Art in Reproduction: Nineteenth-Century Prints after Lawrence Alma-Tadema, Jozef Israels and Ary Scheffer

ART IN REPRODUCTION Nineteenth-Century Prints after Lawrence Alma-Tadema, Jozef Israëls and Ary Scheffer

ROBERT VERHOOGT

a mst er da m uni v er si t y pr ess

ART IN REPRODUCTION

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ROBERT VERHOOGT

ART IN REPRODUCTION Nineteenth-Century Prints after Lawrence Alma-Tadema, Jozef Israëls and Ary Scheffer

a mst er da m uni v er si t y pr ess

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© Robert Verhoogt © Amsterdam University Press Omslag… Etc…

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contents

Preface

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Introduction

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chapter 1

Pinxit et Sculpsit

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Pinxit Sculpsit The author of a reproduction

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chapter 2

From Engraving to Photography Graphic art reproduction (1800-1835) Graphic innovation (1835-1860) Graphic versus photographic art reproduction (1860-1900) From graphic to photographic art reproduction

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chapter 3

From Original to Reproduction Initiating the reproduction Organising the reproduction The production of the reproduction From original to reproduction

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chapter 4

For Connoisseurs and Amateurs The distribution of the reproduction Intermezzo: art reproduction in illustrated periodicals The reception of a reproduction The public for reproductions

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chapter 5

The Most Framed Artist

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Ary Scheffer (1795-1858) and Reproductions after His Work

Scheffer and the droit de reproduction Independent reproductions Reproductions in illustrated publications The public for Scheffer reproductions Scheffer’s work versus reproductions

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chapter 6

Israëls and His Children’s Best Clothes

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Jozef Israëls (1824-1911) and Reproductions after His Work

Israëls and reproductierecht Independent reproductions Reproductions in illustrated publications The public for Israëls reproductions Israëls’ work versus reproductions

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chapter 7

‘I Rather Like to Combine Profit with Pleasure’ ? Lawrence Alma-Tadema (1836-1912) and Reproductions after His Work

Alma-Tadema and copyright Independent reproductions Reproductions in illustrated publications The public for Alma-Tadema reproductions Alma-Tadema’s work versus reproduction

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chapter 8

From Art to Reproduction

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SUMMARY

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COLOURPLATES

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Notes

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Bibliography Index

Illustration Credits

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Preface

In early 1885, the Victorian painter Lawrence Alma-Tadema (1836-1912) was concerned about his artistic production at that moment. In a letter to his friend Carel Vosmaer he complained: ‘Art is going badly here, the paintings won’t come off. So what will those Goupils [the art- dealer/publisher goupil, rv] have to reproduce?’1 He explicitly pointed out the interesting relation between his art and the reproduction of it. In the course of history, works of art have been reproduced in many ways. Prints and photographs after paintings and drawings formed the public reputations of artists and their works for centuries. However, less attention has been paid to the reproductions themselves. Art in Reproduction. Nineteenth-Century Prints after Lawrence Alma-Tadema, Jozef Israëls and Ary Scheffer describes the cultural history of art reproduction in the nineteenth-century art world. New (photo-)graphic techniques and the legal developments of copyright, the rise of the art market and art publishing resulted in a wide distribution of printed reproductions to the general public in the nineteenth century. The engravings, lithographs, etchings and photographs represent the images of other works of art. At the same time they are interesting visual interpretations themselves. This interaction between the original and the reproduction gives a print or photograph of a work of art its own internal structure. It is this



