More body hair removal tips for the Renaissance woman

ornamenti delle donneI couldn’t resist sharing these thoughts on body hair removal from a  Venetian 1562 advice book for women that I stumbled across yesterday (apparently written by a “Greek Queen”, but really by the male physician, Giovanni Marinello). You would have thought that having to deal with scabies, leprosy and “the itch” would have taken up most of the beauty routine of renaissance women – but apparently unsightly hairs also posed a problem. In its assertion that hair removal is healthy and natural, that body hair in women is “excessive” and smelly, alongside the threat that husbands will search elsewhere for gratification if a woman remains  undepilated, it may seem creepily familiar to modern readers.

Many are the weaknesses, lovely women, that can spoil your beautiful appearance by attacking the skin from outside:  some things break or lacerate the skin, like scabies, the itch, leprosy and other similar maladies.  Other things unfortunately diminish your charms, making your skin fetid and stinking. One of these things is body hair, and the other is excessive sweat, or other filthy and corrupt superfluities. Body hair, if you do not have scabies or a similar disease, has to be removed (because it is a sign of surpluses in our nutrition, just as sweat is) after your bath, or whilst you are bathing. And all our efforts are to gratify you and make sure that you are loved and caressed by your husbands, who won’t stick to their promise of chastity because of your bodily defects, and will go behind your back to other women; however teaching you how to remove body hair, we will start with the way to make baths, which will not only preserve your beauty, but keep you healthy and comfortable.

For the context of renaissance body hair removal practices, see my earlier post.

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Call for Papers, RSA 2014: Skin, Fur and Hairs: Animality and Tactility in Renaissance Europe

Titian, Woman in a Fur Coat.1535. Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna.

Titian, Woman in a Fur Coat.1535. Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna.

For Renaissance Europeans, animal fur was a desirable but complex material.  It was a high status commodity, lining (or appearing to line) fine garments.  Yet it was also an animal skin, as worn by Adam and Eve after the Fall.  The lack or presence of fur, some fifteenth-century humanists claimed, was a key marker of difference between animals and humans. Fur was at once civilised and wild.

The ability to depict the textures and tactility of fur, such as that covering Castiglione in his portrait by Raphael, or in Dürer’s 1500 self portrait, was a sign of painterly skill, lavished not just on garments but also the ‘living’ fur of animals gently stroked or inviting the viewer’s touch.  Fur in its correct context could be appealing, but was firmly animal. There was little room for human body hair in the renaissance aesthetic – hair on men was largely restricted to the genital area, and women’s bodies were typically depicted completely hairless.

In this session we would like to interrogate renaissance attitudes to skin, fur and hairiness, examining the beauty ideal applied to both human and animal, and placing aesthetic preferences within a broader discourse of humanity versus animality.

We welcome proposals from a wide range of disciplinary perspectives. Questions could include:

  • Perceptions of hairiness as indicating the boundaries of humanity, including consideration of “wildmen”, and “hairy girls”.
  • Gender and hairiness; hair removal practices and notions of femininity; beards and masculinity.
  • Owner identity expressed through the animals they owned and chose to be portrayed alongside.
  • Aesthetics and companion animals; animal breeding for desirable coats; softness, fluffiness and affective bonds.
  • Fur wearing and its social and aesthetic implications.

Each proposed paper must include: paper title; abstract (150-word maximum); keywords; and a brief curriculum vitae (300-word maximum). Please get your proposal to Dr Jill Burke ( and Dr Sarah Cockram ( by 24th May 2013.

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How to see people naked in Renaissance Italy

How to see naked men
Seeing naked or near-naked men in the Renaissance does not seem to have been very difficult. I should point out that looking at naked people is not, necessarily, erotic. Indeed, the word for naked, nudo, in Italian had pejorative connotations, as suggested by the definition of “nudo” in John Florio’s 1611 English/Italian dictionary: nude, naked, bare, discovered; also poore, beggarly, and deprived of.

