Arti, which, with its ups and downs, was to accompany the future development of the marble and stone industry.1"' The opportunities offered by this new structuring of the industry were immediately taken up by Giovari Battista Lazzarini (Carrara: 1720-78). He interrupted the by-now-established family tradition where first-born sons completed their professional training as apprentices to such noted master sculptors as Matteo de' Rossi in Rome, Ercole Lelli in Bologna or Giovan Battista Foggini in Florence:16 his own son Francesco (Carrara: 1748—1808) was the first of the Lazzerini to complete his artistic education at the Accademia. Now established as a fifth-generation citizen of Carrara, Francesco Lazzarini had only a relatively brief business career which allowed him, on the one hand, to exploit to the full opportunities offered by the prevailing economic liberalism — gaining, however, the nickname of the 'white robber' (ladro bianco);17 on the other hand, such were his skills and prestige that during the early years of the Napoleonic period he was named one of the professors of sculpture, along with Paolo Triscornia and Bartolomeo Franzom.'* Furthermore, in Gerard Hubert's study of Italian sculpture of the penod, Francesco Lazzarini emerges as one of the most significant personalities of Carrara both for his wide range of work done abroad and for his work in Italy.1'' Francesco's work abroad included: the decoration of the dining hall of the Lazienky Castle in Warsaw;2" at Palma, Majorca where, in addition to various restorations, he produced portrait busts of Cardinal Dcspuig and of a Count of Montenegro; in Copenhagen in 1806 he sold busts of Voltaire and Rousseau based on those of Houdon; and for the city of Philadelphia he completed a statue of Benjamin Franklin in Roman toga with the head modelled on Houdon's bust - a statue which, according to Ludovico Lizzoli, made Lazzarini 'the object of the admiration of those who

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saw the statue, and he well merited the praise that was given him by all the newspapers of Europe'.21 In addition, there were also works recorded by Lizzoli in 'galleries in Rome, Paris, London, Petersberg, etc.'. In Italy the high quality attained by Francesco Lazzarini in the reproduction of antique sculpture was already well recognized by Giacomo Ortalli who, in 1802, acclaimed him the finest of sculptors in the field.22 This reputation gained him participation in an exhibition in Bologna in 1805 along with Ceccardo Franchi, Francesco Pisani, Francesco Franzoni, Leopoldo Vanelli and Angelo Pizzi;23 that same year he finished a figure of Mars and one of a Bacchante, along with a medal showing Napoleon Bonaparte as First Consul.24 Given the political situation of the time, relations with French artists were naturally privileged, and are particularly interesting (and well documented) as they shed some light upon the execution of the works themselves. Not only is his collaboration with Houdon evidenced by his possession of Houdon's plaster busts of Voltaire, Rousseau and Franklin, which we find referred to several times in the inventories of the workshop,25 but from a study of material in the photographic archive it is possible to identify another sculpture by Houdon, Winter, which can been seen in a photograph of the workshop at the beginning of the twentieth century and which was reproduced in marble around the same time — recorded, however, in the workshop catalogues as the 'Freddolosa' ('Woman suffering the cold').26 Also of interest are the documents concerning the relations between Francesco Lazzarini and Joseph Chinard, held by Hubert to be 'the finest French sculptor to reside in Carrara.'27 In a letter sent in 1807 by Hector Sonolet, then director of the Accademia and of the Banca Elisiana28 to Princess Baciocchi, he explained the need to have a meeting with Chinard, the sculptor, and Lazzarini, the craftsman, 'to make some changes' to a bust of the Emperor previously made by Chaudet: 'thus, but for his signature, it •will no longer be a bust by Chaudet'.29 This underlines not only the close collaboration that there was between the designer and the executor of the sculpture, but also the importance given to the latter in the final stages of the work. One is also lead to reconsider to some extent views that have been expressed with respect to changes made by workshop sculptors to the original models they were sculpting, considering them perhaps to be more of an expression of artistic creativity. An example of this attitude is provided by Hubert, who, despite his praise for the high quality of copies made in Carrara — of which the greatest number were in fact made by the Lazzarini workshop3" - only mentions corrections made to Chaudet's originals by Lorenzo Bartolini. From 1808 Bartolini held the chair of sculpture at the Accademia, and thus (in the eyes of Hubert) had the artistic credentials

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for making changes 'creatively'; any earlier changes to originals go unconsidered by Hubert, coming as they did from mere craftsmen in workshops. Francesco Lazzarini's sudden death, following a fall from a horse on 3 September 1808, was to throw his family and heirs into dispute. Following family tradition as well as the will of Francesco Lazzarini, the largest part of the family's property, along with the running of the workshop, should have gone to his first son Roberto (Carrara: 1779-1832); however, other heirs from Francesco's first and subsequent two marriages31 contested the will in litigation that lasted some four years. It was only in 1812 that Roberto Lazzarini — having been made to forfeit much of the family's wealth — was finally confirmed as owner of the family company and officially took over the running of the workshop, although he had, in fact, been doing this since the death of his father. The long series of legal acts, opinions, judgements, and other documents relative to the dispute over the inheritance of Francesco, along with a thick letter-book covering the whole of the nineteenth century, afford a rare glimpse into the activity of the workshop, showing a production that from both the technical and commercial point of view followed the changing dictates of fashion and taste, and a capacity to respond to the demands of the artists who via their sketches and roughed out models used the workshop for the material production of their works. Because of the complex nature of the material, these documents have been examined following both a chronological and a thematic order, in an attempt to offer a panorama of a documentary resource that for both its quantity and its inherent interest will repay considerable further study. The first collection of letters covers the relations from 1808 to 1814 between Ludovico Fietta, an Italian merchant in Dubno, Poland, and Roberto Lazzarini, then in the early years of running the workshop, as he attempted to restore and maintain the trade links established by his father. To the change in ownership of the workshop were added the difficulties of the great distance and the further problems of communications across the continent of Europe that, over these years, was constantly at war.32 Using a system that might be defined as 'by relay', the shipping routes were essentially two: in the first, through the agencies of Paolo Cecconi in Pisa and Serafino Zannom in Florence, objects were moved by the Shellerk company of Vienna; the second shipping route used the Florentine company of the Fratelli Pisam, a company that both produced stonework and acted as a shipper.33 The latter route had the advantage of eliminating the intermediary Cecconi, but more important, because it used the company of Hanfner and Violland of

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Brodij, it guaranteed a quicker and easier entry into Russia, without problems of import licences.34 The demand from abroad was primarily for classical material, as can be seen from the shipping of'two Vestal virgins', 'one Artemisia', one 'Medici Apollo' and a 'Venere dalle belle natiche' (the Callipygian Venus); however, there were also works from the more contemporary repertoire, such as the 'Freddolosa by Houdon, or portrait busts of Napoleon taken from 'either the original by Canova or that by Chaudet'.35 These tastes can also be seen in the unsuccessful attempt to sell to Fietta in 1808 a pair of busts of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette,36 works which were not to find a buyer for a further twenty years. They were offered again in 1819 to the French dealer Alexandre Henraux who rejected them as too expensive, but agreed to store them in his warehouse in Paris.37 These busts are mentioned again in 1820 when Lazzarini suggested to 'Sig.re Ugo Mawdsley', an English resident of Leghorn, that he might re-sell them 'in London, to the Duke of Buckingham, who already has painted portraits of the sitters, but does not have them in marble, as we have been assured by various artists from Carrara who have worked in the Duke's house'.38 By 1828 the plan of selling the piece via this 'Mawdsley' had been abandoned: in the same year Roberto Lazzarini approached Domenico Maggesi, a sculptor originally from Cararra then established in Paris. This avenue again failed to sell the piece; the French legate Fabre39 suggested that the 'court chaplain' might be approached as a possible buyer but Maggesi rejected the idea because 'no matter that the government might have need for this sort of work, it would go to its own artists; firstly to give them work (for already in this city there is little work) and secondly because it [the government] wishes them to be made in this country, and it seems (as they say) that everything coming in from abroad is .rubbish (una porcheriaY .4" Analysis of the surviving documents and correspondence reveals that Leghorn and Florence were the principal centres where the sculptures of the workshop - both from the classical and contemporary repertoire — were sold or shipped on elsewhere. The reasons for this are clear: Florence, despite its vicissitudes, was still the centre of artistic activity in Tuscany, and was one of the favourite stops for foreigners on the Grand Tour. Leghorn, on the other hand, along with Genoa, continued its tradition as a seafaring commercial centre, and as one of the principal ports used by the marble industry. Leghorn was also one of the principal stopping off points of some foreign travellers, most notably the Russians and the English, who would make the short trip to Florence from Leghorn before continuing on further south.41

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In 1811 the English merchant Isaac Grant, a resident in Leghorn,42Purchased on behalf of a certain 'Sig.re Gendre Harke', for the price of 55 zecchini, a statue showing 'a young woman crouching playing with knucklebones'.43 In 1815 and 1826 two important commissions were contracted with the Micali Company of Leghorn — a company that the papers of the Banca Elisiana show was already active in Carrara at the time.44 The first of these commissions consisted in the purchase of an Agrippina Minor, Hebe by Canova, and a Minerva from the Giustiniani Collection. The second was for the making of four statues representing 'Ganymede, Jupiter, Diana, and Juno for the agreed price of thirty-two zecchini each, delivered to their residence in Leghorn shipping costs paid'.45 In a private note written by Roberto Lazzarini as a memo for the final invoice we see presented all the successive production phases necessary in finishing the work. Thus we see how, along with the cost of the marble block itself, the cost and time required might be increased by the discovery of a disfiguring flaw in the block. He referred to this as a lucdcone, a word derived from the local dialect 'luzzica' or -lucciola in Italian, a term still used today to mean a quartz inclusion that spoils the homogeneity of the material. This defect emerged only during the first phase of the carving, when the 'sbozzaton , under the guide of the 'smodellatori', gave the block its first roughed-out form.46 It was the latter who had the responsibility of reproducing faithfully in the marble copy the original model, appropriately scaled. This was an operation that was carried out by transferring points from the plaster model to the marble copy using the so-called 'proportional triangle', which allowed three relative positions or angles to be transferred from one object to the other in the correct proportion or scale.47 Evidence that the roughing out of a block of marble posed problems not to be underestimated is provided by the diverse attention paid to this argument by artists and theorists over the centuries. In his Dp Statua of 1464 Leon Battista Alberti suggested the use of the 'definitor', a tool formed of a rotating rod joined at one end to a circular disk and terminating at the other end with a plumb line.4" Leonardo suggested a system comprising a box and rod that is easy in its conception but cumbersome in use, since the measurements to be transferred to the marble block were obtained by filling up with earth a box of exactly the same dimension.49 Vasari attributes to Michelangelo the use of a socalled 'water-bath' which supposedly permitted the identification of the excess quantity of marble through the immersion of the model in a bath of water.5" During the second half of the eighteenth century the sculptors at the Academic de France at Rome responded to the ever-increasing requests for copies after

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the antique by developing a system which consisted in fixing above the block and the model square frames which through the use of plumb lines enabled the exact reproduction of the object according to the appropriate scale.51 It is not surprising, then, that such skills required careful training, a training which at the time was ensured by the Accademia. During the reign of the Grand Duchess Elisa Baciocchi this had strengthened its teaching activities with a view to increasing the quality of the production of stone carving.52 Nor should it be surprising therefore that in the Micali commission the sculptors or ''smodellatori Francesco Bologna and Raimondo Baratta were employed by the Lazzarini -workshop; they had already been recorded in 1809 as assistants in the 'List of Teachers of Sculpture and Architecture of Carrara',53 and in Roberto Lazzarini's 1826 account of costs their work constituted a significant part of the total. The organization of the workshop required other skilled workers to give the sculpture the final touches: from an 'intagliatore' or carver who was used in the Micali commission for the final retouching work on 'the hair and beard of Jupiter', the 'eagle of Ganymede' and 'the hair of Diana' to a 'lustratore' or polisher who gave the statues the final polishing once finished.54 The nature of the payments that we find, based as they are on days of work, suggests that -working practices were built around temporary workers or pieceworkers, who provided their own tools. This would also be the only reasonable explanation of the list, drawn up in 1808 upon the death of Francesco Lazzarini,55 in which the tools of the workshop consisted of: 'a sculptor's bow in poor condition. A lifting boom (Un'asta). Two iron compasses. Ten scrapers of various sizes. Twenty iron tools (/em) and a mallet for use in working marble . . . eight large benches of various sizes for workshop use', five tripods, and a small work-bench. Altogether this is a very poor list of equipment for such a workshop, when we look at engravings of Canova's workshop, or the examples given by Carradori. A further sense of the importance of skilled labour is reflected in the division of costs for the realization of a finished sculpture from an 1831 note on expenditures concerning a Venus of Canova, wherein Roberto Lazzarini gave the price of the sculpting and finishing (lavoraturd) of the Venus as 240 lire, whilst the modelling came to 105 lire and the marble itself to 40 lire,56 thus demonstrating the high cost of the workmanship with respect to the cost of the material. The central artistic role of Florence has already been mentioned, and it was here that over the turn of the eighteenth to nineteenth centuries were founded, in 1780, 'true and genuine factories of reproductions of ancient -works such as

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the Fratelli Pisani',57 or in 1805 the workshop of Giovan Batdsta Insom (b. Ortisei, 1775; d. Florence, 1831). Insom, having established himself with the commissions of four Nereids for the Saletta da Bagno of the Palazzo Pitti, began a flourishing trade in marble and alabaster copies of antique sculptures, particularly with England, France and St Petersburg.58 Some of these works were contracted out to the Lazzarini workshop; as early as 1821—2 there were arrangements between Insom and Lazzarini for the production of a marble statue of 'Jupiter with Eagle' and the moulding of 'two plaster casts, the one representing a group of Castor and Pollux and the other Achilles V However, the most significant of his commercial relations was without doubt that which Roberto Lazzarini established with Lorenzo Bartolini. During Bartolini's stay in Carrara, the two established a friendship60 and a professional collaboration that continued well after 1814 and lasted for about a decade, as can be seen by their correspondence over the years 1816 to 1826. Although we do not find direct documentary evidence that any of the most important works of Bartolini - such as Tlie Faun or 'lire Faith in God - were sculpted in the Lazzarini workshop, their correspondence offers a window on a part of Bartolini's work that is unknown or little noted, and which was directed to the commercial opportunities offered in the area of reproductions of art works (in a manner similar to the Fratelli Pisani or Insom). In this regard, of particular interest is a letter of Bartolini in which he asks that two busts of Voltaire and Rousseau (of which the workshop could boast the exclusive use of the plaster originals by Houdon6') be sent to Florence 'when they are at the point that all that is left is the final smoothing (arrotatura) of the hair and the final retouching, all of which can be done here'.''2 This comment underlines how the quality of the finishing of a sculpture was an important guarantee of the commercial saleability of the product, as we again see when Bartolini complained about the delays in the delivery of an Apollo Belvedere and the Medici Venus:"3 Dearest friend, For heaven's sake please send me the busts, the Apollo and the Venus, even if still only roughed out; you have no idea how damaged I am by this delay, so if I am begging you it is only to try to mitigate my complete shame in this affair.

Bartolini returns to the damage done to his image caused by the failure to meet deadlines when he again asks for the timely delivery of a work 'so that I don't look bad with the client and so as to not give ammunition to my enemies who could slander me with the accusation of causing a poor finishing job'. 61 In Bartolini's Florentine workshop were displayed not only his own works:

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he rented - as it were - space to others, as with the Lazzarini, taking a percentage of the sales/15 It seems that Bartolini paid scant attention to this activity given that Roberto Lazzarini first complained openly about the arrangement, and then finally proposed moving his works - which were then placed with Bartolini — to another Florentine merchant, Pietro Menchinelli, explaining that 'as my friend Frugoni assures me . . . these works of mine would have been sold a thousand times, and namely, the so-called Hebe, at a much higher price than the one which I listed with Bartolini'.66 Notwithstanding such difficulties, Lazzarini was still able, in the last letter of 21 May 1826, to ask Bartolini for the loan of a plaster cast of 'the Ganymede in the Galleria of Florence' for the Micali commission, and nor was Bartolini soured towards the Lazzerini workshop when he commented on the copy made of the Medici Venus which he considered to be 'of perfect marble and workmanship'.67 This opinion of the quality of workmanship is confirmed when Bartolini gave to Lazzarini the job of copying 'two portrait busts that I have modelled only poorly, and of which I ask you to make me two copies in beautiful marble and I submit myself to your skills'.6" The importance — and prestige — of his relationship with Bartolini was such that Roberto Lazzarini did not hesitate to use it to strengthen his letter of presentation to Christian Daniel Rauch6'' of Berlin in 1827, where he proposed that he should replace the recently deceased Emanuele Franzoni70 as Ranch's modeller. The outcome of this proposition is not known, but it was probably not successful since it is not referred to subsequently. For clearer insight into the relationship that tied an artist to a sculpting workshop, of particular interest is the correspondence between Roberto Lazzarini's son Alessandro (Carrara, 1810—62) and the German sculptor Ernst von Bandel.71 Bandel was in Rome in 1825 and frequented the circle of Thorvaldsen and in 1844, during a stay in Carrara, came to know the workshop, beginning a collaboration that is documented up to 1855. In 1854 we read that the workshop received from Hanover the request for the making of an angel, of which a sketch was sent giving the sizes of the final copy, for which the workshop already had a model. The sculpture was to be made out of a block of marble coming from the Canal Bianco Ravaccione quarry and was to be sent by sea to Hamburg, whilst the model was to remain in the workshop in case subsequent copies were to be made.72 These brief annotations reconfirm, however, the importance of the process of the making of a sculpture, characterized not only by a code of norms and technical practices but more so by the unavoidable relationship between the making of a work and the means by which it is brought about. The recognition

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of the creativity present in this process of production should not, however, take our analysis back to the traditional idealistic path, a path which, as Emiliani has stressed, has seen these same artists or artistic production 'robbed, over time, of any sense of the effects or importance of the intermediary practical stages in the creation of the object'.73 With a re-evaluation of the 'craft' aspect of sculpture, its history clearly becomes a synthesis of complex processes which, in addition to its conception and its execution, bring into connection the traditionally separate extremes of centre and periphery, or regional and national artistic culture, bound together by the common use of materials and techniques. It is hoped that this present chapter may offer a contribution (albeit partial) to such a multiform history of these rich and changing processes.

Acknowledgement [ wish to express my gratitude to the Lazzerini family, and in particular to Dott.ssa Franca Lazzerini, for having allowed me access to a wealth of family documents of exceptional importance; to Sig.ra Annalisa Pctacchi, head of the Sezionc Locale of the Bibhoteca Civica of Carrara, to Dott.ssa Anna Pennisi head of the Biblioteca Civica of Carrara, and to Dott.ssa Olga Raffo of the State Archives of Massa.I should also like to express my gratitude to Prof. Lucia Tomasi Tongiorgi (University of Pisa) for her untiring help and support in my research, including her guidance in the work presented here.

Notes 1. Leonardo (1995), First Part, 31. Comincia della scultura, e s'essa e scienza o no, 33. 2. Wittkower (1977): 9. 3. 'richiamare alia mentc dell'osservatore la totahta sventagliata e potente dclle tipologie espressive. dei material! . . ., dellc aree di produzione, . . . del tramiti linguistic! che - ncl codice tecnico come nelle parlate locali — costruiscono a loro volta . . . celebrando una sua integrazione ad un linguaggio piu vasto, ma ognuna msienie conservando, infme, la sua individua peculiarita' (Emiliani (1979): 139). 4. The earliest notices found in the area with respect to the Lazzerini family concern Lazzaro (b. Florence 1668; d. Carrara 1759), son of a founding member of the family, Francesco, to be found in the Archivio Notarile of Carrara, in the State Archives of Massa (hereafter referred to as A.S.M.). In 1719 he is mentioned in connection with the restructuring of a house near the Chapter House of the Cathedral, to be done 'according to the rules, which should be afterwards judged by the Surveyor of the Guild' ('secondo 1'arte, quale doppo debba essere ricoriosciuta dai Periti deU'Arte', A.S.M., Archivio Notanle of Carrara, Atti Michelangelo Zeni, filza 175. n. 1719, cc. 30 v.—31 r.v.). Then on 28 October 1727 a certain Nicolao Felice Peroni d'Arcola was apprenticed to the workshop to learn 'the art of woodcutter or masonry' (mumtore) (A.S.M., Atti Michelangelo

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Zeni, filza 177, n. 1727, c. 171 v.). And finally, in 1749 (A.S.M., Atti Michelangelo Zem, filza 186, n. 1749, c. 364 r.), Francesco 'renounced paternal responsibility' for Lazzaro ('emancipate, e liberate dalla sua paterna potesta'). 5. R. Lazzenni, Tie secoli di vita e attivita artistica in Carrara e nel mondo delta Famiglia Lazzarini o Lazzenni, Carrara, 1960. Hereafter referred to as Ms. 6. See Passeggia (1997): 17, n. 10. 7. 'uno dei gladiatori che piu tardi venne collocate, con 1'altro di Domenico Pieratti, al principio del Viale dei Cipressi'. See Ms, p. 10. On Domenico Pieratti, see Gregori (ed.) (1986) and Pizzorusso (1989). 8. Soldini (1789): 41. 9. See Rossi Pinclli (1986). 10. Lizzoh (1807): 28, n. 21. 11. See Bemien (1984). Hereafter referred to as Annuario 1982-3. 12. On the Ars marmoris and on the general situation of workers in the profession, see KlapischZuber (1973). 13. See Delia Pina (1984). 14. See Passeggia (1997): 58-63, 66-9. 15. For a further discussion of this, see Ciarcli (1984a). 16. On Mattco de' Rossi, see Pascoli (1786); on Ercole Lelli, see Brigand (1990); and on Giovanni Battista Foggini, see Ottani Cavina (1982). 17. Ms: 26. 18. See Carozzi (1981). 19. See Hubert (1964a): 370. 20. On the relations established with Poland, it is particularly interesting to see the notarized document of 7 July 1800 at Carrara wherein Francesco Lazzarini revoked the power of attorney given to Count 'Francesco Lazniusld Polacco', giving it instead to 'Cavaliere Marcello de' Bacciarelli abitante in Varsavia' (A.S.M., Archivio Notarilc of Carrara, Atti Francesco Cabrini, filza 286, 7 July 1800). On the Roman painter Marcello de' Bacciarelli, see Carloni (1991), Appendice Documentaria: 371. 21. Lizzoli (1807): 28. These trips abroad are further confirmed by recent research in the State Archives in Massa. Francesco Lazzarini fled Carrara in 1780 because of an illicit love affair, turning up in Rome (A.S.M., Dispacci Sovrani, 84, c. 200 r., 13 June 1780), then in Paris, before returning to Carrara in 1782. This return was clearly with the protection of an illustrious although anonymous — protector, who in the meantime had managed to arrange the commuting of his jail sentence into 'an affectionate scolding for his past and not light misdemeanours' ('una amorosa correzione per le passatc sue non leggiere mancanze') thanks to the 'esteem with which his patron' ('per il rispettabile soggetto dal quale ci e stato raccomandato') was held by the Grand Duchess Mana Teresa Cybo-Malaspina d'Este (A.S.M., ibid., 84, c. 228 r., 8 March 1782). 22. See Ortalli (1802). 23. Carozzi (1981): 220. 24. Hubert (1964a): 370. 25. Archivio Lazzerini (hereafter A.L.), Divisione Lazzarini, Libra 1 che contiene Division!, Atti giudiziari, Perizie, Sentenze, Resoconti, Quietanze ed ultra appartent'nti all'Endita del fu Sig.re Francesco Lazzarini. 26. Ibid. 27. Hubert (1964a): 374. 28. The Banca Elisiana or Cassa di Soccorso was established in Carrara by Elisa Bonaparte Baciocchi on 2 May 1807. The aim of the flank was to introduce stability in the economy of the

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marble market — which up to that point had experienced considerable, destabilizing fluctuations — by lending money at special low rates to all those involved in the trade, i.e. quarry owners, artists and workshop sculptors. The profit would be guaranteed by the export taxes levied. In fact, the extremely convenient rates offered by the chairman, Hector Sonolet, to the French government, then the primary consumer of artistic productions from Carrara, succeeded in producing an everincreasing deficit which forced the bank to close down on 30 June 1811. For further information see Carozzi (1984). 29. *ce ne sera plus le buste de Chaudet que par la marque'; see Marmottan (1901): 244. 30. A.S.M., filza 203, Banca Ehsiana, c. 162 r., 14 November 1807, Stato dei busti di Chaudet eseguiti dai sottoindkati scultori; the note explains that Francesco Lazzarini had made seven copies, followed by Paolo Triscomia who made five. 31. Sec Passeggia (1997): 22. 32. See A. L., Corrispondenza Lodovico Fietta, letter of 1 July 1810. 33. A. L., ibid., 27 January 1811. On the Fratelh Pisani, see Hubert (1964a) and also Hubert (1964b). 34. A. L., Correspondence with L. Fietta, 7 July 1811. Further confirmation of the artistic and commercial relations between the Lazzarini workshop and Russia can be seen in the recent identification of a plaster model known heretofore as the anonymous 'Venus in Sandals' (Venew dal sandalo), a work now attributed to the Russian sculptor Ivan Vitali, a student in St Petersburg of Agostino Triscornia of Carrara. See Milano (1996): 65. I would like to thank Prof. Sergej Androssov, curator of the exhibition II Nuoi'o Emtitage, Massa, 4 April-28 June 1998, for having confirmed this attribution during his visit to the Scuola del Manno of Carrara on this occasion. 35. A. L., ibid., 8 January 1809.

