Gemito and Mathilde Duffaud – ‘Not Made for Financial Gain.’

Introduction – Vincenzo Gemito and Mathilde Duffaud

Mathilde Duffaud, la parigina, was Gemito’s first love—the first profound adult attachment of a foundling child. He met her in 1873 while living with his adoptive parents in the Palazzo del Mojariello in Capodimonte. Mathilde lived on the floor above with the French antiquarian Duhamel. Already known as a model for Antonio Mancini, she was initially approached by Gemito for the same purpose. In time, however, their relationship evolved into a deep mutual affection.

Mathilde was a serene beauty, nine years his senior, with brown hair, large black eyes, and a sweet smile. He, by contrast, was a mercurial young artist in his early twenties, already displaying the emotional intensity that would later overwhelm him—un artista folle of great talent.

According to the scholar and biographer Ottavio Morisani, Mathilde exerted a benevolent influence on both Gemito’s character and his career, encouraging him to pursue further artistic development in Paris. He moved there in March 1877, and she joined him in August. Their time in Paris, however, was marked by hardship—financial difficulties and the worsening of Mathilde’s health. She suffered from a serious illness—possibly a tumour or tuberculosis, as reported in different secondary sources—and eventually required emergency surgery.

In 1880, the couple returned to Naples for good. The following year they relocated to the Villa Galante in Herculaneum, hoping that the healthier environment might aid her recovery. Despite these efforts, Mathilde died there in 1881.

Gemito’s drawings and sculptures of Mathilde offer a rare opportunity to explore the intersection of profound personal feeling and artistic creation. They also serve as an introduction to the early phase of one of the most important Italian artists of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Referring to a group of drawings from the Minozzi collection, two scholars—writing independently—observe that the studies were “not made for financial gain.” This same sincerity and personal investment runs through all the works that will be considered here.

Two profiles to begin with…

(Credit: see below.)

In the introduction to the exhibition catalogue Temi di Vincenzo Gemito, there is a small reproduction of a drawing by the artist that shows his profile alongside that of Mathilde. The profiles are arranged so that they are very slightly staggered—like the edges of two playing cards shifted between thumb and fingers. The faces of the two lovers remain visible as distinct entities, separated by only the slightest difference. A reverse movement might momentarily align them in perfect tessellation, before one image dissolves into the other.

The exhibition’s curator, Bruno Mantura, offers another metaphor for this delicate boundary between individuality and mutual absorption: the lineaments of the couple, he suggests, seem to “emerge, as if out of a process of distillation.”

Love Lost.

(Image credit: Gallerie d’Italia, Napoli.)

Gemito’s powerful and haunting Self-portrait with Mathilde Duffaud commands attention like no other representation of her. The biographer Ottavio Morisani (1936) interpreted the mood of the drawing as one in which Gemito appears “inert,” while Duffaud is “no longer woman nor flesh,” having become something inspirational—an “ideal.” Once we are aware of the biographical context, the drawing conveys an unmistakable sense of loss.

Though Gemito signed and dated the front of the drawing in 1909, this is almost certainly a later addition made for the art market. Supporting this, the reverse of the sheet bears the inscription: In Ercolano / 1881 Villa Galanti / Palazzo Sforzi. Gemito. Catalogue entries by Isabella Valente (2023) and Rosanna Naclerio (2009) both suggest 1880–1881 as the most likely period of execution, with Valente favouring 1880 as closer to Mathilde’s death.

There is some variation in the literature regarding the materials used. Some catalogue entries describe it as pen and watercolour, while others specify red chalk and watercolour (sanguigna acquerellata). In either case, Gemito achieves striking emotional and atmospheric impact through the combination of a red or sepia warmth with tenebrous chiaroscuro and delicate sfumato effects.

Even a viewer unfamiliar with the drawing’s context would likely be struck by the energy of the scene. Gemito appears as an intense figure, marked by a guarded detachment that discourages intrusion. There is a sense that his calm holds something taut and volatile—an inner unrest. Behind him, Mathilde appears elevated and serene. Only her head and high collar are rendered, which enhances her sense of aloofness and self-possession, as our gaze is drawn upward. The absence of her torso is compensated by dark shading to the right of her head; the right side of her face merges into this shadow. The blank space flanking the figures compresses the scene, magnifying the emotional intensity of their portraits.

Though Mathilde is placed behind Gemito in the composition, her presence is not diminished. On the contrary, she seems to possess a graceful air of authority. Her look encompasses more, enveloping both her partner and any viewer who might be watching. Gemito almost certainly used a mirror to make this drawing, and with that in mind, we realise that the couple are not only looking out—they are also looking at each other. Even if Mathilde’s likeness was rendered after her death, her gaze can still be read as looking back at him.

The couple appear intertwined and self-contained, facing the world as one. While Mathilde is the more composed of the two, she shares something of Gemito’s dark charisma: she is part of it—and, by extension, they are part of each other.

Gemito’s right shoulder is angled forward dynamically, as if his drawing hand is about to re-engage with the paper while he watches himself in the mirror. If the drawing was created after Mathilde’s death, it nonetheless radiates a powerful magnetism. Its realisation may have been sustained by heartfelt memory, supported by earlier drawings and terracotta sculptures.

There is a strange, oneiric vitality to this work, and the intimacy of their bond is palpable.

Drawings from the Minozzi Collection

What kind of observer was Gemito?

Most of the drawings of Mathilde from the Minozzi collection are in pen and ink, or pen and ink and watercolour. Some were realised with very rapid strokes and many seem to have been completed quickly, as if Gemito was trying to capture the essence of a moment. Morisani describes the obsessive way in which he watched and documented Mathilde, suggesting that he had the ‘cruel curiosity of a surgeon’ and portrayed her in ‘continuous’ and ‘insistent’ studies. He suggested that all this was in the search for a ‘definitive form’ of her.

After reading these words of Morisani, it is hard to look at the vigorous drawings in the Minozzi collection without recalling Gemito’s notorious temper. Pen and ink lines can be severe and sharp, especially when the use of watercolour is minimal. They can seem more wire than flesh and appear like some electrical storm of creativity.

(Detail of Gemito’s energetic hatching, credit: see below.)

This sense of sharpness is increased when we remember Gemito’s ruthless capacity to document realistic detail. His pencil drawing of Anna Cutolo (whom he married after Mathilde’s death), named in catalogues as Anna Morente, is a case in point. The picture shows Anna looking like a weak and wounded animal. She has an abdomen swollen with liquid, the consequence of a sarcoma, and yet she is being asked to sit as a model. Bruno Mantura felt that Gemito, in this context, may have followed Anna’s decline with the ‘attention of a cold and angry observer.’ In this situation, it is not so much the fact that Anna is ill, but the uncomfortable position she is in—a pose that strips her of dignity and exposes the full extent of her condition.

(Credit: see below.)

Looking back to the seventeenth century, a pen and ink drawing attributed to Rembrandt, A Sick Woman Lying in Bed, Possibly Saskia (Petit Palais, c. 1635–40), offers another intensely personal and realistic study of the illness of a loved one. The work directly conveys the dejected and weary nature of the subject, though in a more compassionate way. While there is an inevitable sense of detachment—as the artist observes rather than shares in the experience—the woman’s distress is primarily expressed through her facial features and the position of her hands. At the very least, she is shown lying down, covered, and as comfortable as possible.

Coincidentally, in a drawing of 1886, Gemito portrayed Anna in a reclining pose and also added white—though to her face. However, current scholarship suggests that Anna was not ill in this work, and that her pallor in the portrait may have been due to Gemito’s mental state at the time, as well as his own personal artistic taste. (See Cat. 24 in Carrera et al. (2023).)

(Credits: Wikimedia Commons.)

Gemito was a man of extremes and his numerous drawings of Mathilde might testify to his intense and obsessive nature. Although it was Anna who cared for him during the darkest periods of his mental illness, his volatility must also have been evident during his relationship with Mathilde. His difficult temperament extended to his friendships as well. In an 1878 letter, the painter Antonio Mancini accused him of taking the best from their relationship while giving back only an “impossible character.” One account from Schettini, cited by Hiesinger (2007), even claims that Gemito physically assaulted Mancini, attempting to strangle him, after which Mancini feared being left alone with him. The altercation reportedly stemmed from Mancini breaking a mutual agreement: they had pledged not to sell works without each other’s approval, nor at low prices. Mancini, however, had sold some paintings to buy food—for himself and his companions.

While it seems reasonable to intuit (or at least project) traces of agitation and irascibility in some of the leaner, and more tempestuous of the Minozzi drawings, this should not be taken too far. Gemito brings a softness and sensitivity into some of the pictures of Mathilde through the use of shading, as well as through the inclusion of finely rendered detail and psychological and emotional elements. Beyond this, we have one or two works in pencil which bring us closer to the realisation of a rounder and more tactile quality which can be found in his terracotta busts of Mathilde.

(Credits: see below.)

The drawings selected above are among the most atmospheric in the collection; they are acutely sensitive and seem to capture Gemito’s fascination and love for Mathilde very well. The work on the far right is in pencil.

The inspiration for the use of pen, ink and wash must have come from the influence of Morelli and Mariano Fortuny. Looking at the works below, we can see similarities of approach in all three artists, in the style of the hatching and the massing out of darker areas with blots, brushes or smears of ink.

[Image credits: Left Mariano Fortuny, Cecilia de Madrazo Playing the Piano (Wikimedia commons)/ Centre: Vicenzo Gemito, Mathilde Seated (see below)/ Right: Domenico Morelli, The Artist’s Daughter Eleonora Reclining on a Chaise Longue (Wikimedia Commons).]

However, Fortuny’s work is more finely wrought and complete, both in composition and in the realization of detail. In contrast, Gemito and Morelli appear to have worked more quickly, aiming for a rapid overall impression and focusing closely only on selected areas of particular interest. In their drawings more generally, some parts tend to taper off or are left entirely void. While this is, of course, a limited comparison, it does suggest that Morelli was more attuned to immediacy than to Fortuny’s control and finesse—and that Gemito adopted a similar approach to drawing.

While Gemito’s drawings confirm Morisani’s assertion that he studied Mathilde frequently and relentlessly as she went about her life, many seem to sketch out her overall presence, rather than pursuing specific detail. For example, if she is drawn engaged in an activity, then the dynamics or detail of that activity may not be clearly defined, but rather lost in a tangle of suggestive lines and shading: we can see this in the work below, Mathilde al lavoro (GDS 2826).

(Credit: see below.)

Gemito’s overall artistic legacy contains many drawings which study energy and anatomy, especially those made in his classicising phase. As such, they also resemble the investigations of master draftsmen from the Renaissance and Baroque periods. However, these drawings of Mathilde are profoundly personal and seem to be concerned with recording her presence and its fascination, rather than trying to capture a specific physical dynamic, or perfect aspects of anatomical detail. The overall feeling is intimate and domestic.

It is possible, if not likely, that these drawings contributed to an overall awareness of Mathilde that served his sculptures of her. Notwithstanding this, they are not serial preparatory drawings which investigate details of physiognomic representation, or even study arrangements in composition, for a final project. To a large extent she is both the subject and the goal. He wants to capture her presence in time, for himself.

As suggested by an earlier comparison, we find ourselves in emotional territory reminiscent of Rembrandt’s pen and ink drawings of Saskia—such as Saskia Asleep in Bed, housed in the Ashmolean Museum, Oxford. Rembrandt’s drawings of Saskia, like Gemito’s drawings of Mathilde, document a private world, and a relationship within that world, which is passing ineluctably.