Piero della Francesca, detail from The Burial of the Holy Wood, Legend of the True Cross series. Fresco, 1452-66. Cappella Maggiore, San Francesco, Arezzo.

You can see here the potential problems of accidental genital display!

Near nakedness in Italian renaissance cities was rather more common than you might suppose. Poor people sometimes couldn’t afford many clothes, and the clothes they had were worn and tattered. This could pose a problem of accidental genital display. In fact, several Italian states passed sumptuary laws specifically disallowing the public display of genitals. Thus in Lucca, in 1342, it is forbidden for people over 14 to be seen publicly naked. Similarly, in 1375 in Aquila, short doublets are banned because they allow the genitals to remain uncovered.

Men fishing in the Arno in their underwear

Men fishing in the Arno in their underwear

Some occupations also  required workers to be near-naked. Sometimes for comfort – labourers may have stripped to their underwear in the hot Italian summers, and swimming and fishing were also activities that were done naked or near-naked, as in this detail from the chain map of Florence.

Other jobs, such as dying and curing leather, involved some workers standing naked in vats of urine as part of the process.

A tanner in a vat of urine (from the tanners' guild picture at the Correr Museum, Venice)

A tanner in a vat of urine (from the Tanners’ Guild picture at the Correr Museum, Venice)

Certainly in northern europe, these workers would walk near naked to and from work – in an age where clothing was relatively expensive, and washing was time-consuming, it would be foolish to risk dowsing a set of clothes in wet and smelly substances.

So although male genitals were certainly taboo, it seems they were sometimes seen – and near-naked men dressed in just their underwear was likely to have been a relatively common sight in the renaissance city.

How to see naked women
Female public nakedness or near-nakedness was much more unusual, and much more connected to transgression and public shame. There is some evidence in some cities that prostitutes, for example, would bear their breasts publicly. According to Michele Savonarola, in Ferrara, prostitutes were allowed to keep their breasts partially or totally uncovered in order to tempt men from the greater sin of sodomy.  The Ponte delle Tette in Venice also seems to have been a location where prostitutes would show off their breasts to passing trade.

April - time for racing naked prostitutes in renaissance Ferrara.

April – time for racing prostitutes in Renaissance Ferrara.

There were also races in Ferrara and Rome where prostitutes would run through the city naked. This would take place at carnival time in Rome and on the Palio di San Giorgio in April in Ferrara and be closely related to marking the marginal positions of these groups. There was also  a ritual humiliation of adulterous women in Ferrara called the scopa where they were made to run naked through the city; in 1356 in Florence legislation was passed to punish female servants who broke sumptuary laws with being flogged naked through the city. (For these practices in Ferrara, see Deanna Shemek’s Ladies Errant)

It’s not surprising then, that for aristocratic women, nakedness was something to be avoided at all costs. Castiglione’s Courtier includes a comment on “affected refinement” about a lady who was thinking of something that always makes me shudder when it comes to mind and always oppresses my heart. And this is that on the Day of Judgement all our bodies must rise and appear naked before the tribunal of Christ, and I cannot tell you the distress I feel  at the thought that my body will have to appear naked as well.

This may be light-hearted; less so  was a diplomatic incident of 1463 during marriage negotiations between the Gonzaga and Sforza families. The Sforza demanded to the see the potential bride – Dorotea Gonzaga  – naked, in case she had a hunchback. The Gonzaga resisted as they argued it wasn’t “honest” to show 14 year old girl naked to a man – even to doctors, in private –  but they would let her be examined with her dress on. The Sforza doctors, however, insisted that they needed to see her backbone naked and her chest in front. The marriage was called off.

Did people have sex naked?
Italian Fresco Painting of  (ca. 1320) by Memmo di Filipuccio
Not necessarily it seems. Although married couples are often depicted naked in bed, aside from their head coverings, it doesn’t necessarily follow that they would see each other naked during sex, or at other times. In fact, the evidence suggests that this was thought to be rather perverse and transgressive.