36. A. L., ibid. 37. A. L., letter to Alexandre Henraux, 14 October 1819 and 30 November 1819. 38. 'in Londra prcsso il Duca Buckingham, che ne ha il ritratto in pittura, e manca del med.rm in manno come vcngo assicurato da van artisti carraresi, chc hanno lavorato alia villa di d.o duca.' A. L., letter to Ugo Mawdsley, 15 August 1820. 39. On Domenico Maggesi and Jean-Antoinc Fabre, see Hubert (1964b). 40. 'quantunque il governo avesse bisogno di tali lavori si indirizzerebbe ai suoi artisti; pnmieramente per occuparli (giacche vi e in questa citta una gran scarsita di lavoro) e secondariamcnte tutti oggetti d'arte che ta acquisto, brama che siano fatti da quelh del paese, e pare che tutto quello chc vicne dall'estero (al dir lore) sia una porchcria.' A. L., letter to Domenico Maggesi, 26 January and 15 March 1828. 41. On the importance of Florence and Livorno as centres of the art market, see Rossi Pinelli (1986); Lazzarini (1996). 42. On the English colony in Livorno, see Ciano (1980). In particular, on the merchant Isaac Grant, in this publication see H. Hayward, 'Some Considerations on the British Cemetery in Livorno': 23-30; and also Pierotti (1980): 66-9. 43. 'una ragazza coka in atto di divertirsi allc ossa', A. L., letter to Isaac Grant, 11 November 1818. [Translator's note: astragali (knucklebones) were used in antiquity especially by Greek women, in various simple games such as children now play with stones, and were also employed as dice.] 44. A.S.M., filza 203, c. 237 r., 4 April 1808. Here, note that Hector Sonolet mentions the Micali Company with respect to the shipping of some busts of the Emperor, although without specifying either the number or the sculptor. On the importance of the Micali Company in the international art market, see also Lazzarini (1996): 73-4, where, for the years 1810—12, it is noted how Giacinto Micali relied upon a workshop 'in Carrara for its marble work' ('di Carrara per la lavorazionc dei marmi').

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45. 'Ganimcdc, Giovc, Diana e Giunonc per il convenuto prezzo di zecchini trentadue per cadauna date e consegnate al loro doniicilio in Livorno tranche di spese'. A. L., Conti Correnti e Memorie diverse. Commissione dclli Sig.ri Giacinto Mkali e figlio di Livomo di numero quattro statue di marine statttario di prima qualita rappresentanli Ganimede, Giove, Diana c Giunone. May—October 1826. 46. The terms 'sbozzatore' and 'smodellatore', peculiar to the language spoken in the area of Versilia and the Alpi Apuane, define two professional figures separate but complementary in the reproduction of marble statuary. Once the marble block had been selected, the task of the 'sbozzatore consisted in removing the excess material so as to reach a shape and size close to those called for by the model. This job, which required great experience and care, was performed with a variety of tools, especially firmer chisels, double-facet cape chisels and gouges. The 'smodellatore' was responsible for the more demanding and delicate task of the faithful reproduction of the model through the exact transferral of the measurements. This task was made possible by the use of the pantograph. For further information on this subject as well as on the so-called proportional triangle see Endclopedia delle arti e delie Industrie, Turin 1880, vol. v, 'Marmo': 840—4. The instruments employed in these two phases of production, which have basically remained unchanged through the centuries, have in the course of recent times undergone some technological innovations resulting primarily in the introduction of the electrical drill and pneumatic hammer. 47. See Endclopedia delle arti e delle Industrie, Turin, 1880, vol. v, 'Marmo', 841—3. 48. See Wittkower (1977): 81. 49. Leonardo (1995), Part III, paragraph 500, Delia Statua: 253. 50. Vasan (1991): 1257. 51. Wittkower (1977): 222-3; Tomasi Tongiorgi (1984). 52. See Ciardi (1984a); Lucca (1984). 53. Elcnco dci Profcssori di Scoltura e architettura di Carrara, see Milano (1996): 36. 54. See above, note 43. 55. A. L., Divisione Lazzarini. 56. A. L., Conti correnti e memorie diverse, Carrara 30 May 1809, parte A, c. 34 r.; Nota delle spesefatte dal Signer Giuseppe Bajni, per le due Veneri, tio'i de' Medici e i'altra di Canova, 1831. 57. Verc e proprie manifatture di riproduzioni di opere antiche come quella nota dei Fratelli Pisam', Hubert (1964a): 29. 58. Hubert (1964a): 390. 59. 'due gessi rappresentanti uno il Gruppo di Castore e Polluce e 1'altro Achille', A. L., letter to Giovanni Insom, 10 December 1821-28 July 1822. 60. See Passeggia (1997): pp. 26-7. 61. A. L., letter to Mojse e Bazzanti, 31 December 1820. 62. 'quando saranno al punto che non sia necessario altro che 1'arrotatura dei Capelli e la ritoccatura, che tutto questo si fara qui'; A. L., letter to Lorenzo Bartolini, 11 March 1817. 63. 'Carissimo amico, per carita mandatemi subito i busti, 1'Apollo e la Venere ancorche abbozzati; non potete giudicare di qual danno siami questo ritardo, e cio che v'imploro e soltanto un tentative per veder di mitigare la mia totale vergogna in quest'affare.' A. L., ibid, 27 March 1817. 64. 'al fine di non dover fare cattiva figura con il Committente e per non dar luogo ai miei nemici che mi possano infamare di sollecitarmi la phi cattiva esecuzione'; A. L., ibid., 11 March 1817. 65. A. L., Failure quietanzate, 1819. 66. 'come 1'amico Frugoni mi assicura . . . i detti miei lavori sarebbero stati venduti mille volte, ed assegnatamenle la delta Ebe, molto di piu di qucllo che la misi in nota al d.o Bartolini'; A. L., letler to Pietro Menchinelli, 1 and 29 Augusl 1819.

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67. 'd'un marmo e d'una esecuzione perfetta'; A. L., letter to Lorenzo Bartolim, 24 March 1818. 68. 'due busti ritratti da me debolmente raoclellati, e che vi domando farmene delle copic in bellissimo marmo rimettendovi al prezzo della vostra saviezza'; A. L., ibid., 22 March 1817. 69. On Rauch's stay in Carrara, see Thieme and Becker (1950): vol. II, 436—8; Bergamo (1993); and Russo and Carozzi (1996). 70. On the activities of Ernanuele Franzoni, both Campon (1873) and subsequent studies have failed to uncover the work of Rauch's modeller, although his production leads one to suppose that he had good — if not excellent — sculpting abilities (for example, he produced, along with his brother Carlo, the funerary monument of Felice Baciocchi in San Petronio, Bologna, not to mention his turning down of an invitation from the United States to complete the work in the Capitol in Washington of his brother Giuseppe Antonio after the latter's sudden death). 71. On Ernst von Bandel (Ansbach, 1800-76) see Raggi (1880); Thicmc and Becker (1950): vol. II, 436-8; Benezit (1924): vol. I, 3-5. 72. A. L., Corrispondenza Ernst von Bandel, Hanover, 12July 1854. 73. A loose translation of: 'trasferire, nei secoli, nella dimensione liberale ogni abito operative e di cammino prammatico', Emiliani (1979): 101.

CHAPTER

CARLO MAROCHETTI MAINTAINING DISTINCTION IN AN INTERNATIONAL SCULPTURE MARKET PHILIP

WARD-JACKSON

It has recently been argued that the concept of the original genius, as it was put about in the later eighteenth century, was 'socially generated by the appearance of conditions of excessive economic competition within the new public art markets of Northern Europe and Rome'.1 By the middle of the following century those conditions had grown if anything more oppressive. On one level the market for sculpture had widened, but in catering to the middle-class demand for small decorative and serial works, a sculptor risked losing the honours of the statuaire. The subject of this chapter, Carlo Marochetti (1805—67) (Plate 28), was identified after 1830 with the self-consciously romantic school of sculpture. This involved attraction to local and historic colour, a refusal to privilege the usual set of classical models or even human over animal form, and a tendency towards vigorous modelling rendered in bronze rather than clearly defined composition in marble. With the taking on board of these vehicular features of the movement, commission-dependent sculptors competing for national, municipal and funerary memorials were forced into an opportunistic and pragmatic style of self-promotion. At the very moment when sculpture began to accommodate the unfettered expression of the disordered imagination, the idiosyncracies of the romantic genius were exposed to ridicule, as for example in the caricature statuettes of Jean-Pierre Dantan (1800-69). - In one of the Marochetti family scrapbooks there is a small drawing (Plate 29) of the 1830s, perhaps by the sculptor himself, which indicates how little respect was accorded in his circle to dramatic posturing.3 And yet Marochetti, as will be seen, felt strongly the need to distinguish himself from his fellow sculptors. I hope to demonstrate why he was especially subject to the competitive pressures

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Plate 28 Carlo Marochetti in fancy dress, c. 1856-7, private collection, France (photo: Conway Library, Courtauld Institute of Art).

Plate 29 Carlo Marochetti, Romantique inspire, drawing from an album, possibly by Carlo Marochetti or a member of the family circle, private collection, France (photo: Conway Library, Courtauld Institute of Art).

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of the sculpture market and how he went about imposing himself on his unusually international clientele. Elsewhere in this volume attention is focused upon the market, studio production and all those aspects of sculpture which partake of the industrial or commercial. However, whilst virtually all sculpture may be viewed from this angle, in considering the dealings of Marochetti, 1 remain as much in the dark as many of his patrons must have been. In general it cannot be easy to follow the devious patterns of this particular trade. In the case of Marochetti the scale of his operations might pose a problem to the coolest accountant. When Queen Victoria visited his studio in 1853, she recorded that 'nearly twenty workmen' were employed there.4 At the time he was producing work for locations throughout the British Isles, for Paris, for Italy, not to mention an equestrian statue in plaster of George Washington for the New York Crystal Palace. There are types of production which were at the time priced according to labour input and where the item was turned out in a routine manner. However, even here Marochetti's estimates are accompanied very often by a suggestion that the goods are cheaper than they ought to be and that the patrons should in some way feel themselves indebted to the sculptor. This is true of even the most basic commission. For example, in informing Sir Anthony Panizzi, the first librarian of the British Library, of his charges for a portrait bust, Marochetti says 'I am paid one hundred or one hundred and twenty guineas for my marble busts, depending on their proportions, as are the most modest artists of this country. That is if there exist artists of any nationality to whom this adjective may be applied'.5 James McNeil Whistler's expectation of payment, not for time spent on a particular canvas, but for 'the knowledge of a lifetime' would have looked still more solecistic in a contemporary sculptor. Nineteenth-century sculptors seldom approached Whistler's ability to carry off visual conjuring tricks in their work, but they had as good reason to resort to such arguments. To add to the difficulties of the trade, there were for many of them the fruitless investments of time and energy put into the production of competition models, sometimes for competitions in which there were no winners. And the higher the stakes, the more suing was involved in landing a commission, the more compensatory measures had to be taken to recoup the expense. Marochetti made no secret of his thoughts on such matters. His letters and recorded conversations deal fascinatingly with them, employing sometimes specious reasoning in which it is difficult now to separate self-delusion from the salesman's ploy.6 We may not for example refuse to credit him with some altruism in the matter of wishing to raise statues to politicians or creatively gifted persons, though on this sales pitch he was far

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surpassed by David d'Angers (1789-1856). Nonetheless when the expression of this altruism comes mixed with the customary insinuation that he is making less than the job is worth, one may well suspect that there is some undeclared motive for his having done it in the first place. Marochetti plays this card in a letter to the Chevalier Bonafous, referring to the statue of Claude-Louis Berthollet for Annecy, a commission which he secured in competition with David d'Angers. Two monuments to military figures, the Duke of Wellington for Glasgow,7 and La Tour d'Auvergne for Carhaix, had recently preceded the Berthollet commission and Marochetti was doing this job at cost price, in other words making no charge for his artistic input. Recalling previous conversations on the subject, Marochetti assures Bonafous 'Monsieur I count only on the sum which you name for the statue and reliefs. We will raise a monument to Berthollet, that is the important thing, and the heroes who inspire such generosity in their admirers will pay for those great men who are both modest and useful'.8 One suspects that the true utility of Berthollet for Marochetti was that his statue enabled the sculptor to remain in the good books of Carlo Alberto of Savoy. It should not be forgotten that at this time Annecy was part of the Kingdom of Sardinia. Carlo Alberto proposed the monument, and although Marochetti declined to take the king's advice on the costume in this statue, the association of Marochetti, a Baron of the Kingdom since 1837, with its ruler was sufficiently well-established for him to do this and get away with it. Even when not giving his artistic input for nothing, Marochetti still stressed the importance for his reputation of royal commissions, or commissions for statues prominently placed in the public eye. In 1856 he wrote to Queen Victoria's Keeper of the Privy Purse insisting on his flexibility with regard to prices. This was in reference to his historical effigy of Princess Elisabeth for Newport, Isle of Wight. 'I will never shorten a good idea on account of the expense, because a good work of mine before the public is more important than many pounds at my banker'.9 Although Marochetti received noteworthy commissions from the newly established July Monarchy, it was the liberal King Carlo Alberto, who came to the throne one year after Louis Philippe, in 1831, who assisted him in earning his credentials as a sculptor capable of making significant historical statements. By the 1860s the more advanced artistic tendencies to be found in the work of Giovanni Dupre and Vincenzo Vela seem to have prevented Marochetti building further on his Piedtnontese reputation to become the 'sculptor laureate' of the new Italy, but his position as propagandist to the house of Savoy-Carignano was won with the Statue of Emanuele Filberto, and later confirmed with the monument to Carlo Alberto himself.

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Marochetti understandably felt gratitude to Carlo Alberto for giving him this professional break, sending an open letter to the press in which he stated that the king had 'run the risk of wasting a considerable sum in furnishing me with so rare and precious an occasion to show myself to the world in a major work'.10 And in the next decade, until the statue of Richard I in London replaced it, the Emanuele Filiberto acted for him as a kind of calling-card and advertisement. This equestrian statue, remarkable as it is, may not seem to us so much more important an artistic gesture than the two major commissions •which Marochetti had received from the French government after 1830, the relief of The Battle ofjemmapes for the Arc de Triomphe at the Etoile, and the High Altar of La Madeleine. Here he had benefited from a new liberalism, a readiness to countenance the employment of sculptors who were not Prix de Rome on such commissions. This liberalism was in fact, in large measure a consequence of Adolphe Thiers, an ex-art critic, holding the position of Minister of the Interior. Rumours circulated that Marochetti was the lover of Madame Dosne, first the mistress and then the mother-in-law of Adolphe Thiers." Important though these commissions were, they nevertheless fitted into a generously conceived scheme of public works to which many sculptors made substantial contributions. Also it must have been clear from the outset that what appeared to be a freer kind of state patronage could in the end be interpreted as an arbitrary dispensation of privileges to personal favourites of the regime. This is what happened in 1840 when it looked as though the job of sculpting Napoleon's tomb was to fall, without competition, to Marochetti.12 Marochetti had attempted but failed to win the Prix de Rome. Lacking this essential qualification of the statuaire, the chance represented by the commission for the Emanude Filiberto was obviously of tremendous importance to him. During the 1820s he spent a considerable time in Rome. It has always been stated that he did so at his own expense, but the presence in Rome of his own mother, who had separated from his father and returned to Italy, probably made his life there easier.0 Certainly when later he acquired more artistic confidence he would develop an aversion to the creative promiscuity of Rome. In 1854 he wrote to one of his English patrons, having just returned from a stay there: Rome displeased me. It annoyed me to be an artist amongst such a mass of mediocre things, amongst such a quantity of painters, engravers, singers etc., etc. . . . Everyone has a pencil in hand, if they haven't a hammer and chisel! I am really spoilt here [in London], I am a curiosity. There I was just the same as everyone else, and then in Kome art means only knowing who is best at doing calves, backs etc., etc. In a word it is no more than a trade, and what a trade! Everything is for sale.14

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Seeking for an image of the sculptor, as distinct from that of the Roman sculpture hack, that of the national luminary - as represented by Canova or Thorvaldsen - was probably more appealing. He is supposed, although there is no supporting evidence, to have spent time in the studio of Thorvaldsen, and the scale of his monumental ambitions, the profusion of prestigious monumental projects generally on view in his studio, are definitely features common to Marochetti and the Danish sculptor (Plate 30). However, there was clearly a problem here for Marochetti. He did not belong to any nation. Although he was to give his services to the house of Savoy-Carignano, the ruling house in Piedmont had not always commanded the loyalty of the Marochetti family. Even Carlo Marochetti's Christian name has a certain relevance in this respect. His father, Vincenzo, had first been a priest, but in the revolutionary climate of the early 1790s had relinquished his vows and embarked on a career as a civil servant and university lecturer. After the Battle of Marengo, he became Secretary General to the provisional republican government of Piedmont. This short-lived regime was known popularly as the government of 'the three Carlos': Carlo Botta, Carlo Bossi and Carlo Giulio. Of this triumvirate, the man to whom Vincenzo Marochetti was closest was Carlo Botta, physician, naturalist, music-lover and historian. In 1804 Botta went to Paris to perform the function of regional representative to the corps legislatif and Vincenzo followed him shortly after the birth of his first son, who was named Carlo, perhaps in honour of Botta and his associates. Botta's youthful utopianism was well and truly tried in the political turmoil of the revolutionary and Empire periods. It had certainly given way by the restoration to more moderate and pragmatic views, and the period left him with a lasting loathing for the memory of Napoleon. Because of the part he had played in conspiracies against the ruling dynasty in Piedmont in his Jacobin days, he remained a political exile until granted a state pension and limited visiting rights by Carlo Alberto in 1831. Marochetti's father on the other hand was known to be an impenitent republican. After Vincenzo's early death in 1820, Carlo Botta became what Marochetti described as a second father to himself and his brother Paolo. Carlo Marochetti shared a house with the Botta family in the rue de Vaugirard in Paris after 1821. The occupants of this house were joined in 1821 by another distant Marochetti relative, Giovanni Battista Marochetti, who had fled Piedmont after participating in the pronunciamento revolt.13 This exile's radicalism was extreme, his naive utopianism making him a figure of fun for the rest of the household.16 This far from conservative background rather contrasts with the reputation which Marochetti later gained as an artist-courtier. This clearly is what he

Plate 30

Louis Laurent Atthalim, Studio of Carlo Marochetti at Vaux in 1843, private collection, France (photo:

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became, but the royalty he served, Louis Philippe, Carlo Alberto of Savoy, and Queen Victoria and Prince Albert, were all modern constitutional monarchs. Marochetti was a courtier who read the newspapers and to whose pearls of wisdom politicians and creators of opinion paid attention. Nonetheless one may wonder about the degree of loyalty which he felt for the regimes which he served as propagandist. One of the few points at which his rather chaotic biographer Calderini shows any independence of judgement is in denying that Marochetti followed Louis Philippe to England as a loyal courtier.17 This was the message put out by Marochetti's obituarists, but there are documents to prove its falsity. Far from loyally following the Orleans family into exile, the bitterness which he felt against it for its failure to support him against popular opinion in the affair of Napoleon's tomb seems to have persuaded him to identify with its enemies after its downfall. Between 1830 and 1848 Marochetti had twice acted as mayor of his local town, Vaux-sur-Seine. In 1848 he put himself forward for election as its representative in the new republican National Assembly, only leaving for England when this candidature had come to nothing.11* To some degree it may have been that Marochetti's loyalty was bought with commissions and only lasted as long as patronage was forthcoming. His most striking performances were somehow always those of a sort of deus ex machina, a miraculously appearing champion of beleaguered constitutional monarchs and national heroes, -whose contributions to dynastic and national propaganda were best accomplished from afar. In any one place he might enjoy a period of grace lasting up to ten years, if he was lucky, before academies, critics and committees got wise to him. However, it should be pointed out that Marochetti did, at rather a late hour, become a member of both the Royal Academy in London and the Accademia di San Luca. Needless to say, some organs of popular opinion and spokesmen for the artistic community saw him less as a champion than as an ogre, taking bread out of the mouths of native artists. In his letters he makes it plain that working for one country from another or in the grace period of recent arrival were the conditions most conducive to getting things done in the way he wished.1'' It was in such conditions that his two best-remembered works were produced, the equestrian statues of Emanuele Filiberto of Savoy and Richard Cocur de Lion. Let us now consider how and why these two historical equestrian statues are so strikingly different from each other. The Florentine sculptor, Giovanni Dupre, wrote in his memoirs that, great artist though Marochetti was, one might look at his various monuments and suppose them to be the work of different people. He went on to suggest that perhaps Marochetti

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deputed too much work to assistants, and that these assistants were sometimes responsible for the character of the work.2" Indeed the dependence of Marochetti on the assistance not only of trained professionals, but on occasion also of his other friends, is attested by C. E. Halle's account of the last-minute completion of the equestrian statue of Richard I. According to Halle, Marochetti threw a sort of sculpting party at \vhich friends and studio assistants made the statue in plaster to his orders. He goes on to say that the job was technically so poorly done that no sooner was this plaster statue erected outside the Crystal Palace than its tail fell off.21 However, although two members of a sculpting family, the Walchers father and son, are recorded as resident for a considerable period at Vaux, clearly in the capacity of praticiens, these were not artists who enjoyed any great reputation in their own right, such as might lead one to suppose them capable of bestowing artistic distinction on works supposedly by Marochetti.22 His only celebrated pupil was the Count de Nieuwerkerke, the future Surintendent des Beaux Arts. When Giovanni Dupre visited the studio in 1856, he found that Marochetti had under his direction 'a very able modeller . . . a Roman, by name Bezzi'. This Bezzi 'went on modelling and Marochetti directed his work, whilst he sat smoking and talking with me and others'.23 According to Charles Halle, who entered the studio as a pupil at the age of twelve in 1857, the chief modeller was an old man called Denis, whom Halle also describes as 'a faithful French retainer'.24 A bust, modelled by Marochetti, which recently came on the market, provides the name of another artist working in the capacity ofpraticien or executant, E. Panini.25 One might say that the difference between the two statues is accounted for by the Emanuele Filiberto being an earlier effort, touched by the troubadour spirit, the Richard I a more mature and confident piece of high Victorian historicism. This may be true to some extent, but I think we can also subscribe to the opinion of Charles de Remusat, who promoted Marochetti as a contender for Napoleon's tomb, that, though you could not always rely on him for fine execution, you could at least expect a meaningful conception. 26 So, apart from the fact that there has been perhaps artistic progress in the fourteen years separating the two statues, one may be able to detect in them a specific response to the contemporary historic situation. Emanuele Filiberto represents the sixteenth-century Duke of Savoy returning to his province having ensured the integrity of his territory by his participation on the winning side in the Hapsburg-Valois wars. On the plinth are reliefs of the decisive Battle of Saint Quentin, and of the Peace of Cateau-Cambresis, which brought an end to the wars. The Duke is symbolically returning his sword to its sheath, and reining in his charger. In the original brief, allegorical