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artistic, social and legal interaction between art and reproduction has fascinated me for so many years, and was the source of inspiration for my research. The original idea for this study goes back to 1996 when I wrote my ma thesis in art history about the printed reproductions after the works of Lawrence Alma-Tadema. Later, this study formed the point of departure for my PhD dissertation about art reproduction in the nineteenth-century art world. Alma-Tadema was accompanied by Jozef Israëls and Ary Scheffer and many other nineteenth-century painters. This dissertation was awarded a doctorate by the University of Amsterdam in February 2004. This book, Art in Reproduction. Nineteenth-Century Prints after Lawrence Alma-Tadema, Jozef Israëls and Ary Scheffer, is the translation of my dissertation. Although writing a book is a solitary activity, I received a great deal of help from others with the preparation of this book. I wish to record my thanks to a large number of people. I want to thank my doctoral supervisor, Professor Evert van Uitert, for his stimulating enthusiasm for my research. Additionally, I would like to express my thanks to Richard Bionda, Ger Luijten, Ronald de Leeuw and Piet Verkruijsse for their support. Special thanks are for my former colleagues at the Institute for Art History at the University of Amsterdam for their enthusiasm and daily pleasure in investigating art history. I want to thank Margriet Schavemaker and Roel Hijink for our many stimulating discussions. I would also like to extend my thanks to Marguerite Tuijn and Saskia van Bergen, and the organisation and members of the Huizinga Institute for cultural history. For their informative suggestions and critical remarks, I want to thank: Wim van den Berg, Carel Blotkamp, Richard Bionda, Saskia Asser, Hans Rooseboom, Mayken Jonkman, Dani Cuypers, Jeroen Boomgaard, Jan de Vries, Bert van de Roemer, Petra Brouwer, Teio Meedendorp, Lotte Jensen, Jan Hein Furnée, Peter Sonderen, Hans Buis, Dieuwertje Dekkers, Leo Ewals, Hildelies Balk, Annette Ligtenstein, Jenny Reynaerts, Deborah Meijers, Pierre-Lin Renié, Marga Altena and René Klomp. I combined the finishing of my book with my work at the Department for Cultural Heritage at the Dutch Ministry of Education, Culture and Science. I want to thank all my colleagues there for their support. Two women played an important role in the production of my book. I want to thank Anneke van Huisseling for her critical remarks and her editorial advice and stimulating comments on the book. Secondly, I want to thank Michele Hen-

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dricks for translating so many words and keeping up her stimulating enthusiasm till the last one. My thanks to Amsterdam University Press. Additionally, I am grateful to the Nederlandse Organisatie voor Wetenschappelijk Onderzoek for subsidising the translation and to the Prince Bernhard Foundation for subsidising a crucial element of the book: the reproductions. I could not write this book without the stimulating support of my family and friends. My father, Jan Verhoogt, showed me the beauty of science so that I confidently started my journey of curiosity. I want to thank my mother Corry Verhoogt for her optimism that I would not get lost. Finally, I want to thank the love of my life, Esther. Amsterdam, February 2007

pr eface

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Introduction

Art reproduction

In 1973 the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York exhibited a then-relatively unknown picture, A Coign of Vantage (1895), painted by the Frisian-born artist, Lawrence Alma-Tadema (1836-1912). [plate 1] This sunny scene of three women by a marble balustrade, looking out over the sea by the island of Capri, had been completed by the painter in 1895. Shortly afterwards, the work had been shipped to the United States, where it became the property of a private collector. Several changes of ownership later, the painting was acquired by a great fan and collector of Alma-Tadema’s work, Allen Funt, the American television maker famous for his tv programme Candid Camera. In 1973 Funt loaned the work to the Metropolitan Museum of Art where it was exhibited in public for the first time, thus bringing to an end its previously obscure existence. The fame of this lovely picture spread rapidly via a slew of reproductions of every kind and format. In 1996 the work was exhibited in the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam, as part of the retrospective Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema (1836-1912). Reproductions of the painting appeared on the cover of the accompanying catalogue, on posters and postcards in the museum shop, and even on the exhibition poster. Thus a hitherto unknown work was displayed in reproduction in many bus and tram

