next centuries. That is anything but easy, as Van der Geest’s collection also shows. The canon he compiled has only survived in part. Who, for instance, still thinks of Frans Pourbus the Elder (1545–1581) as a paragon of the heyday of art in sixteenth-century Antwerp? We would expect a place for Pieter Bruegel the Elder (c. 1525/1530–1569). And yet it is Pourbus’s Sermon of St John the Baptist that hangs prominently on the back wall of Van der Geest’s gallery. This is no coincidence. It was a reference to one of the most eventful periods in Antwerp’s history, the reformed ‘field sermons’ that took place in the run-up to the Iconoclastic Fury. It is probably not by chance either that the work hangs next to Rubens’ The Battle of the Amazons, a symbol of the struggle between civilisation and barbarism. It is that struggle that ensured we can still admire The Battle of the Amazons (even if it is now in Munich). It is probably also that struggle that caused Bathing Woman by Jan Van Eyck (c. 1390–1441) – in the right corner of the room (p. 26) – to be lost. Opinions on art change. Van Eyck’s legacy was not always treated with as much care – as is evident from the nineteenth-century term ‘Flemish Primitives’. What was once considered great is not necessarily so now, and vice versa. Society changes, and with it its opinion of art. When it comes to representation, who still thinks of Paracelsus (1493/1494–1541) (p. 27), prominently shown watching the spectacle unfold before his eyes? And yet, his Liber de imaginibus, in which he describes the ‘magic’ of art, was probably an important chart for artists like Rubens. Now that we can look back, 400 years later, at the collection that Van Haecht painted, it is nice to see that attention was being paid to diversity even then. After all, it is that multiplicity that gives space to the perception of the artistic legacy. Like Cornelis van der Geest, the Flemish government nurtures the ambition to give a future to the best the visual arts have to offer today. The Flemish government collects masterpieces and other period documents with a view to preserving and displaying them and, when necessary, restoring them. The history of the collection is a long and complex one (see pp. 12–15). It has meandered for almost two centuries between private initiatives, bequests, purchases and committee decisions – sometimes driven by a vision, sometimes not. This means that the collection is not only a collection, but also a record of collecting. The Collection Flemish Community is therefore in itself a period document, a blend of some two centuries of cultural policy in this small corner of Europe. But unlike in the early seventeenth century, when Van der Geest, Rubens and the archdukes timidly tried to build up sublime collections, art has collapsed into a multiplicity of media, styles and
PAINTING THE ACT OF PAINTING
In his early work, Hugo Duchateau (b. 1938) liked to explore the materiality of painting. Wet brushes, dripping paint and pencils are part of that spectrum, but so are canvases and easels. Here is a panel on an easel. Attached to it is a sheet containing the image of, yes, a panel on an easel, with, attached to it, indeed, a panel… This visual spectacle is a mise en abyme, in which an image is itself repeated over and over again, endlessly. In mathematical terms, such mises en abyme are called ‘fractals’. Dutch artist M.C. Escher (1898–1972) made them immensely popular in the 1950s.
In theory, this repetition could go on indefinitely. Duchateau uses the effect to literally highlight the materiality of painting, in particular the tools used by the painter. Indeed, when a painting hangs in a museum, it is often disconnected from the long process of diligent work that preceded it. In this case, the ongoingness of the repetition makes that impossible. It shows how artists are always revisiting and reworking, how an image haunts the mind, endlessly.
Léon Spilliaert (1881–1946) painted almost all his works at night. The colours are dull, faded, as in old photographs. They lack light. The self-taught artist from Ostend reduces his self-portrait to an unending repetition of strokes. He is mirrored again and again. Like Duchateau, Spilliaert reminds viewers of the imperative context of every artistic creation: endless repetition leads to craft.
Rik Wouters (1882–1916) went down in history as a painter, but like many of his contemporaries, he liked to make use of a variety of media and materials. As well as a plaster cast, Wouters also made a bronze version of this head, aptly titled Lachend masker [Laughing Mask]. To make a cast, you need a mould into which plaster or bronze is poured. The different materials in which the face was moulded generate a range of perceptions. Plaster does not reflect light like bronze. It must have greatly fascinated Wouters, a descendant of Impressionism. Light and colour were essential to him.