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fountain figures at the corners of the pedestal would have represented the Duke's territory. The image is one of containment, of withdrawal, rather than of expansion. Much was made in the various briefs of the importance of conforming to the scale of the historic and privileged site, the Piazza S. Carlo.27 Whilst the subject of the statue lived in the middle of the sixteenth century, the image seems much more specifically mediaevalizing than the Richard I, with its body-hugging coat of mail. The retrospective and introverted quality of this statue perhaps reflects something of the character of the Kingdom of Savoy. Knowing as we do the future destiny of the House of Savoy-Carignano, we may feel that this withdrawal is accomplished 'pour mieux sauter'. But the province was one in which feudalism had survived into the later years of the eighteenth century, and the ruling dynasty — as restored after the Napoleonic period - had proved one of the most reactionary in Italy, that is until the death of Carlo Felice. Between the Emanuele Filiberto and the Richard I a new subtext to Marochetti's equestrian statues had appeared. Both in the statue of the Duke of Wellington for Glasgow and that of the Duke of Orleans for Paris and Algiers, the theme of the subjugation of African and Indian peoples makes its appearance in the accompanying reliefs. In the case of the Duke of Wellington, the inclusion of a scene from the Duke's early Indian campaigns was far from inevitable.28 In that of the Duke of Orleans, it would have been hard to avoid, especially as one version of the statue was destined for the Place du Gouvernement in Algiers. The French conquest of Algeria, set in motion by Charles X, was pursued with enthusiasm by Louis Philippe, partly because it provided an ideal theatre in which his sons could distinguish themselves in military combat. In the attack on the Mouzaia emplacement, depicted on the pedestal of Marochetti's statue of the Duke of Orleans, the Dukes of Orleans and of Nemours were both present. It may indicate something about Marochetti's association with such causes that his name is mentioned in Alexandre Dumas's immensely popular novel Tlie Count of Monte Cristo, in connection with just such an engagement in North Africa.29 At this time he also executed a bronze statuette in elegiac mood of an Arab mourning his dead steed, seated beneath a date palm (a version of this is in the Musee des Beaux Arts, Pau). With the equestrian statue of Richard I the imperialist topic is raised from the contemporary anecdotal to the general and symbolic. The statue was originally placed in front of the Crystal Palace in Hyde Park in 1851. To have illustrated any specific contemporary act of colonial conquest would certainly have been tactless in the vicinity of the first great international exhibition. As the plinth of the statue had not at this point been adorned with historical reliefs, the

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implications of the militant figure of the crusading king were still more diplomatically vague. Nevertheless the Crusades had been read by at least one French historian as historical prototypes for modern colonialism.30 I suppose that the image of Richard which the Victorian public held most dear was that of the hearty warrior, whom Walter Scott had portrayed in the novel Ivanhoe (first published 1819), carousing with Robin Hood and his Merry Men in Sherwood Forest. But, for someone brought up in France, the association of Richard I with embattled royalty and with the cause of legitimism had been cemented by the adoption during the French Revolution, as a royalist anthem, of the aria 'O Richard, 6 mon Roi', from Gretry's opera Richard Coeur de Lion.31 Marochetti's Richard is a colossal figure. Though in one of the reliefs subsequently added to the plinth he is represented pardoning the French archer responsible for his mortal wound, the king is less a boon companion of outlaws than a medieval super-hero. He is one of those chevaliers erranls poetically evoked by Victor Hugo in La Legende des siedes, before whom the very people they defend tremble, and who carry with them memories of 'one knows not what fearsome wars in Judaea'.12 Although there is a risk of over-colouring this chivalric paragon, Marochetti's insistence, in the case of statues such as the Emanuele Filiberto and the Duke of Wellington, on the role of the subject as peacemaker and on the importance of avoiding the colossal, makes the contrast clear. Here something rather different is being proposed. Once again, in the equestrian statue of Carlo Alberto for Turin, the brandished sword was to be adopted, this time indicating the king's opposition to the Austrians in the struggle for Italian unification. Somehow, in this case, the stick-like figure of Carlo Alberto seems to defeat any bellicose connotations. His accompanying soldiery are depicted in mournful posture, and the equestrian statue itself is swamped in programmatic imagery. In 1857, excusing himself to one of his English patrons for having added £500 onto an earlier estimate, Marochetti proudly boasted that 'the Marochetti product has at the moment acquired an unusually high value'.33 The Richard I was a symbol of progress for Britain and incidentally a symbol of Marochetti's conquest of his new country of residence. It became his new calling-card to replace the now somewhat dated-lookinGEmanuele Filiberto. Marochetti definitely showed signs at this point of having been won over by the muchvaunted British entrepreneurial spirit. For one thing he set up his own foundry. He explained his motive for doing so to the same English patron: Casting in my own establishment is only a speculation in the interests of perfection. It is as expensive in every way as it would be if done by a professional founder,

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and I accept this consequence for the simple reason that the founder is out to drive a hard bargain and one has to accept what one is given, under threat of being taken to court etc., etc ... and because your servant and friend is only concerned to have a good cast, reproducing faithfully what he has been at pains to do, and because he knows that good workmanship is worth more to him than a bargain casting job. Once you would have had three statues by Marochetti cast by Soyer or Eck and Durand, and now you will have three Marochetti statues cast by Marochetti, that is to say by the man most interested in doing the job properly.34

The installation of casting facilities in his studio enabled one major example of monumental serialism to be accomplished there, the four colossal lions modelled for the base of the Nelson Column by Sir Edwin Landseer. If this decorative repetition represented the triumph of decoration over meaning, it may also be seen as having advantages for the sculptor.35 The same may be said of two examples of serial repetition by Marochetti himself from the ensuing years. The first is the mourning angel in granite whose four-times repeated figure adorns the corners of the Scutari Monument (1856—7), the obelisk commemorating the Crimean War dead, raised in Haydar Pasa cemetery, over the Bosphorus from Istanbul. The extreme simplification of the motif produces here an effect which one might mistake for the art deco of sixty years later. The other example of serialism is again a repeated angel figure, this one in bronze, and with wings dramatically outspread to enfold, as if it were a new Ark of the Covenant, the tomb chest destined to contain the bodies of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert (1864—8) in the Royal Mausoleum at Frogmore in Windsor Great Park. The enormous number of his commissions around 1860 took its toll on Marochetti's art, and may have led to his early death. The complaints of the rather jaundiced critic, Francis Turner Palgrave, about the routine nature of his portrait busts and statues of this period are not entirely unjustified.36 His series of statues celebrating the great railway engineers, Brunei, Stephenson and Locke, seems to bear the hallmark of the production line, but is in fact Marochetti's most significant tribute to the British scientific and industrial spirit. This was an ad hoc, cumulative series, each statue added following the subject's death, designed to be erected in the gardens of St Margaret's churchyard in Westminster, adjacent to the Institute of Civil Engineers. This area is part of what became Parliament Square, so that these statues of engineers would have all but faced Marochetti's Richard I outside the Palace of Westminster. These were but four out of six statues with which it seemed at one stage that Marochetti was about to monopolize this most significant area of the metropolis. The reductive, sartorially prosaic format of the statues, easily cast, seems

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somehow to suit these frock-coated workaholics. Due to the withdrawal of approval for this scheme by the Commissioner for Public Works, the series was dispersed to relevant sites in the capital and elsewhere.37 This is no more than a selective cull from the myriad works which Marochetti produced during this perhaps over-productive period towards the end of his life. Important features of his oeuvre which have either already been treated or await examination are his use of polychromy, his approach to bronze casting, and his involvement with the decorative arts and photography.3" In conclusion, one work should be considered that more than any other seems to merit the 'by appointment' status which he sought so ardently. This is the double effigy of Prince Albert and Queen Victoria in the Royal Mausoleum at Frogmore. Prince Albert died at the end of 1861. The monument was completed, but had not been taken to Frogmore, when Marochetti himself died on the last day of 1867, whilst the effigy of the Queen did not join Albert's on the tomb until after her own death in 1901. In her monomaniacal grief, the Queen seems to have totally disregarded the sculptor's need for variety of inspiration. Marochetti's studio in the early 1860s was set fair to become an Albert factory. Social distinction was on the point of obliterating artistic distinction, and inevitably the quality of these icons proved variable. Only in this extraordinary pair of effigies did the sculptor manage to produce an image which was both authoritative and moving, one in which the clear-cut but characterful portrait figures seem to float in their generously disposed robes.39 For a brief period recently the Victoria and Albert Museum had on display the plaster model for these effigies, which are only rarely visible at Frogmore itself. Sadly the model has recently been removed once again into storage. Respect for royal privacy, security precautions, old-world prejudice amongst museum curators conspire to keep this image out of sight. In his own time Marochetti's work had to contend with the fluctuations of political regimes. An odd photograph-based wood-engraving in Le Monde illustre of June 1864 shows the funeral of the Duke of Malakoff, taking place in the Place du Gouvernement in Algiers.1" The Imperial regime seems for diplomatic reasons to have permitted Marochetti's statue of the Duke of Orleans to remain in the square after the downfall of the Orleans dynasty, but, for the burial of the Imperial Marshal, it was evidently thought appropriate to conceal it behind the temporary altar at which the funeral service was conducted. With their sneaky choice of angle, the photographic journalists have effectively blown its cover. If, as a result of the impermanence of some of the social and political eminences to which Marochetti decided to affix his artistic colours, his works sometimes lost the respect they were meant to command, they have mainly and in

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extraordinary numbers survived in all corners of the world, to testify to the baron's staying power in the face of critical opprobrium, inspired very often by envy of his predominantly good fortune.

Notes 1. Craske (1997): 35. 2. Examples of Dantan's sending up of the traits of romantic genius are the statuettes ofNkolo Paganini (Musee Carnavalet, Paris, S.225—D.8) and Franz Liszt (Musee Carnavalet, Paris, S1016— D.76). Versions of almost the entire range of Dantan's caricature statuettes are to be found in the Musee Carnavalet. 3. This drawing is part of a page of miscellaneous sketches in an album containing a mixture of romantic vignettes, caricatures and mild erotica. Signed C. M., these may be by Marochetti himself, or by his wife Camille (nee de Maussion). The album is in the collection of the sculptor's descendants. 4. Royal Archives, Windsor, Queen Victoria's Journal, 19 February 1853. (This and other material from the Royal Archives is quoted by gracious permission of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II.) 5. British Museum, London, ADD 36716, f. 399. Letter from Marochetti to A. Panizzi, 7 February 1852 (translated from the French). 6. Major collections of Marochctti's letters are held in the Archives Nationales, Paris and the Royal Archives, Windsor. A particularly revealing correspondence is that between Marochetti and W. J. Bankes, deposited by the National Trust at the Dorset County Record Office, Dorchester. 7. For an account of Marochctti's statue of the Duke of Wellington in Glasgow, see WardJackson (1990a). 8. Archives Municipales, Annecy, letter from C. Marochetti to Chevalier Bonafous, 4 January 1843. Quoted along with other letters relating to this commission in Gardes (1996): 327-8. 9. Royal Archives, Windsor, PP/VIC/1857/12724, letter from Marochetti to Colonel C. D. Phipps, Keeper of the Privy Purse, 21 (?) December 1856. 10. This letter is quoted in Calderini (1928) and in Bollea (1933): 172. Bollea gives as his source Ducros de Sixt, (1838): 119. None of these authors gives the original location of this letter. 11. Archives Nationales, Paris, Fortoul Papers AN 246AP14, letter from J.-L. Vaudoyer to Hippolyte Fortoul, 5 August 1840. 12. For a comprehensive account of this affair, see Driskel (1993). 13. For Mine Marochetti, see Hubert (1964b): 141-2. See also Le Normand (1981): 26, 77, 85. 14. Dorset County Record Office, Bankes Papers, letter from Marochetti to W. J. Bankes, 18 April 1854 (translated from the French). This and other letters from the Bankes Papers were consulted by kind permission of the National Trust and the Dorset County Record Office, Dorchester. 15. The Piedmontese pronunciamento of 1821 was an uprising originating in the army garrison of Alessandria. The rebels hoped for support from the liberal Carlo Alberto, but the ruling dynasty closed ranks and the revolt was suppressed. Similar uprisings in other parts of northern Italy at this time resulted in a wave of emigration. Amongst the exiles were Anthony Panizzi, future director of the British Library, and Raffaelle Rossetti, father of Dante Gabriel Rossetti, pre-Raphaehte painter and poet.

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16. See Diomsotti (1867); Botta (1860); Botta (1877). 17. Calderini (1928): 30. 18. C. Marochetti, Profession de foi, Vaux (Seme-et-Oise), 25 March 1848, Pans, Bibliotheque Nationale, No. Lc 64.1253: 'Je crois le gouvernement republicain dcsormais le seul possible en France, je 1'acceuille comme celui qui convient le plus a la dignite humaine, comme le plus capable de grandes et nobles realisations'. This document is referred to by Driskel (1993): 224-5, n. 53. 19. The most overt reference to the advantage to be gained from working on a commission from a distance is to be found in a letter from Marochetti to W. J. Bankes of 1 November 1853, in which Marochetti states that working in London on the tomb of the Comtesse de Lanboisiere for the Hopital Lanboisiere in Paris, had the same 'seductions' as the commissions which Bankes had procured for him in the British Isles ten years earlier, and which he had executed whilst still resident in France. Bankes Papers, Dorset County Record Office. 20. Dupre (1884): 284. 21. Halle (1909): 5-6. 22. Birth, marnage and death certificates of the Wakher and Marochetti families registered at the town hall of the Commune de Vaux-sur-Seine indicate very close relations between Carlo Marochetti and both Christophe-Jacob and Joseph-Adolphc-Alexandre Wakher. Vincenzo and Carlo Marochetti both acted as mayor of Vaux at various periods, but these certificates date between 1838 and 1846, at which time Carlo Marochetti was under no professional obligation to officiate at such events. Versailles, Archives Departementales d'Yvelines. 23. Dupre (1884): 284. 24. Halle (1909): 7. 25. Bust of W. B. Spence (marble, signed: 'Marochetti modello - E. Panini Sc.1862'); Christie's Sale, Wrotham Park, 21 June 1994, lot 184. 26. Remusat (1958-67): 3: 320: 'Marochetti . . . s'il n'etait pas tres habile dans 1'execution, avail du inoins dc 1'espnt et des idees.' 27. See Bollea (1933). 28. Ward-Jackson (1990s). 29. Dumas (1995): 1:581. 30. Mulholland (1994): 144-65. 31. The main occasion on which Gretry's aria was used for this purpose was at the so-called Banquet of the Flanders Regiment, on 1 October 1789. This banquet, at which it was said that tricolour cockades had been trampled underfoot, was christened the 'orgy of Versailles' by the revolutionary press. See Schama (1989): 459, and Soboul (1966): I: 145. Furthermore 'Blondel', the name of Richard's faithful minstrel, who sings this aria, was a sobriquet applied to persons loyal to the crown during the revolution. The name figures in Le Nouveait Dictitmnaire fran^ais of 1790. See Roger (1988): 157—84. This particular reference is on p. 172. I am grateful for assistance from Dr. A. Halliday of the Courtauld Institute on this matter. 32. Hugo (1921): 240-5. 33. Dorset County Record Office, Bankes Papers. Letter from Marochetti to W. J. Bankes, 1 November 1853. 34. Ibid. For an account of the three statues in question, commissioned by W. J. Bankes for his country house at Kingston Lacy, sec Ward-Jackson (1990b). 35. Alison Yarrington has drawn my attention to the dispute between the architect of the Nehon Column, William Railton, and the sculptor, John Graham Lough, prior to Landseer taking on the job, in which the architect had asserted his preference for identical repeating lions subordinated to his architectural concept. This is dealt with in Yarrington (1988): 314. In the light of this dispute it is clear that considerations of economy did not alone determine the use of the

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repeated lion motif, but the architect's preference may have suggested the idea of bronze casting as the most labour-saving way of performing the task. 36. Palgrave (1866). 37. Public Record Office, London. Works 20/253. 38. For Marochetti's involvement with photography, see Ward-Jackson (1994). 39. See Darby and Smith (1983) and Ward-Jackson (1993). 40. Le Monde illustre, 18 June 1864, 8e annec, no. 375: 388.

C H A P T E R 10

BELZONI'S COLLECTING AND THE EGYPTIAN TASTE SUSAN M. PEARCE

On Saturday 17 October 1817 Giovanni Battista Belzoni (1778-1823) entered the tomb of Pharaoh Seti I in the Valley of Kings, and in May 1821 the exhibition of what he had found there was on display at the Egyptian Hall, Piccadilly, London. This chapter is aimed at elucidating the significance of these events on the patterns of taste and culture ot which they were a part. This will involve discussing the context within which Belzoni's exhibition was mounted, and its relationship to the idea of 'ancient Egypt'. This will be established through a consideration of the Tatham/Holland correspondence of 1794—6 which survives in the Victoria and Albert Museum.1 The genesis of the Egyptian Hall will be considered, and Belzoni's career will be discussed with particular relationship to the material of the exhibition which survives in Bristol City Museum, and to the notices -which the exhibition received. Finally, the resonances of the event in the cultural transformations in early nineteenthcentury Britain will be examined: it is argued that Belzoni's enterprise -was a key conjunction of elements heavy with significance for the future. Recent scholarship has demonstrated the role the idea of ancient Egypt, and the presence of a limited range of Egyptian antiquities, played in early modern central and western Europe. Attention focuses upon the perceived significance of the Hermetic corpus of writings, the possible significance of the hieroglyphic script, the numerological importance of various measurements carried out by the relatively few European travellers, and the belief in the medical powers of mummy taken by mouth.2 By the mid-eighteenth century these themes were by no means dead, but they were joined by an interest in Egyptian motifs which gathered modest momentum either side of 1800 in architecture and the applied arts: these developments need to be seen in the contemporary context of interest in neoclassicism on the one hand and of the Gothic on the other.

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During the later nineteenth century, and particularly after 1880, greatly extended programmes of excavation in Egypt were joined by a considerable popular taste for ancient Egyptian romances of the kind written by Rider Haggard (She, 1887) and Bram Stoker (The Jewel of the Seven Stars, 1912) in which ancient Egyptian and contemporary times merge through the workings of mysterious forces. This taste was given considerable impetus through the discovery of the unplundered tomb of Tutankhamen on 4 November 1922 and the contemporary development of cinema to give us the large and popular genre of'mummies curse/ancient revenge' motifs. Interest here will focus upon events around 1800, and in particular, will attempt to examine some important aspects of how the surface appropriation of Egyptian motifs experienced by the generations between c.1760 and c.1810 changed into the emotionalism of the later nineteenth century. Two themes need particular attention: the Egyptianizing taste in applied art and its impact upon architecture. The eighteenth-century fashion for Egyptian motifs can be traced back to Piranesi, who c.1760 decorated his Caffe Inglese at Rome with walls covered in Egyptian motifs, and to his Catnini, which came out in 1769 and showed a number of fireplaces in the Egyptian style.3 On 13 November 1768 he wrote a letter to the antiquarian Thomas Hollis which discusses how notions of Egyptian architecture were concentrated upon the gigantic size of the pyramids rather than the style of ornamentation -which they showed.4 Pevsner and Lang describe Piranesi's style as Rococo-Egyptian; it seems to have been partly a tilt at prevailing classical tastes and partly a little fun, and so it was received.s Piranesi's designs make it clear that, although the Egyptian taste received a considerable impetus from Napoleon's Egyptian Campaign of 1798, and the subsequent work and publication of Vivant Denon,6 this was not the origin of the style, a point made clearer through the activities of a group of influential English architects, painters and designers operating in Italy in the 1790s. In May 1794 Charles Heathcote Tatham (former pupil of Henry Holland) and Joseph Gandy (former pupil of James Wyatt and John Soane) arrived at Leghorn (Livorno), Tatham charged with acquiring a collection of artefacts for Henry Holland. They became part of an existing Anglo-Italian artistic circle: on 7 July 1794 the sculptor Richard Westmacott wrote from Florence to Henry Holland: 'Mr John Holland without doubt has informed you that your case of gessi is shipped for England and which I hope will arrive safe and sound to your satisfaction — Signer Canova, a friend of mine in Rome, has promised his assistance in procuring some antique fragments'.7

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Most of the material which Tatham acquired for Holland - antique fragments, gessi, and new designs — followed classical taste, but some of it was in the Egyptian style. A letter from Holland to Tatham, by then in Rome, dated 15 May 1795 says 'on the other side you have the sketches you sent me returned in order to show what I mean by marble bases and the omission of the gilding . . . I wish to have 3 pairs of No.l'. The sketch of No.l shows an Egyptian male figure with kilt and head-dress, with a three-branched candelabra on his head, and on a base with two winged sphinxes. On 10 July 1795, writing from Rome, Tatham tells Holland that the candelabra 'were obtained from Giuseppe Borschi, an obscure artist here'. Further sketches by Tatham show more designs by Borschi for candelabra featuring a mummy-form figure with mock hieroglyphs and a human form with kilt and head-dress on a single foot (monopod) running down into the pedestal: both have a single candle holder on their head springing from a lotus-style base. Further correspondence ensued about the detail of the pedestals (25 October 1795) and Holland eventually chose and received the pieces in the human figure style with three candle-holders; 'the flower from which the lights spring is copied from the lotus plant, an object worshipped by the Egyptians'.8 Holland also received gessi of the Egyptian hieroglyphs from the obelisk of Montecitorio, a 'pair of the Egyptian lionesses copied from the famous antique ones at the fountain of Trevi here' together with 'another pair from the Egyptian lions of basalt at the Capitol and have exceeded your order by another pair, making up the compleat collection, copied from the prime Egyptian sphinxes in the museum of the Vatican. The animals to be bronzed casting upon gilt rims, encircled with Egyptian hieroglyphics'. Also shipped to London were five sphinx heads in Greek marble and one 'wrought in Egyptian speckled granite entirely polished'.'' The candelabra, at least, were originally at Carlton House, and have been thought to survive at Buckingham Palace.1" Holland shared his Egyptian taste with Thomas Hope," and with men like Charles Gordon, who had an Egyptian-style billiard room at his country home.12 A number of interesting points emerge from these activities. The interest in Egyptiana was polite in every sense. Its inspiration came essentially not from Egypt itself, but through the selected objects which had been chosen to adorn classical Rome (principally) and which had themselves inspired a certain taste for the Egyptian style in some Roman production. It was, therefore, more a mildly exotic element of neoclassicism rather than a taste in its own right: for Englishmen Italy, not Egypt, was the source of the eighteenth-century Egyptian style. Secondly, the style was used as a source of motifs to be appropriated for use as one of many decorative choices, and, accordingly, to be detached from

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any historical context and adapted as superficial ornament for European rooms and furnishings. Finally, the impetus behind this belonged in the hands of a relatively small group of well-educated gentlemen and professional architects and designers, all of whom had a visitor's experience of Italy, and were bound in a web of family, friendship and client relationships. The Egyptian taste in ornament had also found an architectural expression, the course of which has been traced by Richard Carrott, and Pevsner and Lang, and which had been most noticeable in England for a series of somewhat eccentric pyramid gates and tombs. Soane, in spite of later fulminations, had included in his Designs in Architecture . . . (1778) two plates of obelisks (vii and viii), one with an Egyptian Temple (xxv) and one showing a monument with two pyramids (xxvii), although these were, of course, greatly outnumbered by neoclassical designs. All this, and the publication of Denon's work, were presumably the inspiration for the amazing Egyptian Hall opened in 1812 by William Bullock at 22 Piccadilly, to house his London Museum. The architect of the facade was Peter Frederick Robinson (1776-1858), who incorporated a number of elements illustrated by Denon, particularly the columns from the Temple of Cneph. The whole facade tapered slightly, and above the door stood large statues of Osiris and Isis by Sebastian Gahagan. William Bullock13 was a mixture of collector and entrepreneur; the opening of his museum in London in many ways represented the reappearance within the fashionable world of the museum-asspectacle, an important departure in its own right.14 The Egyptian Hall was intended to attract a particular kind of sensational interest, and this was carried through in the displays. The interior, not in the Egyptian style, was by John Buonarotti Papworth, who said 'the astonished visitor is in an instant transported from the crowded streets of the Metropolis to the centre of a tropical forest, in which are seen, as in real life, all its various inhabitants from the huge elephant and rhinoceros to the most diminutive quadruped'.15 An aquatint published in Ackermann's Repository shows a central exhibition with animals and replica trees making one of the earliest efforts at 'realistic' display.16 The aquatint shows the Bullock Collection in cases and on the walls. No obviously Egyptian material is visible, but we know from the 1809 edition of Bullock's Companion to the Museum that the exhibition included 'a glass case, containing an Egyptian mummy'.17 Bullock gives a description of the mummification process, drawn from Herodotus, and then tells us 'the mummy in this collection was brought from Egypt by the French and taken from them by an English privateer, and was remarkable for containing only the head and part of