(Credit: Wikimedia Commons.)

In an essay by John Berger, Go Ask the Time, there is an analogy that parallels the nature of these domestic studies. Although it concerns storytelling, it also speaks to the character of the drawings:

Everyone knows that stories are simplifications. To tell a story is to select. Only in this way can a story be given a form and so be preserved. If you tell a story about somebody you love, a curious thing happens. The storyteller is like a dressmaker cutting a pattern out of cloth. You cut from the cloth as fully and intelligently as possible. Inevitably there are narrow strips and awkward triangles which cannot be used – which have no place in the form of the story. Suddenly you realize it is those strips, those useless remnants, which you love most. Because the heart wants to retain all.

These drawings are not honed projects—they are fragments which are valuable in themselves. Like the remnants in Berger’s analogy, they are the carefully chosen pieces cut from a larger, ungraspable whole. What they preserve is partial, shaped by affection and attention, and by the limits of what can be held onto. In their quiet specificity, they offer not the full story, but something more intimate: a sense of what it means to try to hold on to a life as it constantly moves beyond reach.

Another interesting aspect of the Minozzi drawings is the paper upon which they are drawn and some light on this subject has been shed by Simonetta Funel, see (Capobianco and Mamone, 2014). Among the published reproductions of his drawings listed below are drawings on squared (account book) paper, lined paper and a page from the Bible, The Epistles to the Hebrews, XI. The Minozzi collection has a number of drawings of Mathilde on pages from the Bible and the possible connotation of devotion derived from associating the paper with its subject cannot be easily dismissed.

(Credits: see below.)

The incorporation of such a variety of types of paper opens up some obvious questions. We wonder whether he was economising, or laying his hands upon whatever was available when he felt the need to draw. While this might have been the case in some instances, it certainly could not have been the rule. The reason we know this is that some of the sheets he used were rare and selected for the quality associated with their age. For example, his famous drawing Scorfano, in the Gallerie d’Italia of Naples, was on manuscript paper from the 18th century.

(Credit: Wikimedia Commons.)

Once we see one element of choice at work, we are entitled to speculate whether he even liked the way that more everyday types of paper responded to ink. The safest approach is probably to assume that a mixture of accident and design played a part in the process of selection. In terms of intentional connection, Simonetta Funel found a photograph of a drawing of Anna, portrayed as Trinacria, on a geographical map of Sicily from 1770.

There is an accidental consequence to seeing that Gemito exercised his talents on everyday paper: when an artist creates something extraordinary on the most ordinary surface, it serves as a reminder that true talent comes from within. Such skill can be summoned wherever and whenever it is needed, as long as the artist’s energy and skill endure. Clare Robertson has noted how Annibale Carracci often offered small studies as payment in kind, even to people of humble origins. One example is his Head of an Old Woman (early 1590s) in the Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge, which was painted on a sheet of old accounts—visible beneath the thin layer of paint. Similarly, Carlo Siviero recounts how Gemito, finding himself in the Villa Farnesina without paper, spontaneously made sketches after Raphael on lottery slips, demonstrating the same kind of improvisation and resourcefulness.

(Credit: The Fitzwilliam Museum.)

Gemito ‘in pieces’ over Mathilde?

There are two small bronze heads of Mathilde by Gemito which, while tenderly rendered, are disturbing in their suggestion of decapitation. One of the two bronze sculptures is set on a bronze cushion which has simulations of creases and bumps to create an air of realism. The other is perched on a marble plinth.

(Image credits: see below.)

We can attempt to explain away the sense of brutal severance evident in such shoulder-less, and practically neckless, representations through an appeal to cultural allusions and precedents. As the catalogue entry for Gemito (2009) has suggested, artists traditionally focused on anatomical fragments, or made plaster casts, in preparation for sculptures and paintings, as well as working on them as studies in their own right.

One example might be Géricault’s Study of Feet and Hands (Musée Fabre), cited below. Similarly, Rodin used plaster casts in preparation for his sculptures and also created finished studies of paired hands to explore their expressive potential. A bronze cast of Rodin’s The Cathedral is also included below.

(Credits: Gericault – Web Gallery of Art/ Rodin – Wikipedia.)

Italian religious art has a tradition of depicting headless saints. In a different but thematically related context, 19th century drama and opera also explored scenes of decapitation—for example, Schiller and Donizetti, both of whom visited Naples, dramatised the fates of Mary Stuart and Anne Boleyn.

Appealing to cultural tradition does not, however, diminish the possibility that intense emotion influenced this choice. In her study The Body in Pieces, Linda Nochlin explores how bodily fragmentation preoccupies Western art from the 18th to the 20th centuries. When discussing Gericault’s Severed Heads of 1818, she observes that they “foreground…the absolute abjectness of these subjects.”

(Credit: Benjamin Blake Evemy.)

This insight can be applied, with some modification, to Gemito’s small bronze heads of Mathilde. Unlike Gericault’s heads, which convey abject poverty, suffering, and execution, Mathilde’s expression is tender rather than tormented. This contrast underscores the tragic and premature nature of her death, expressing the abjectness of losing someone beautiful and beloved too soon.

Another work that shares this macabre subject is Paul Gauguin’s 1892 painting Arii Matamoe (The Royal End). Although this work post-dates Gemito’s sculpture and therefore could not have influenced him, it may have been inspired by Gauguin witnessing an execution in Paris as a youth. The use of the guillotine in France was frequent in the 1850s and 1860s and had a widespread impact on the European psyche; moreover, this gruesome method of administering justice endured for decades. The last public execution by guillotine in France occurred in 1939, the last execution in France took place in 1977, and the death penalty was only abolished in 1981. In any case, the dramatic impact of Gauguin’s work is captured well by Elizabeth Childs: “The visage is as horrific as it is legible, for it is a severed head placed on a white pillow that sets it off with shuddering clarity” (see Homburg and Riopelle eds. Ottawa, 2019, p.146).

(Credit: Wikimedia Commons).

Returning to the particular nuances of our subject, the tender repose of Mathilde’s half-closed eyes and the human warmth captured in her face and hairstyle are cruelly contrasted by her bodiless state, which transforms her into an image of lifelessness and irrevocable loss. As Nochlin observes, the vertical form represents the “axis of beauty,” and to lose this verticality is, symbolically, to lose dignity. Reducing the human form to a horizontal fragment is de-sublimatory. In these small sculptures, love, beauty, bitter loss, and haunting memory coexist simultaneously, creating a poignant tension that lingers with the viewer.

Another work by Gemito seems to reinforce this interpretation. After Anna Cutolo’s death, he sculpted a Neapolitan water jug, a mummara, with a disembodied hand reaching around its handle. This domestic object, likely symbolizing everyday life and nurture, bears two inscriptions: on the front, “Nannina,” and on the back, “so’ lacreme d’ammore e nun e acqua” (“these are tears of love, not water”). Arguably, all three sculptures are powerful expressions of lacerating grief and loss—they are sculture strazianti.

(Image credit: see below)

The extreme isolation of Mathilde’s head may also serve an idealising function, akin to Rodin’s sculpture Thought (c. 1895), which portrays the head of his student and fellow sculptor Camille Claudel. Originally titled Thought Emerging from Matter, Rodin’s work emphasised the idea that carving reveals an intuitive form latent within the material—and, by extension, within the artist. Similarly, Gemito’s focus on Mathilde’s head perhaps highlights it as the most expressive site of her inner life. This emphasis on the ‘seat of thought’ aligns with the purpose of a memorial: to capture not just physical likeness, but a more enduring, abstract presence.

Claudel later suffered from mental illness, and it is possible that the sculptures of both Rodin and Gemito emerged from a shared atmosphere of psychological intensity—marked by turmoil, loss, and perhaps even remorse. In Rodin’s case, the sense of loss stemmed not from bereavement, as with Gemito and Mathilde, but from the breakdown of his romantic relationship with Claudel.

(Image credit: Web Gallery of Art.)

Gemito often plays with the tension between completeness and incompleteness in his sculpture. His Mask of the Emperor Alexander loses the upper part of Alexander the Great’s head, including the characteristic hairstyle (l’anastolé) associated with his representation. This fragmentary treatment gives the statue a feeling of authenticity, although, ironically, his likely sources—the Rondanini sculpture and the Alexander as Helios from the Musei Capitolini—both have complete heads.

Conversely, in a study of Psyche, Gemito adds the upper part of the cranium, which was missing from his antique model, and masterfully includes flowing hair tied at the back of the head. Similarly, in a terracotta bust of his wife Anna, a Hellenistic vein is accentuated by leaving a broken finish on the left side of the base. As Cinzia Virno has observed, this detail lends the piece an air of antiquity.

The nature and degree of finish were, therefore, deliberate elements of Gemito’s artistic repertoire. Even a cursory glance at his portrait sculptures reveals variations in the length of his subjects’ necks, the style, angle, and definition of their shoulders, and the extent of broken-edged finishes. However, none of the works I have encountered are as severely cropped as the small sculptures of Mathilde’s head. These fragmented portraits, at the very least, arrest the viewer’s attention, disrupt the expectation of a complete form, and compel us to pause.

Feeling whole…

As a counterbalance to the proto-modernist rhetoric of fragmentation, we can look at some of the very human and tactile terracotta works that Gemito made of Mathilde. One terracotta portrait from 1879 depicts her in what appears to be a peignoir, with an elaborate appliqué dress underneath. The graceful vertical line of her robe is accentuated by the lace trim lining the gown’s closure. This work showcases Gemito’s skill in rendering surface texture, fine detail, and flow in sculpture. Mathilde’s face here is extremely gentle and slightly wistful.

(Credit: Artnet.)

A terracotta bust of Mathilde from 1872 conveys a similar wistfulness, enhanced by the hollowing of the eyes and the slightly open mouth. Here, her face emerges in smooth clarity from the undulating surfaces of her hair and dress, which blend defined elements with areas that seem to recede into an undefined organic texture.

(Credit: see below.)

Another bust, dated 1877, shows Mathilde with a smile that seems to mask physical strain. The curve of the smile echoes other traversing lines—such as that of her shawl—and coordinates with the slight tilt of her head. Once again, skilful hollowing and shaping create chiaroscuro effects and recreate textures, notably the lace detail in her high collar. The swirl of her shawl adds a note of realism, giving the impression of a very personal, intimate moment.

A pastel by Degas, Portrait of a Woman Wearing a Green Blouse (c.1884), while completed seven years later, makes for interesting comparison; it captures a gentle melancholy, which is similar to Gemito’s sculptures of Mathilde.

(Credits: Gemito, see below/ Degas, Artchive.)

To conclude, I would like to share a quotation from Conversation with My Sculpture (Colloquio con la mia scultura), a poem by the Sicilian artist Emilio Greco (1913–2013). Its delicate evocation of captured beauty and timelessness aligns with Gemito’s tender and intimate portrayals of Mathilde:

I have stopped this moment of your beauty
To have you alone with me, companion of my thoughts
It seems you have flown out from the depths of the earth,
Like a spring,
And the path of the centuries has barely brushed
Your cheeks…

Emilio Greco in his studio.

(Credit: Edarcom Europa.)