Giovanni Pontano, in his treatise On the Prince of 1493 illustrates King Dionysius’ anxiety through explaining that he never had intercourse with either of his two wives “unless they had been stripped naked beforehand”. This is clearly deemed a bit odd and unnecessary. Moralists of the time were absolutely determined that married people should not witness each other naked. Francesco Barbaro in his De Re Uxoria of 1416 suggests that wives should never be seen naked, and also be silent: “it is expedient that not only the arms, but indeed the discourses of a woman should be hidden; for the speech women is not less to be feared than the nakedness of the body”.

Perhaps even more telling about the suspicions about gazing at a naked body are the words of Cherubino da Siena in his Rules for  Married Life (1450-1481): “Certainly, when a wife needs to see her husband’s shameful parts, for some illness or for another necessity, it is not a sin; in fact, it is a charity. But when they do it for brute delight, it is a sin; because… some things are permitted to do, but not permitted to see. You, woman, never agree to allow yourself to be seen naked by your husband; because he is sinning, and so are you.”

allegoryofcopulation detail camiciaStrangely enough, this suspicion of seeing naked women is also suggested by renaissance pornography, which suggests that women took of their undershirts, or camicie, only very reluctantly. For example, in the anonymous dialogue from the 1520s, Giulia e Maddalena, when Giulia is peering through cracks in her bedroom floor at her cousin and his wife, Caterina, in their bedroom, she sees Caterina take off her camicia in order to check it for fleas. When her husband asks to have sex with her, she puts her camicia back on! Then, when Giulia takes a lover herself, Roberto, they have illicit trists in the donkey’s stable. Various positions are described – standing up, sitting down, her on top, him on top and so on before the climax, so to speak, of their sexual relationship, when Roberto asks her to take off her undershirt, as to see her naked was what he desired “above everything else”. A similar thing happens with her next lover, Federico, who also begs her to take off her camicia:

I didn’t want to do it” Giulia says, “no way, but at the end he begged me and I took it offBoth of us stripped naked, we embraced each other and looked at each other everywhere.

In Aretino’s Dialogues (early 1530s), his character Nanna, a procuress explains to her daughter, who she’s training to be a courtesan, about the peccadillos of wealthy clients. She says that they sometimes  “get a huge mirror, undress us and make us go about completely naked, and then they force us to hold the most obscene postures and positions that the human fantasy can concoct. They gaze longingly at our faces, breasts, nipples, shoulders, loins, cunnies and thighs, nor could I possibly tell you how that satiates their lust and the pleasure they get from looking

I’d like to emphasise here that the act of looking, even when allowed or invited by a sexual partner, is in itself transgressive, and has a sexual charge of its own. It’s not necessarily a preamble to touching, but constitutes a separate erotic experience. The gender of the naked person is all important. Visual access to women’s bodies was closely controlled.


Female nudes and women’s bodies
Unlike in real life, where gazing at a naked female body would be understood as socially transgressive, sinful and may well have been a fleeting pleasure at most, paintings and prints of female nudes allowed their viewer the lasting illicit pleasure of feasting his (and, perhaps, her) eyes on a beautiful naked form for a protracted period of time. The fact that many of these nudes are sleeping, or ladies who seem to be surprised whilst getting dressed or putting make up on, means that these women are not culpable, or in social disgrace. This may have been reflected in real-life practices, as suggested by the following passage in Alessandro Piccolomini’s Raffaella a “dialogue about good manners for ladies” of 1534. Here Raffaella tells her young charge, Margarita, about the lengths she should go to to engineer showing off her body to young men without letting it seem that she wants to be seen:

Titian young woman black dressIf you have a good chest, it’s of the greatest importance for a woman to find out ways that it can be seen (and especially to show that it is naturally beautiful, not through artulness). So in the morning pretend to get up without tying up your dress, and so he’ll know that the breasts are round and pronounced by themselves without support. You can also play in the snow, or bathe with water in summer, and then as you’re all damp make it necessary to untie yourself to get dry. You can show off a nice leg in the villa going to fish or catch birds, and show your arms horse riding. If your whole body is nice, make sure you go bathing at a time you can be seen.