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the thigh and leg bones, which were enveloped in folds of fine linen'. There were also two ibis mummies, one opened to show its contents. The Egyptian Hall set a limited fashion for similar buildings, of which that in Penzance (built about 1830 as a direct copy) still survives, and fashionable London flocked to the museum until Bullock decided to sell up in 1819. This is the context within which Giovanni Battista Belzoni lived and worked.18 He was born in 1778 and grew up in Padua, a handsome giant of a man in a relatively poor family, who seems to have received little formal education beyond perhaps a limited training in hydraulic engineering. In 1803 he came to London where he worked in a number of roles at various places of entertainment, most successfully as a strongman at Astley's Circus, to which he seems to have been introduced by Henry Salt.19 By 1815 both men were in Egypt, Salt as British consul-general in Alexandria, Belzoni endeavouring unsuccessfully to attract attention as a water engineer. Belzoni's exploits in connection with the colossal head of Ramesses II, which is still in the British Museum, the temple at Abu Simbel, Karnak and the pyramid of Giza need not be elaborated here. What is important is the steadily worsening relationship between Salt and Belzoni, to which I shall return. In the October of 1817, Belzoni was digging in the Valley of the Kings on the opposite side of the Nile to Thebes.2" Here a discrepancy between the ancient lists of Strabo and Diodorus Siculus that some forty royal tombs existed, and that of Denon's French Survey which listed eleven, suggested that more tombs remained to be discovered. Belzoni identified a likely spot marked by a water gully from the hill above, and here, on Saturday 17 October, the entrance of a tomb was uncovered; beyond it proved to be a passage-way choked with rubble. Belzoni entered, and found a tomb, with a complex series of rooms and passages.21 In the centre of the main room was a sarcophagus of the finest oriental alabaster, nine feet five inches long, and three feet seven inches wide. Its thickness is only two inches; and it is transparent when a light is placed in the inside of it. It is minutely sculptured within and without with several hundred figures, which do not exceed two inches in height. The tomb was covered in superb paintings. These included life-size figures showing Pharaoh being greeted by the gods, deities of the underworld and the boat of the Sun passing through the hours of night; a ceiling painted with the night sky showing the starry signs of the zodiac, and the Ceremony of the Opening of the Mouth. The tomb chamber or 'saloon' itself showed figures of

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Isis and Nephthys, Horus and Hathor, Anubis, Osiris crowned and Pharaoh himself.23 The figures were perfectly preserved and showed jewel-like colours of blue, red, black, bright gold and gleaming •white; generally they had been carved in low relief and the whole surface given a coat of whitewash before the paint was applied. Belzoni had discovered the tomb built for Seti I, a pharaoh of the nineteenth dynasty who died about 1300 BC after a reign of about twenty years. His mummy survives in the Cairo museum, having been removed in antiquity from the tomb to the nearby cache of royal mummies which was discovered later in the nineteenth century.24 Belzoni had found the most magnificent of all the tombs in the Valley of the Kings. Belzoni's immediate desire •was to make an accurate plan of the tomb and copy of the paintings, and it seems that the idea of mounting an exhibition incorporating this material was in his mind from an early stage. In his Narrative we read With the assistance of Mr Ricci, I have made drawings of all the figures, hieroglyphics, emblems, ornaments, &c. that are to be seen in this tomb; and by great perseverance I have taken impressions of every thing in wax: to accomplish the work has been a laborious task, that occupied me more than twelve months. The drawings show the respective places of the figures, so that if a building were erected exactly on the same plan, and of the same size, the figures might be placed in their situations precisely as in the original, and thus produce in Europe a tomb, in every point equal to that in Thebes, which I hope to execute if possible. . . . It is useless to proceed any further in the description of this heavenly place, as I can assure the reader he can form but a very faint idea of it from the trifling account my pen is able to give; should I be so fortunate, however, as to succeed in erecting an exact model of this tomb in Europe, the beholder will acknowledge the impossibility of doing it justice in a description.25

The work of recording continued throughout the summer of 1818. Belzoni seems to have made the plan and the wax impressions himself, and he claims to have copied the hieroglyphics: The hieroglyphics in this tomb are nearly five hundred, of which I took a faithfull copy, with their colours; but they are of four different sizes, from one to six inches; so that I have been obliged to take one of each size, which makes nearly two thousand in all.26

However, he does not seem to have been at the site all the time, and much of the copying work required for the 82 life-size figures and some 800 smaller ones was performed by Dr Alessandro Ricci, whose diary remains unpublished

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and about whose life, or his relationship with Belzoni, little more is known.27 By September work at the tomb was finished. What survives of the illustrative material relating to Seti's tomb made between 1817 and c.1825 remains in the collections of the City Museum, Bristol (Plate 31).28 The material consists of some 250 illustrations of a range of types, from which some details of the history of Belzoni's whole project can be gleaned. Three processes were involved: the original record made in the tomb itself; the material prepared from this for exhibition; and the material used in the publication of Belzoni's Fourty-Four Plates . . . (1820), with subsequent additional volumes of plates published as Six New Plates (1822). The material is now in boxes measuring 32ins by 22ins, which means that some of the larger pieces have been cut in two, while some of the smaller have been mounted on one sheet of stiff paper (Plate 32). The earliest are pencil sketches, not all of which obviously show evidence of being to any particular scale. These are likely to be the originals done in the tomb, probably mostly by Rdcci. They have written colour notes, and outlines to show where a particular motif belonged: the repetitive character of Egyptian funerary art meant that recurrent motifs like pectoral ornaments or belts needed to have been drawn only once and could then be matched by numbers to a drawn scene, which cut down the effort needed to make the original record in the hot and dusty climate of the tomb (Plate 33). This technique is referred to by Belzoni in the quotation cited above with reference to the types of hieroglyphics. Some sheets of watercolour motifs survive in the collection. From these originals were prepared both the detailed watercolour drawings needed to create the plates for publication in the three volumes, and the set required for the exhibition scale model. Some of the model set certainly survive in Bristol, because they have their original canvas backing and show signs of having been tacked onto a wooden frame. They are pen drawings completed with watercolour, and differ in size with the smallest measuring c.Sins by lOins and the largest c.3ft 6ins by 2ft. These drawings must have been made in London during 1820—1 by Belzoni himself, probably with considerable help from his wife, Sarah. The drawings are carefully executed with good detail in the forms of the hieroglyphics and on the robes of the figures: they are known as the 'Blue Set' because where the king is shown with a striped head-dress, this is always in blue and white. At some point, probably following the London exhibition, a second set of drawings was made, possibly by James Curtin, who was Sarah's assistant after Belzoni's death. This is known as the 'Yellow Set', because it shows a yellow stripe on the royal head-dress: the 'Yellow Set' is distinctly inferior, with cruder, simpler hieroglyphics and poor decorative detail

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Plate 31 Watercolour illustrations prepared by Belzoni for display of material relating to the tomb of Seti I in the Egyptian Hall. The drawings are made from pencil sketches taken within the Room of Six Pillars in the tomb and show a section where the pharaoh is greeted by the gods Anubis and Nephthys. The drawings were made in a variety of sizes to fit with the requirements of the display. They are backed with canvas and show damage where they were fastened to wooden display frames (Bristol City Museums; photo: Leicester University Central Photographic Unit).

on the costumes. Pieces from the 'Yellow Set' also survive in Bristol, together with some of the published plates. By a great stroke of luck, when Belzoni returned to London in 1820, the Egyptian Hall was available for hire, and so that hall and Seti's tomb could be brought together in the most effective of conjunctions.29 It was not possible to make an exact recreation of the whole tomb, because of its length (320ft), so Belzoni decided to reproduce two of the most impressive chambers full-size in the main hall under the dome, and show a model of the whole tomb on the scale of 1 to 6 in the gallery upstairs. The Bristol 'Blue Set' is evidently from

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Plate 32 Giovanni Belzoni, pencil sketch made within the tomb showing what appears to be Pharaoh making offerings to the goddess Isis. The numbers on the figures refer to the 'style sheets' prepared separately. When the figures were redrawn and coloured for display the appropriate design was put in place (Bristol City Museums; photo: Leicester University Central Photographic Unit).

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Plate 33 Giovanni Belzoni, watercolour of a 'style sheet', showing the range of pectoral ornaments. These were made on the spot in the Valley of the Kings and then used later to produce the finished display materials (Bristol City Museums; photo: Leicester University Central Photographic Unit).

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the surviving pieces from the tomb reproduction as shown in Piccadilly. The material from the two chambers, those called by Belzoni the 'Room of Beauties' and the 'Entrance Hall', was created from plaster of Paris models cast in sections from the wax moulds taken in the tomb, and then painted with reference to the pencil sketches and notes made in situ. A contemporary illustration shows part of the 'Entrance Hall' and features two of the pillars showing life-size paintings of the Pharaoh greeted by Anubis and Isis; fashionable loungers complete the scene.-5" Outside the 'Room of Beauties' were two lion-headed statues of the goddess Sekhmet found near the Colossi of Memnon, and dispersed throughout were glass cases holding two mummies, shabti figures in wood and faience from the tomb, assorted other antiquities, and 'the toe of a colossal figure, the head and ami of which are coming to England.'-11 The exhibition opened on Tuesday, 1 May 1821, with a preview held the previous Friday. The rich ochre-reds and royal blues glowed against the contrasting bright yellows and greens, and the mysterious gods and rituals flickered in the lamp light which had been placed to recreate Belzoni's impressions when he first entered the tomb. On the opening day some 1900 persons paid half-a-crown each to view the exhibition.32 The Times had reported on the exhibition on 30 April: Every eye, we think, must be gratified by this singular combination and skilful arrangement of objects so new, and in themselves so striking. The vivid freshness of the tints, as rich and unchanged after three thousand years . . . must affect the mind of the cultivated spectator with strange and mingled views respecting that unknown people of whose history, nay, of whose positive existence, the mansions of their dead are the melancholy but almost exclusive records.33 The Gentleman's Magazine followed with its review of the display in May, to which it devoted four pages describing the exhibits, quoting at length from Belzoni's Narrative, and concluding with general remarks about the mummification process and the Valley of the Kings: In order to produce a more imposing effect, these two chambers are lighted with lamps, and the visitor, at his first entrance, is deeply impressed with the solemnity that surrounds him. The mind naturally reverts to the distant era of three thousand years, and pictures . . . the 'living manners' of a people of whom History has scarcely transmitted a vestige to posterity'.34 One of the mummies displayed attracted particular attention. For example, Horace Smith wrote 'An Address to the Mummy at Belzoni's Exhibition':

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SUSAN M. P E A R C E And last thou walked about (how strange a story!) In Thebes's street three thousand years ago, When the Menionium was in all its glory, And time had not begun to Overthrow Those temples, palaces and piles stupendous, Of which the very ruins are tremendous?35

This mummy had been unwrapped as a public performance in London shortly before the exhibition opened, obviously to help generate interest in the forthcoming show. It was one of the - if not the - earliest of what became a regular spectacle in early nineteenth-century Britain. For this event Belzoni had enlisted the help of Dr Thomas Joseph Pettigrew, who there began his long career of public mummy unwrappings. In March 1833 Salt's third collection of antiquities was sold at Sotheby's, and Pettigrew unrolled mummies purchased at this sale in the lecture theatre at Charing Cross Hospital in front of a select gathering. This was followed by many ceremonial mummy unwrappings which in 1837 saw Pettigrew giving a course of six public lectures at the Exeter Hall in the Strand: these attracted huge attention, and culminated in the unrolling of a mummy on stage. He published his History of Egyptian Mummies in 1834, dedicated to William IV and illustrated with plates by Cruikshank.36 The Gentleman's Magazine had concluded its report of the exhibition by quoting another of Belzoni's accounts of the tombs in the Valley of the Kings: It is scarcely possible by description to convey an adequate idea of these subterranean abodes, or of the strange and horrible figures with which they are filled. Most travellers are satisfied with entering the large hall, the gallery, and staircase; in fact, as far as they can conveniently proceed, but Mr Belzoni frequently explored the inmost recesses of these extra-ordinary excavations. 'On entering the narrow passage' says Mr Belzoni, 'which is roughly cut in the rock, and nearly filled up with sand and rubbish, a vast quantity of dust rises, so fine that it fills the throat and nostrils, and together with the strong smell of the mummies, threatens suffocation'."

The exhibition ran successfully in the Egyptian Hall until the end of the London season, and then opened again in the autumn. Meanwhile Belzoni had become embroiled in the long and disagreeable story regarding the financial arrangements between himself, Salt and the Trustees of the British Museum over the antiquities which Belzoni (largely) had discovered,38 including Seti's superb alabaster sarcophagus, which ended up in Sir John Soane's Museum where it remains.39 Both Belzoni and Salt needed money, Salt particularly because in 1819 he had married Signorina Pensa, the daughter of a merchant in

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Leghorn (she died in childbirth five years later). Belzoni was deeply distressed at any suggestion which would reduce him to the status of a paid employee of Salt's, and so damage his standing as an independent gentleman antiquarian and explorer. That he was as much concerned with status and fame as fortune is made clear by an interesting letter he addressed to the Museum's Trustees of 10 September 1821 on the subject of the sarcophagus: in order to obviate any difficulty which might occur from my eventual claim to share in its proceeds, & happy in seeing my original wishes accomplished of its being secured to England, 1 am willing to wave such eventual interest if I might be allowed the benefit of exhibiting it in the Tomb erected by me at the Egyptian Hall in Piccadilly, for the space of Twelve or even six months previous to its final removal to the British Museum'.4" Belzoni seems to have received no direct answer to this reasonable request and, by and large, this seems to typify how he was treated by the British establishment, for whom dealing with Henry Salt was bearable, but dealing with Belzoni was not. The. Quarterly Review had already reported that 'the paintings on the king's tomb at Thebes, containing the matchless sarcophagus now on its way to England, which we stated to have been discovered by M. Belzoni, under the auspices of Mr. Salt, are described by the latter gentleman'.41 Eventually, most of the antiquities, (other than the sarcophagus), known as Salt's first collection, were taken into the British Museum under Salt's name, where they remain. However, his second collection he sent to his brother-inlaw, Pietro Santoni in Leghorn, who sold it to the French government on the recommendation of Champollion. His third collection was sold at Sotheby's in 1833. In June 1822 some of the contents of the Egyptian Hall exhibition were sold at auction; painted casts of the two principal rooms fetched £490.42 The fate of the antiquities in the glass cases is not known but a granite head of Sekhmet, apparently left over from the sale, is set above the portico of Sotheby's building in New Bond Street. By the autumn, Belzoni was planning his journey to Timbuktu. He left England in 1823 and died near Benin on 3 December 1823. In the autumn of 1822 the casts and models of the tomb were on show in Paris, unsuccessfully, under the management of James Curtin who had been with the Belzonis in Egypt. By the spring of 1825 a new exhibition of the tomb was on show at 28 Leicester Square, and somewhere this sequence of events must have generated the 'Yellow Set' of drawings. The exhibition was a failure, and Benjamin Robert Haydon, a friend of the Belzonis, records in his Journal for 18 October 1825: 'Called on Mrs Belzoni - found her full of energy

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and misery. An execution on Belzoni's property; - his models, casts, all seized'.43 It was not until 1851 that Belzoni's efforts were officially recognized in the Civil List pension of £100 per annum to be paid to Mrs Belzoni; she died in Jersey in 1870. A number of conjunctions — Belzoni's personal history, Seti's tomb, its exhibition, Bullock's Egyptian Hall, and the kindling interest in mummies where Belzoni too played a part - focus attention upon the events of 1821. This moment contributed significantly to the cultural dynamic which changed the perception of Egyptian antiquities from that of the well-bred interest of the eighteenth century to that of the popular sensationalism of the later nineteenth and twentieth centuries. As we have seen, the original source of the Egyptian taste in Britain was Italy, but although Belzoni was Italian, the source of his material, and the themes which it inspired, was firmly Egypt itself. Belzoni, probably correctly, believed himself never to have been accepted by London society which, he thought, despised both his humble origins and his period as a performer. His dealings with Salt and the British Museum suggest that Egyptian discoveries, no matter how important, were only acceptable to British society if they were mediated through one of themselves. Indeed, Belzoni almost embodies the role later to be standard in 'mummy' films of the local native who possesses knowledge, secret but ultimately to no avail, while Salt has that of the white, Anglo-Saxon archaeologist to whom goes the glory. The problems over the ownership of, and public credit for, the finds, meant that when the question of exhibition arose, Belzoni did not have access either to major pieces, like Seti's sarcophagus, or to high-toned venues like the British Museum. However fitting the Egyptian Hall was, its tone was popular, sensationalist and somewhat vulgar, just as its exhibition was one of the first (or perhaps the first) 'realistic' displays London had seen. Belzoni had to create an exhibition out of the models and sketches that he and Ricci had made in the tomb, and he solved the problem by concentrating upon creating an experience rather than simply a view of exotic material. In 1821 the emphasis upon Egyptian royal tombs - as opposed to pyramids, temples, hieroglyphics and decorative motifs - was new, chiefly because Belzoni himself was, of course, the first person to discover a royal tomb in the Valley of the Kings unknown to the ancients, and one which, although robbed of its contents, retained its superb wall paintings. The exhibition was cast as a recreation of the tomb, in colour but with deliberate lighting effects, as the account in the Gentleman's Magazine makes clear. There was an emphasis upon the nature of the tomb itself, with its strange sequence of rooms, its pits and

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traps and deceitful walling, its passages with their curious traces, and the danger it posed to the explorer. With this goes the language employed by the notices: 'melancholy' in The Times and 'awful solemnity', 'strange and horrible' in the Gentleman's Magazine. The stress on the directly sensational experience of death embodied in secret tomb and mummified body invites discussion. The 'rational' taste in which the subjugated exotic is confined to the superficial decoration employed by Charles Tatham and his colleagues and patrons is eclipsed by sentiment, sensation and melodrama in the romantic mode already familiar to visitors to the Egyptian Hall, but here attached to the physical traces of the past. The romantic poetic which asserts the final equivocality of things and experience is linked with the notion that objects carry the past with them (as separable from their actual action in the past): this is itself the operation of a particular symbolic way of viewing the world. Symbolic things share the assumption that an integral relationship exists between modes of being, in this case the Egyptian antiquities and what is believed to be the invisible reality of the past. Here, the objects are seen less as simple epistemological signs — carriers of information about what happened but rather as mystical bridges between imagination and the past regarded as eternally present and presentable through its physical traces. But the 'equivocality' is most clearly expressed in the darker side of experience, and the morbidity of tomb and mummy has to do with our experience of horror and its capacity to make ourselves confront our own materiality somewhere in the gap between ourselves and the Other. The fascination of horror is linked with our desire to know, to confront what has not yet been tamed by transference to the bearably symbolic. As Kristeva puts it: No, as in true theatre, without make-up or masks, refuse and corpses show me [author's italics] what I permanently thrust aside in order to live. These body fluids, this defilement, this shit are what life withstands, hardly and with difficulty on the part of death. There, I am at the border of my condition as a living being. |Thc corpse] is something rejected from which one does not part, from which one does not protect oneself as from an object. Imaginary uncanniness and real threat, it beckons to us and ends up engulfing us.44 Kristeva's use of the word 'uncanniness' is obviously deliberate, and takes us back to Freud's famous essay on the Uncanny (the unheimlich, 'unhomely', unsettling, uneasy) and the much less famous essay by Jenscht which preceded it. 45 As Freud put it, 'this uncanny is in reality nothing new or alien, but something which is familiar and old - established in the mind and which has

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become alienated from it only through the process of repression . . . To some people the idea of being buried alive by mistake is the most terrifying fantasy of all'.46 This has led Abraham and Torok to develop their concept of 'the crypt', or 'innermost safe' within the ego of the individual, which preserves a secret which has been transmitted from the unconscious of another where it had been buried: 'This past is treated as a block of reality; it is referred to as such in denials and disavowals. The reality cannot quite die, nor can it hope to revive'.47 So, as Derrida reads it: 'What haunts us are not the dead, but gaps left within us by the secrets of others . . . [w]hat comes back to haunt are the tombs of others'.48 Or again with Kristeva, 'the Unheirnlich requires just the same impetus of a new encounter with the unexpected outside element: arousing images of death, automatons, doubles or the female sex . . . uncannyness occurs when the boundaries between imagination and reality are erased'.49 The display of Seti's tomb and of the unwrapped mummy, offer to the viewer exactly an encounter with the uncanny, the desire to confront the horror of the corpses of others with their secret knowledge of what lies ahead of us, which blots out the normal boundary between reality and imaginative symbol. The result is an acknowledgement of the fragmentation of the self, in flat contradiction to the modernist notion of sovereign and essential individuality, but only too in tune with the experience of the Gothic with which Belzoni's original visitors were imbued, and of which we are the inheritors. As Miles puts it, 'Gothic' is a discursive site, a 'carnivalesque' mode for representations of the fragmented subject.5" As we view tombs and mummies they cease to be objects in opposition to ourselves as the viewing subject; we recognize that they are our other selves, elements in a fragmented self in a universe where object and subject become confused and cross-identified. Mummies take on, therefore, a life of their own, or they reconstitute a form of the real life which they once had, and this is the critical departure for the popular mummy-horror genre both in the novels of the later nineteenth century, and the films of the twentieth. The gaze of the collector or the visitor to a collection, especially where it is dressed as spectacle, finds her/his power over the objects draining away as they draw her/him into their own narrative; the viewer ceases to gaze and becomes the gazed-upon, as subject and object slide into one another.51 The museum display, especially one dressed up to kill, like Belzoni's, becomes an important part of the spectacular regime of nineteenth-century Europe, where 'wild' objects (that is those unclassified and undomesticated by taxonomy) can be exhibited. The visitor becomes a sophisticated voyeur who

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sees and enjoys the spectacle of her/his own fragmentation, and, for the sake of the sensations of horror which s/he carries in her/his own crypt, connives at her/his own obj edification, a complex of feelings particularly evident in the earlier nineteenth-century visual consumption of mummies through their unwrapping, the morbid equivalent of a strip-tease. 'Consumption' brings us to the role of the tomb/mummy at that moment, around the 1820s, when British society was turning from an enterprise engrossed in the production of goods, to one which was devoting part of its by then very considerable accumulation of wealth to consumption, the economic facet of its culture which comprises the themes of spectacle and shifting reification just described. The mummy and the tomb are humanity turned into 'things', and as such they become irrational objects of desire, wanted because of the particular powers which they embody. The advent of consumer culture, which involves acknowledging the power of objects to take on subjective attributes and so remould human subjectivity, puts an end to the old world of 'solid' objects, objects which knew their place and did not open their tombs and walk in the night. It is now clear that Belzoni's career, and his 1821 exhibition of the tomb of Seti I and the unwrapped mummy in the Egyptian Hall, Piccadilly, has a complex relationship to a moment when European, and particularly English, culture was experiencing a significant transformation. The exhibition was a new kind of spectacle, creating a new kind of relationship between the viewers and the displayed dead which resonated with capacities of the human psyche only just coming into play. In a particularly acute and intricate way, it looked into the emerging world of commodities through which human subjectivity was being re-figured. In contrast with the preceding appropriation of Egyptian funerary motifs, which were distinctly tamed and confined, Belzoni's approach was vulgar and deliberately sensational, just as many of the shows before and after his in the Egyptian Hall were vulgar: they are at the beginning of a new kind of popular culture which emphazises viewing over participation. But Belzorii had to present the past to his audience in this way. He had few serious antiquities with which to make an exhibition, because an uneducated, exstrongmaii Italian was an improper person through whom the past might be mediated to polite London. Belzoni's genteel failure helped to create new kinds of future successes.