Producing these articles requires care, time, research, and resources. Contributions to help sustain this exploration would be greatly appreciated.

https://donorbox.org/inner-surfaces-resonances-in-art-and-literature-837503

(General note on image credits – where there were no online reproductions available, I made photographs from books. The published images of Mathilde that I have consulted in research, and in some instances have photographed, are listed beneath the bibliography. I hope that these citations and the educational/not-for-profit status of the article suffice, otherwise I can make amendments as necessary.)

Bibliography

Bellenger, S. (ed.) Napoli Ottocento. Milano, 2024.

Berger, J., Go Ask the Time: https://granta.com/go-ask-the-time/ (accessed, Wed 4 June, 2025.)

Carrera, M. (et al.) Antonio Mancini/ Vicenzo Gemito. Milano, 2023.

Capobianco, F. and Mormone, M. (eds.) Vincenzo Gemito – dal salotto minozzi al museo capodimonte. Napoli, 2014.

Di Giacomo, S., Gemito: la vita, l’opera. Napoli, 2023.

Esposito, D. and Panzetta, A. (eds.) Gemito e la scultura a Napoli tra Otto e Novecento. Naples, 2012.

Farge, C. (et al.) Rodin and the Art of Ancient Greece. London, 2018.

Hiesinger, U., Antonio Mancini, 19th Century Master. Philadelphia, 2007.

Homburg, C. and Riopelle, C (eds.) Gaugin Portraits. Ottowa, 2019.

Mantura, B., Temi di Vincenzo Gemito. Roma, 1989.

Marasco, W., Il Genio dell’Abbandono. Vicenza, 2015.

Martorelli, L. and Mazzoca, F. (eds.) Da De Nittis a Gemito. Genova, 2017.

Morisani, O., Vita di Gemito. Napoli, 1936.

Nocentini, G., Vincenzo Gemito – sculture e disegni. Pesaro, 2001.

Pagano, M., Gemito. Milano, 2009.

Robertson, C., The Invention of Annibale Carracci. Milano, 2008.

Virno, C. (ed.) Vincenzo Gemito: la collezione. Roma, 2014.

(NB. The text of poem by Greco, Colloquio con la mia scultura, was photographed by me, at Greco’s permanent exhibition in Catania.)

Illustrations of Gemito’s pictures of Mathilde available in books:

Minozzi drawings – Capobianco and Mormone (2014).

Mathilde in giardino: inchiostro e acquerello, GDS 2836, p.46.

L’ombra di Mathilde: inchiostro a penna e aquerellato, GDS 2617, p.48.

Mathilde che legge: inchiostro a penna e acquerellato, GDS 2618, p.48.

Mathilde sofferente, firmato ‘V.Gemito’: inchiostro a penna e acquerellato, GDS 2778, p.49.

Mathilde allo specchio: inchiostro a penna e acquerellato, 2811, p.101.

Mathilde al Lavoro: inchiostro a penna e acquerellato, GDS 2826, p.109.

Mathilde, firmato ‘Gemito’: inchiostro a penna e acquerellato su carta quadrettata, GDS 2825, p.110.

Mathilde: matita, GDS 2822, p.112.

Mathilde di profilo: inchiostro a penna e acquerellato, GDS 2671, 117.

Mathilde di profilo: inchiostro a penna e acquerellato su carta stampata, GDS 2852, p.120.

Mathilde di profilo, firmato ‘Gemito’: inchiostro a penna e acquerellato, GDS 2637, p.128.

Mathilde in campagna: inchiostro a penna, GDS 2876, p.136.

Mathilde seduta: inchiostro a penna e acquerellato, GDS 2818, p.137.

Mathilde: inchiostro a penna e acquerellato, GDS 2909, p.141.

Mathilde: bronzo, OA 8972, p.144.

Mantura (1989).

Gemito e Mathilde, profili, p.15.

Testina di Mathilde sul cuscino (cat.54).

Testina di Mathilde (cat.53).

Mathilde al tavolo (cat.56).

Testa di Mathilde (cat.60).

Ritratto di Mathilde ammalata (cat.62).

Mathilde che ricama (cat. 57).

Pagano (2009).

Autoritratto con Mathilde, sanguigna e acquerellata, firmato ‘V. Gemito 1909,’ p.255.

Testina di Mathilde sul cuscino, bronzo, p. 232.

Busto di Mathilde, terracotta (Milano) pp.124-125.

Mathilde che legge/Mathilde in poltrona/ Mathilde sofferente/ Mathilde in giardino/ L’ombra di Mathilde, pp. 229-231.

Martorelli and Mazocca (2017).

Busto di Mathilde, terracotta (Monaco) p.170.

Ritratto di Mathilde, terracotta (Collezione privata) p.61.

Carrera (2023)

Autoritratto con Mathilde, sanguigna e acquerellata, firmato ‘V. Gemito 1909,’ pp. 122-123.

Antonio Mancini – Hunger and Fame (la fame e la fama).

‘…a dodici anni mi recai a Napoli, dove rimasi fino ad adulto. Io giunsi a Napoli in pessimo arnese. La fame era allora molta, ma scarsa la fama…’

‘…at twelve years old, I went to Naples, where I stayed until adulthood. I arrived in Naples in terrible shape. At the time, there was a lot of hunger, but little fame…’

(Quoted Virno (2019) vol. 2. 503.)

Lo scugnizzo, 1868 (Private collection) offers us an excellent introduction to Antonio Mancini (1852-1930); it is a noteworthy work of his early Neapolitan phase, prior to his first visit to Paris in 1875.

This was Mancini’s first large-scale painting and it was significant enough to draw his teachers, Filippo Palizzi and Stanislao Lista, to his improvised loft studio, part of the family home in Vico Majorana in Naples. Domenico Morelli must also have seen Lo scugnizzo and it is to this work that Dario Cecchi connects Morelli’s Neapolitan dialectal exclamation, ‘A’ stu schugnizzu dico bene, nun saccio pròpete che l’aggiu ‘cchiù a ‘mparà’, indicating that he no longer knew what to teach his talented pupil.

The painting, realised in Mancini’s sixteenth year, is certainly a testament to his precocious talent. It seems to capture the formative emotional experiences of his youth and to mark a definitive point of departure for a significant body of works which were to follow. Dario Cecchi (1918-1992) wrote an excellent biography of Mancini which allows us to see how the artist’s impoverished early years can give sense and depth to this distinctive masterpiece.

There can be no doubt about the importance of autobiographical understanding here when we know that, in later life, Mancini himself said, ‘Lo Scugnizzo ero io’, ‘I was the urchin.’ In this powerful affirmation he was also indirectly revealing his lifelong feeling of inferiority in the presence of the wealthy. The antiquarian Augusto Jandolo recalled Mancini saying, ‘Vulgarity is often the daughter of poverty, and poverty has always been my closest relative.’

The overall importance of this work is underscored by the fact that the Mancini family made a number of attempts to buy it back; Antonio’s nephew finally managed to purchase it in 1920. When the artist saw it again, he declared how he painted it in a loft at the age of 16 when he was famished. (…Avevo sedici anni: l’ho fatto dentro una soffita, con una fame!…)

Mancini and Morelli; capturing emotion on canvas.

In outline, the painting depicts the life-size image of an out-of-place street urchin (scugnizzo), dressed in rags, standing in a fashionable bar, beside the discarded remains of a party. The essential polarity created is therefore between poverty and wealth: a poor boy contrasts with objects from a world of careless indulgence.

Among the various achievements in Mancini’s painting that would have appealed to Morelli must have been the way in which it realises an intense emotionality. At the end of his Roman residency, Morelli was required to produce a showcase work. Among the requirements that led to Gli Iconoclasti (The Iconoclasts) (1855), was that it should convey an intense emotion, a ‘martyrdom of the soul.’

In order to convey such truthful feeling, Morelli entered the emotions of his historical subjects through imagining characters in his own time. Thus, the Byzantine monk and painter St. Lazarus (who was persecuted during the iconoclastic period of the 8th and the 9th centuries) was imagined as a ‘young liberal,’ while the role of a brutal executor was realised through contemplation of ‘the character type of a policeman.’ This anecdote illustrates Morelli’s defining combination of fantasy and realism.

The emotional drama of Morelli’s ‘Gli iconoclasti.’

(Credit: Wikipedia)

But Mancini did not need to find such means for imaginative empathy. He was a poor and hungry youth and he had been a poor and hungry child. When very young, he witnessed infant mortality in the orphanage run by his aunt Chiara in Narni. Moreover, in the Naples of the Ottocento, he would have been surrounded by the poverty, neglect and exploitation of children.

On the subject of hope and a precarious childhood.

Mancini was an earnest student, but one dependent on education where and when he could find it. He found it with the religious orders of the Scolopi (Piarists) in Narni and the Gerolomini in Naples. He must have hoped to find progress and stability through these opportunities and, in relation to this, there are further traces of his childhood experience in another work, completed a year before Lo scugnizzo.

Fanciullo napoletano (Neapolitan Boy) was finished in 1867 [See, Virno 2019, cat.13]. This is a representation of an innocent boy ready to leave for school with a bundle of books, and a flower stem in bloom, under his arm. There were to be other, later works, of young students with books; the theme was obviously close to his heart. When he painted Lo scugnizzo Mancini had both talent and the motivation for success but nevertheless, this might not have been enough.

Dutiful towards his teachers (and mindful of the expectations that his parents were investing in his talent) he was also in an extremely uncertain situation. Anyone who has read works by Charles Dickens, and knows anything about the author’s childhood, could quickly imagine Mancini’s circumstances at the age of sixteen. The relics of a party in Mancini’s painting are like the brightly lit and food-laden windows of A Christmas Carol to London’s poor: the abundance is alluring, within apparent reach, but ultimately inaccessible. In 1865, Mancini used to loiter outside the Caffé d’Europa in Naples, in the hope that one of the painters would invite him to eat with them. ‘Sometimes [he] was invited’ he said, only to add, ‘but more often not.’

The precariousness of the young painter is the precariousness of Lo scugnizzo. There is no grand Morellian heroism here but rather the everyday pathos of a vulnerable street urchin. This mood matches the fragile uncertainty of our aspiring young artist and, in emotional terms, we are not that far from the dignity in suffering portrayed in religious works of the Neapolitan Seicento.

Talent transforming scarcity.

We can see this painting as demonstrating just how far scarcity can be elevated and transformed by talent. Tomaso Montanari’s 2016 television monograph La vera natura di Caravaggio shows us how the rich visual and emotional variations found in Caravaggio’s art in Rome were probably born in a basement studio, with a small range of props and a limited repertoire of low-cost models. In a similar act of creative magic, in his loft studio, with a model taken from the streets, Mancini elevates the dramatic status of his scugnizzo. His skill as a painter and the simple compositional choice of juxtaposing the boy with objects and décor associated with an extravagant lifestyle produces a compelling masterpiece.

Material detail and realism.

While the fabrics and the decoration of the bar are sumptuous, some of the beautifully rendered lustre and texture derives from more mundane objects, such as the discarded paper, the foil on the bottles (with their commercial labels) and the reflections in the empty glasses. In all events, beside the boy and at his feet, we have a wonderful set of effects of light and texture, as well as bravura still-life studies.

We can add to the list of skilfully depicted objects, surfaces and textures: we have padded-fabric wainscoting, studded at the top, with a frill trim at the bottom; masks and costumes; richly patterned damask wallpaper; glass seen through glass; decorated China cups, in different positions; an abandoned photograph, photographs in a magazine or newspaper, and strewn cut flowers. This is a declaration of what the young painter is capable of and we can only guess that the attention to such a range of fine realistic detail must have been a particular delight to the eyes of Filippo Palizzi.