The erotic transaction of looker and looked is presented here as something of a game. The balance of power between the two partners is not simply one way, these women are not the passive recipients of an all-powerful “male gaze”. But stripped of any significant political or economic agency in the main, women’s sovereignty over their bodies, and the ability to hide or reveal their nakedness at will, was clearly of huge importance. Real-life renaissance women, as I’ve discussed previously, took opportunities to modify their faces and bodies to make them conform to an ideal that might attract a “better” husband or lover, one of the few types of agency that was available to them.

I wonder, also if there is a class dynamic in this transaction. Is sight a more noble sense than touch? At any rate, the “pleasure” aristocratic men got from looking (according to Aretino at least), coupled with the unacceptability of their female counterparts appearing naked, even within marriage, perhaps created the perfect storm in which images of the female nude could be appreciated, both erotically and aesthetically, by European elites.

(This post is a version of a paper I gave yesterday at the Graduate Seminar for History of Art at the University of Cambridge. A longer version, with full references, will be published in my forthcoming book, The Italian Renaissance Nude: Nakedness in Art and Life 1400-1530).

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Did renaissance women remove their body hair?


Notoriously, on the wedding night of the celebrated art critic, John Ruskin and Effie Gray in 1848, Ruskin was so repelled by the sight of his bride’s body that he was unable to consummate the marriage. Effie Gray explained in a letter of five years later “he had imagined women were quite different to what he saw I was, and that the reason he did not make me his Wife was because he was disgusted with my person”. Although we’ll never get to the bottom, so to speak, of the reasons for Ruskin’s reaction, it’s been widely assumed that he was traumatised by Effie’s pubic hair.

And, frankly, no wonder. For an English male art historian of the nineteenth century, steeped in the classical tradition and Italian Renaissance art, the expected female body would surely have been completely hairless. But how did these pictures interact with the way women treated their own bodies? Did the reinvention of the female nude in renaissance Italy go hand in hand with a vogue for body hair removal?

First, some methodology

There has been a fair amount of research over the last ten years on a new fashion for the removal of pubic hair amongst young women. It’s been linked in some quarters to an aesthetic of pornography now widely available on the internet that has reset the “norms” of women’s bodily appearance.

Visible body hair on women disrupts traditional gender roles – it is deemed to be masculine to have hair on one’s body in many cultures – and this includes the hair on the pubic area and armpits that naturally grows on most female bodies. In many cultures it is normal to remove this hair – in a 2005 study of UK women, over 90% participants reported having removed hair from their underarms and legs, over 80% from their pubic area and eyebrows. These figures are similar in the US and Australia.

Thus, as many feminists have pointed out, being a “normal” woman involves a great deal of work that men normally do not have to do. Sandra Bartky, in a much cited essay of 1988, considers Michel Foucault’s argument in Discipine and Punish that there was an “emergence of unprecedented discipline directed against the body” in the later eighteenth century. Bartky takes Foucault to task for ignoring gender – ““To have a body felt to be “feminine” – a body socially constructed through the appropriate practices – is in most cases crucial to a woman’s sense of herself as female”. This explains normative self-governimg practices such as the use of cosmetics, dieting and depilation. For both Bartky and Foucault this self-discipline is a by-product of modernity. Bartky argues that “In contemporary patriarchal culture, a panoptical male connoisseur resides within the consciousness of most women: They stand perpetually before his gaze and under his judgment.”

The idea that there was a pre-modern era of “anything goes” in terms of normative bodies is a commonplace. Lennard Davis, too, in his important work on the disabled body and what he calls “enforcing normalcy” claims that “before the advent of statistics in the nineteenth century” images of beautiful women such as Venus possessed “a mythic poetic body linked to that of the gods” and thus “there is no demand that populations have bodies that conform to the ideal”.