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Acknowledgements I am glad to be able to record my grateful thanks to Malcolm Baker, and the staff of the Prints and Drawings Room (Victoria and Albert Museum); to Sue Giles (City Museum, Bristol); to Peter Woodhead (University Library, University of Leicester); to staff at the British Library and the Bodleian Library; to Beth Howe (University of Leicester) and Colin Brooks (University of Leicester), who took the photographs; and to Jasmine Day (University of Western Australia) for stimulating discussion about mummies.

Notes 1. Department of Prints and Drawings, Victoria and Albert Museum, D. 1479.13 (hereafter cited as V & A), a bound folio of letters and drawings. 2. See Yates (1964), Walker (1972), Dannenfeldt (1951) and Iversen (1958). 3. See Pevsner and Lang (1956), illustrations 15 and 16, for examples of wall decorations in the Caffe Inglese, which are now known only from Giovanni Battista Piranesi, Diverse Maniere d'adomare i Cammini ed ogni ultra parte degli edifizi desunte dall'architettura Egizia . . . and illustrations 17 and 18, which show Egyptian-style fireplaces in the same book. 4. Letter from Piranesi to Thomas Hollis dated 13 November 1768, now attached to the Society of Antiquaries copy of his Diverse Maniere d'adomare i Cammini (Rome, 1769). 5. Pevsner and Lang (1956): 244-6. See also Grinsell (1994). 6. Denon, D. V. (1808—25), Description de I'Egypte: tin recueil des Observations et des Recherches qui ont ete faites en Egypte, pendant I'Expedition de I'Armee Francaise, Paris, 10 volumes of text, 14 volumes of plates (but bibliographies differ over the numbers of volumes). 7. V & A, D. 1479.13. 8. V & A, D. 1479.13. 9. V & A, D. 1479.13. 10. See Clifford Smith (1931), PI. 109. For the career of Tatham, see Salmon (1998) and Proudford and Watkm (1972a and 1972b). 11. Sec Weinreb and Hibbert (1983): note 4, 425. 12. For Playfair, see Honour (1958): 243; plans of the billiard room are in the National Buildings Record for Scotland. For Villa Borghesc, sec Honour (1958): 243, and Walpole Society, vol. xxxii: 54. 13. An aquatint of the facade of the Egyptian Hall was published in Ackermann's Repository of the Arts, Second Series viii, 1819: 153. During 1816 the Repository . . . showed three plates of designs by William's brother George: February, designs for curtains and cabinet; May, for Turkish ottoman and hangings; April for inlaid cabinet with 'honeysuckle feet'. In 1810 George had been in partnership with Joseph Gandy as 'architects, modellers, sculptors and cabinet makers' at 55 Church Street, Liverpool (Liverpool Directory, 1810). 14. See Pcarce (1995): 129. 15. Quoted in Honour (1954), no reference given. 16. Ackermann's Repository . . . Second Series viii, 1819: 155. 17. W. Bullock (7th ed. 1809), A Companion to the Liverpool Museum, 'and now open for inspection in the Great Room, No. 22 Piccadilly, London': 66, Egyptian mummy; 66—7, description of mummification; 67, white ibis mummy; 67-8, opened mummy of ibis.

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For the details of Belzoni's early life and general career see Mayes (1959). Henry Salt materials were published as Hall (1834). BelzoTm (1820): 359-61. Ibid.: 362-5.

22. Ibid.: 366. 23. A set of plates of the tomb was published by Lefebure (1886). 24. See Gardener (1961): 230-321. 25. Belzoni (1820): 371, 381. These may be late thoughts, and essentially trailers for the exhibition. 26. Mayes (1959): 261. No reference is given for this information. 27. Various papers of Ricci's were published by Samrnarco (1930), vol. II, but this does not throw light on his relationship with Belzoni. The diary, apparently still in Cairo, remains unpublished. 28. In the Department of Archaeology, recognized originally by S. R. Staunton in the 1930s and more recently by L. V. Grinsell in the 1950s and 1960s. The material is (1998) stored together in a single cabinet, in boxes as described. It was given to the City Museum in 1900 by a Mr C. E. Wilson, who was a schoolteacher in London at King Edward's School, together with a copy of Belzoni's Narrative, a sketchbook of Belzoni's and a memorandum book of Sarah Belzoni. The material presumably reached Wilson through Sarah, and may have come to Bristol as a result of her connection with the city: Grinsell believed that she may have been born Sarah Bann, of Irish descent but living in Bristol through part (or all) of her earlier life. See also Mayes (1959): 333—4. More work is needed to elucidate the internal relationships of the material and why and by whom it was made; it is hoped that it may be possible to set up a further research project on the collection. 29. William Bullock had sold up his collection in 1819 and departed for Mexico soon after. His immediate successor at the hall was George Lackington, the bookseller, followed by Benjamin Haydon. The hall's mixed reputation was not much enhanced by the numerous exhibitions held there between 1819 and 1905: antiquities from Mexico, a Lapland family with reindeer, freaks including 'General Tom Thumb', and a 'mermaid' made in Japan out of a monkey head and shoulders attached to a fish. In 1905 the Egyptian Hall was demolished. 30. British Library, London, Perceval Collection: material relating to Sadler's Wells, vol. xiv, coloured engraving by unknown artist. 31. Catalogue of the Exhibition, Perceval Collection, British Museum, London. 32. Mayes (1959): 270-7. 33. Tlie Times, 30 April 1821. 34. T}ie Gentleman's Magazine, May 1821: 447—50. 35. This 'Address' ran to twelve more verses, and remained popular through the rest of the century. 36. For Pettigrew and his career among the mummies see Dawson (1934) and Dawson (1931). 37. Gentleman's Magazine, May 1821: 450. 38. For the tangled history of these dealings, see Mayes (1959), especially 173, 190-1, 194, 207—10. A large part of Salt's transactions with the British Museum is published as an appendix to vol. II of Life and Correspondence of Henry Salt', see note 19 above. 39. See Soane (1835-6). 40. Quoted in Mayes (1959): 270-1. 41. Quarterly Review, 1818, vol. 19, July: 421. 42. A marked-up copy of the sales catalogue survives in the British Library. 43. See Jackson (1981).

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44. Kristeva (1982): 188. 45. Freud (1955): 217-56. J. Jenscht, 'On the Psychology of the Uncanny', in PsychiatrischNeuwhgisck Wochmschrift, 8. 22, 23, 1906: 195-8, 203-5. Reprinted in Angelaki, 2/1, Home and Family, ed. Sarah Wood (1995): 7-16. 46. Freud (1955): 217-56. 47. Abraham and Torok (1990): 65. 48. J. Derrida, 'Fors: The Anglish Words of Nicholas Abraham and Maria Torok', trans. B. Johnson, xxxi, 'Foreword' to Abraham and Torok (1986). 49. Kristeva (1991): 188. 50. Miles (1993): 4. 51. For a stimulating discussion of all these themes see Daly (1994).

C H A P T E R 11

BETWEEN FINE ART AND MANUFACTURE THE BEGINNINGS OF ITALIAN MEDIEVAL AND RENAISSANCE SCULPTURE AT THE SOUTH KENSINGTON MUSEUM DONATA LEVI

At a meeting held on 3 January 1861, the Board of the South Kensington Museum filed a letter from Mr Macbean, a British banker in Rome, who informed it that he had drawn a bill on London for the amount due for the 'Gigli collection'.1 What Macbean called the 'Cigli collection' consisted of a selection of 69 sculptures (from this collection of over 120) and some \vorks from the well-known collection of the former Director of the Monte di Pieta, Giovan Pietro Campana.2 In 1856, some time before being arrested as a result of the shortfall in the funds of the Monte amounting to 900,000 scudi, Campana had received in pawn, perhaps with a view to its future acquisition, the collection. This had been put together by Ottavio Gigli while in exile at Florence after his involvement with the 'Repubblica Romana'. 1 The circumstances of the acquisition were described the following year in the sculpture catalogue written by the curator of the South Kensington Museum, J. C. Robinson, who had negotiated it while in Italy, in the spring of 1859 and in the autumn of I860.4 J. Pope-Hennessy further enriched this account using letters from Robinson to the Director, Henry Cole, written in Rome when news of the Florentine upheaval and ol the confused international situation contributed to alarmism and uncertainty. In addition to the five letters

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partially quoted by Pope-Hennessy, others may be added.5 Although they do not radically alter the account already given, they provide further information. They stress Robinson's role not only in negotiations but also in having discovered a group of Italian Medieval and Renaissance sculptures little known in Great Britain, and in stressing the importance of acquiring a type of work which had not particularly attracted his attention before. Before his Italian journey of 1859, Robinson's interest in this field seems to have been a limited one. When he was first in Italy in 1851 - he was then drawing master at Hanley in the Potteries - he travelled hastily, staying for a short time in a large number of different cities. A letter to an English friend provides an example of the rather commonplace observations to which these short visits gave rise: romantic descriptions and uninformed enthusiasm for the great Renaissance masters echo the artistic inspiration of his youth, and with an almost exclusive attention to painting.6 In a sketch-book,7 however, we can find among various sketches from ornaments,8 two studies from sculptures (the St Thomas by Giovanni Pisano in the church of S. Maria della Spina in Pisa and a detail from the fountain at Perugia by the same artist). Furthermore, after Robinson left his job at Hanley and moved to London, where he joined the Department of Practical Art, he went on studying majolica. In the catalogue of the Soulages collection, which he published in 1856, he announced he had long been gathering materials for a general work on the subject,9 a project he was still working on two years later.1" In the meantime, his job as curator of a museum which was rapidly growing in a wide variety of fields helped to widen his interests. In 1857, in an official lecture on the museum, soon after its removal to South Kensington,11 his description of the various kinds of works on exhibition there begins with the sculpture: 'The decorative arts in immediate alliance with architecture are of the highest importance, and objects of an architectural nature in stone, marble, wood, terracotta, bronze, &c., under the general head of sculpture, may very properly be first noticed'.12 However, a year later, Robinson was surprised when, on rearranging the exhibits after the arrival of part of the Soulages collection, he discovered the full extent of the sculpture collection. In a letter to Cole, then travelling in Italy, he gave an overview of what had been done: Central court, new building. I have emptied the large case standing at foot of the Michel Angelo 'David', and filled it again with all the Mediaeval sculptures in our possession. Marbles, and terra-cottas, so that the sculpture section is now in sequence with the little case of Gherardini models, and the David itself, which is now no longer such an isolated object. This new case is now one of the most

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attractive in the Museum, and I was surprised myself to find how strong we were in art sculpture when all the specimens were got together. Of course I have not moved the enamelled Delia Robbia ware this seemed to have too close an affinity to the Majolica to be removed from the new rooms." As soon as Robinson arrived at Rome in 1859, where he was to inspect some portions of the Campana collection, he immediately realized the importance of the medieval sculptures brought together by Ottavio Gigli, 'a collection' — as he states in a letter dated 30 April 1859 — 'quite different from Campana's, & [which] can be negotiated separately'. That he did not know of its existence is not surprising, as it was not mentioned in C. T. Newton's and S. Birch's report on Campana's ancient objects, compiled for the British Museum at Rome during the summer of 1856.14 Nor could Robinson have known of a series of articles published that year in a Florentine periodical, the Arti del Disegno}-' Only in Rome could he have seen a 'book of photographs' from the sculptures of the collection, put together by the resourceful Ottavio Gigli in 1858. Only three copies existed ('and the photographs were taken by different people there & in Rome & negatives not kept') and Robinson received one of them on loan from Giacomo Benucci, Campana's trustee:"' 'I made good use of the copy . . . & have gone through the collection very carefully piece by piece & made an estimate of value'. Robinson's enthusiasm had to come to terms with a very complicated state of affairs. It soon became clear that a separate transaction was not possible and later the vague prospect of acquiring the main collection also faded away: 'I hear nothing from the Campana people, they are all rogues together'17 Robinson wrote from Florence where, taking advantage of the political upheaval, he had gone to complete some negotiations for other works of sculpture.'" In the very days in which Robinson had been in Rome, in an uncertain situation due to the war and to popular demonstrations, the Campana affair had gone through a delicate phase: the ex-Marquis had been persuaded to sign over almost the whole of his property - including also the collection - in exchange for release and a lesser sentence of banishment. Now Robinson realized that his presence in Rome might have been used to uphold the good name of the collection and to prove that its estimate of value was sufficient to cover a part of the lacking funds.'1' On Campana's release in June, the negotiations fell through completely.2" In the autumn of 1860, however, they were resumed. Here too Robinson's initiative - and his now deeper interest in sculpture — was decisive. The Board of the Museum had sent him back to Italy in the company of Richard

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Redgrave,21 Art Superintendent of the Department, with the general 'purpose of obtaining Specimens of Italian Art'.22 This does not seem to have included the resumption of negotiations in Rome. Unexpectedly, on 22 November, Robinson reported from Naples23 that at Rome the situation had improved: this time the counterpart was no longer - as in 1859 — the unreliable 'Campana people', or Gigli, who was however still struggling to recover his art treasures, but the Papal Government itself, through one of its major figures, the powerful Cardinal Antonelli.24 So critical was the state of the Papal finances,25 that, on the condition that ^5000 or ^5500 in cash (a sum far inferior to the amount — including interest - of the pledge) was immediately obtained, the Papal Government was willing not only to trample on Gigli's rights and to forbid him to redeem the pawn, but also to give up exportation duties and to add some pieces from the Campana collections. These actions were not exactly within the law26 and it was imperative for Robinson to act very rapidly, in order to avoid any change of mind and to pre-empt political upheavals. He wrote from Naples on 22 November: Should a change of government occur, I do not think there would be any further chance for us because considering the encumbrances on the collection it could only be brought down to our price by an arbitrary, i.e. extra legal act which the present Government is prepared to do but which the Sardinian Government most certainly would not. I need not remind you how very important an acquisition this would be to our section of Mediaeval and Renaissance sculpture.27

The next day, Robinson, in agreement with Cole,2S did not hesitate to ask for the support of W. E. Gladstone, then the head of the Treasury.29 In a letter dated 25 November, he briefly described the value of a collection which included works by Donatello, Ghiberti, Pollaiuolo, Rossellino, Verrocchio and above all 'the celebrated Cupid bending his bow, a life sized statue in marble by Michael Angelo, mentioned in Vasari's Life'. He carefully avoided any reference to illegal actions and stressed chance political and practical events such as changes in government or the arrival of rival buyers, especially those from Spain30 - as it was vital to complete the negotiations quickly: I have been carefully through the collection and am of opinion that it would be most important for us to secure it. No such opportunity can ever occur again, whilst the acquisition would make our collection of Italian sculpture the first in existence.11

To ask for help from Gladstone was a bold but not a rash move. Gladstone had proved helpful in artistic matters in the past. A passionate collector,32 he

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had promoted national collections in the capacity of deus ex machina in the early days of the South Kensington Museum and earlier still when the collection was called the Museum of Ornamental Art and housed at Marlborough House.33 He had also intervened, and occasionally even interfered, in the affairs of the National Gallery.34 Negotiations for the Gigli collection were carried on with great zeal, testifying to the importance now attributed to Medieval and Renaissance sculpture in Robinson's (and of course Cole's) buying strategy for the Museum. It has already been pointed out that this purchase was a turning point in its history. The Museum's distant origins were in those teaching collections, which, according to the suggestions of the Select Committee on Art and Manufactures in 1835—6, should be part of the Schools of Design.35 Twenty-five years later, in 1860, when pleading the new-born South Kensington Museum's cause before another Select Committee, Cole openly referred - as he had already done in 184936 — to the recommendations and the principles stated previously, and he did so after listing the Museum's most recent acquisitions in the various branches (ceramics and pottery, glassware, metalwork, sculpture, furniture, textiles) and stressing the chronological range of the artifacts bought, from the twelfth century to the present day. In 1862, in the catalogue of the sculpture collection, which included works from the thirteenth century onwards, Robinson gave further prominence to a kind of work apparently not consistent with the acknowledged aims of the Museum, which presupposed a strict relationship between art and manufactures. On the contrary he pointed out that sculpture was an area in which the efforts of artists and craftsmen were especially linked." The catalogue is the culmination of a buying policy quite different from that followed in the early 1850s. In this earlier phase particularly, contemporary art-industrial objects were bought, such as those displayed at the Great Exhibition of 1851, in order to furnish the 'manufacturing population' with an educational wealth of examples, either to follow or to avoid, as shown in the arrangement of the 'Chamber of Horrors' at Marlborough House.1" Later in the decade the emphasis shifts to works from the past: the search for standard models exemplifying a certain theory of ornamentation gave way to the search for models valued on a technical basis and in conformity with the historical development of each speciality.3'' One can see the premonitory signs of the change in 1854, in an introductory lecture on the Museum of Ornamental Art which was published by order of the Board of Trade, Department of Science and Art.4" Here Robinson, appointed curator of the Museum the previous year, tackled the issue of the educational purpose of the Museum, discussing this through a two-fold argument. In the first place he stressed its technological significance, evidently in

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compliance with the new teaching system started at the Science and Art Department the year before.41 The Department had recognized a duty simply to promote and assist the teaching of elementary drawing in local and private schools and of design in local schools of design, but would directly organize technical teaching through 'special classes' in London (i.e. classes on textile decoration, metalwork, ceramics, pottery decoration, wood engraving, chromolithography, architectural decoration, building and casting).42 Robinson emphasized the link between teaching and 'objective experience, that is to say, an actual acquaintance with the monuments or productions of Art or Science, as the case may be'.43 The Museum with its various branches would obviously furnish models for imitation or examples to be avoided, but its task and its role were more and more subtle. 'What did artists or craftsmen generally do?' - was Robinson's question. Artists usually took over the general artistic ideals and standards of their time, also taking cognizance, more or less consciously and perceptively, of the artistic heritage. The museum might now support them in this course, and thus students might reach the highest standards more easily and more surely by becoming familiar with every step of the development: enabling him to profit by the true inventions and progress of contemporary mind, and at the same time to detect and avoid the spurious affectations of originality, the empty revivals and false adaptations, which are so rife in modern Art; and, on the contrary even, by retrospection, to recover again those passages, motives, or ideas, which in the lapse of time or by adverse accidents have, as it were, been lost by the wayside, and home no fruit to prosperity.44 To fulfil this task it was necessary to avoid an antiquarian arrangement, such as was offered, for example, at the British Museum: 'People return from their holiday visits with a confused spectrum of birds and beasts, stones and shells, old marbles, vases, books, prints, &c. floating in their mind, leaving an imposing impression of vast variety and wealth, but with little other definite order'.45 By contrast, in the new museum the display itself (through comparisons, juxtapositions, etc.) and various didactic means (popular catalogues, essays, lectures, etc.) would allow the public 'to bring home and render familiar to all, the various developments of Ornamental Art'.46 Above all, reform was necessary with regard to the sort of objects to be collected: these ought to be of the kinds still neglected in the national collections, such as textiles in primis, but also pottery and Medieval and later glassware and enamels. By rejecting the pedantic exclusivism of other museums - this was Robinson's premise - Marlborough House would consider neglected objects and preference would 'doubtless, be given in the immediate to acquisitions of objects, not only to those which are

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most likely to prove the most instructive, but in some degree also the most interesting from their novelty'.47 The intention to fill the blanks left by other collections was to shape future policies, based not only on new kinds of works, but also on a preference for the ornamental objects of the Medieval period. Robinson pointed out that the contemporary objects bought at the Great Exhibition had helped combat the sometimes too exclusive criteria of antiquity and rarity in the evaluation of works,4" but now the teaching system of the Department required different models.49 It is most interesting that in 1857 Robinson would interpret the predominance of Oriental objects among those chosen by the Department at the Great Exhibition as an unconscious bias towards the past: 'The East, where every form and motive in design has a traditional and preceptive permanency, where the patterns of the textile stuffs of India, the lacquered work and enamels of Persia, the painted porcelain of China and Japan, have remained in fashion for a thousand years unchanged, and ever popular, — the East was, by common consent, allowed to be still our mistress in industrial design, and so this admiration of oriental works was in reality a tacit homage to antiquity, to the art of former times'. Sculpture, in its unstable balance between fine art and manufacture, ideality and manual dexterity, was a clear example of the uncertain and not always easy relationship between standard excellence, whether technical or stylistic (i.e. effectiveness), and historical merit (antiquity, rarity, etc.). In the practice of museum arrangement, the opposition was between a collection as a means of education and as an illustration of historical development, and this opposition would emerge with still greater clarity in the debate in England in the 1860s.

Notes 1. PRO (Public Record Office, London), ED 28/12, 142. 2. See Pope-Hennessy (1964). On the Campana collection see Reinach (1904—5): 32, and the journalistic account by Borowitz (1991); on Campana see Parise (1974) and Pianazza (1993) for further bibliographical references. 3. On Ottavio Gigli, man of letters and philologist, social reformer and promoter of public instruction, collector and dealer, see Pianazza (1993) and Levi (1998). 4. Robinson (1862): XV-XVII. 5. V & A (Victoria and Albert Museum, London) Library, Box 55 B; except where otherwise stated, all Robinson's letters quoted in this article are from this source. 6. V & A Library, 86 FF 14, cc. 33-6, letter from Robinson to W. M Egley from Rome (6 August 1851), which includes accounts of previous visits to Venice (4 days), Milan (4 days), Padua, Ferrara (3 hours), Bologna, Florence, Pisa and Perugia. See also his notebook 'Italy 1851' at the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford (J. C. Robinson, Papers. Notebooks and Publications, n. 1).