The difficult face of child poverty.

Mancini employs a strong light, which rakes in from left to right. One consequence of this is that the most telling planes of the boy’s face are partially hidden, by being in a right profile which is retreating into shadow. What is still noticeable is that there is something delicate and detached about his expression and line of sight. The simplicity of the face allows it to catch a range of projections from the viewer, who is set an emotional challenge.

Should the admirer of this painting affirm the ephebic beauty and fragility of the boy, or should they shake themselves out of such effete aestheticism and be mobilised by the sight of social injustice? Perhaps the apparent dilemma is merely the fruit of language as, in vision, everything can reach us at once and one thing need not be separated from another.

Moreover, if we compare the scugnizzo’s expression to what Linda Nochlin calls a proto-documentary photograph from 1910, by Lewis Hine, then we might simply decide that Mancini achieved a strikingly faithful portrayal of reality. This is because Hine’s frontal portrait ‘Addie Card, 12 years old, anemic spinner in North Pownal Cotton Mill, Vermont,’ silences us in a similar way to Mancini’s painting; through its subtle and haunting representation of youthful suffering. As suggested in Auden’s poem, Musée des Beaux Arts, great tragedy is often muted by its existence within a context of indifference and daily routine.

(The photograph is in The Metropolitan Museum of Art (see link below) and is also reproduced in Nochlin, 2018, p. 106.)

https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/285844

Mancini and artistic tradition; observations on light, colour and mood.

The Seicento artistic heritage of Naples lays some claim to the colour and mood of this work of art, along with its chiaroscuro lighting discussed above.

The tonalities of the Neapolitan Baroque share the stage in this emotionally charged but finely modulated scene. There are earthy hues of red in the painting which combine with gold, yellow and white. These colours, and the boy’s sallow skin, are redolent of the seventeenth century: we can also feel the influence of Naples in Mancini’s use of Pompeian red and Pozzuoli Earth. The palette has a richness and luxury which is nonetheless tuned to a register of quiet sorrow.

There is an emotional kinship and affinity between Lo scugnizzo and the pictorial world of Bernardo Cavallino (1616-1656). I am referring to the Cavallino perceived by Raffaello Causa as an ‘evocative and anxious personality, tender, mournful and sentimental.’ A painter who confronted subjects in an ‘intimist key.’  (See Introduction in Lurie, A and Percy, A (eds.) Bloomington, 1984.) Without falling into an excess of sentimentality, we are presented with both warmth and want.

Bernardo Cavallino, La pittura: An Allegory of Painting. Collection Novelli, Naples.

(Credit: Mutual Art)

Bernardo Cavallino, Santa Cecilia (1645 ca.), Museum of Fine Arts Boston.

(Credit: Wikipedia)

Lo scugnizzo – comparative meditations on expressive posture and the statuesque.

Mancini’s street-child has an overtly statuesque quality, almost as if he is a wax figure placed in a maquette. His right profile creates a sensation of movement against the alignment of the feet, which face to the left at about 45 degrees. This is suggestive of a division in the boy’s attention; he is reticent or hesitant. It is as if the remnants of the party belong to another world that is forbidden.

There is life too in his flexed right leg, but the potential for contrapposto is not realised, as this is not a conventionally heroic, or even an especially graceful stance. In a classical, or classicizing, context one could reasonably expect a hand gesture to accompany a youth in such a flexed, asymmetrical posture. This is certainly the case with the Idolino of Pesaro and with Vincenzo Gemito’s Narciso (Narcissus) of 1886.

Idolino di Pesaro (Museo archeologico nazionale di Firenze.)

(Credit: Wikipedia.)

Gemito Vincenzo, Narciso (1886), Villa Pignatelli, Naples.

(Credit: Catalogo generale dei Beni Culturali.)

But in Lo scugnizzo all mobility and swagger has been cut short: there is no pointing or outstretched hand, no tilting hip and no eloquent void between the arm and body. Instead, the contrapposto dynamism somehow gets trapped as it travels towards his torso. Rather than energy moving out to the extremities, the fingers are interlocked and his arms hang down before him. This is not youthful cocksureness, it is rather the diffidence of an endearing but downtrodden child who looks as though he might step away in shyness at any moment. In mood we are closer to Murillo’s street-children, or the adults in Millet’s L’ Angelus.

Looking forward in time, less than a decade after Mancini’s Lo scugnizzo, Rodin offered a sculptural vision of pathos that breaks the stasis of hopelessness and rises into the torso. In his statue L’Age d’airan (first exhibited as Le Vaincu; modelled in 1876 and cast in 1906) the emotions of a vanquished adult break through into movement and gesture in the upper body. Realism here takes us into another dimension of emotional complexity and ambivalence, as we have an indeterminate awakening into what could be release, or simply mounting suffering. What feelings are innocently assimilated, and perhaps only partially comprehended, in Mancini’s child seem to have graduated into a fully embodied reaction in Rodin’s adult.

L’Age d’airan (The Age of Bronze) 1877, by Auguste Rodin. Nationalmuseum, Stockholm, Sweden. 

(Credit: Wikimedia Commons.)

True feeling in an uncertain setting.

A game of perception is played out in Mancini’s inclusion of the edges of picture frames on the red wall in his background. Including evidence of paintings is part of the lavishness of the scene but we can also see it as a device that renders the picture more real. If the world of paintings is behind the boy, then what we are seeing must be reality. However, in terms of overall composition, we are not transported into a plausible space. To make the situation feel credible, we would have to invent some form of justifying narrative. We could decide that it is about a boy who has wandered into a bar which had a party the night before; alternatively, we could call it a religious allegory about restraint, or temptation. But there is something reductive in any such invention and it is better to leave the image as puzzling and unsettling, as that is part of its power.

Nothing lasts; how Lo scugnizzo can change the way we look at Alla Dogana (The Customs).

Lo scugnizzo is painfully ephemeral. The party it alludes to has already finished, objects lie abandoned, and the revellers have gone. The artifice of the pictorial arrangement also reinforces a sense of transience: we know that it will only last for as long as the artist requires, then the real-world scugnizzo will go back to the street and any props will be packed away.

 With this in mind, it is interesting to see how the work can shift our viewing of Mancini’s Alla Dogana (The Customs) (1877). On its own, the latter work might seem to be a testimony to an age of travel, wealth, and cosmopolitan living. The Customs is certainly a picture which aims to appeal to the Parisian marketplace. The woman who sits in the painting is well-dressed, apparently self-possessed and is perched on a trunk which bears testament to her wealth and the ability to afford to travel. She is, we might think, just waiting to head off to new lands and new experiences. The room she is in has the appeal of domestic sophistication and does not resemble a customs office; it has fine, lined wallpaper, an oil painting, and a delicately crafted writing desk.

However, there is an uneasy disorder and incompleteness in the left of the canvas which might invoke an underlying sense of the precarious nature of human life; something arguably intrinsic to Mancini’s personal experience and, by extension, to his art.

https://www.nationalgallery.org.uk/paintings/antonio-mancini-adieu-paris-the-customs

Here a crate has either been opened, presumably for a customs inspection, or it has not been packed to completion. Piled together in a box and padded with old newspaper, we see a jumble of objects which, at one level, are visually more intriguing than looking at the lid of a closed crate or suitcase. There is also something dynamic and transitional about this detail which catches our attention.

However, at the same time, the objects have lost the kind of appeal that once led to their acquisition. Like the remains of the party in the Lo scugnizzo, these are objects which are out of use; they are no longer animated or given meaning through social usage. There is something sad, unrewarding and superfluous about them. The woman in the picture might be in a less enviable situation than we first thought. After all, she is quite literally spaesata (lost/ out of her familiar surroundings). She is neither at home, nor at her final destination and, in emphasis of this fact, one of the words that is visible in the newspaper packaging is déménagements.

In the setting of the painting she is in some kind of holding place. The ambiguous room, somewhere between a customs office and a living room, is ultimately a studio construct. This study could be a return to, and a reworking of, the feelings of the displaced, socially excluded, and vulnerable child in Lo scugnizzo.

Moreover, if we accept Hiesinger’s conjecture that the model in this painting is Mathilde Duffaud, Vincenzo Gemito’s first love, then we are in unsettled circumstances. (The idea is plausible, as the model strongly resembles Gemito’s two bronze heads of Mathilde, one on a cast cushion and the other on a plinth.) Mathilde would have just arrived in Paris by the end of 1877, the year of the painting, to be reunited with Gemito. She had an illness that was to necessitate the couple’s return to Naples in 1880 and by 1881 she had passed away in Herculaneum. An awareness of both the alienation in Lo scugnizzo and the biographical reality of Mathilde’s ill health, and her impending return to Naples, destabilises and complicates our understanding of what we are seeing.

Conclusion: a studio misère and the inspiration and heroism of childhood.

Linda Nochlin’s study of the visual representation of misère in the nineteenth century opens with a definition of the term by a young French sociologist, Eugène Buret. He argues that misère is distinct from poverty as it is a ‘pain felt morally’, and its ‘pain penetrates to the moral sense.’ Buret’s qualification is highly relevant to Lo scugnizzo which probes a viewer’s moral and emotional core.

While parts of Nochlin’s study of nineteenth-century art offer some possibility of parallels with Mancini, most notably the chapter on the artist Fernand Pelez (1848-1913), most of the images considered deal with small groups of the urban poor and the rural poor; people in the streets and in the fields. There is also an examination of representations of the Great Irish Famine (also known as the Great Hunger) which occurred between 1845 and 1852. The images of this extensive tragedy are considered to be the paradigmatic example of nineteenth-century misery.

Within this great social sweep of urbanisation, industrialisation and poverty there were also more intimate representations of struggle and social difference; more intimate domains, such as brothels, cafés, music halls and dance studios. Mancini’s Lo scugnizzo offers his own microcosm for the age; a studio misère, a solitary study of psychological and dramatic intensity realised with a poetic refinement. It is a work of great originality and sensibility, innovative and apt for its time, while still influenced by tradition.

Wordsworth’s short poem of 1802 My Heart Leaps Up declares that ‘The child is father of the man.’ The same poem also connects a sensibility for beauty with the state of childhood. There is a similar idea in Baudelaire’s The Painter of Modern Life where he declares that ‘genius is no more than childhood recaptured at will.’ He also refers to ‘that stare animal-like in its ecstasy, which all children have when confronted with something new.’ Mancini’s precocious talent enabled him to articulate his genius while still close to the youth which was its source. His own childhood and an empathy for the scugnizzi that modelled for him are of seminal importance in his art, as are the sentiments that both he and they embodied. Mancini’s Lo scugnizzo is part of that understated nineteenth-century heroism in art; one which stood apart from the accoutrements of status and glory and chose instead to be rooted in contemporary social reality. It is a heroism that might simply be the maintenance of a dignity of being. Here, the boy’s quiet forbearance is innocent, devoid of reaction and reproach: such qualities will need to come from the concern of the viewer.

Producing these articles requires care, time, research, and resources. Contributions to help sustain this exploration would be greatly appreciated.

https://donorbox.org/inner-surfaces-resonances-in-art-and-literature-837503

Bibliography

(I have been reliant on the following texts but any errors and infelicities are my own.)

Baudelaire, C., The Painter of Modern Life, trans. P. E. Charvet. London, 1972.

Bellenger, S. (ed.) Napoli Ottocento. Milano, 2024.