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shelters. A Coign of Vantage (1895) is now one of Alma-Tadema’s best-known paintings, thanks to its many reproductions, and it is generally regarded as a masterpiece in his oeuvre.1 Works of art have been reproduced for centuries. Art reproduction developed during the late Middle Ages, in the wake of printing, whose invention made it possible to replicate both words and images. Printmakers used woodcuts and engravings on copper to produce numerous copies of the images depicted by works of art. As early as 1500 craftsmen began to concentrate on engraving artworks, and art reproduction became a specialised profession.2 The potential for copying artworks ensured that printing techniques soon became wholly identified with replicating and multiplying the images found in existing art. Vasari, for example, regarded engraving as categorically intended to serve painting. He included just one printmaker, Marcantonio Raimondi, in his famous catalogue of renowned painters and sculptors; a revealing choice which shows that for Vasari the art of printing did not begin with the early graphic experiments of Mantegna or Parmigianino, but with Raimondi’s engravings after works by Raphael and Michelangelo.3 Vasari’s view of prints was elaborated by Samuel van Hoogstraeten in his Inleyding tot de hooge schoole der schilderkonst, which declared that the importance of printing lay chiefly in its replication of painted works: ‘prints are messengers and interpreters, that proclaim the substance of works of art, that are either from far away or already antiquated.’4 In similar vein, Gerard de Lairesse wrote that engraving copies painting as painting copies nature.5 Thanks to graphic techniques many artists saw their painted works translated into an abundance of prints. H. Goltzius, P.P. Rubens and J. Reynolds are just three of the renowned painters who used the services of professional printmakers on a large scale to replicate their works in the sixteenth, seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.6 During the nineteenth century, art reproduction gained momentum. Radical changes occurred in the sphere of reproductive techniques. The invention of lithography and photography allowed images to be copied and multiplied with increasing speed. Lithography released the printmaker from the labour-intensive process of engraving, as this technique only required the image to be drawn on a lithographic stone. Photography rendered even this action redundant. New methods for replicating and multiplying works of art were introduced at a rapid rate. At the same time traditional, hand-operated printing

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presses were being replaced by machine presses, exchanging manpower for steam and electricity. The introduction of continuous rolls of paper, known as papier sans fin, provided the endless stream of paper that was an essential precondition for modernising graphic reproductive processes. These were spectacular innovations, but it often took several decades for them to be fully developed and applied. So traditional reproductive techniques were not immediately superseded, and printmakers continued to produce line engravings, mezzotints and etchings alongside the wealth of new lithographs and photographs, although they increasingly employed steel plates instead of copper. This parallel production helped to expand the range of reproductive techniques still further. As reproductive processes gained speed, higher print runs resulted in a greater diversity of graphic and photographic images, together with lower prices. The nineteenth century was therefore characterised by a hitherto unprecedented production of reproductions, in terms of both quantity and quality. William Ivins even declared, in his renowned work Prints and Visual Communication (1953), that more prints were produced during the nineteenth century than in all the preceding centuries put together.7 Technical innovation paved the way for new forms of use and abuse. During the fifteenth century the invention of printing had provided the impetus for the development of intellectual property rights. Once publishers and booksellers had invested in the new printing process they soon felt a need to obtain legal protection for these investments. The privilege system gave publishers (temporary) monopoly rights over their publications, whilst allowing church and state, who granted these privileges, a valuable means of censorship. It proved an effective system and continued to operate internationally until well into the eighteenth century, when new ‘Enlightenment’ ideas about property and creation shifted the primacy of the publisher slowly but surely in the favour of the individual author. As the spiritual and intellectual father of a work, the author was supposed to retain ultimate control over each of his creations and its replication, whether the translation of a novel or the reproduction of a painting. One artist who promoted the introduction of authorship rights was William Hogarth, famous for two series of paintings entitled A Harlot’s Progress (1732) and A Rake’s Progress (1735), whose popularity was largely based on their many reproductions.8 The painter took public issue with illegal copies of his work and saw his efforts rewarded with the passing of the 1736 Copyright Act, better known as the Hogarth Act. This act can be regarded as the first copyright law in the sphere