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7. V & A, inv. E 57-1943 (91 A 69). 8. From a mosaic on the vault of the atrium of the Basilica of St Mark's at Venice; from a marble inlaid decoration in the southern transept of the Cathedral at Milan; from the Sala Grande in the Academy of Venice; from mosaics in S Maria Maggiore at Rome; from the pedestal of Cellini's Judith in the Loggia dei Lanzi. These sketches are probably connected with his teaching job and it is highly significant that they might be suitable for use as patterns to the ornamentation of tiles, such as those manufactured in the Potteries by Robinson's friend, H. Mmton. Other sketches, however, show an interest in architectural details, although always from an ornamental point of view: doors, knockers, wrought iron grilles, etc. 9. Robinson (1856b): 3. Robinson also asked Cole for information on Italian majolica, during his long stay in Italy in 1858-9 (sec letter to Cole of 17 December 1858). 10. See letter to Cole 4 December 1858. After having informed Cole of arrangements for some lectures on ceramics, he added: 'In addition to lectures am also at work on the general catalogue of our earthenware collection, as you suggested, and have kept Andrews and Armytage at work drawing illustrations on wood; of this undertaking I have formed great ideas, but as they will keep till your return, I shall not obtrude them on you now'. 11. Robinson (1858b); this was the fifth of six lectures read between November and December 1857 and published in the following year under the title Introductory Addresses on the Science and Art department and the South Kensington Museum. The other lectures were read by H. Cole (on the function of the Science and Art Department), R. Redgrave (on the Sheepshanks collection), DrL. Playfair (on scientific institutions in connection with the Department), R. Burchett (on the Central Training School for Art) and J. Ferguson (on a national collection of architectural art). 12. Robinson (1858b): 17. Robinson also described the arrangement of pieces of sculpture in the Museum: the huge stone chimney-piece from Antwerp, the cast from a Paduan chimney-piece from the end of the 15th century and the altarpiece in glazed terracotta (A deration of the Kings) attributed to Luca della Robbia, all in the 'new galleries', while the 'iron building' contained only non-Italian works. 13. In this letter (4 December 1858) Robinson also remarked: 'I scarcely know how to report the multifarious matter going on — first however Soulages. I have finished the distribution of this collection all but furniture, which is in hand; this entailed the entire re-arrangement of the new gallery (under Sheepshanks Gallery), the new desk cases here were just ready in time, literally every article in these rooms has been turned over, and re-distributed, and the effect of the whole, including Soulages, is really magnificient. Classification of sections has been made much more logical and complete, and labelling both generic and specific, has gone on very actively". 14. Newton and Birch (1856). Dated 15 September, this Report takes into account nine portions, identified as such by the two authors, after examining a confused mass of objects,'not all united in one Museum, but distributed in five houses, and occupying twenty-five rooms'. These portions included only ancient works (Etruscan and Greek vases; Etruscan, Greek and Roman earthenware; gold ornaments and bronzes; Etruscan urns; Greek and Roman glassware; Roman wall painting and ivories and gold coins). Although Newton and Birch did not consider some portions (i.e bronzes, glassware and coins) sufficiently valuable, they suggested to buy them all. In his letters to A. Panizzi written in Rome in the summer of 1856, Newton supplied information on other parts of the Campana collection: on 21 June he suggested that Eastlake should be requested to give an opinion on the paintings and also spoke of 'a new collection belonging to Campana, majolica ware to the amount of £8000. I think we had better not attempt to report on this. If the Government want it, Franks might be sent to examine the extent and general character of the collection' (British Museum, Dept of Manuscripts, Add. 36717, cc. 517-18). 15. The articles on the Gigli collection by A. M. Migliarini were first published in this

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periodical in 1856 under the title ' Risorgimento delTarte. Scultura' and were later collected in a slightly expanded form in Migliarini (1858). 16. It is to be noted that a 'signer Benucci', probably the same person, was still selling and buying in 1858: in May O. Miindler describes as Benucci's property a very curious painting, signed 'Slavonus Dalmatius', which he had seen in January at 'a signer Buffet's' in Milan (Miindler (1985): 240 and 195-6). 17. Letter of 13 May 1859. 18. On these acquisitions see Levi (1998). 19. On the frenzied negotiations between the 'Campana people' and the Papal Government see Borowitz (1991): 64-7. The various and contradictory rumours arc punctually reported in Robinson's letters. At the beginning of his visit at Campana's, on 25 April, he gave a rather desolate account: 'I am told now that the rumours are that the Papal Government has almost decided to keep the entire collection and remove it to the Lateran, and the situation as far as Campana is concerned moreover, is very unfavourable to any negotiation, the prices demanded for the several sections arc altogether fabulous, and are half acknowledged to be so by themselves; it is indeed the interest of Campana and his trustee Benucci to keep up the claim of the immense value of the collection and to ultimately face the Government here to take to it. Campana's debt to the state is about £200,000 [i.e. 955,849 scudi or 5,066,000 lire], and qua the state, he and his advisers take the position of continuing to assert, that the collection is well worth all the deficit and ought not to be sold for any less. For this reason they are not very cmpresse to facilitate my operations, and as I intend, for obvious reasons whilst taking a thorough examination only of those sections that immediately concern us, to at the same time make myself generally acquainted with all the others, it will I expect be rather a tedious piece of business". On 30 April, on the contrary, he announced a more favourable turn of events: 'Since I wrote to you last the Campana affair has taken another turn, & 1 think a most favourable one in view of possible negotiations. The Papal Government has agreed to take the collection in liquidation of Campana's debts to remove it immediately to the Quirinal so as to get rid of the great expense of rent now going on to liberate Campana immediately & to leave the collection in his & Benucci's hands to sell as at present, i.e. they will still, as before, be willing to listen to offers, either for the entire collection as for separate sections'. In his last letter from Rome, on 4 May, he seems to have given up all hope: 'after keeping me day after day in suspense the Campana people seem to have dropped me altogether in fact their aim is clearly to make the Roman government take to the collection. Yesterday I was to have had a definite communication about the prices put on the several sections, and also about seeing the gold ornaments but although I have sent again and again to Benucci, I can get nothing definite out of him. Campana it is said is to be released tomorrow and is to be allowed to retire to Naples with a buon mano of 30,000 scudi [i.e. 159,000 Italian lire or £6277]. It is certain that a sudden and most unlooked for revulsion has taken place in his favour. I suppose owing to French mediation which of course now is paramount. I have taken my place to return to Florence by diligence for Friday morning and should I have nothing definite from Benucci before then Mr Macbean has undertaken to write to me after my departure'. 20. After Campana's release and banishment, from 25 July to 15 December the consignment of his property to the Monte took place. On 23 May 1860 a committee (including Giambattista De Rossi, Massam, Teneram and Visconti) carried out the final valuation, which was fixed at 836,754 scudi (Parise (1974): 355). It is in any case to be noted that Robinson's first visit in the spring of 1859 probably had some aftermath: in a letter to Gladstone dated 25 November 1860 (British Museum, Department of Manuscripts, Add. Mss. 44394. cc. 256-9), which will be discussed later, he states that unsuccessful 'communications went on for several months'. Furthermore, during the summer Ottavio Gigli himself perhaps travelled to Britain; (sec his letters to the Italian publisher

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Felice Le Monnier from Florence (13 October 1859) and from Turin (12 December 1859) (Firenze, Biblioteca Nazionale Centrale, Carteggio Felice Le Monnier, 14.165 and 14.166). 21. It may be no coincidence that the letter in which Robinson is officially entrusted with this task bears a date (16 August) immediately following the successful conclusion of the parliamentary inquiry on the South Kensington Museum's acquisition policy. The Select Committee stated 'that the South Kensington Museum, in respect of its action as well throughout the United Kingdom as in the Metropolis, is exercising a beneficial influence, and that it is fully deserving of continued Parliamentary support' (Report from the Select Committee (1860): viii). 22. PRO, ED 28/12/60. Redgrave alone was asked to travel to Malta, in order to visit some collections of majolica and armour. The budget at his disposal was rather substantial: 'fifteen hundred pounds, if suitable objects arc attainable at moderate prices'. 23. Letter of 2 December 1860: 'We have been doing our best here but I fear with no great result, perhaps if we could stop two or three weeks longer something might be found out, but the loss of time here is something fearful, delays and impediments meet me at every turn, in fact to deal with Neapolitans and Neapolitan authorities one ought to have the temper of an angel and days eight and forty hours long at least". 24. Letter of 22 November, quoted in Pope-Hennessy (1964): ix, and letter to Gladstone of 25 November ('I had a message from Cardinal Antonelli to the effect that he would be glad to treat such as direct'). For a short biography of the Cardinal see Aubert: (1961). 25. See Robinson's cynical postscript to a letter from Naples (2 December 1860): 'Dainby Seymour has just told me that Farini told him last night Rothschild in Paris has stopped paying the interests of the Roman loan so that the Pope is bankrupt, this is good for the Gigli pictures'. 26. Letter from Naples (22 November 1860): 'In ordinary times the Government would not meddle with the funds of the Monte di Pieta which is an independent charitable corporation, now in their necessity they will lay hold of anything and everything and have given me to understand that they are open to an offer for this collection.' 27. Letter from Naples (22 Novcmber1860). 28. Letter from Naples (23 November 1860). 29. Letter dated 25 November 1860: 'I have just left Rome and during my stay made it my duty to ascertain the exact position of the collection, & my reason for addressing you now, is to say, that I believe, were I empowered to take immediate action, the collection might be secured for a reasonable sum' (BL Add. Mss. 44394, cc. 256-9). 30. Ibid. T have ascertained on good authority that the sale of the gist of the collection i.e. the "Antique" sections is now pending & to the Spanish Governement the truth in all probability being that in their dire need the Papal Government is trying to make the sale of this collection a stalking horse to cover a [?] or gift of money which they are anxious to extract from the religious sympathies of the Spaniards.' 31. Letter dated 25 November 1860, in which he also explained: 'My object would be to get some other very important specimens now included in another section of the Campana museum (worth at least £1000 to us) and to make an offer for the lot - and I feel assured, that at this moment, the Roman Government, if they saw the money ready to be paid, would override all legal vindications, waive the export duty and sell us the lot direct for from £5000 to £5500. I need not say how delighted I should be to take the matter in hand'. Actually, the estimation of the Campatia works, on the basis of the prices quoted by Pope-Hennessy (1964) amounts to £1280. On 8 December, back in Rome after an eventful and hazardous journey, Robinson announced that he had received permission to make an offer and was waiting for the agent who had helped him, 'a certain Ghismondi'. This was probably Pietro Gismondi, an artist who lived in via Condotti, who had already been in business relations with Miindler (Miindler (1985): 126, 237

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and 239). He had also been the owner of Palmezzano's Deposition, sold in October 1858 to the National Gallery (Robertson (1978): 181-2). 32. On his artistic interests see Pointon (1975). 33. lie is called thus by Pope-Henncssy (1964): vii, who pointed out his intervention with regard to the Gherardini collection in 1854, at Robinson's request. 34. In 1853 he had played a role in the acquisition of a portrait by Velasquez on sale at Christie's and of the Warrior Adoring the Virgin and Child, by Catena (also attributed to Giorgione; Robertson, 1978: 132—3). Not always did his intervention have good results: in 1853-4 he was the main supporter for the acquisition of the dubious collection of Carl Kriiger (ibid.: 137). Yet, he also had a part in the purchase of a masterpiece such as Raphael's Gan'agh Madonna in 1863 (ibid.: 229, 231). 35. The Select Committee had suggested the creation of a network of public galleries and museums with casts and 'copies of the Arabesques of Raphael, the designs at Pompeii, specimens from the era of the revival of the Arts, every thing, in short, which exhibits in combination the efforts of the artist and the workman. They should also contain the most approved modern specimens, foreign as well as domestic, which our extensive commerce would readily convey to us from the most distant quarters of the globe' (Reportfrom the Select Committee (1836): v). 36. Report from the Select Committee (1849): evidence given by Henry Cole. 37. Robinson (1862): viii-x. Here he laments that the two-fold consideration of sculpture in modern times (as fine art and as ornamental art) had destroyed the vivifying bond between architecture and decoration which existed in the past: 'The present Collection, therefore, will comprise all such works as a medieval sculptor may have been called upon to execute; and one good result, which it is hoped will ensue from it, will be an elevation of the status of ornamental sculpture in general". 38. Wamwnght (1994). 39. See Levi (1990) for further bibliography. 40. Robinson (1854). 41. First Report (1853): 2-29. 42. A scries of lectures and study grants would integrate the teaching in classes. 43. Robinson (1854): 5. The museum was not to be considered as a collection of curious objects, and its foundation derived from the clear awareness 'that the teaching of specialties must necessarily be incomplete without a simultaneous familiarity with the actual specimens alluded to in the classes' (Robinson (1854): 6-7). 44. Robinson (1854): 8. 45. Robinson (1854): 10. 46. Robinson (1854): 11. 47. Robinson (1854): 15. 48. Robinson (1854): 16. He thought that these objects not only promoted greater esteem of modern industrial art on the part of the general public but also helped to diminish the affected and false appreciation of second-rate works based purely on their antiquity. Collectors were now compelled to abandon the criterion of antiquity as the only valid one and to appreciate modern objects for their intrinsic excellence alone. 49. Robinson (1854): 18.

C H A P T E R 12

'ENJOYMENT FOR THE THOUSANDS' SCULPTURE AS FINE AND ORNAMENTAL ART AT SOUTH KENSINGTON, 1852-62 CHRISTOPHER WHITEHEAD

This chapter is concerned with the popularization of the appreciation of sculpture on display in mid-nineteenth-century London. South Kensington, with its multiple displays of sculpture — both historic and contemporary British - in the decade following the opening of the Museum of Manufactures at Marlborough House in 1852, contributed fundamentally to a process whereby the different purposes of sculpture were redefined. Elsewhere in this volume the domestic interior and the garden are analysed as traditional settings for postclassical sculpture in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. This investigation will extend the analysis of these two settings, replete with their acquired conventions, into the period of the early history of the public museum - the second half of the nineteenth century. Such an analysis, however, turns out to be particularly complex. On the one hand the growth of the new institutional typology of the public museum brought with it the revision of display criteria in view of a more varied public; on the other, traditional forms of display peculiar to the pseudo-private environment of the house and garden were not so much controverted and abandoned as modified for, or translated into, the public sphere. The following analysis of the display of sculpture in museum space, therefore, takes into account the dynamic interplay between historic discontinuity and continuity attention to tradition and convention coupled with innovation.

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Furthermore, the analysis of the display of sculpture in museum space involves a consideration of the processes of popularization then at work. Which audience, or audiences, were targeted by displays, and how were such audiences perceived? How was sculpture to be represented and defined to such audiences? In the case of the South Kensington Museum in the 1850s and 1860s Donata Levi's chapter in this volume demonstrates admirably how, through the careful calibration of the acquisitions programme, sculpture was in a sense redefined as an applied art, in order to constitute a justifiable presence in the collections in light of the official museological orientation of the new institution.1 This chapter shows the other side of the same coin, in examining how such a redefinition was borne out and expressed through the language of display itself. Two principal examples will be drawn upon: the rationales behind the display of sculpture at the museum and the 1862 Exhibition of Living Sculptors held at the Royal Horticultural Society (which was then neighbour to the museum), organized by Henry Cole and Prince Albert. This allows me to consider both interior and exterior display and to address, simultaneously, the impact of the museological conception of sculpture propounded at South Kensington upon the works of contemporary British sculptors.2

The interior A study of the first displays in what was to become the South Kensington Museum, the Museum of Ornamental Art, housed at the Crown residence of Marlborough House, reveals an interest in problems of architectural contextualization parallel to Waagen's3 conception of museum display sensitive to the architecturally 'regulated and conditioned' nature of the art work.4 At the Museum of Ornamental Art, and subsequently at the South Kensington Museum, the relation between the domestic tradition of the appreciation of art works in heterogeneous groups and the new attention to the contextualization in the public museum of art works in historicizing surroundings became pronounced. The forms of art appreciation encouraged by the South Kensington displays were numerous and complex. It is known, firstly, that the curator, J. C. Robinson, saw the encouragement of private collecting on the part of the wealthy as one of the principal duties of the museum, in view of which his attractive domestic-style displays thus formed an inducement.5 Secondly, a continuity between the display traditions characteristic of the private and domestic collection was upheld in response to the prevailing notion — particularly current in the gradual opening of parkland to all sections of the public —

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that the working classes could be civilized and socialized through being granted partial access to some of the traditional leisure privileges of the wealthy classes.6 The more directed educationalist emphasis of the museum - of providing historic models for modern manufactures - complicated the simple reproduction in museum space of a domestic environment: the interpretation of works of 'fine art', in particular sculpture, as applied art or architectural monuments forced particular attention onto the question of architectural context. Sculpture and architectural fragments might have been shown as individual dislocated 'art works' arranged in artistic compositions as at the Soane Museum, but this would not have furnished the artisan visitor with precise information regarding the function and role of a given object in original architectural surroundings, or of its age or nationality. For this reason the domestic tradition was transmuted at South Kensington — displays came to make reference, albeit vague, to the architectural roles of objects through their physical collocation, while, as will be seen, photographs, casts and drawings complemented the display of single works. Finally, notwithstanding the presence of such diverse agendas in art display, apparently in conflict with the historical classification structures proposed for the display of the antiquities of the British Museum and the old master paintings of the National Gallery, Robinson was not insensible to the expediency of creating the conditions for the exercise of comparative connoisseurship 'by [way of] the judicious arrangement and juxtaposition of specimens for comparison, to facilitate the deduction of those abstract laws and principles, a proper acquaintance with which is the foundation of all true knowledge'.7 Little information survives about the arrangement of the rooms at the precursor to the South Kensington Museum, the Museum of Ornamental Art at Marlborough House, though it is known that they were organized principally by material. The ground plan given in the First Report of the Department of Practical Art in 1853 gives details of the distribution of art works in the rooms. Rooms could hold up to three types of object, allowing for a certain measure of juxtaposition (e.g. 'furniture, metals, paper hangings' and 'woven fabrics, metals, enamels'). 'Works in marble' were shown alongside 'pottery' and only casts were shown apart from other art works. From around 1856, by which time Robinson had been curator of the art collections for three years, some watercolours of the rooms exist which suggest that the organization by material had been subverted, as Conforti8 has recently shown, and the dominant display criterion was that of creating a 'romantically historicizing environment', through the artful juxtaposition of works in different media, origins and epochs in order to create an atmosphere not dissimilar from that of a wealthy private art-lover's residence.

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What were the rationales behind this domestic-style display? The first was in fact an anti-rationale: conventionalism. The heterogeneous and decorative display of the private environment formed a specific visual and material culture from whose conventions deviation was only likely to be gradual in the new context of the public museum. Secondly, as mentioned, the reference to the domestic interior in the museum related to the attempt to encourage private collecting. Thirdly, as evidenced by Conforti, such arrangements of objects allowed for the introduction of a historicizing element in display,'' whereby some suggestion of historic context, however romanticized and confused, was made. This caused the visitor to see the objects on display in a sense as objects in use, and not merely as 'specimens' of art dislocated from the vital surroundings in which they might previously have been elemental. At the National Gallery and the British Museum those responsible for the arrangement of art works were forging a method of display on scholastic and chronological principles, so that the works on display were represented as a chain of art: an evolution of technique, style and civilization.1" This approach to display - related to contemporary practices in scientific classification — was not paramount at South Kensington, for it was made to cohabit with a romantic historicism more in touch with the domestic tradition of art display. However, the South Kensington interiors were not without didactic purpose - the focus of the display lay not only in the objects as single entities, but in the atmosphere they created in sets, allowing the cultivation of a specific form of aesthetic appreciation on the part of the visitor. This was an early manifestation of the display of the art work in situ, which reflected Robinson's peculiar sensibility to the past vitality of art \vorks in their architectural context: We need but allude to the storied walls of churches and public buildings, to the painted windows, glowing with saintly histories and the richest ornaments; to the armies of statues and innumerable rilievi which adorned the noble edifices of the nuddle ages: these edifices are still the best museums of high art. How far more powerful must their influence have been when in their first blaze of freshness, complete, where now we find but faded and mouldering remains! Virtually, then, the influence of collections of works of art in former times was tantamount to any now likely to result from public museums."

In evoking historic atmosphere the Marlborough House interiors, borrowed from the Crown, may not have permitted experiments in interior decoration. The first Art Museum, housed in the infamous 'Brompton Boilers' at South Kensington, was similarly ill-adapted for complex interior decoration schemes, and it was only with the creation from the late 1850s of permanent apartments

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Plate 34 Probably C. Thurston Thompson, Interior of the Art Museum, albumen print from glass negative, c. 1859, © Board of Trustees of the Victoria and Albert Museum.

such as the South Court that historicizing decoration at South Kensington came of age. Nevertheless, before this coming of age historic atmosphere was suggested through the mere juxtaposition of objects. A photograph of c.1859, showing the collection as redisplayed in the new Art Museum at South Kensington (Plate 34), demonstrates how the practice of evocation was maintained and expanded upon. This eclectic display, again analysed by Conforti, included an early sixteenth-century Flemish altarpiece, a Minton vase, two seventeenth-century Roman busts, mirrors, paintings, reproductions of the pilasters and lunettes from Raphael's loggie and a cast of Michelangelo's David} Such objects were arranged not only in order to permit their careful examination by the connoisseur, but also to foster a taste for observing art works in

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domestic juxtaposition, which, previously, could only have been exercised in the private domain. Clearly this display cannot be termed a 'period room', for no such room could ever have existed outside a museum environment, whilst the David is an obvious anomaly in any interior setting. The art works, moreover, are not presented in the chronological order of their production. It is rather a display which, by way of the intelligent manipulation of works of interior decoration, in particular the copies from Raphael, suggests an historic, harmonious and habitable interior. However, as noted, Robinson was not insensitive to the advantages of the chronological display of art works: he urged that museum objects should be divided into 'classes, in each of which methodical series of specimens should be got together, shewing their historical or chronological and technical development'. 11 More importantly, Robinson managed, at least in theory, to reconcile such an evolutionary display with the presentation of a global vision of the art work in situ by displaying related objects alongside it. This concentration on context was of course entirely concordant with the vision of sculpture as a useful art. Robinson noted that: the substantive design of this Museum may be defined as the illustration, by actual monuments, of all art which is materially embodied or expressed in objects of utility . . . The decorative arts in immediate alliance with architecture are often of the highest importance, and objects of architectural nature in stone, marble, wood, terracotta, bronze, &c., may very properly be first noticed. . . . These objects are, moreover, illustrated with drawings, casts, photographs, &c. of similar specimens in situ, or in other collections.14 Likewise, in the first Guide to the South Kensington Museum (1857) it is noted that in the 'architectural museum' to 'casts and specimens' were added 'Photographs, Drawings and Engravings of Architectural Works; the photograph or engraving giving a view of the whole structure, the casts giving the detail'.15 This was evidently true of the Art Museum also, for returning to the photograph of the latter, it may be noted that notwithstanding the lack of historiographical rigour in the display, the pedestal of the David bears a photograph of the original architectural context of the statue in front of the Palazzo Vecchio. The possibility of building extensive reference collections of photographs of art works and buildings was particularly consonant with the museological orientation of the South Kensington Museum as a practical study resource in which works situated in geographically remote areas could be compared through graphic and sculptural reproductions. The photography collection was

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indeed being formed at the time Robinson made this comment, and photographs of architectural ornament or of whole edifices were being collected avidly,16 perhaps the most celebrated case being Charles Thurston Thompson's 1868 photographs of the Portico de la Gloria from the Cathedral at Santiago de Compostela which were later to complement the display of the cast which Robinson was to procure.17 The declared objects of the Architectural Museum were those of affording 'to the Public, Artists and Architects, and Art-Workmen the means of referring to and studying the Architectural Art of all Countries and Times', and 'to improve and perfect the art workmanship of the present times'.1" Art-historical knowledge, it may be noted, was instrumentalized in this socio-economic ambit: the artisan was intended to benefit from the cultivation of an historical understanding of his own trade in order to understand 'the concrete legacy of all that have gone before him'.19 While reference collections of casts and photographs were used to contextualize sculpture within the province of architecture, as noted, the same means allowed Robinson to create the conditions for visitors to exercise comparative connoisseurship — both principles which would later be brought into effect in the form of the Architectural Courts (now termed the 'Cast Courts') of 1873. Sculpture was thus presented both as a fine and a useful art at South Kensington Museum. Aristocratic, antiquarian interiors were the progenitors of Robinson's domestic style displays: they were edifying in teaching visitors to see objects in a semblance of historic context, but at the same time encouraged a simple love of objects after the fashion of the amateur. Robinson's brand of connoisseurship was similarly double-edged: chronological arrangement and the juxtaposition of art works imparted historical knowledge, but the emphasis on the deduction of 'abstract laws' highlights an atavistic, subjective element in the appreciation of sculpture distant from the new formulations of rigorous 'scientific connoisseurship', which encouraged an objective and largely non-intuitive method of study proceeding from discernible concrete evidence. Robinson's formula for appreciation allowed space for the perception of sculptures not merely as exemplars of functionality but as art works with an autonomous beauty. What conclusions can be drawn from such display criteria? Firstly, the museum translated aspects of a private, domestic, antiquarian display tradition into the public sphere - in eclectic groupings of objects which nevertheless allowed for the exercise of connoisseurship. The displays were arranged, noted the Art Journal 'with a view to [theirj complete classification, and to such an artistic grouping of its contents as may be consistent with such a classification of them'.20 These displays can be discussed in terms of the redistribution of certain collection-based aristocratic leisure pastimes over a wider range of public

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consumption. Simultaneously, however, such leisure pastimes were combined with an educational exercise in the inclusion of instructional aids such as photographs and casts, and in the general redefinition of sculpture — even freestanding statuary - as an applied and useful art. (Such a redefinition, it may be noted, was dynamic, eliciting shifts in the significance of the term 'applied art' and of the concept of usefulness.) These displays were arguably intended for diverse sectors of the public - for would-be collectors and working class individuals — and to some extent this explains the cohabitation of domestic style object groupings and educational aids such as photographs, casts and labels.21 At the same time, however, the displays also corresponded fully to the notion that the improvement of the working man was to be had by allowing him some of the leisure privileges of the landed classes. This allowance, however, was modified by an educational aspect intended to gear him towards the world of work and production.