ImageIf you look more closely at the premodern period, however, these assumptions are hard to sustain. It is a commonplace in today’s psychological literature that body image and the desire for body modification of all kinds is profoundly affected by an unconscious assimilation of images taken from a variety of media sources. It is impossible to conduct psychological experiments, of course, on long-dead subjects, but my question is – can the proliferation of images of the female nude from the early sixteenth century onwards have affected women’s notions of their own bodies?

How to remove body hair – renaissance style

Sandra Cavallo has noted an “explosion in treatments for facial appearance” in the sixteenth century, as propagated by the proliferation of household recipe books – often titled “books of secrets”. These books are full of all sorts of recipes that might be useful for the household including many for what we’d consider cosmetic use. Alongside the reams of advice on creating the perfect complexion – recipes for A cheap easy liquor which can be used to keep your skin smooth, soft and shiny, or a lotion To remove every kind of mark from the face and …keep the skin looking lovely, or Waters to make one look twenty or twenty-five years old, there is indeed advice on how to remove hair from every part of the body in all of these books I have consulted. The renewed interest in facial cosmetics was, then, matched by an explosion in treatments for body hair removal. The Renaissance could, indeed be called a golden age of depilation.

The recipes

A recipe that constantly recurs is one based on creating a highly alkaline solution that melts the hair from the surface of the skin (just as hair-removers like Veet do today). There’s evidence of recipes for this paste – which is called “rhusma” being used in Ancient Turkey from about 3000 BC, and the Trotula – a very popular medieval book of recipes dating from the 12th century, but reproduced frequently since, also includes this.

A 1532 book of secrets gives this version of the recipe:

How to Remove or Lose Hair from Anywhere on the Body

Boil together a solution of one pint of arsenic and eighth of a pint of quicklime. Go to a baths or a hot room and smear medicine over the area to be depilated. When the skin feels hot, wash quickly with hot water so the flesh doesn’t come off.

Caterina Sforza in her Experimenti (basically a book of secrets compiled around the turn of the sixteenth century), gives more or less the same instruction, but advises that you should leave the mixture on the skin for “the time it takes to say two Our Fathers”.

All the recipe books I’ve looked at contain a version of this technique. The Trotula’s three recipes for hair removal are all variations of this technique in fact – and this perhaps is telling; the books of secrets written from the turn of the sixteenth century onwards have a proliferation of recipes for hair removal. Thus Caterina Sforza’s book has such 9 recipes; including one made of pig lard, mustard and juniper, and another involving a distillation of swallows.

Another recipe compilation in Bologna from around the same time has an entire section called Treatise on how to remove hairs from the body in various ways, so that they never return, which advises that the woman “who delights in keeping herself neat, and adorning and gently cleansing her face will need a depilatory that cleanly removes the unsightly hairs in various places on a woman’s body”. It gives no less than 16 recipes. This new variety of recipe types is equally noticeable in subsequent books, and they start to contain ingredients everyday, rather less volatile ingredients that one could get cheaply and use at home. There’s a particularly memorable recipe in the 1532 book, for example, that recommends women wash the area where hair is to be removed in a mixture of cat dung and vinegar.

Argumentative, muscular, ugly

Hair removal was not just aesthetic. As Cavallo has noted, there’s an understanding of hair as a bodily excretion that needs to be removed in the early modern period. A 1626 account suggests that a “bushiness of hair” creates a proliferation of vermin and filth – though it has to be said that there is little evidence for removal of male body hair for this reason.

In fact, hairiness in women could be a visual representation of humoral imbalance. According to the humoral system, women were cold and wet in nature as opposed to their hot dry male counterparts, and it was heat and dryness that was the source of body hair. Thus the sixteenth-century Spanish physician Juan Huarte wrote that

Having a lot of body hair and a bit of beard is a clear indication of low levels of coldness and moisture… and if the hair is dark then even higher levels of heat and dryness are present. The opposite temperature creates a woman who is smooth, without beard or body hair. The woman of average levels of coldness and moisture has a little bit of hair on her body but it is light and blonde. Of course, the woman who has much body and facial hair (being of a more hot and dry nature) is also intelligent but disagreeable and argumentative, muscular, ugly, has a deep voice and frequent infertility problems.