Ever since Wouters’ contemporary Marcel Duchamp (1887–1968) introduced objets trouvés into art, any everyday object can become art. Two cross beams normally used in construction can become a sculpture. The craftsmanship of the sculptor has here been drastically reduced, or perhaps conceptualised. The creative process of Bruce Nauman (b. 1941) was seemingly limited to choosing two metal beams that he laid crosswise on top of each other. Nauman’s work relates to Wouters’ the way line relates to colour, thinking to feeling.
FROM THE MIND OR AFTER LIFE
Visual art often vegetates on the tension between reality and illusion. Art historians have coined many terms to describe this phenomenon: realism, naturalism, illusionism… All these words refer to the fact that viewers are fooled by what they see, that they naively believe and mistakenly assume that the image and reality coincide. René Magritte (1898–1967), the godfather of Belgian Surrealism, made it the essence of his art.
The art of the Fiamminghi, as artists from the Low Countries used to be called in Italian, was traditionally considered an art that sought to perfectly create the illusion of reality. Jan van Eyck (c. 1390–1441), Rogier van der Weyden (1399/1400–1464), Dirk Bouts (1415–1475), Hugo van der Goes (1440–1482) and their many anonymous contemporaries pulled out all the stops to take in viewers. This continued until the nineteenth century, when attempts were still made to draw people into a parallel world.
According to biographer Karel van Mander (1548–1606), artists used two talents to achieve this ambition: he called them ‘after life’ and ‘from the mind’. The former refers to the artist’s ability to minutely record nature, almost portraying it; the latter refers to the inspiration to do something creative with it. Good artists, such as Joachim Beuckelaer (1533–1574), can do both, Van Mander posited. Years of study enable them to turn what we see into what we might see, in such a way that we believe it.
It immediately becomes clear why art was so controversial in Beuckelaer and Van Mander’s time. It made people believe and competed therefore with faith.
Joachim Beuckelaer, Groentemarkt [Vegetable Market], 1567, oil on panel, 169 × 237 cm
MIRROR IMAGE
Authenticity, uniqueness, authorship. These nouns are part of the lexicon commonly used in art history. More to the point, they have a tremendous impact. What is put forward as unique and original generally acquires more material and immaterial value. Things are not always so easy, however. The mirror image that art creates of the world is itself often mirrored in copies, reproductions, prints, posters or books. This is what Italian artist Michelangelo Pistoletto (b. 1933) is playing on in this work. He uses the age-old metaphor of art as a mirror to show that a mirror is incapable of reflecting itself. Beautifully framed, but sawn into two reflective halves, the mirror almost literally shows off its limitations.
When such a mirror image is contrasted with painting, what the latter is capable of becomes clear, at least if it does not want to produce a mirror image. Frituur Oud-Heverlee [Chip Shop in Oud-Heverlee] by Gillis Houben (1933–2018) has been stripped of details and distracting light reflections. As a result, the structures stand out. Long before chip-shop culture was recognised as national heritage, Houben captured the phenomenon’s formal impact in dozens of canvases. Art mirrors a lot of things, but not reality.
Gillis Houben, Frituur Oud-Heverlee [Chip Shop in Oud-Heverlee], 1999, oil on canvas, 82.4 × 92.4 cm
CONSUMERISM
After World War II, Europe underwent reconstruction. New technologies and market models flooded the continent. Television became a fixture in every living room. Mass consumption became the norm. To market and sell all the new products worldwide, advertising was needed, lots of advertising. Pop art artists such as Andy Warhol (1928–1987), Roy Lichtenstein (1923–1997) and Keith Haring (1958–1990) were happy to lend a hand. They admired as much as they criticised the burgeoning consumer culture. With his repetitive Campbell soup cans and colourful Marilyn Monroe portraits, Warhol appropriated the language of the new visual culture. Coming from the world of advertising, he knew how it worked. Warhol asked questions, inspiring a whole generation of artists, including Jean-Michel Basquiat (1960–1988) and Haring, who also smuggled the visual language of the street into the museum.
Belgian-Croatian artist Hana Miletić (b. 1982) also addresses the phenomenon of mass consumption in Materials – Konzum Supermarket, Zagreb. Konzum was the largest supermarket chain in Croatia, a country that found its individual character after the break-up of Yugoslavia. Konzum grew out of the ruins of the socialist ideal. Miletić’s ten-metre-long and four-metre-high textile work is a life-size replica of a piece of fabric the artist found on the construction site of one of the supermarkets. She wove the work by hand. Her method contrasts with industrial mass production.