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of visual art, and the first legal recognition of the rights of the individual artist. The legal transformation of the traditional privilege system into the concept of modern authorship rights mainly occurred during the nineteenth century. It was a far-reaching development that was closely followed in the art world. The well-known artist Horace Vernet recorded his view of authorship rights in his essay Du Droit des peintres et des sculpteurs sur leur ouvrages (1841), as did the influential art dealer Ernest Gambart in his paper On Piracy of Artistic Copyright (1863). The advent of authorship rights attested to a new vision of the artist’s relationship to his work, and reproductions of this, a vision subsequently codified in numerous laws and conventions. Art reproductions became available in a wide range of types and formats. Large publishers such as Remondini and Boydell had already made an important contribution to the international print market during the eighteenth century.9 Their work was continued by nineteenth-century firms such as Moon, Goupil, Gambart and Buffa, who further expanded the field as part of the rapidly developing art trade.10 National and international networks of print dealers and publishers connected towns and villages, countries and continents, thereby ensuring widespread distribution of art reproductions and the development of an extensive international market.11 Reproductions appeared in all kinds of new and richly illustrated forms of publication, such as the journals and catalogues associated with exhibitions, art collections and museums, while printmakers continued to produce independent prints, carrying on a tradition that had first emerged during the fifteenth century. The result was a greater and richer range of reproductions than ever previously attested. Public interest in art kept pace with the expansion of art reproduction. The culture of the Enlightenment, pursued by a motley collection of societies, journals, reading circles, exhibitions and other cultural institutions, had brought increasing numbers of people into contact with art. New forms of communication and transport had broken through physical and cultural frontiers, whilst economic progress had ensured that more and more individuals could afford some form of art. The visual arts, literature and music were no longer the preserve of a small cultural elite but increasingly lay within reach of the social middle classes. Reading prose and poetry, playing a musical instrument and collecting art in reproduction literally brought the arts into many people’s homes, in the service of the modern citizen’s own ‘Bildungsideal’.

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The question arises of how the phenomenon of art reproduction was accommodated within the prevailing view of art. Romantic ideas about art and the artist had created a genuine cult of the original artwork that seems at odds with the opportunities available for replicating and multiplying the ‘unique’ original as many ‘identical’ reproductions. Moreover, art reproduction had traditionally been associated with the ‘worldly’ application of graphic techniques, market demands and legal regulations, all of which seem at first sight to be far removed from the romantic ideal of the artist as a lofty, free-spirited being. The new view of the artist is illustrated by a statement made by Adam von Bartsch (1757-1821) in his monumental catalogue Le Peintre Graveur, published from 1808: c

‘L’estampe faite par un graveur d’après le dessin d’un peintre, peut être parfaitement comparée à un ouvrage traduit dans une langue différente de celle de l’auteur; et comme une tradition ne peut être exacte que quand le traducteur s’est pénétré des idées de l’auteur, de même une estampe ne sera jamais parfaite, si le graveur n’a le talent de saisir l’esprit de son original, et d’en rendre la valeur par les traits de son burin.’12

For Bartsch, only prints designed and produced by one and the same artist possessed the ideal unity of concept and execution. The general lack of this unity in reproductions furnished Bartsch with sufficient cause to systematically ignore such works and focus exclusively on original graphic pieces, designed and produced by a single artist, or peintre-graveur.13 Bartsch largely drew the inspiration for his concept of the peintre-graveur from old masters such as Segers, Rembrandt and Ruysdael, although it was also an idea that inspired many contemporary masters. Artists such as Delacroix, Gericault and Bonnington experimented extensively with graphic techniques as a change from painting; masters of the Barbizon School regularly worked with both brush and burin, as did the realists and impressionists, while modern innovators such as Manet, Degas and Whistler inspired many contemporaries to practise print-based techniques alongside painting.14 Etchings were a favourite medium for graphic experiments by artists. Critics such as Philippe Burty and Philip Gilbert Hamerton developed terms such as l’estampe original and belle épreuve to underline the original character of printed works.15 This quest for the unique graphic image essentially endeavoured to deny the potential – intrinsically associated with every graphic medium – for replicating and multiplying