Having too much body hair could, in sum, make a woman a poor marriage partner.

ImageRemoving the hair could be seen as merely a return to the proper balance of a female body, avoiding the dangerous specter of a masculinized woman. Medicine, hygiene and beauty were closely intertwined in the Renaissance (as they are today). But certainly aesthetics were an element of hair removal. For example, Francisco Delicado’s La Lozana Andaluza, was published in Venice in 1528. It tells the tale of an Andalucian prostitute, Lozana, in Rome who gets up to all sorts of sexual misadventures and also offers beauty treatments to female clients. Lozana declares that in a certain Roman brothel “You’ll see more than ten whores, some who pluck their eyebrows and others who shave their private parts“, and later recounts a story of how “By mistake we burned off all the hair from the private parts of a lady from Bologna, but we put butter on it and made her believe she was right in style“. Later some women come to Lozana for some cosmetics and ointments, and also ask Lozana to “teach me and my cousin here how to shave off female hair, since that’s the way our husbands like it.”

Male expectations of female bodies – or even as here women’s assumptions about male expectations of female bodies – can lead to highly effective self-policing. It’s not a million miles away from Sandra Bartky’s “panoptical male connoisseur”.


Terry Eagleton, in his After Theory of 2001 said “not all students of culture are blind to the Western narcissism involved in working on the history of pubic hair while half the world’s population lacks adequate sanitation and survives on less than 2 dollars a day”. As several outraged pubic hair specialists have noted (and yes, they do exist), research into women’s personal grooming habits is, in many ways the study of systems of inequality – particularly the internalisation of the notion that a woman’s body is imperfect unless it is somehow modified.

The study of cosmetics has been dismissed as frivolous – and that’s certainly still the reaction of some colleagues. It’s hard not to see some sexism, even misogyny, as a structural reason why this subject has been ignored despite the abundance of primary source material available that can give us an insight into the daily life of early modern women. Although there is no way to make a neat causal connection between the visual art of this period and female bodily identity, perhaps it’s time we asked these questions. The renaissance nude wasn’t simply a celebration of humanity, or a homage to a lost antique past, but popularised – even fetishised – quite narrow notions of attractiveness in a society where, for women, beauty was a cultural currency and could determine their future prospects. No wonder they sought to modify their bodies to meet this ideal.

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“Is she pregnant, or just out of shape?” Misogyny and description in art history

Rosso Fiorentino, Female NudeThere’s nothing really known about this  drawing in the Uffizi by Rosso Fiorentino. It’s generally dated for stylistic reasons to the early 1520s. In red chalk, it portrays a woman – naked apart from a ring of pearls around her neck and the jewels in her unravelling hair – pointing with her right hand to something beyond the picture plain, whilst her left hand is placed on top of her head. Many commentators have found this woman’s body shape puzzling. In the words of the New York Times art critic, Holland Cotter, “is she pregnant or just out of shape”?

For me, it doesn’t seem puzzling at all – the woman is neither pregnant, nor out of shape, but her body reveals its own history, a history of pregnancy. This woman’s rounded stomach is a reminder of past pregnancies, a stomach that is familiar to many women today too, but tends to be hidden or perceived as an anomaly to be “remedied” by stomach crunches or plastic surgery. Rosso, rather than making an idealised nude form that has no relationship to time, shows a body that, I think, is hauntingly beautiful, but built into time, particularised but also universal in showing the rounded but softened belly that is familiar to most women who have given birth. It’s telling that this shape is largely missing from our familiar visual vocabulary of femininity – where slenderness and pregnancy are both acceptable, expected, but an interim state is somehow shocking. Is the internet  helping to remedy this?