The garden On 23 November 1857 the Superintendent for Art, Richard Redgrave, made the following comment in a lecture held at South Kensington: [when] the labouring-man makes a holiday, he desires to enjoy it fully, and in the summer time seeks the added pleasure of free air and green turf. This is seen in the numbers that save their money and club for an annual journey by van to Hampton Court, not alone to see the pictures, although this is the ostensible purpose of their visit, but to enjoy a ramble in the palace gardens, or to eat their food under the chestnuts at Bushy. To such it would add to the pleasure of a visit to galleries of art to ramble afterwards in Hyde Park or Kensington Gardens; and such holidays are earnestly to be encouraged, they tend to bring the whole family — the working man, his wife, and children — to enjoy themselves together, and at the same time to get that fresh air and healthy out-of-doors exercise from which they are but too much debarred at home. This is an argument for Kensington, with its parks and gardens, as the seat of the national collections of art. ™

Redgrave's comment requires some contextualization. His lecture was entitled 'On the Gift of the Sheepshanks Collection, with a View to the Formation of a National Gallery of British Art'. Redgrave was clearly very interested in British art — as is well known he was himself a painter and was later to write A Century of British Painters together with his brother Samuel, one of the first popular accounts of British painting. Redgrave was also responsible for persuading John Sheepshanks to bequeath his important collection of British

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paintings, drawings and watercolours to the South Kensington Museum.23 Henry Cole later described the conditions which Sheepshanks imposed upon his donation, and from this it is possible to note a certain anticipation of Redgrave's opinion on the ideal leisure environment for the working man. 'Mr Sheepshanks', Cole noted, 'has an abhorrence of trustees; he dislikes the noise and crowd and clatter and dirt of Trafalgar-square, and he gave those pictures on three conditions: first, that there should be an individual responsible personally for their management, and that they should not be under a board of trustees [this, it may be noted, excluded the donation of the collection to the National Gallery or to the British Museum, both of which were governed by boards of trustees]; secondly, that a decent building should be erected before he gave them, feeling that the Vernon and Turner collections had been shabbily used [at the National Gallery]; and his third condition was, that they should be exhibited in the neighbourhood of the parks'.24 These conditions do not indicate a unique position for the time. Rather, Sheepshanks could be said to be a member of a faction united in the desire to remove the national collections from the centre of London, and in particular from the highly polluted Trafalgar Square, into a landscape setting. The widely recognized inadequacy of William Wilkins's National Gallery building, along with the high level of pollution which was seen to discolour the national pictures, had long recommended the removal of the National Gallery to parkland then on the outskirts of London. Paintings were not the only objects at risk: in 1853 Edward Hawkins, keeper of antiquities at the British Museum, complained publicly that the central location of the museum caused the sculptures under his care to be dirtied by smoke, which in turn elicited the necessity of potentially damaging restorations.23 Coupled with the expediency of getting away from the polluted inner-city was the possibility for the display of contemporary sculpture offered by parkland. It was frequently noted of the much-desired new National Gallery that 'there should be ground surrounding it which should be more or less artistically embellished by statues, fountains, and so on'26 and 'for the working classes, it is desirable to combine with the National Gallery external decorations of an artistic character in the grounds surrounding it, in order to give them recreation out of doors [that is] such external decoration as one sees in the gardens abroad'27 while the critic G. Yapp had introduced a related idea: If the education of the people in art is to be seriously considered and earnestly pursued, let there be collections (they need not be very large or expensive) of casts from good models, arranged with taste, and described fully and legibly, so that all

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who choose may learn something about them, set up in such places as Victoria Park and Kenningtori Common; the working man, his wife, and his children, might then accustom their eyes to the beauty of form, and insensibly almost acquire a taste for the arts.2" The objection to such projects, ironically, was based upon the same principle of access to all which Henry Cole was later to vociferate with such energy from the then relatively distant South Kensington: a removal of the national collections to a parkland setting would decrease the ease with which the 'working population' could be enabled to visit them. However, upon further attention to the matter this objection was defeated. For example, the builder Thomas Cubitt was called to witness before the 1853 Select Committee on the National Gallery in his professional quality, but his experiences as an employer of the working classes rendered him subject to interrogation on this score: Is it not the case that when the working classes go out for the object of seeing some interesting collection, such as that at Hampton Court or the National Gallery, they are more likely to profit by it when they have to go a little distance, than when they have it near at hand, and it seems a common-place object to them? [T. Cubittj I think men do not like to go from their work immediately to see these sights; they usually clean themselves and make a little preparation, and I think that going a mile or two to a place where there is a more cheerful look-out for them, and which is in a better vicinity, is more likely to be attractive, and that they would be likely to go oftener than they do to the National Gallery in its present site.-'-1 The full-blown outing, therefore, was seen to have civilizing side-effects, not least because it encouraged the workmen to wash themselves in a manner seen by the Committee members, most of whom were aristocrats, to be fitting with these new socio-cultural pastimes upon which the working population was being encouraged to embark. This episode marks the confluence of two related movements — the development of the public museum as an institutional typology and the development of the concept of, and space for, urban leisure in the form of parks and gardens. Both of these developments can be seen to have roots in aristocratic leisure practices (in the private collection and in the private garden), and were to undergo parallel processes of popularization, each rationalized according to the same terms, in reference to the same urban and socio-political vision. As early as 1833 the Report of the Select Committee 'appointed to consider the best means of securing Open Spaces in the Vicinity of populous Towns, as Public Walks

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and Places of Exercise, calculated to promote the Health and Comfort of the Inhabitants', commissioned in response to the increase of urban populations and consequent reduction of the quality of city space, noted that if abundant parkland were not created for the working population then 'their only escape from the narrow courts and alleys (in which so many of the humble classes reside) will be those drinking shops, where, in short-lived excitement they may forget their toil, but where they waste the means of their families, and too often destroy their health'.30 The museum too was commonly presented as the temperate alternative to dissolution - as can be seen in popular cartoons31 and Henry Cole's suggestion that 'the evening opening of Public Museums may furnish a powerful antidote to the gin palace'.32 In 1833, in the wake of the first Reform Bill, the road to temperance was that of the park, where 'a man walking out with his family among his neighbours of different ranks, will naturally be desirous to be properly clothed, and that his Wife and Children should be so also; but this desire duly directed and controlled, is found by experience to be of the most powerful effect in promoting Civilization, and exciting Industry.'33 In the same year in a debate at the House of Commons regarding the funding of the new National Gallery building Sir Robert Peel, in a celebrated speech, attributed a similar civilizing influence to the museum, which rendered accessible to all a traditionally aristocratic leisure pastime: In the present times of political excitement, the exacerbation of angry and unsocial feelings might be much softened by the effects which the fine arts had ever produced on the minds of men. Of all expenditure, that like the present [to fund the National Gallery building] was the most adequate to confer advantage on those classes which had but little leisure to enjoy the most refined species of pleasure. The rich might have their own pictures, but those who had to obtain their bread by labour, could not hope for much enjoyment. The erection of the edifice would not only contribute to the cultivation of the arts, but also to the cementing of bonds of union between richer and poorer orders of state.14

In his analysis of the development of certain London parks, Tyack discusses parkland as 'an urbanised version of the great country house landscapes of the eighteenth century . . . intended to elevate the poor by giving them some of the benefits formerly confined to the rich'.35 There had already been a certain popularization of the park as a leisure concept upon the gradual opening of the royal parks to an ever broader public - in particular in the reign of Victoria, the beginning of which was indeed marked by an enormous fair held in Hyde Park in 1838, which some historians have considered as the precedent for the Great Exhibition of 1851, again in Hyde Park. Clearly there is some truth in

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this, but it is also possible to locate these two events in a more extensive cultural process whereby the traditional institution of the fair, which had been systematically suppressed in the early nineteenth century as 'the general rendezvous for sedition and the signal for insurrection', was modified.'6 The fairs, with some notable exceptions, were losing most of their economic importance as platforms for commerce, with the advent of improved communications between cities by way of canals and railways. The cultural residue of the fair as a leisure pastime of the lower classes had, however, to be channelled elsewhere rather than abandoned. It is in this context that popular events such as bazaars and exhibitions and the remaining fairs from the mid-century assumed a didactic aspect through the display of art works and the demonstration of new inventions and technological processes (photography is a prime example), in part based upon the successful museological formula of the Universal Exhibitions. The popularization of parkland was not yet systematic — the popular theory of the urban benefits to be had from access to parkland — the 'lungs of the city' — was not to be put into practice on such a scale until the passing of the Public Health Act of 1875, which permitted the inclusion of expenditure connected to the acquisition and maintenance of parkland within municipal budgets - a direct equivalent, it may be noted, of the 1845 and 1850 Acts for enabling Town Councils to establish Public Libraries and Museums. These, then, are some of the conditions which must be borne in mind when considering the 1862 exhibition of sculpture organized by Henry Cole and Prince Albert at the Royal Horticultural Society Gardens, whereby, as the botanist and secretary John Lindley stated at the inauguration, 'not only the art of Horticulture may be effectually promoted, but an additional means of enjoyment and recreation may be afforded to the dense population of London'. The garden was developed from 1859 upon agreement of a lease between the Commissioners for the Estate of the Great Exhibition of 1851 and the Society. Cole, together with Prince Albert, guided the building of the Lateran and Albani arcades in the gardens, based upon those of San Giovanni in Laterano and Villa Albani which Cole had recently visited and had photographed during his holiday in Rome in 1858-9." The interest of Cole and the Prince Consort in the gardens had a specific museological agenda, and it becomes clear from the Prince's inauguration speech that the scope of the gardens was in a sense fused with that of the museum, and that this relation would give rise to a grand estate of cultural institutions, in order to: reunite the science and art of gardening to the Sister Arts of Architecture, Sculpture, and Painting . . . This union existed in the best periods of Art, when

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the same feeling pervaded and the same principles regulated them all; and if the misuse and misapplication of these principles in later times have forced again upon us the simple study and imitation of nature, individual arts have suffered by their disjunction, and the time seems now arrived when they may once more combine, without the danger of being cramped by pedantic and arbitrary rules of taste . . . This Garden will then open an additional source of enjoyment to the thousands who may be expected to crowd the new Crystal Palace of Industry [i.e. the Universal Exhibition of 1862]. Nay, we may hope that it will, at no distant day, form the inner court of a vast quadrangle of public buildings, rendered easily accessible by the broad roads which will surround them; buildings where science and art may find space for development, with that air and light which are elsewhere well nigh banished from this overgrown metropolis . . . Unrivalled opportunities are here offered for the display of works of art, and for the erection of monuments as tributes to great men and public benefactors. The Memorial of the Exhibition of 1851, the result of private subscriptions, will be the first received in these grounds, and, adorned with a statue of the Queen, will soon rise in the centre of the Garden.38 We learn from the Art Journal that Albert himself prompted the Society to stage the Exhibition of Sculpture by Living Artists which took place, in collaboration with the Sculptors' Institute, in 1862 (Plate 35). The exhibition was gladly received by the reviewer of the Art Journal, who noted that: Every one knows that in 'the cellar' of the Royal Academy our sculptors have been cribbed and cabined, and that thus a noble branch of our national Art has suffered prejudice in public estimation. But here in the conservatory, the arcades and the gardens of the Royal Horticultural Society, the genius of our workers in marble may find room enough and to spare. The general effect of the collective display is charming. These gardens, which, during the last season \vere rather bare and bald, save under the attraction of a flower show, are now set off, and, as it were, peopled by the sculptor's choicest creations. It is, perhaps, the first time in this country that the noblest works in plastic art have been brought in direct contact with nature, or rather, more correctly speaking, the first time on which the art of statuary, in its highest form, has been called in as the ally to the sister art of landscape gardening.39 The Art Journal review concluded in terms which echoed both Sir Robert Peel's 1833 consideration of the civilizing powers of the display of art and the historicizing socio-economic doctrines propounded at the South Kensington Museum: The art of sculpture appealing to cultured taste and acquired learning, has hitherto in this country been the too exclusive enjoyment of wealthy connoisseurs. We

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Plate 35 C. Thurston Thompson, Interior of the Conservatory, Exhibition of the Living Sculptors held at the Royal Horticultural Society, South Kensington, 1862, albumen print from glass negative, 1862. This was one of a number of photographs pasted into the lavishly illustrated Book of the Royal Horticultural Society 1862-1863 (London, 1863) authored by Andrew Murray. A copy is held at the National Art Library under the pressmark A94/3.

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trust that this more public display . . . will aid towards the wider diffusion of a knowledge which, though not easily attained, was yet in Greece and in mediaeval Italy possessed by the whole people.4" What united the Gardens to the South Kensington Museum was the adoption of historicist architecture, the presence of didactic ideal within the creation of leisure resources and the common elaboration upon leisure practices linked to traditional private, aristocratic spaces. Lacking — naturally - at the Gardens were chronological display and the engineered conditions for the exercise of comparative connoisseurship, in that the sculptures were there not to be studied from an art-historical perspective, but solely to be enjoyed after the manner of an amateur. In examining the sculptures exhibited one notes a predominance of pastoral and unheroic subjects such as a Startled Nymph by E. G. Pap worth junior, Calder Marshall's OpheMa,]. D. Crittenden's The Orphan Flower Girl, Foley's The Muse of Painting, Lawlor's Titania and Bather, and Monti's The Light of the Harem, along with a selection of other female subjects. Such narrative-free subjects, arguably, were particularly suited to the decoration of a garden environment. A further relation to traditional garden sculpture can be seen in the inclusion of portraits of worthies set against the Italianate arcades reminiscent, to name but one example, of William Kent's Temple of British Worthies (1735) at Stowe. One might be forgiven for thinking that chronological display simply had no place in the arrangement of contemporary sculpture and that the decorative approach in the exhibition was, rather than a conscious populist translation of an aristocratic display tradition, simply inevitable. But here it must be remembered that from 1857 the very same Sculptors' Institute had held a space in the museum in which they displayed works illustrative of a history of British Sculpture, including therefore 'not only of works by living artists, but [being] intended to include those of past time, as casts from the best and most characteristic works of Banks, Bacon, Nollekins, Flaxman, Chantrey, &c.'41 In the Exhibition of 1862 post-renaissance sculpture was similarly arranged in a display beginning, to take the example of the English School, with Wyatt and leading up to contemporary sculptors such as Westmacott. This historical vision of English sculpture, borrowed from display principles typical of the new institution of the public museum, was complemented in the garden exhibition by the provision of a complex architectural and landscape context. This accorded a decorative function to the sculptures which at once echoed sculptural typologies extant in the private garden and conformed to the notion of sculpture as an applied and ornamental art propounded at the South

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Kensington Museum. British sculpture, therefore, depending upon the visual and architectural context in which it was displayed, could be made to assume either the value of historical specimen as part of a process of stylistic evolution or that of the single piece to be admired for its decorative qualities together with a beautiful complementary floral surrounding. The arrangements of sculpture in the museum interior and in the garden taken together represent an attempt to tell two sides of the story - to present two visions of the art of sculpture. If British sculpture was to be admitted into the museum environment it had to be made to conform to the rules of the latter adapting itself to prevailing values thrust upon sculpture generally by the public museum — i.e. as objects of ambiguous status, potentially occupying the realms of both the applied and 'fine' arts and maintaining affiliations with the private, domestic domain. This chapter has discussed what happened to certain aspects of the domestic tradition of sculpture display in the nascent public museum in its period of selfdefinition. This domestic tradition came to form a certain heritage, to be drawn upon and diverged from by those responsible for arranging displays. The continuing resonance of such a heritage responded to political and economic exigencies: members of the working class were 'civilized' through being granted access to certain leisure practices previously limited to the aristocratic sphere, but such leisure practices were modulated for a new form of visual consumerism inseparable from moral edification and the need to develop technical and historical knowledge on the part of artisans. In this chapter it has been argued that the open-air display of sculpture followed a parallel trajectory: it too was instrumeiitalized in the salvation of the working class from the unhealthy moral, intellectual and physical conditions of urban life in the period of industrialization. All of this was permitted by a particularly opportune classification of sculpture as a useful art. It may be opportune to conclude, however, with a rather more dissonant reflection. Contemporary sculptors were by no means at ease with this museological redefinition of their work, and evidently baulked at having to introduce an aspect of usefulness into what they were clearly interested in seeing as a fine art. When, heartened by the 'beautiful effects produced by the combination of sculpture and foliage', Cole attempted in early 1864 to stage a second Exhibition of the Works of Living Sculptors, in which the entry requirements for sculptors placed yet greater emphasis on the conception of sculpture as an applied, even industrial, art (the sculptors had in fact to provide works in plaster or terracotta suitable for successive mass-production) obliging the submission of works in which any pretension to the status of 'fine' art was

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unfeasible,42 the potential exhibitors revolted, incurring the discontinuation of the Exhibitions. It was not surprising, the Art Review stated, that 'Sculptors of self-respect or standing in the profession refuse to hug the degradation' of 'becoming journeymen decorators to the Horticultural Gardens'.43 In the museum's vision of sculpture as an applied art a certain misrepresentation or misdefmition is evident: Cole's vision of historical sculpture did not tally with the contemporary sculptors' conception of their own art. In this conflict lies a unique and valuable indication of the independence of museological discourse in mid-nineteenth-century Britain.

Notes 1. Sec also her 1998 essay (Levi, 1998). 2. I do not pretend here to render a comprehensive early history of sculpture display at South Kensington. Such an account is as yet unavailable, as research into the museum's rich 'official' photography collection — full of images of unknown and unstudied sculpture displays — is still at an early stage. 3. Waagen (1853): 102. 4. Whitehead (1996). 5. Information derived from research presented by C. Wilks at the conference The Museum of Applied Arts in the 21st Century, Victoria and Albert Museum, 7 and 8 March 1997. 6. Mmihan (1977): 45; Tyack (1992): 118; Panzini (1993). 7. Robinson (1858a): 11. 8. Confetti (1997): 31-2. 9. My use of the term historidsm here is based upon Pevsner's (1958) definition of the same. 10. Jenkins (1992); Robertson (1978); Trodd (1994); Whitehead (1996). 11. Robinson (1858b): 12. 12. Conforti (1997): 31. 13. Robinson (1858b): 8. 14. Robinson (1858B): 16-17. 15. Anon. (1857a): 4. 16. Barnes and Whitehead (1998); Haworth Booth (1997). 17. Baker (1988). 18. Anon. (1857a): 2. 19. Robinson (1858a): 7. 20. Anon. (1857b): 239. 21. The Parliamentary Return showing how far, in the different National Collections of Works of Art, Objects of Historical Interest, or of Science (in the National Gallery, British Museum, Hampton Court Palace, and all similar Public Repositories maintained or assisted by the Money Votes of Parliament, as well as in ancient Religious or Civil Edifices or Monuments so assisted or maintained), the Rule has been observed of attaching to the Objects of Art a Brief Account thereof, including their Date, their Subject, the Name, with the Date of Birth and Death of the Artist, and the School to which he belonged; and in the case of Objects of Science or of Historical Interest, a brief Description thereof, with the view of conveying useful Information to the Public, and of sparing them the Expense of a Catalogue of early 1857 noted that the 'rule of

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appending a descriptive label to every work of art exhibited at the Marlborough House Museum has been acted on from its commencement in 1852 . . .' Some sample labels were given including the following: 'Michael Angclo. "David." — Model in wax. Supposed to be the first sketch of the celebrated statue executed in marble, and placed at the entrance of Palazzo Vecchio, Florence' and ' "Telemone." - Sketch in wax. Model for one of the prisoners designed to support the tomb of Pope Julius II. The marble statue exists in an unfinished state in a grotto in the Boboli Gardens, Florence'. 22. Redgrave (1857): 28. 23. Saumarcz Smith (1997): 276. 24. Parliamentary- Paper (1860): 201. 25. Parliamentary Paper (1853): 7737-9. 26. Parliamentary Paper (1853): 7177. 27. Parliamentary Paper (1853): 8190. 28. Yapp (1852): 53-4. 29. Parliamentary Paper (1853): 7184. 30. Parliamentary Paper (1833): 9. 31. Burton and Dunn (1997): 56. 32. Cole (1857): 26. 33. Parliamentary Paper (1833): 9. 34. Trodd (1994): 33. 35. Tyack (1992): 118. 36. Thompson (1991): 443. 37. Barnes and Whitchcad (1998). 38. Proceedings of the Hoyal Horticultural Society (1861): 604-5. Upon his death in 1862 a memorial statue of the Prince himself by Joseph Durham was realized in place of the planned statue of Victoria. It now stands behind the Albert Hall. 39. Anon. (1862): 125. 40. Anon. (1862): 125. 41. Anon. (1857a): 7. 42. Cole (1864). 43. Anon (1864): 21.

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Wilton-Ely, J. (ed.) (1975), Apollo of the Arts: Lord Burlington and His Circle, exhibition catalogue, Nottingham. Wilton-Ely, J. (ed.) (1985), A Tercentenary Tribute to William Kent, exhibition catalogue, Hull. Wittkower, R. (1974), Palladia and English Palladianism, London. Wittkower, R. (1977), Sculpture, Processes and Principles, Harmondsworth. Wolf, J. (ed.) (1980), Darmstadt in der Zeit des Barock und Rokoko. Louis Remy de la Fosse, exhibition catalogue, Darmstadt. Worsley, G. (1995), Classical Architecture in Britain: The Heroic Age, New Haven and London. Wren, C. (1942), 'Tracts on Architecture by Sir Chr. Wren', in The Wren Society, XIX: 121-45. Yapp, G. (1852), Art Education at Home and Abroad, London. Yarrington, A. (1988), Commemoration of the Hem 1800—1864: Monuments to the British Victors of the Napoleonic Wars, New York and London. Yarrington, A. et al. (1994), with I. D. Liebermann, A. Potts, M. Baker, 'An Edition of the Ledger of Sir Francis Chantrey, R.A., at the Royal Academy, 1809-1841', The Walpole Society, 56. Yarrington, A. (1998), 'His Achilles Heel? Wellington and Public Art', The Tenth Annual Wellington Lecture, Southampton, University of Southampton. Yates, F. (1964), Giordano Bruno and the Hermetic Tradition, London. Zimmermann, H. (1995), 'Zur Herkunft italienischer Kunsthandwerker im norddeutschen Barock', Niederdeutsche Beitrdge zur Kunstgeschichte, XXXIV: 145-51. Zorzi, A. (1989), Venetian Palaces, New York.