Carrera, M. (et al.) Antonio Mancini/ Vicenzo Gemito. Milano, 2023.

Cecchi, D., Antonio Mancini. Torino, 1966.

Hiesinger, U., Antonio Mancini, 19th Century Master. Philadelphia, 2007.

Lurie, A and Percy, A (eds.) Bernardo Cavallino of Naples (1616-1656). Bloomington, 1984.

Martorelli, L. (ed.) Domenico Morelli e il suo tempo. Napoli, 2005.

Nochlin, L. Misère: The Visual Representation of Misery in the 19th Century. London, 2018.

Nochlin, L., Realism. London, 1971.

Valente, I. ‘Verità, spiritualità e mito. L’opera di Domenico Morelli’ in Napoli Ottocento (ed.) Bellenger, S., Milano, 2024.

Virno, C., Antonio Mancini, catalogo ragionato dell’opera 2 voll. Roma, 2019.

(Feature image credit (Mancini’s self-portrait) – Antonacci Lappicirella Fine Art: https://www.alfineart.com/about-us/ )

(The Scugnizzo has also been alternatively named as follows: Ama il prossimo tuo come te stesso/ Miiseria e stravizio/ Lendemain de fête/ Il terzo comandamento/ Fremito di desiderio/ Desideri.)

Giuseppe Casciaro (1861-1941) –an introduction with context.


Giuseppe Casciaro’s first lessons were with Paolo Emilio Stasi from Spongano in Puglia. As Stasi’s artistic importance, and hence his influence on Casciaro, seems a little understated in the literature, it is worth emphasising that he was a versatile painter who captured various aspects of the people and landscapes of Salento. Vito Carbonara justly refers to Stasi as ‘eclectic’ and ‘brilliant.’ Images from works exhibited in the Museo Castromediano of Lecce, help us to discern something of the culture passed on to Casciaro.


The following link offers three images of Stasi’s work, the image below included:

https://www.valerioterragno.it/artisti-salentini/183-stasi-paolo-emilio


Stasi’s commitment to his locale also extended to archaeological work, such as the Grotta Romanelli, a palaeolithic site near Castro. This comprised a single room about seven metres above sea level with an adjoining tunnel, which yielded hundreds of artefacts. Castro, more relevantly to our focus here, was a favourite landscape of Casciaro’s, where he carried out a number of studies.


Giuseppe Casciaro, Marina di Castro (1918) Museo del Novecento Napoletano.

(Credit: Wikimedia Commons).


Casciaro grew up in difficult circumstances, as he was orphaned at 12 years old. He was, at least, supported by a rather strict uncle who was a priest; in his youth he was educated in a liceo (il liceo-ginnasio di Maglie) and was destined for further study in Naples. While his uncle expected him to study medicine there, Casciaro enrolled in the Accademia di Belle Arti, convinced that he was to become an artist. When his deception was discovered, by someone from his region who was also resident in Naples, his uncle immediately cut his allowance. It was only through the kindness of his aunts Carolina and Carmela that he received 5 lira a month. This very modest sum was smuggled to him in his monthly laundry bundle – according to the account of Alfredo Schettini.


In all events, in the face of severe poverty, he went to study under Gioacchino Toma and Stanislao Lista at the Accademia in Naples. However subdued his circumstances, Casciaro was, from the outset, a spirited and determined individual. As documented by Vito Carbonara, accounts of his time at the Accademia record how he was reproached for his absences from classes in perspective and, in July of 1881, he was reproached for ‘boorish behaviour (maniere villane)’ used against a classmate.


Returning to Casciaro’s teachers, Toma was committed to verismo and was famous for his studies of historic and genre subjects, as well as landscapes. We can note some similarities in the artists’ depiction of mood through a comparison of Casciaro’s portrayal of his wife Giovina, and Toma’s representation of women.

Gioacchino Toma, Luisa Sanfelice in carcere, 1874, Capodimonte.

(Credit: Wikipedia).


Giuseppe Casciaro, Portrait of Giovina.

(Credit: Artnet).


Equally, if we look at Toma’s work La pioggia it is not too far from Casciaro’s emotional and visual repertoire.

Gioacchino Toma, La pioggia (1882-85 ca.) Gallerie d’Italia, Napoli.

(Credit: Wikipedia).

Giuseppe Casciaro, Pioggia al Vomero.

(Credit: Galleria Pananti Casa d’Aste.)


While Toma’s overall artistic project was very different from that of Casciaro, in some aspects of their landscape work we can see affinities. In some instances, there is a shared spirit of introspection and perhaps sadness. Toma’s approach to art was intimate, essentialist and melancholic. His studies were often situated in sparsely decorated rooms and the tonality of his paintings tended towards the dark and melancholic. Casciaro’s landscapes could similarly evoke a sense of silence, solitude and introspection.


Giuseppe Casciaro, Ischia.

(Credit: Capitolium Art – Casa d’Aste.)

Stanislao Lista is remembered primarily for his sculpture: he was an artist also committed to realism, mediated through his own style, which was arguably a blend of Neoclassicism and Romanticism. A dedication to verismo is evident from Lista’s portrait bust of his father.


Stanislao Lista, Portrait of Giuseppe Lista (1867) Napoli, Accademia di Belle Arti.

(Credit: Fondazione Zeri.)


This work is the fruit of Lista’s commitment to studying sculpture from life, dal vero. The portrait is frank and far from flattering. Beyond this, the edges of this work were deliberately left rough, perhaps to indicate the new direction that Lista was taking and mark a departure from the polished finish expected in an academy: Lista eschewed the vision of a style of sculpture based on an idealised classical model. He saw copying from life, through rapid modelling in clay and through disegno as a means to capture the essence of a live model. For Lista, drawing and modelling from life could capture the true spirit of a subject that otherwise might become lost in the lengthy process of carving marble, particularly in a manner which was overly reliant on classical precedents and a fixed academic pedagogy. Responding to life models with the primacy of drawing, one could create a work which was ‘a natural and necessary consequence of the subject one wants to address.’


The new energy and realism that came from Lista’s teaching was carried forward by some of his former pupils into Paris: Gemito’s ‘Little Fisherman’ and Achille D’Orsi’s ‘Parasites’, for example, managed to divide opinion at the ‘Exposition Universelle de 1878’ in Paris.

Vincenzo Gemito, Il Pescatorello (ca.1876) Museo di Capodimonte.

(Credit: author’s photograph).

Achille d’Orsi, I Parassiti (1877) Museo di Capodimonte.

(Credit: author’s photograph).

Traditionalists saw these works as ugly and ignoble, while Camillo Boito wrote of ‘beauty renewed in the ugliness of the real.’ These Italians were drawing interest in Paris for their studies from life and for choosing an unflinching realism. (See Valente, 2014.) This digression into sculpture is valid for a number of reasons. While Lista was primarily a sculptor, he was also an artist: he was skilled in disegno and he worked as a teacher of painting. Lista had a number of talented pupils under his tutelage, beyond our Casciaro. Along with Domenico Morelli, he taught Vincenzo Migliaro, Vincenzo Irolli and Gaetano Esposito, to name but a few.

With this in mind, Lista would certainly have extolled the value of the direct channelling of a truthful, and fleeting, moment in painting. In Casciaro’s work, like that of Lista, we can see the spirit of innovation anchored in tradition. The notion of not dissipating inspiration with intermediary stages would have appealed to Casciaro, who became a superlative en plein air pastel artist who, according to contemporary accounts, worked with pastels with fearsome speed and instinct. Casciaro was industrious, ‘un accanito operaio della pittura’; he was always outdoors and he worked on Sundays (occasionally being subjected to colourful insults for such sacrilege by the passing faithful on their way to church).


The journalist and arts’ critic Ugo Ojetti (1845-1924) expressed a reservation (which contained a simultaneous element of flattery) that Casciaro’s work could suffer as a result of his facility with a brush: ‘Casciaro aveva un solo nemico: l’abilità della mano.’ In a similar vein, Rosario Caputo has suggested that Casciaro’s dexterity and his creative capacity meant that his work often fell into two broad categories: one was more commercial, more immediately attractive, and repeatable, while the other was more intimate, more refined and more sought after by the discerning (Caputo (2017)). While this is surely so, we should be careful not to go as far as representing Casciaro to be a sort of blindly energetic craftsman, a bundle of astute reflexes that could imitate natural effects.

There are a number of reasons for rejecting this characterisation. The extraordinary breadth of Casciaro’s art collection (he had his own personal museum in his house) and his education at the Accademia do not offer us the background of a mere painter-craftsman. However self-possessed he might have been, it is impossible that he did not explore what he was doing reflectively and vigorously within the artistic traditions of his time and the past. Casciaro held numerous academic roles, belonged to a series of artistic circles and became leader of one himself, Il Gruppo Flegreo (1927-1929), which met in his Villa in the Vomero in Naples. Even if, in the act of painting, he was open to the immediate impressions of nature and subject to the quickness of his technique (he could, at times complete from ten to fifteen landscapes in one day) working beneath this facility would have been a sophisticated intellectual and intuitive understanding.


Casciaro’s debut of 1887 at the ‘Promotrice Salvator Rosa’ brought him the praise and support of two more very important figures associated both with the Accademia and with the development of Italian art in the nineteenth century as a whole – Domenico Morelli and Filippo Palizzi. We know that he found this praise to be heartening and inspirational – we also know that he subsequently attended their studios, constantly exhibiting at the Promotrici until 1911. A less happy consequence of Casciaro’s emergence as a talent stemmed from the jealousy of some of his peers. Vito Carbonara has documented how Casciaro was subject to defamatory invectives from some fellow painters, who even accused the artist of passing off the work of others as his own. Casciaro seemed undaunted by this and, once established, continued to work hard regardless of his detractors.

Morelli, ‘radiant (solare)’ by character, worked from invention and not dal vero: ‘rappresentar cose non viste ma vere e l’immaginate all’un tempo’ (‘To represent things not seen but true, and imagined at the same time’) was one of his famous sayings. His orientalism exemplifies this, as it was the creation of his imagination and of work in his studio. There was a tremendous variety in his work, as well as an exuberant chromatic range. Notwithstanding his Romantic approach to art, Morelli was also open to all new innovations and encouraged an atmosphere of more friendly and sincere relations with the students. Palizzi, on the other hand, was an altogether more reserved figure, ‘schivo’ by temperament. Accounts suggest that he was completely different to Morelli and had different ideas about art. Palizzi was committed to the study of reality in assiduous detail. In spite of their differences, the two artists maintained good relations, although later Morelli was to portray himself as a man of wide experience and culture, which he compared to Palizzi’s simplicity. This was a condescension which possibly betrayed his own nervousness about Palizzi’s formidable talents.

Domenico Morelli, La Terazza (1868) Gallerie d’Italia, Napoli.

(Credit: Wikipedia).


Filippo Palizzi – Effetto di luce in una strada di paese in salita, 1861 ca. (painting originally from Casciaro’s own collection).

(Credit: Farsettiarte Casa d’Aste.)

There is something interesting here too in the combination of these talented figures: Morelli a champion of sensuality, imagination and exuberance and Palizzi, a reserved individual with a serious dedication to his vision of truthfulness over imitation. Casciaro, as we will see, has a field of expression which navigates between these poles; his landscapes occupy places in a spectrum which ranges between naturalistic detail and poetic reverie.