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this image. The making of original prints flourished, evolving from a pastime for devotees into the core artistic activity of the modern peintre-graveur. The founding of the Société des Peintre-Graveurs in 1889 is illustrative of this development.16 Exclusive original prints contrasted sharply with mass-produced engravings, lithographs and photographs of artworks. Although Bartsch did not deign to discuss such reproductions, many of his colleagues did. Journals, particularly those connected with art, wrote at length about the latest reproductive techniques, copyright disputes, printmakers and publishers. They also published regular reviews of recent reproductions, paying varying degrees of attention to the subject, technique and quality of a specific print or photograph. Thus an intriguing situation developed during the nineteenth century: on the one hand, art reproduction burgeoned on an unprecedented scale, on the other, the period was permeated as never before by concepts of originality and authenticity. Bartsch identified this tension between art and its reproduction, a theme subsequently taken up by influential authors such as John Ruskin, Oscar Wilde, Théophile Gautier, Charles Baudelaire and Carel Vosmaer. During the nineteenth century the phenomenon of art reproduction seems to have been diametrically at odds with the dominant views on art. The apparently unbridgeable gulf between art and reproduction in the period makes the subject of art reproduction in the nineteenth century as fascinating as it is complex. For many years views on (nineteenth-century) art reproduction were shaped by the ideas of Walter Benjamin. In his Kleine Geschichte der Photographie (1931) the literary critic and philosopher discussed at length the relatively new medium of photography and its significance as a reproductive technique, subsequently developing his ideas in Das Kunstwerk im Zeitalter seiner technischen Reproduzierbarkeit (1936).17 The art movements of Benjamin’s time – futurism, constructivism and dada – are reflected in his fascination with art in an age that possessed the technical capability to reproduce this art. Concepts such as originality and authenticity had already lost much of their validity through the appeal of mass production and the speed of new mediums like film.18 Benjamin’s interest in reproduction is just as much in keeping with the cultural context of the interwar years as Bartsch’s preference for original prints during the romantic era. In Das Kunstwerk im Zeitalter seiner technischen Reproduzierbarkeit Benjamin analysed at length the conceptual change associated with a work of art as a result of the

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new reproductive technologies. He paid particular attention to the question of how technological reproduction affected the character of the ‘unique’ work of art and concluded that such reproduction stripped an original artwork of its uniqueness and authenticity, which he described as its ‘aura’.19 c

‘Die reproduktionstechnik, so liese sich allgemein formulieren, löst das Reproduzierte aus dem Bereich der Tradition ab. Indem sie die Reproduktion vervielfältigt, setzt sie an die Stelle seines einmaligen Vorkommens sein massenweises. Und indem sie der Reproduktion erlaubt, dem Aufnehmenden in seiner jeweilligen Situation entgegenzukommen, aktualisiert sie das Reprodusierte.20

Reproductive technology thus gave transience and the repeatability of reproduction primacy over the unique artwork. The essay discusses photography as a technique, rather than photographers or specific photographs, unlike Benjamin’s earlier Kleine Geschichte der Photographie, in which he considered the special relationship between an individual photographer and his technique.21 In Das Kunstwerk im Zeitalter seiner technischen Reproduzierbarkeit, however, important factors such as the diversity of photographic techniques, the photographer’s character and the quality of individual prints were absent from the discussion and Benjamin declared: ‘Von der photographischen Platte zum Beispiel ist eine Vielheit von Abzügen möglich; die Frage nach dem echten Abzug hat keinen Sinn.’22 Benjamin’s view of photography was also shaped by his concept of the ‘aura’; as Knizek remarked: c

‘Benjamin has to devalue photography, namely deny its status of art because he would experience difficulties in grounding his main argument that reproduction, i.e., photography in this case, strips works of art of their aura and devalues them.’23

Thus, Benjamin’s perception of photography as a reproductive technique was considerably simplified and even distorted. The Marxist critic and philosopher regarded photography chiefly as a technical process and ‘the first truly revolutionary means of reproduction’, whose development he was unable to contemplate in isolation from the ‘dawn’ of socialism. Benjamin’s view of reproductive techniques caused him to pay little attention to the distinctive characteristics