The other, more famous, example of a formerly pregnant belly in renaissance art is Michelangelo’s Night. The language used by art historians to describe this older woman is often startlingly hostile and casually misogynistic – with reference to her spent, flaccid abdomen, her “tired” breasts, or the distortion of her body (distorted from what perceived norm?). In the Renaissance, this sculpture was praised for its beauty. Why does modern western culture view the post-pregnancy female body with such distaste? Would the history of art history have been the same if it had been largely written by mothers?

Image “Night … is a woman who has passed through many pregnancies. Those deeply delved wrinkles on the vast and flaccid abdomen sufficiently indicate this” (John Addington Symonds)

“a slumbering female of mature years whose spent breasts and slack belly have led many observers to characterize her as a mother” (Edith Balas)

“heavy-limbed Night, with her tired breasts and creased belly” (Honour and Fleming:)

“The figure’s weary yet still distressed and agonized form, her distended abdomen and breasts, testifies to the history of a different “interior” life, the life of a body that has brought forth and nourished other bodies, even if it is now barren” ( Kenneth Gross)

“brutally masculine proportions, with hanging breasts and wrinkled abdomen” (Metheny Robb and Janes Garrison)

Whereas Day is a Virgin with “firm high breasts”, Night is a mother, “whose abdomen and breasts are distorted by childbirth and lactation”. (Frederick Hartt)

“her worn-out body with its sagging breasts and loose abdominal muscles”. (Bernard Samuel Myers:)

Night has the “pendulous breasts and slack stomach muscles of a woman who has borne children” (Dixon)

“disturbingly masculine” Night’s elongated chest and stomach resemble “a shapeless trunk cut across with four horizontal furrows” (Yael Even).

Night’s “lean, lithe, and washboard-muscled body seems distinctly male, save for the unusual length of her torso, the fullness of her hip, and the breasts that hang like sacs from her board-flat sternum. Their distended nipples have been sucked so deeply that they have begun to deflate, as has her will”. (Eric Scigliano).

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The bureaucrat, the Mona Lisa, and leaving things rough

In early 2007, a rash of stories appeared in the international media about the discovery of the “true” identity of the Mona Lisa. The excitement was linked to the publication of a marginal note in an early printed edition of Cicero’s Epistulae ad familiare (printed in Bologna, 1477) now in Heidelberg University Library (catalogue nos D7620 qt. /inc. (GW 6821) – and available online as are many fantastic historical resources. This note had first been published by Armin Schlecter in his entry on the edition in an exhibition catalogue of Heidelberg’s incunabula in 2005, but had not been widely noticed at that time. [Universitätsbibliothek Heidelberg ed., Die edel kunst der truckerey. Ausgewählte Inkunabeln der Universitätsbibliothek Heidelberg. Ausstellungskatalog, Heidelberg 2005, Nr. 20 and fig. 8]. Earlier this year, Schlecter also published an exhaustive discussion of this book and its marginal annotations in an article freely consultable online – Ita Leonardus Vincius facit in omnibus suis picturis: Leonardo da Vincis Mona Lisa und die Cicero-Philologie von Angelo Poliziano bis Johann Georg Graevius”, IASL Online, [29.04.2008].

The annotation that has caused all the excitement was written on p. 11a of the book,  alongside a section of Cicero’s text – “Apelles perfected the head and bust of his Venus with the most elaborate art, but left the rest of her body in the rough” [Nunc ut Appelles Veneris caput & summa pectoris politissima arte perfecit: reliquam partem corporis incohatam reliquit]. I read the Latin note as meaning “Apelles the painter. Thus Leonardo da Vinci does in all his paintings, as is the head of Lisa del Giocondo and of Anne, mother of the Virgin  we will see what he will do in the Hall  of the Great Council he now made an agreement with the gonfaloniere [Piero Soderini]. 1503, October”.   [[Apelles] pictor. Ita leonar/dus uincius facit in omnibus suis / picturis. ut est Caput lisę del giocondo. et annę matris uirginis / videbimus quid faciet de aula / magni consilii. de qua re conuenit / iam cum vexillario. 1503. 8bris”]