Whether or not students had a progressive view of how they wanted to approach painting, overall, theirs was a traditional training. Training in the academy attended to the close study of form, of anatomy and disegno, and (notwithstanding what we have said about Lista’s progressive side) it still included studying from Roman and Renaissance casts to develop the ability to represent plastic movement and to work on the depiction of light and shade. (See Brizia Minerva in Lanzilotta (ed.) (2019)).


In spite of the innovative and exciting en plein air work of artists of the Scuola di Posillipo, like Pitloo and Gigante, and a long landscape tradition in Naples, some artists and connoisseurs of the nineteenth century still considered landscapes to be a secondary art form. For some, prestigious art was necessarily figural, historic, romantic and ‘realistic.’ Part of the reason that landscape art was considered inferior to historical and mythological scenes went back as far as the discourse of the Renaissance, which in turn was informed by the humanist interpretation of the classics. In this tradition, invention was considered intellectually superior to mere imitation.


In his choice to paint outdoors, Casciaro was working close to the spirit of The School of Resina (or The Republic of Portici, as Morelli ironically named it.) This was an anti-academic gathering of artists which, at one point, counted De Nittis in its number. Christine Farese Sperkin has argued that the school reached its fullest expression in its middle years when it demonstrated the following characteristics (and here I paraphrase her view). [In these years it comprised] the steady, extremely clear vision of the image and the precise rendering of every detail, all the way to the horizon line (which gives the same value, both in terms of design and colour, to all the elements) and the wide and articulated spatiality. The clear, crystalline light creates an atmosphere of timelessness and suspension. See (Picone Petrusa, ed. (2002)).


Federico Rossano, Campo di papaveri (1875).

(Credit: Wikimedia Commons).

Casciaro was also surrounded by talented contemporaries with whom he shared ideas and even residences; great artists such as Gaetano Esposito and Attilio Pratella. It is also important to note that he retained an interest in younger painters and included their works in his own art collection.


A pivotal moment for Casciaro came when he saw an exhibition of pastels by the artist Francesco Paolo Michetti, at the Promotrice Salvator Rosa of 1885. Michetti had been working with pastels since 1877, although his pastel works were often combined with tempera painting and he also used pastels for both preparatory purposes and completed works.

Francesco Paolo Michetti, A Hillside Path with Blooming Cherry Trees under an Overcast Sky, 1905.

(Credit: Wikimedia Commons).

For Casciaro pastels became the dominant medium for his work, for numerous exhibitions and for an art market which responded enthusiastically to his production. Casciaro exhibited his pastels every year from 1891-1915 then, from 1915-1926 there was a pause, after which he picked up exhibitions with a high level of frequency until 1939.


In a wider cultural sphere, De Nittis had started to use pastels in Paris, often for portraits and figure groups. These studies were sometimes outdoors, sometimes in, but in all cases they gathered reflections, shades of light and lively surfaces. One example of De Nittis depicting a landscape in pastels is Lungo la Senna davanti alle Tuileries (1876 circa).

This is a meditation on a pale northern light, an autumnal or winter scene. Here, while the light is inevitably more northern than we would generally find in Casciaro, and the setting more urban, there is a similarly poetic mood and a similar predilection for the use of whites and greys to unify the composition.


Degas—whose father was born in Naples and who visited family there on several occasions—worked with pastels for landscape subjects in both the 1860s and the 1890s. One example is Houses by the Sea (1869), a pastel painted on the northern coast of France, in Normandy.

(Credit: Musée d’Orsay.)


Also, we can consider this work: Edgar Degas, Beside the Sea (ca.1869).

(Credit: Wikimedia Commons).

These works present smoother, more distant scenes, characterised by lighter textural and compositional detail than we typically see in Casciaro’s oeuvre. That said, it’s important to acknowledge the breadth and diversity of Casciaro’s output—which, moreover, has yet to be fully catalogued.

Degas’ landscapes of 1890 were even more different.

Degas, monotypes ca.1890, oil and pastel/pastel.

https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/359362

(Credit: Metropolitan Museum.)

These were monotypes finished off with pastel. They were ‘pleasantly chimerical’ and border on the abstract. They were inspired by the synthesis of landscape impressions gathered by the artist as he travelled by carriage to the Burgundian estate of his friend Pierre-Georges Jeanniot. We know from correspondence that these were undertaken playfully and were seen to be a sure and simple way to earn some money. They were exhibited in the Durand-Ruel gallery in 1892. (For more on these monotypes, see Katie Hanson’s lecture from 2018: https://youtu.be/lUepMHPS2b8?si=25ozz2RnlIlUhxTD ).

The importance of pastels as a medium in the nineteenth century is also illustrated by the fact that, on the 13th March 1885, The French Society of Pastelists was formed – they had an ornate little pavilion at the Exposition Universelle in Paris in 1889.


Exposition Universelle de 1889, Société des Pastellistes.

(Credit: Wikimedia Commons).


As we know, while Casciaro exhibited widely, he painted closer to home. The demand for scenes of Naples was, of course, well established well before the second half of the nineteenth century when Casciaro began to exhibit his work: Naples and its coastline had long been a seductive location for landscape artists and their buyers (see Valente, 2009). The Bay of Naples, enchanted by the siren Parthenope, and cradled in the shadow of Vesuvius had long held a fascination for artists well beyond the confines of Italy. As an essential stop-off point in the Grand Tour and a place of fascination for famous northern literary figures such as Goethe and Nietzsche, its pull was well established. Grand Tourists and tourists wanted to take home mementos of the sun-drenched south. Prior to Casciaro’s studies of more intimate, less grand and overtly iconic, scenes – a shift towards more spontaneous landscapes had already taken place. The aforementioned talents of Pitloo and Gigante had moved away from large scale ‘horizontal’ landscapes, and the sublime and scientific depiction of volcanic activity, towards something altogether more personal and gently atmospheric.

Jacob Philipp Hackert, Landscape with the Palace at Caserta and Vesuvius (1793). Museo Nacional Thyssen-Bornemisza, Madrid. Note the predominantly idealised and broadly symmetrical landscape with repoussoir trees that almost act like stage curtains.

(Credit: Wikimedia Commons).

Pierre-Jacques Volaire, An Eruption of Vesuvius by Moonlight (1770s): a sublime and spectacular scene of Vesuvius erupting, at night.

(Credit: Wikimedia Commons).

Anton Sminck van Pitloo, Vines at Báia (ca.1820-30) NG London.


https://www.nationalgallery.org.uk/paintings/anton-sminck-van-pitloo-vines-at-baia


Giacinto Gigante, Casa delle Ancelle a Donnaregina (Vecchia Napoli), 1865. Gallerie d’Italia, Napoli.

https://gallerieditalia.com/it/musei-online/opere/casa_delle_ancelle_a_donnaregina_vecchia_napoli-14583/


In these two works, of Pitloo and Gigante respectively, note the shift from grand scenes to the unscripted and the fleeting. All this to the extent that, especially with landscape studies, it sometimes becomes difficult to name the location with any precision. We are a step closer here to Casciaro’s visual world.

Giacinto Gigante: Case a Gaeta.

(Credit: Wikimedia Commons).

(There is of course is a substantial body of literature on the subject of Neapolitan landscape art as a seemingly endless list of artists were inspired by Naples. One could start with Causa Picone and Causa, 2004 and Valente, 2009 and readers in the UK could take a trip to the collection of Neapolitan paintings at Compton Verney in Warwickshire.)


The market that Casciaro was working for was different from those of earlier decades or centuries: he was making small-scale works for a labile market and not working to commission for select aristocratic patrons. Casciaro worked hard to produce scenes for exhibitions and he also attracted the patronage of the merchant Adolphe Goupil in Paris; this was subsequent to his success at the Paris Salon of 1892. (The Maison Goupil’s influence is often credited with helping bridge the gap between high art and popular culture, while also laying foundations for modern art marketing practices. It ceased operations in the early twentieth century.)


Details of a contract made with Goupil by Giuseppe De Nittis in 1872, illustrate clearly the pressures of the interface between art and commerce: De Nittis was required to respect the following standard, namely that the monthly payments in actual money must be matched by the entry of works of a minimum value of at least double the amount advanced by the merchant. In fact, De Nittis broke his contract in 1874 due to Goupil’s increasing demands to cater for the fashionable tastes of a rising bourgeois market. I have found no evidence of Casciaro facing similar pressures but it is possible, if not likely. (On De Nittis and Goupil, see Stefano Bosi’s contribution in Martorelli (et al.) (Genova, 2017)).


So, Casciaro was committed, to a large extent, to what lay between the iconic images. Even when he does depict the Faraglioni of Capri, or Vesuvius, the scene is far from being a grand historical sweep, a picture postcard, or a schematic topographical study.


Casciaro was working in an artistic climate suffused with a, slightly paradoxical, spirit of realism which had its literary correlative in the work of the philosopher and historian Francesco de Sanctis (1817-1883). De Sanctis thought that art should not just be the product of individual genius, but the expression of a historical and cultural moment: ‘La forma non e un’idea, ma una cosa.’ He also asserted that it was ‘reality that generated the ideal’, that is to say, without an attention based on reality there could be no ideal or sense of transcendence. Moreover, if we take two of the main aesthetic principles of this era, verismo and realismo we can also see potential for tension, or contradiction. Realism requires a naturalistic representation of events, while verism requires a truthfulness to the spirit or the emotion within a scene and the latter might require a distortion of the former. In Casciaro’s landscapes we see both elements at play – they are recognisable as true to life (to varying degrees) but, simultaneously, they are often gently untethered from time and edging towards a state of reverie.


Giuseppe Casciaro, La Lavandaie (1895). This socially realistic scene which nonetheless retains a poetic lightness.

(Credit: Mark Murray.)

https://www.markmurray.com/giuseppe-casciaro-paintings-for-sale


In all events, Casciaro’s moment and place was found in his local landscapes and, towards the end of his career especially, his chosen places and moments contrasted with the fast march of urbanisation and industrialisation. Nusco, in Irpinia, was one such place.


Giuseppe Casciaro, Sorge la luna a Nusco, oil on canvas (ca.1924).

(Credit: Mutual Art.)


His home region of Salento, especially Castro and Ortelle, were also the subject of his study. In all events, these works were never merely iconic painterly citations of famous landmarks. Each en plein air study conveyed something very specific – these were fleeting moments, in quiet rural spaces, with their own air of truthfulness and spirit of spontaneity.

As landscapes, they could not be tagged to noteworthy figures of his time, as portraits could. Nor did they have a traditional historical or mythological story to tell, through which they could be compared to famous precedents, or form material for intellectual debates. While this observation might seem facile, one of the perennial guarantees for an artist’s status and memorial was through an alliance with intellectual culture.

As mentioned earlier, part of the reason that greater prestige had been given to historical or mythological subjects was that they could be related to literature. Moreover, with such subjects, educated admirers could puzzle over, and debate, possible enigmas or new interpretations of a long-established scene. While no one can deny the elevating experience of contemplating a pure representation of landscape, it can be hard to develop a varied and compelling mode of discourse for the experience. One can quickly fall into cliches which, however apt, seem to fall short through their recurrence. We will later see that the praise that Casciaro received from critics and journalists, while abounding in just enthusiasm, seems limited to a relatively small range of metaphors.