INDEX

Page numbers in italics refer to illustrations. alabaster 1, 11, 12, 167 trade 69-70, 71 Albacini, Carlo 13-14 Albam, Giulia 49, 58 Albert, Prince 182, 223, 233, 234 double effigy 186,187 Alberti, Leon Battista 165 Albisola, villa 120, 123, 126, 727 Algiers, Place du Gouvernement 184, 187 Amersharn, Drake monument 109 Amsterdam 34 Andreoni, Giuseppe 12 Angers, David d' 178 Annecy 178 antique sculptures 42 copied 51,56,167 Apollo Belvedere 167 copy by Rusconi 51, 58 Aprile, Domenico 126 Arbuthnot, Mrs 17 Archivio della Casa di San Giorgio 125 Archivio di Stato di Livorno 68, 72 A rs in a rm a ris 160, 161 art manuals 39 Atthalim, Louis Laurent 181 Austin, Texas, Domenico Parodi's drawings in 121 Ayscough, Francis, monument 99

Baciocchi, Elisa 70, 162, 166 Baldinucci, Francesco Saverio 50, 60 Baldwin Brothers and Co., New York Ball, Robert 130 Bandel, Ernest 168 Baratta, Francesco 125 Baratta, Giovanni 6-7, 125 Baratta, Raimondo 166 Bardi, Pier Francesco de' 1, 2 Bartalini (Attilio) and Co. 12 Bartoli, Pietro Santi 40

12

Bartolim, Lorenzo 12, 13, 162-3, 167-8 Bazzanti (P.) and Sons 12 Bedford, 6th Duke of (John Russell) 9, 135 statue of daughter Louisa by Chantrey 135 Bedogni, Lorenzo 32 Belzoni, Giovanni Battista 16-17, 191, 195-207 Benvenuti, Lorenzo 74 Benzoni, Giovanni Maria 10 Berkeley, George 4, 5 Berthollet, Claude-Louis 178 Bienaime, Francesco 8, 13 Biggi, Francesco 115, 122 Binelli, Francesco 123 Braelli family 123 Bird, Francis 9 2 n . 2 1 , 9 5 Blackwell, Lambert 72 Blenheim Palace 72 Bodens, Charles 98-99 Bologna, Francesco 166 Bonafous, Chevalier 178 Boott, Francis 145 Borghese, Princess Pauline 148, 150 Bormann, Phillip Jakob 34 Borschi, Giuseppe 193 Botta, Carlo 180 Brettingharn, Matthew 56, 58 Breval.John 51-2,54 Bristol City Museum, exhibition 191, 197, 198 William 111 statue 95 British Factory 2, 67, 130 British Museum 202-3, 204, 216, 230 displays 224, 225 bronze sculptures 4, 5, 33, 174 Brucdam, Domenico 13 Brunswick-Liineburg family (House of) 29, 31 Brydges, James, see Chandos 1 st Duke of Buckingham, Catherine, Duchess of, monument 93 n.33

INDEX

268 Bullock, William 194-5 Burchard, C. 42 Burlington, Lord (Richard Boyle) Burrell, Richard 103

77-90, 96

Cacciatori 125 Campana, Giovan Pietro 211 Campbell, Colen 39, 79 Campbell, John, see Cawdor, 1st Baron Campbell, Thomas 150 Camuccini, Vincenzo 146—7 Canova, Antonio 9-10, 18, 132-55, 164, 166, 192 Creugas

14K

Endymion 15, 146, 150-1 Head of Peace 138, 142 Hebe 138, 140, 141, 142, 149, 150, 165 Madame Mere 148—9 Magdalen 146 Pauline Borghese as Venere Vincitrice 148 Statue of Washington 145 Terpsichore 138, 141 Theseus and the Centaur 146 Three Graces 9, 135 Venus 166 Carhaix monument 178 Carlo Alberto of Savoy, and statue of 178, 179, 180, 182, 185 Caroline, Queen 94, 95, 99 Carpenter, Andrew 95 Carrara Accademia di Belle Arti 132, 161 cargoes of marble from 126 garden sculpture in Genoa by craftsmen from 8, 115, 122-3, 125, 127 marble and quarries 9, 14, 133-4, 142-3, 144, 145, 151, 157, 160 marble trade and workshops 8, 12, 13, 156-73 Carrusi, Fabio 123, 125 Catherine II of Russia 70-1 Cavalcanti, Giovanni 1, 2 Cavendish, William, see Devonshire, 6th Duke of Cawdor, 1st Baron (John Campbell) 138, 141, 142, 149 Cccconi, Paolo 163 Chandos, 1st Duke of (|ames Brydges) 7, 42 Chantrey, Francis Legatt 9, 132—55

Bust of Homer 145 George Washington 145 Homeric reliefs 135 Louisa, daughter of the Duke of Bedford 135 Milton's Satan 135—6 Monument to David Pike Watts 145 Monument to Ellen Jane and Marianne Robinson 138, 139, 141, 142 Statue of George III 138 Charbonnier, Martin 36 Chardin, Sir John (I), monument 98 Chardin, John (II) 97-99 Charles I 36, 78 equestrian statue (Hubert le Sueur) 42 Chatsworth House 8, 9, 136, 340, 148-50, 151 Cheere, Sir Henry 7, 94-113 Kildare 107, 108, 109 The Pleasures of Life 100 Cheere, John 96, 99, 103, 107, 111 n.3 Chmard, Joseph 162 Clarke, George 96 Clarke, Simon Houghton 138 classical revival (classicism) architecture 29, 33, 38, 39, 40 sculpture 3, 5, 6, 14-15, 27, 39-42, 50-1, 84, 96, 193 Closterman, John 82, 83, 84 Coke, Thomas 56, 58 Cole, Henry 17,230,231,232,238 exhibition organized by 223, 233-4 Collins, William 100,103 Coltellini, Carlo 74 competition models 177 contracts 94-110 Cooper, Anthony Ashley, see Shaftesbury, 3rd Earl of Copenhagen (Denmark) 161 copies, marble 13-14 Corneille, Barthelemy 70 Cornigliano, villa 123 Corsi, Luca 58 Coupland and Co. 16 Coustou, Guillaume 160 Craggs, James, monument 77, 80—1, 82, 84, 85, 86, 90 Crawford, Thomas 14 Crotogino, Giuseppe 32 Cubitt, Thomas 231

INDEX Cunningham, Allan 133, 136, 138, 141, 145, 149-50 Curtin, James 197,203 Dantan, Jean-Pierre 174 Dartmouth, Lord 134 Dashwood, Sir Francis 99 David, Claude 41 De Ferrari, Gregono 115,122 De Ferran, Lorenzo 115, 117, 120 'definitor' 165 Delvaux, Laurent 42 Denon, Vivant 193, 194, 195 Devonshire, 6th Duke of (William Cavendish) 8-9, 10, 15, 134, 142, 147, 149-51 Devonshire, Elizabeth Duchess of 8—9 Dodington, George Bubb 99 Drake, Elizabeth, monument 109 Dublin Christchurch Cathedral, monument 108 Essex Bridge, George I statue 42 Dunn, Thomas 103, 105 Dupre, Giovanni 178, 182-3 Durazzo, Giacorno Filippo 123 Durazzo family 121, 123 villa 121, 123, 124, 130 Egremont, Lord 135-6 Egypt, ancient (Egyptianizing) 16-17, 191-210 Egyptian Hall, Piccadilly, London 191, 194-5, 198, 201, 202-3, 204, 205, 207 Elisabeth, Princess, effigy in Newport 178 Empthusen, Pieter van 33 equestrian monuments 39, 41, 42, 43, 179, 183-5 Ernest August of Brims wick-Liineburg 29, 30 Este, Duke Azzo II, monument 30 Este, Grand Duchess Maria Teresa Cybo Malaspina d' 151 n.l, 161 Este family 30 Eugene, Prince of Savoy 126 Evelyn, John 114, 128 Exhibition of Living Sculptors (1862) 17, 223, 233-7, 235 Fabbncotti, Giuseppe 14 Fanelli, Francesco 124 Farnese Hercules, copy by Rusconi Farsetti, Filippo 51

51—2, 58

269

Fermor, Thomas, see Pomfret, 1st Earl of Ferrata, Ercole 49, 62 n.2 Fietta, Ludovico 163, 164 Fifehead Magdelene, monument 106 Filberto, Emanuele, of Savoy 179, 182-4, 185 Filippo della Valle 50, 58, 60 Flaxman.Jolm 9, 133, 134, 136, 138, 160 Flemish sculpture 96, 100 Florence 1, 4-5, 6, 17 Lazzarini marble sculptures 164 marble workshops 166—68 Palazzo Pitti 167 terracotta 5 trade of luxury goods (in the Grand Duchy) 67-68, 72-4 Uffizi export licences for works Irom 73—4 Grand Ducal collection 5 Mercury 84 Florence, Grand Duke of 72, 74 Foggmi, Giovanni Battista 4, 160, 161 Fontana, Carlo 82, 157 Fontana, Giovanni 10 fountains 120-1, 122 France 124, 167 Franzom, Emanuele 168 Frederick, Prince of Wales 98, 99 Friedrich, Duke Johann 31 Frogrnore, double effigy in Royal Mausoleum 186, 187 funerary monuments, see tomb sculpture Gaggim, Giacomo 126 Galli, Fortuno 12 Gandy, Joseph 192 garden sculpture 33, 36, 37, 236 in Genoa 114—31 garden theatres 34, 36, 37 Gascar, Henn 31 Genoa 2, 143, 164 garden sculpture 114-31 Palazzo Balbi 120 Palazzo Balbi Seneraga 122 Palazzo Brignole 120,121 Palazzo Lomellim, Strada Nuova 117, 118-19, 120, 123 Palazzo Reale 120, 122, 128 Pammatonc Hospital 122 George I 27-50, 77 George III, statue 138

115, 116,

INDEX

270 Giambologna Fata Morgana Venus 74

4, 74, 143 70

Giardini, Giovanni 50 Gibbons, Grinling 104 Gibbs, Sir Edward Seymour, monument 90 Gibbs, James, designer of Craggs' monument 80, 82, 84, 85, 86, 90 Gibson, John 9,137,147 Gigli, Ottavio 211,213,214,215 Giolli, E. 12 Gismondi, Pietro 220 n.31 Giusti, Tommaso 32, 33, 35 Giustiniani Collection 165 Gladstone, W. E. 214-15 Glasgow, Wellington monument 178, 184, 185 gondolas 33 Gon, Anton Francesco 73 Gothic 191, 206 Gott, Benjamin 16 Gott, Joseph 14, 15-16 Grana, Dossa 32, 35 Grand Duchy, see Florence Grand Tour 3, 4, 8, 50, 56, 58, 164 'souvenirs' 50 Grant, Isaac 165 Great Exhibition (1851) 215, 217, 233 Green, Thomas 95 Gribelin, Simon 84, 86 Guelfi, Giovanni Battista 6, 7-8, 79, 80, 81, 86-7, 88, 90 Vauxhall Garden busts 99 Guelph court 29, 30, 31, 33, 34, 38 guidebooks 10, 11-12 guilds 161 Halle, Charles E. 183 Hanfher and Violland 163-4 Hanover 32, 33-4, 38, 168 Leineschloss 31, 32 Hartshorne, Robert 95, 97 Haydar Pasa cemetery, Scutari Monument 186 Haydon, Benjamin Robert 134, 203-4 Hayward, Richard 103-4, 109 Henraux, Alexandre 164 Henry VIII 2 Henry, David 80 Herrenhausen 31, 32, 33, 41 busts of Roman emperors 35—6

garden 33, 34 garden theatre 36, 37, 38 Hogan, John 14 Hogarth, William 95-6 Holkham Hall, Norfolk, Diana (attrib. Rusconi) 56, 57, 58

Holland, Henry 191, 192-3 Holies, John, see Newcastle, 1st Duke of Hope, Thomas 193 Horner, Francis 145 Horsnaile, Christopher 103, 105 Houdon, Jean-Antom 160, 161, 162, 164, 167 Houghton Hall, Norfolk 52, 53, 54, 55 Hugford, Ignazio Enrico 73, 74 Huguet, M. 12 Inghirami, Marcello 69—70 Insom, Giovan Battista 167 Inspector General's Statistical Records 3 insurance policies, on traded goods 68-71 Jelfe, Andrews 101 Josephine, Empress 70 Kent, William 33, 58 Houghton Hall 54 King's Gallery 60, 62 Rousham House 56 Stowe 236 Wentworth monument 79, 87, 89 Kent, William, merchant 73 Kildare, 19th Earl of, monument 107, 108, 109 La Tour d'Auvergne, Carhaix monument 178 Laboureur, Francesco Massimiliano 146 Laghi, Antonio 33 Landseer, Sir Edwin 186 Lazzanni, Alessandro 168 Lazzanni, Francesco 157, 162, 163, 166 Lazzarini, Francesco (son of Giovan Battista) 161-2 Lazzarini, Giovan Battista 161 Lazzarini, Lazzaro 169 n.4 Lazzanni, Roberto 163, 164, 165, 166, 167, 168 Lazzerini (Lazzarini) family 11, 13, 157, 158-59, 160-73 letters 163 payments 166

271

INDEX shipping routes 163—4 tools 166 training 166 Le Marchand, David 8 Le Sueur, Hubert 42 lead sculptures and casts 27, 34, 36, 96, 104, 107 gilded 36, 42 Lege, F. A. 135, 141 Leghorn Auditor's and Governor's Office 71 British Factory 2, 67 'Cuoi d'oro', (inn) 71—2 Lazzanini marble sculptures 164-5 public auction office 71 trade in luxury goods 1.2, 67-72 workshops 12 Lelli, Ercole 161 Lemoyne, Jean-Baptiste 161 Leom, Giacomo 39, 40, 42, 43, 79 Leonon, Antonio 12 Libro Mastro 1—2 Lichfield Cathedral, monument 139 Liechtenstein, palace of Prince Johan Adam

128 Livorno, see Leghorn Lombard sculptors 115, 123, 124, 125, 126 Lomellini, Bartolomeo 126 Lomellini family 117 London Bank of England, William III statue 95 Buckingham Palace, candelabra

193

Burlington House 79 Canons, George I statue 42 Carlton House, candelabra 193 Grosvenor Square, monument to George I 41, 42 Kensington Palace 27, 28, 40-1 King's Gallery 60, 61, 62 Mansion House 106 marble merchants 14 Marlborough House Museum of Manufactures 222 Museum of Ornamental Art 223, 224, 225 National Gallery 224, 225, 230-1, 232 Nelson Column 186 Rolls House 42 Royal Academy 15,16 St Margaret's, Westminster 105, 106

Musgrave family monument 98 statues of engineers for churchyard gardens 186-7 St Mary Abbots (Kensington), Warwick monument 77, 81, 87, 88 sculpture workshops 104—5 Soane Museum 224 Vauxhall Gardens 99 Westminster 101, 103, 104-6, 109 Westminster Abbey Chantrey statue of Francis Horner 145 Chardin monument 98 Craggs monument 77, 80-1, 82, 84, 85, 86, 90

Duke of Newcastle monument 82 monuments 80, 81, 86 monuments by Cheere 98, 101, 102, 106, 107 Saumarez monument 101, 102, 107 see also British Museum; Egyptian Hall; South Kensington Museum Louis Philippe 178, 182, 184 Lovell, James 113 n.35 lucricone 165 luxury goods, eighteenth-century trade 67—76 McCracken, J. and R. 12, 16 Madonetto, Pietro 33 Magalotti, Lorenzo 6 Maggesi, Domenico 164 Magnolfi, Lorenzo 5 Maiden Bradley, Wiltshire, Gibbs monument 90

Manifattura di Signa 18 Mann, Horace 73 Mannaiom, Peter 12 Maratti, Carlo 50, 58 marble 3, 33 see also Carrara marble pastes 107 marble quarries, see Carrara marble-trading centre, Genoa 114-15, 124-30 Marlborough, 1st Duke of (John Churchill) 6-7, 72 Marochetti, Carlo 174-90 Duke of Orleans 184,187-88 Scutari Monument 186 Marochetti, Giovanni Battista 180 Marochetti, Vincenzo 180 Masons' Company 103-4, 109

INDEX

272

Matielli, Lorenzo 48 n.84 Matteis, Paolo de (after) 84, 86 Mead, Richard 96 Medici Venus 167, 168 Menchinelli, Pietro 168 Merchi, Gaetano 161 Merik, John, monument 99 Micali, Giacinto 70 Micali, Giacomo 12 Micali Company 12, 165, 166, 168 Miller, Mrs Ann 128 Milton, John 135, 136 Molesworth, John 72 Monaldi, Carlo 56 Montagu, Duke of, monument 87 Montecitono obelisk 193 Montemagni, Coriolano 72 Monti, Raffaele 10 Moore, Thomas 'Anacreon' 15, 143, 145, 146-7, 148 Mordaunt, General Charles, see Peterborough, 3rd Earl of museum displays 17—18, 222—38 see also South Kensington Museum Musgrave, John Chardin 98 Napoleon Bonaparte 70, 74, 150, 162, 16 180, 192 tomb 179, 182, 1 neoclassicism 133, 191, 193 Netherlands 33-4 New York Baldwin Brothers and Co. 12 Crystal Palace 177 Newcastle, 1st Duke of (John Holies), monument 82 Newhaven, Viscount, monument 107 Newman, Sir Samwell 106 Newport, Isle of Wight, effigy of Princess Elisabeth 178 Newton, Henry 72 Nicolasson, Thomas Conrad 46 n.50 Nieuwerkerke, Count de 183 Norchi, Egisippo 14 Nost, John van 34, 42 nymphaeum 115, 116, 117 Olivien, Domenico 125 Orleans, Duke of, statue by Marochetti 187-88

184,

Ottoboni, Cardinal Pietro 79 Oxford, Queen's College, statue of Queen Caroline 95

Pacetti 147 Padua, Este monument 30 Pajou, Augustine 160 Palazzo Sacchetti 40 Paletta, Francisco 32 Palgrave, Francis Turner 186 Palladio, Andrea (Palladiamsm) 27, 29, 31, 36, 38, 39, 40, 42, 77, 79 Pallavicini, Marchese Niccolo Maria 50, 51, 52, 58, 60 Palma, Majorca 161 Pamni, E. 183 Panizzi, Sir Anthony 177 Papworth, John Buonarotti 194 Pangi, Alfonso 157 Pans 179 parkland and parks 229, 230-3 Parnassus fountain 34 Parodi, Domenico 115, 117, 120, 121, 122 124 Apollo with the Thunderbolt 117, 119 Diana 128, 129 Young Bacchus Riding a Goat 117, 118 Parodi, Domenico (son of Anton Maria) 128 Parodi, Filippo 115, 120, 121, 122, 125, 13 Pascoli, Lione 50, 51 Patch, Thomas 70, 73, 74 pattern-books 39 Peck, Edward 103 Pelli, Bencivenni 74 Pennetti, Giacomo 32 Peterborough, 3rd Earl of (General Charles Mordaunt) 128 Petworth 136 Philadelphia 161 photography 17-18, 228, 229, 233 Piamontini, Giuseppe 4 Pino villa 121 Piola, Domenico 115 Piola, Paolo Gerolamo 50, 120 Piranesi 192 Pisa 1 , 2 , 1 2 Pisani, FrateUi 163, 167 Pisam marble works 12 plaster figures and garden sculpture 115, 120 plasterwork 115,117,120,123

INDEX polychromy 107 Pomfret, 1 st Earl of (Thomas Fermor) 6 Ponsonelli, Giacomo Antonio 124, 125, 128 Pope, Alexander 80-1,82,90

portrait statues 41—2 Proby, Alice, as figure on monument Puget, Pierre 114, 124, 125, 126 Pyne, William Henry 60, 61

87

Quadro, Gaetano 125, 126 Queirolo 128 Querini, Count Giacomo 32, 34—5 Ramaldi, Carlo 82 Raphael Chigi Chapel, Rome 87 loggias 70 Ranch, Christian Daniel 168 Redgrave, Richard 213-14,229-30 Resta, Sebastiano 50 Rhodes, Ebenezer 133,134,137 Ricci, Ur Alessandro 196-7, 204 Rich, Edward, see Warwick, Earl of Richard I, statue by Marochetti 179, 183 184, 185, 187 Richmond grotto and Hermitage 94, 99 New Park villa 39 Riggus, Michael 34 Rizzi, Francesco 30 Robinson, J. C. 17, 211, 212-17, 223, 224, 225, 227, 228 Robinson, Peter Frederick 194 rococo 99 Romairone villa (Villa Durazro) 121, 130 Roman sculptures 27, 55-6 Rome Academic de France 1 65—6 altar in church of Gcsu e Maria 82 art market 4. 6 Gaffe Inglese 192 Marochetti's views on 179-80 Rusconi in 49—52 St Maria della Conceziotie 49 St Peter's 49 San Giovanni in Laterano 49, 233 Santa Maria del Popolo, Chigi Chapel 87 Rose, Joseph 95 Rossfeld, Arnold 33 Rossi, Matteo de' 161

273

Rosso, Pietro 35 Roubiliac, Louis Francois 87 Rousham House, Oxfordshire 56 bas-relief by Rusconi 56 Royal Horticultural Society, exhibition (1862) 17, 223, 233-4, 235, 236-7 Rusconi, Camillo 6, 7, 49-66, 122 Apollo Belvedere (copy) 51,58 Bust of the Madonna 52, 53, 5 Diana (restoration attrib.) 56, 57, 58 Farnesc Hercules copy 51-2, 58 Four Seasons 52, 55, 58. 60 Ruskin, John 10 Russell, John, see Bedford, 6th Duke of Rysbrack, Michael 8, 94, 95, 96, 99, 105-6, 107 A Roman Marriage 27, 28, 40-1 Vauxhall Gardens busts 99

St Leger, Cornet, monument 98 St Martin's Lane Group 95, 96, 99 St Petersburg 13, 167 Hermitage 51 Raphael's loggias shipped to 70-1 Salt, Henry 195,202-3,204 Salvioni, Saverio 144 Sartorio, Girolanio 32, 34 Saumarez, Capt Philip de, memorial 101, '102, 107 Schadow, Johann Gottfried 147 Scheeniakers, Henry 96 Scheemakeri, Peter 8, 94, 95, 96, 105-6 Sheffield monument 93 n.33 Schiaffino, Bernardo 120,121 Schiaffino, Francesco Mana 122, 125, 128 sculpture market 174-90 Sestri Ponente, Villa Spinola De Mari 322 Seti I, tomb and exhibition 191, 195-207 passim Shaftesbury, 3rd Earl of (Anthony Ashley Cooper) 4, 78, 82, 8}, 84, 90 Sheepshanks, John 229-30 Shellerk company, Vienna 163 Sievier, Robert 8 Sobieski, Polish Crown Prince Alessandro, monument 49 Society of Arts, Manufacture and Commerce 95, 101, 109-10 Solaro, Danielle 125 Soldani Bcnzi, Massimiliano 4, 5, 6, 72

274

INDEX

Somers, Lord (John) 6, 78, 84 Sophia, Electress 29, 30, 31, 34 South Kensington Museum, London display of sculpture 17, 18, 222-39 Italian medieval and Renaissance sculpture 17, 211-21 Spangen, Richard 10 Stanton family 97, 109, 113 n.36 Stavely and Co., Liverpool 12 Stowe 42, 236 stucco sculpture 32—3 subscriptions for statues 41 Tatham, Charles Heathcote 191, 192-3, 205 Taylor, Robert 97, 106 Taylor, Robert, the elder 103 Tenerife, Santa Cruz, fountain 120 terracotta 4, 5-6 Thiers, Adolphe 179 Thomas, Susannah, monument 107 Thompson, Charles Thurston 226, 228, 235 Thorvaldsen, Bertel 10, 135, 137, 147, ISO, 168 Marochetti in studio of 180 tomb sculpture by Cheere 98, 99, 101, 102, 106-9 eighteenth-century English 77-93 Tornaquinci, Giovanni Antonio 72 Torre, Gaetano 126 Torngiano, Pietro 1 Traverso (artist) 123-4 Tribuna 72 Turner, J. M. W. 137,138,142,147 Turner and Co. 12 Tuscany 1-2, 6, 16, 73 see also Florence Tuscany, Grand Duke of 15, 58 Udny, John 73 Ufficio Sicurta, registers Unterberger 71

8-69

Valencia, Canon Pontons' gardens Van Lint, Enrico 12, 18, 70 Vasari, Giorgio 1, 165 Vela, Vmcenzo 178 Venice Ca' d'Oro 51 garden theatres 36

128

influence of Venetian art on Hanover 29, 30-3, 35 Venetian Carnival 32 Vicenza, Palazzo Posto Colleoni 79 Vichi, Ferdinando 12 Vicken, Christian 34, 36 Victoria, Queen 177, 182 double effigy 186, 187 Vienna, Belvedere 128, 129 Villa Albani 233 Villa Balbi allo Zerbino 122 Villa Delia Rovere 123, 126, 127 Villa Durazzo, San Teodoro 123 villas 29,31,33,35 Vitali, Ivan 171 n.34 Volterra 11,69-70 Voltri, Villa della Duchessa di Galleria 122 Wachter, Peter 36 Walchers, C.-J. andJ.-A.-A. 183, 189 n.22 Walpole, Horace 52, 54 Walpole, (Sir) Robert 54, 81, 94 Walpole, Robert (son of Robert) 54 Warkton, Northants, Montagu monument 87 Warsaw (Poland), Lazienky Castle 161 Warwick, Earl of (Edward Rich), monument 77, 81, 87, 88, 90 Washington, George 145,177 Wellington, Duke of (Arthur Wellesley) 15, 17

Glasgow monument 178,184,18 Wentworth, Thomas Watson, monument 77, 81, 87, 89 West Wycombe Park, Bucks 100, 100 Westmacott, Richard 8, 9, 15, 134, 136, 138, 192 Wienhausen, hunting lodge 35 Wilbraham, Roger 73-4 Wilkie, David 10, 15, 137, 138 William III, statues of 95 Windsor Castle, Berkshire 130 Woburn Abbey 9,135,136 workshops, see Carrara Wyatt, Richard James 9, 132, 135 Yarborough, Lord 134 York Minster, Wentworth monument 77, 81, 82, 87, 89 Zamboni, Giovanni Giacomo

5