This discovery is one of the most significant finds in Leonardo studies of recent years. To some extent, this is through confirming what we already know. Vasari’s Life of Leonardo was formerly our only source for Lisa del Giocondo being the subject of a renowned portrait by Leonardo. This contemporary reference both confirms that Vasari was correct, and confirms the date of 1503, that has generally been accepted as the start date of this portrait. Some sceptics may still point out the painting in the Louvre is not necessarily the same one as Leonardo started in Florence just over five hundred years ago, but I would guess that the majority of art historians will accept this compelling evidence for the date and identification.

It is more problematic to identify the St Anne described here with the several versions of the subject Leonardo made. It may be, as Schlecter argues, that this refers to the painting of the Virgin and Child with St Anne that Vasari says later went to France, but this needs more investigation. The “videmus quid faciet” could either be linked to Vespucci’s discussion of this painting, as Schlecter supposes, or possibly to the discussion of the Hall of the Great Council. At any rate, the note here further supports the argument put forward by Alessandro Cecchi of the centrality of Piero Soderini, the Florentine gonfaloniere a vita, in the commission for the decoration of the Great Council Hall.

The writer of the annotation, Agostino Vespucci, was well-placed to observe Leonardo’s activities in Florence. An assistant to Niccolo Machiavelli, the second chancellor of the republic, Vespucci’s name comes up as a scribe for the work Leonardo did for the government during this year, most notably his inspection of the Florentine fortress, La Verrucca, in June. It was Vespucci, too, who wrote the description of the Battle of Anghiari translated from Leonardo Dati’s Trophaeum Anglaricum that appears in the Codex Atlanticus. In late 1503, he was working as secretary to Antonio Tebalducci Giacomini,the commissioner in Romagna, potentially significant as Leonardo’s 1501 St Anne cartoon has been connected with the Tebalducci Giacomini St Anne chapel in the Annunziata. Leonardo’s place in a network of men at the centre of military affairs in Florence in the early 1500s would perhaps make him come readily to Vespucci’s mind (more on this in my article “Missed Deadlines and Creative Excuses: Fashioning Eccentricity for Leonardo and Michelangelo“).

Perhaps the most suggestive part of this new find, however, is the insight it gives us into perceptions of finish in early cinquecento painting. It is significant that Vespucci interprets the portrait of Lisa del Giocondo as being completed, despite the fact that part of the painting lack finish, are left “inchoate”. It could be that the fashion for display of drawings and unfinished works in Florence in the early sixteenth century were perceived by some of the educated elite, such as Vespucci, as referring to the practice of Apelles as noted by Cicero. In other words, could leaving works “unfinished” in itself be taken as a sign of artistry?

(This was originally written for the Leonardo da Vinci Society newsletter in May 2008 as “Agostino Vespucci’s Marginal Note about Leonardo da Vinci in Heidelberg”, I republish this here in a very slightly revised form, with links and pictures)
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Vasari and Artistic Value

A couple of weeks ago, I took part in an event called “The irreverent interpretation: Before and After Vasari’s Lives of the Artists”, organised by the fantastic Transmission Gallery committee for the Glasgow Art Festival.  I talked alongside Fiona Jardine and Jan Verwoert. My role was to present Vasari as a kind of conceptual anchor for the notion of the artist, and consider how the cultural value of an object is tied to the identity of the artist – something I’ve been thinking about for a while, particularly in the late of “discoveries” of paintings by Leonardo da Vinci and others that seem to be in the news regularly. I talked about the workshop system, the advent of printing, and the birth of the “super artist” in the early sixteenth century. Lots of good stuff came out of the evening, and it was great to have an excursion away from Renaissance studies with people making and writing about contemporary art.

There’s a sound recording of the event available, so if you were very clever, you could probably somehow juxtapose the sound with these images from my talk (pdf file).  You also get to hear Jan Verwoert shake a banana.

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