Whatever the confines of the written commentaries, Casciaro’s works were charged with his own sensibility, with his influences, and they varied according to light, location and mood. Casciaro had many influences to draw upon, but he did not belong to a specific school and did not have a narrow manifesto. His works were hard to pin down and entering, as they often did, a dynamic private art market in which they passed hands frequently, they are difficult to catalogue. What is more, they inspired a prolific output of forgeries.


Casciaro was industrious and much praised in his time but, perhaps one of the reasons he is cited as a moral painter, is that (especially with hindsight) we can see that he was not working in a way that guaranteed a legacy or courted attention for anything but the works themselves. Casciaro’s truthfulness to his own vision, his decision to remain in southern Italy (rather than relocating to France) together with his adherence to a certain continuity within innovation, may have contributed to his subsequent neglect.


Added to this we can add the more general fact that the Italian Ottocento as a whole has been marginalised – not least as Longhi’s ‘stupido secolo.’ Infamously, Longhi condemned nineteenth century art in the following summary: ‘The century that spans from the 1800s to the 1900s is the stupid century, the century of intellectual dishonesty, of a lack of passion, and of that scarcity of critical spirit which characterised our art.’


While Casciaro stands apart for many reasons, he is one of a number of highly talented artists who worked in Naples at the end of the nineteenth century and into the early twentieth, all of whom have risked, or still risk, a sort of unintentional damnatio memoriae. Casciaro lived to be eighty and his output was extensive in all respects; in relation to the quantity of works he completed, the number of exhibitions he took part in, and the span of time that his career covered. While past and ongoing studies by Vito Carbonara are connecting Casciaro’s styles and subjects to specific periods, I shall attempt a very general overview here of the variations we are likely to discover in viewing a range of Casciaro’s pictures for the first time.

In terms of colour, he could introduce a range that is intense, emotional and vibrant. (Some commentators have referred to him using a kind of heightened realism, a sort of realism that while ‘transposed to another level’, doesn’t enter into the territory of the symbolist movement.)


Giuseppe Casciaro, Landscape in Capri (1925).


(Credit: Stephen Ongpin, Fine Art.)


In another instance, Casciaro’s range might be more muted, with contrasts reduced by a pervasive use of, for example, a pearl grey. He would use the technique of ‘enveloppement’ in which the image is wrapped by a continuity in colour, through the blending of tones and through gradual transitions between light and dark. Conversely, in other works, contour or outline might be far more clearly defined.


Giuseppe Casciaro, Sotto il Portico (1926).

(Credit: Mutual Art.)
Note the white/grey blending of colour transitions.


Casciaro’s use of white was highlighted by Bice Viallet in around 1917-1918 – Viallet considered them Casciaro’s ‘joy’ and noted various ways in which they were used. Faint, light and soft whites were used to capture snow and clouds, while a chalky and arid white would be used to capture the surfaces of walls and buildings as they reflected strong sunlight. Viallet cited the depiction of a church in Capri as an example of the latter. (See Carbonara, 2022).

Giuseppe Casciaro, Path through the Thickets, Spring (1897).

(Credit: Artnet.)


An important line of approach in coming closer to Casciaro’s work is to consider the medium that he used. From Vito Carbonara’s research we know that Casciaro used a rich and oily pastel which comprised a thick stick of highly concentrated colour, held together with a minimum concentrate of binder. We also know that he loved to make these himself and it is evident that, with them, he could achieve brilliant tones, realise smooth strokes (he also used his fingers in the application) and create a type of sfumato effect, as well as being able to create energetic lines and define clear boundaries when he wished to. As well as preparing his own pastels, Carbonara has discovered that Casciaro did not like to use manufactured card but rather took a very strong grey card which he then prepared with a thin layer of whiting or clay, dissolved in water with 0.2% of sublimate (mercuric oxide, a toxic compound used in art and preservation.)


One frequently cited shift in the style of the French impressionists was a move away from chiaroscuro. This observation could reasonably apply to Casciaro’s pastel, but it is important to say that while pastels may have reduced the capacity for tonal modelling, they allowed for great subtleties in chromatic modelling and the exploration of colour as structure. That is to say, in pastel composition, where one might lose a capacity for subtle gradations of light and dark (something possible with great nuance and subtlety in oil) one could still achieve light changes through the use of different densities and properties of colour, through changes in hue and saturation.


Giuseppe Casciaro, Il laghetto di via Forìa (1900). Private collection.

Chromatic modelling in pastel: note the muted shades of the reflections in the lake.


Further to this, a consideration of even three core pastel techniques, helps us to see how a pastel artist like Casciaro could employ layered colours, to different effect. The blending, or rubbing together of two pastel colours could produce subtle nuances of colour. The application of a pastel layer in a loose, uneven or scribbled manner – scumbling, could be used to create a rough, opaque, textured effect, which would allow underlayers to show through. In a similar manner, the overlay of a thin transparent layer of pastel, a glaze, could allow light to pass through layers, in a more smooth and unified way, creating a sense of luminosity and depth. The repertoire of the medium therefore invites its own possibility for the mastery of colour and texture. We should also note that Casciaro was adept at using a quite thin and ‘nervous’ line to depict, for example, the movement of waves.


The juxtaposition of these two works by Casciaro, of A Summer Day and Castro Marina, offers a visible measure of the different finishes that are possible when working in pastel.

(Image credits: Mark Murray/ Blindarte.)

We have a lively recollection of Casciaro’s mastery of pastel technique in a testimony made by the Neapolitan artist Carlo Siviero:


‘Casciaro’s box of pastels is impossible to describe: a pinch of grey stones, uniform, small pieces no bigger than a bean; in that uniformity of ash, the tone of coral red or the intense blue of turquoise stood out. Casciaro, without looking for the colour, could feel it by touch, recognizing it by the shape of the pastel piece: he would sink his fingers into the box and, from all that grey, pull out, with certainty, the colour he needed. With the pads of his fingers, he kneaded, fused, and barely touched the surface of the painting, and not infrequently, he would strike it with the palm of his hand… Then, Siviero continues… once a work had been finished, he would move a few steps away from the place he was and, through a little rectangle of card, size up a new subject. With the dull and powdery material he handled, he was able to fully capture the crystalline transparency of the sky, the oily sheen of the sea, the glazed green of the pines, the solid compactness of the rock.’

The composition in Casciaro’s works might focus on purely natural scenes, or it might incorporate rustic architectural features, creating a contrast between the suggestive impressions of nature and straight architectural lines. Rustic buildings would also allow for a close study of the surface texture of stone, a common focus in the work of Filippo Palizzi.


Filippo Palizzi, Over the Wall (1865) Private collection.

(Credit: Wikipedia).

Casciaro, Porta con grata (1932) from the Signum collection, Lecce.

The linear alignments in buildings, colonnades, or pergolas could work to create depth of field, as well as suggesting a steady time-worn reality in which activity seems to have been suspended.

Giuseppe Casciaro: Rustico con pergolato.

(Credit: Farsettiarte.)


In other compositions, a transverse ‘terracing’ of colours or pictorial planes could create different type of effect – one that invites the eye to track up through the consecutive levels in the image.

(Credit: Mutual Art.)


This pastel study, made by Casciaro in Castro (1931) has a receding line of rocks which creates a depth of field. In addition, the viewer is invited to track upwards through stratifications in the slope. Simultaneously, the composition has depth, in the foreground, as well as a kind of flatness in the upper half, which recalls Japanese prints.


Casciaro’s composition is sometimes close while, at other times, there are expanses of lightness, a feeling of space and an airiness. At times, we are invited to contemplate wide visions of the sea, scenes open to the elements which offer us a sense of freedom.


Scene of Capri, 1906 and Terrazza a Capodimonte 1887.

(Credit: Mark Murray/ askART.)

The images above illustrate Casciaro’s compositional range—from a seascape capturing light effects on a vast expanse of water to a detailed textural study of a terrace, marked by modern, cropped lines of sight.


How do we fare with other labels? Casciaro’s work can tend towards post-impressionist abstraction, with his use of a bold and dense realisation of outline, particularly in the representation of large rocks and cliffs. However, if we set his scenes beside a work of Cezanne’s, we can see where Casciaro adheres to his own limits, where he chooses to hold true to his own style.

(Credits: Finarte / Wikimedia Commons.)

Casciaro’s oil study of Capri (1920) can be compared to Cezanne’s Rocks at L’Estaque (1879-1882). The rocks in Casciaro’s work verge on a two-dimensional plasticity; although they retain some naturalistic depth cues, they are rendered in thick impasto that contrasts sharply with the finer treatment of the trees and clouds in the centre and left of the composition. In Cézanne’s work, by contrast, the flatness of the picture plane is more pervasive and pronounced. His use of colour and faceted brushwork further distances his approach from Casciaro’s.


Equally, while there are impressionistic elements to Casciaro’s work, he does not push them towards presenting a picture surface that is destabilised by the effects of light.
The first work below is Cascario’s pastel of the Faraglioni at Capri, from the Galleria d’Arte Moderna Ricci Oddi in Piacenza. Beneath that we have one of Monet’s studies of Les Pyramides de Port-Coton. While both works capture an ephemeral moment with mastery, the sharper and more planar naturalism of Casciaro’s pastel contrasts with the stippled and painterly brushwork in oil by Monet.

Faraglioni at Capri, Galleria d’Arte Moderna Ricci Oddi.


Les Pyramides à Port-Coton, Claude Monet (1886).

(Credit: Wikimedia)


Compositionally, Casciaro’s works can err towards simplification, without ever tipping towards abstraction or departing entirely from naturalistic representation.

(Credit: artnet.)


This study of Casoli (1895) offers us a pared down composition using a simple zig-zag of diagonal vectors. It is a study of nature that has just the suggestion of a solitary human presence, beneath a tree on the left. There is bright light coming from the left and creating strong shadows from the trees. The overall scene is peaceful with just a suggestion of human presence making a mark on the landscape – there is a quarry and what could be houses on the distant horizon. There are no intrusive ruptures from the landscape tradition and nature takes pride of place.


Throughout his career, Casciaro conveyed a sense of freedom and vitality, continually striving to capture the ever-changing natural scenes unfolding before him. Within the broader scope of his study of nature, a variety of distinctions can be made—for instance, while he depicted wild, untamed landscapes, he also turned to more intimate subjects, such as the following work from 1925.

(Credit: Farsettiarte.)


After viewing a series of his works in quick succession, we might be left with the impression of scenes of pure nature. However, figural elements play their part in his oeuvre, such as his pictures of women washing laundry in a river or portraits of his wife, self-absorbed in quiet activity. Vito Carbonara has noted that people play an increasingly important role in Casciaro’s paintings made in Nusco in 1924. Here figures offer us an emotional engagement with living processes and moments, such as in La Fiera di Sant’Amato, o Fiera a Nusco (see Carbonara 2022, p. 139).


Another notable element of variety in his legacy comes from his still life studies, most of which were made in his later years. Some of this still life arguably suggests his age and, in practical terms, the works must have offered Casciaro an opportunity to continue painting without the physical demands of working en plein air. Whatever the case, they bear testament to his depth of culture, as classic still life works by artists such as Ruoppolo were in his collection. The example below shows us a still-life with vases of flowers, including what looks like a small maiolica pharmacy jar, presumably from his collection.

(Credit: Capitolium Art.)

It is arguable that Casciaro’s landscapes echo the influences of Japanese art, if only indirectly and perhaps through an intuitive assimilation of the trends of his time. In some of his landscapes, there are traces of Japonisme in the way in which trees and plants stand out against the sky and in the use of flattened space and bold colour. The following works offer us an interesting comparison.


Giuseppe Casciaro: Stradina nei pressi della costa (1904).

(Credit: Finarte.)

Utagawa Hiroshige (1797 – 1858): Yamato Province: Yoshino, a Thousand Cherry Trees at One Glance.

https://harvardartmuseums.org/collections/object/210229


Moreover, whenever we look at his seascapes, we should recall that he owned a number of marine studies by Turner. The illustrations below show both artists engaged in a similarly visionary exploration of how colour can dissolve the boundaries between a subject and its emotional resonance.

Casciaro, Marina con pescatori.

(Credit: Arcadia, Casa d’Aste.)


JMW Turner, Sea and Sky, English Coast (c.1830–45).

https://www.tate.org.uk/art/artworks/turner-sea-and-sky-english-coast-d36228


While the focus of this introductory piece is to raise awareness of Casciaro’s now neglected talent, it is equally important to re-state what an important figure he was in his own time. To the indications of this mentioned above, we should also mention the fact that he was appointed a teacher to Italian royalty: in 1906 he became the painting teacher of Queen Elena of Montenegro, the queen consort of King Vittorio Emanuele III; a woman who was beautifully depicted by Vincenzo Caprile in this portrait of 1899.

Vincenzo Caprile, Elena del Montenegro, principessa di Napoli (1899) Gallerie d’Italia, Napoli.

(Credit: author’s photograph).

Prior to 1906 (the same year as an important exhibition in Milan which they attended) the royal family were conversant with Casciaro’s work and already had works by him in their collection. They were in fact part of a wave of demand for his landscapes. Vito Carbonara’s book ‘Giuseppe Casciaro: L’artista e le stagioni pittoriche a Nusco’ has established a formidable documentary and interpretative foundation which, among many other considerations, collates reviews and articles written in response to Casciaro’s many exhibitions. These reviews are highly informative as they reflect the artist’s wide-ranging appeal and his enthusiastic reception.

There are themes that constantly reappear in the praise of his art. There are, for example, frequent comments on the luminosity of his works. They are seen as both real and true, as well as poetic and evocative. The variety of moods conveyed through his landscapes is seen to be wide ranging; from idyllic, bright and expansive, to introspective, melancholic and crepuscular. The elusive effect of his pastels on a viewer’s emotions is also suggested though comparison to music and poetry. (Casciaro had eight chalk medal portraits of major composers in his collection, which at least suggests that music may have, in fact, been important to him.) Beyond this, each study is often seen as a deeply personal work and Casciaro is often portrayed as a moral figure who is true to himself and who is industriously charting his own course. One of my favourite, and less formal, assessments of his talent comes from Antonio Mancini, who reportedly stated:


“My dear Peppino, you are a Vesuvius! But instead of erupting fire and ash, you spew pearls and turquoise, emeralds and rubies, along with a shower of roses.”


We might choose to read an accidental insight in Mancini’s effusive and complimentary metaphors, as Casciaro’s house-museum-atelier, for such it was, contained a significant collection of material culture – art objects of various kinds. He had objects in maiolica, in glass, in silver, as well as fabrics. These also must have informed his sensibility for representing colour, light and texture.


Casciaro’s legacy can also be seen through the work of his students. His academic roles were significant and he was sought after as a private teacher, especially after being chosen as the teacher of Queen Elena in 1906. What is more, two of Casciaro’s four children developed as painters, as illustrated by an exhibition held in Rome in 2004, curated by Cinzia Virno. His daughter Carolina (1895-1978) and his son Guido (1900-1963) both began their artistic studies with their father and, to varying degrees, his influence can be seen in their works. Carolina’s style was closer to that of her father and it demonstrated close fidelity to the direct study from nature and many (but not all) of her works were on a small scale.


Carolina also demonstrated the same decisive strokes as her father. Both Carolina and Guido showed a preference for oil as a medium but Guido became freer in adopting his own style. He sometimes did works on a large scale, he applied himself to figure painting, as well as landscapes, and he tended to transform the scenes that he portrayed. At the same time, Guido resisted the pressure to join contemporary movements, such as Futurism. On one of his works, Marina con Cabine (Il porto di Castro) above his signature, in the bottom right-hand corner of the work, he wrote VIVA IL NOVECENTO/ ABBASSO IL FUTURISMO. Quite clearly, this epigraph affirmed a progressive attitude to art, while repudiating the constraints of a trend. The family entered their works together in Avellino in 1932, as part of the first Irpinian art exhibition: together they took up most of Sala 1, presenting 23 works in total. (See, Virno, C., I Casciaro: Giuseppe, Carolina e Guido. Roma, 2004).


While Casciaro undoubtedly guided countless students in the course of his long career, we can here look at a sample of four: two from Italy and another two, from England and America respectively. Guido di Renzo (Chieti 1886, – Napoli, 1956) produced landscapes, portraits and still-life studies.

https://artsupp.com/it/artisti/guido-di-renzo


Another talented artist, from Salento, Rita Franco (Lecce 1886 – Napoli 1985) produced pastel works of great sensibility which demonstrated that she was continuing the tradition of her teacher.

Credit: https://www.valerioterragno.it/artisti-salentini/106-franco-rita


Francis Edouard Chardon (Calcutta 1865 – Llandudno 1925) was an English painter of landscapes, portraits and still-life paintings who bequeathed his home in Llandudno for the enjoyment and education of the people: Rapallo House is now the site of Llandudno Museum.

Credit: https://artuk.org/discover/artworks/francis-edouard-chardon-18651925-181163


Albert Sheldon Pennoyer (Oakland 1888 – Madrid 1957) was an artist who worked in pastel, gouache, watercolour and oils. He worked on principally on portraits and landscapes of various scenes. While serving in the American army he was also one of the Monuments Men in WWII, documenting their activity in Italy with a Leica camera.

Credit: https://americanart.si.edu/artist/sheldon-pennoyer-3756


I hope that this brief article is sufficient to provoke readers into their own research into the work of Giuseppe Casciaro and the others artists cited above. At the time of writing, there is guidance about where to view Casciaro’s works listed at the end of the Italian Wikipedia entry for him. Moreover, for further detail on where to find works, the reader can refer to pages 175-176 of Vito Carbonara’s book (Avellino, 2022), this is an excellent resource and we can expect to see more from him on Casciaro in the course of time. (Please note, it is always worth checking with museums before taking a trip, as displays can change.)


Producing these articles requires care, time, research, and resources. Contributions to help sustain this exploration would be greatly appreciated.

https://donorbox.org/inner-surfaces-resonances-in-art-and-literature-837503

This study owes a significant debt to the work of others, and I have included a bibliography to acknowledge that debt. My primary aim in assembling this material is to raise awareness of this gifted artist—particularly among English-speaking readers, who are unlikely to have encountered Casciaro before. I sincerely hope that those with some knowledge of Italian will be encouraged to explore the original sources and the work of the authors cited. My special thanks go to Vito Carbonara and Cinzia Virno for their generous help and support. All errors and infelicities in the text are entirely my own.


You Tube has an enjoyable video of works by (and presumably attributed to) Casciaro. (It is always worth recalling that Casciaro’s popularity led to people forging his works.)


Bibliography

Bellenger, S. (ed.) Napoli Ottocento. Roma, 2024.
Benzi, F. (et al.) Francesco Paolo Michetti, catalogo generale. Milano, 2018.
Brown, M., Francesco de Sanctis: The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism, Vol.32, No4 (Summer 1974) pp.477-492.
Causa Picone, M. and Causa, S., Pitloo: Luci e colori del paesaggio napoletano. Napoli, 2004.
Campopiano, P., Giuseppe Casciaro. Treviso, 1999.
Caputo, R., Giuseppe Casciaro. Napoli, 2007.
Caputo, R., La Pittura Napoletana del II Ottocento. Sorrento, 2017.
Carbonara, V., Giuseppe Casciaro: l’artista e le stagioni pittoriche a Nusco. Avellino, 2022.
Carrera, M. (et al.) Antonio Mancini/ Vicenzo Gemito. Milano, 2023.
Cassese, G., Giuseppe Casciaro: un profilo europeo nella storia dell’arte e del collezionismo tra Ottocento e Novecento, in Depositi di Capodimonte, ed. Romano, C. and Tamajo Contarini, M. (Napoli, 2018).
Denvir, B., The Impressionists at First Hand. London 1987 and 2023.
Di Giacomo, P. C., Giuseppe Casciaro (1861-1941). Bologna, 1994.
Fiore, A and Russo, M. (eds.) Giuseppe Casciaro 1861-1941, Privato. Lecce, 2023.
Lanzilotta, G. (ed.) Incanto partenopeo. Guido Di Renzo, Giuseppe Casciaro e la comunità artistica del Vomero nella prima metà del Novecento. Bari, 2019.
Martorelli, L. and Mazzocca, F. (eds.) Da De Nittis a Gemito: i napoletani a Parigi negli anni dell’impressionismo. Genova, 2017.
Picone Petrusa, M. (ed.) Dal Vero. Il paesaggismo Napoletano da Gigante a De Nittis. Torino, 2002.
Valente, I. (ed.) Il Bello o il Vero. Napoli, 2014.
Valente, I., I luoghi incantati della sirena nella pittura Napoletana dell’ottocento. Sorrento, 2009.
Virno, C., I Casciaro: Giuseppe, Carolina e Guido. Roma, 2004.
Virno, C., La storia di una grande amicizia in un nuovo inedito ‘Ritratto di Giuseppe Casciaro’ di mano di Antonio Mancini, in About Art Online, ed. P. Di Loreto (Roma, 2025).
Virno, C. (ed.) Vincenzo Gemito: la collezione. Roma, 2014.
Virno, C., Antonio Mancini, catalogo ragionato dell’opera 2 voll. Roma, 2019.
Schettini, A., Giuseppe Casciaro. Napoli, 1952.

Introduce Yourself (Example Post)

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Introduce Yourself (Example Post)

This is an example post, originally published as part of Blogging University. Enroll in one of our ten programs, and start your blog right.

You’re going to publish a post today. Don’t worry about how your blog looks. Don’t worry if you haven’t given it a name yet, or you’re feeling overwhelmed. Just click the “New Post” button, and tell us why you’re here.

Why do this?

  • Because it gives new readers context. What are you about? Why should they read your blog?
  • Because it will help you focus your own ideas about your blog and what you’d like to do with it.

The post can be short or long, a personal intro to your life or a bloggy mission statement, a manifesto for the future or a simple outline of your the types of things you hope to publish.

To help you get started, here are a few questions:

  • Why are you blogging publicly, rather than keeping a personal journal?
  • What topics do you think you’ll write about?
  • Who would you love to connect with via your blog?
  • If you blog successfully throughout the next year, what would you hope to have accomplished?

You’re not locked into any of this; one of the wonderful things about blogs is how they constantly evolve as we learn, grow, and interact with one another — but it’s good to know where and why you started, and articulating your goals may just give you a few other post ideas.

Can’t think how to get started? Just write the first thing that pops into your head. Anne Lamott, author of a book on writing we love, says that you need to give yourself permission to write a “crappy first draft”. Anne makes a great point — just start writing, and worry about editing it later.

When you’re ready to publish, give your post three to five tags that describe your blog’s focus — writing, photography, fiction, parenting, food, cars, movies, sports, whatever. These tags will help others who care about your topics find you in the Reader. Make sure one of the tags is “zerotohero,” so other new bloggers can find you, too.