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of the various processes, the maker’s personality and the quality of individual images within reproductive traditions and the historical context. He showed little interest in the ‘aura’ of a reproduction. Benjamin left research into art reproduction a complex legacy. His greatest merit is that he, more than anyone else, introduced the phenomenon of art reproduction into the sphere of reflection on art theory. His views on art and reproduction are enshrined in research on the subject. Benjamin’s ideas were also partly responsible for the great interest shown in art reproduction by post-modernist thought. Jacques Derrida emphasised the importance of imitation and reproduction, which he even described as the essence of art, in his much-quoted De la Grammatology (1967): ‘The engraving, which copies the models of art, is nonetheless the model for art.’24 In her well-known essay The Originality of the Avant-Garde: A Postmodernist Repetition (1985), Rosalind Krauss pointed to the ‘discourse of the copy’ pursued by various post-modernist theoreticians, a ‘discourse’ from which Benjamin’s influence was virtually never absent.25 Hillel Schwartz described Benjamin in her Culture of the Copy (1996) as: ‘a theorist who for some readers must have been lurking behind each of these pages […].’26 Benjamin’s ideas have even reached beyond the restricted circles of post-modernist theoreticians and been popularised for the general public: a BBC television series from the early 1970s, Ways of Seeing, written and presented by the marxist John Berger, examined how people look at art and was heavily influenced by Benjamin’s ideas.27 Nevertheless, there is a negative side to the widespread diffusion of Benjamin’s views on reproduction. In his essay Das Kunstwerk im Zeitalter seiner technischen Reproduzierbarkeit, Benjamin himself showed little interest in the ‘aura’ of a reproduction, while those who have followed in his footsteps have been equally deficient in this respect. So Benjamin’s essay on art reproduction displays many of the same characteristics as many an art reproduction, for it has been similarly replicated and distributed on a large scale, complete with ambivalences and shortcomings. Criticism of Benjamin’s ideas on art and reproduction, however, does not substantially detract from the importance of his contribution to thought on art reproduction, and to some extent may even be regarded as a positive aspect of his thinking. Post-modernist theoretical approaches to art reproduction have subsequently been supplemented by other points of view. An influential work is the abovementioned study by William Ivins, Prints and Visual Communication (1953). Ivins,

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curator of the print department at the Metropolitan Museum of Modern Art in New York at the time he wrote this work, managed to condense the history of printed art into a coherent story, extending from the earliest woodcuts to the advent of modern photography. While photography forms the starting point in Benjamin’s vision of reproduction, in Ivins’ work it concludes the tale. Ivins considered the printed image from a broad socio-historical perspective and outlined the most important graphic and photographic developments, justifiably concluding that the importance of prints extended far beyond the world of art. As he stated in his foreword: c

‘the principle function of the printed picture in Western Europe and America has been obscured by the persistent habit of regarding prints as of interest and value only in so far as they can be regarded as works of art. Actually the various ways of making prints (including photography) are the only methods by which exactly repeatable pictorial statements can be made about anything. The importance of being able exactly to repeat pictorial statements is undoubtedly greater for science, technology and general information than it is for art.’28

Ivins’ view of prints is thus diametrically opposed to Bartsch’s basic premise. Whereas Bartsch had focused on the original qualities of graphic works, Ivins stressed the importance of the printed picture’s ability to replicate and multiply images, as ‘repeatable pictorial statements’.29 During the final decades of the twentieth century, Ivins’ social-historical approach was applied in a wealth of research into (the history of) the printed arts, including work by A.H. Mayor, whose Prints and People: a Social History of Printed Pictures (1971) is devoted to the social function and meaning of graphic representations.30 Research into the history of printed art has progressively expanded to encompass related subjects such as publishing and the print trade. Examples of work in this field include T. Riggs, Hieronymus Cock: Printmaker and Publisher (1977); A. Globe, Peter Stent, London Printseller (1985); N. Orenstein, Hendrick Hondius and the Business of Prints in Seventeenth-Century Holland (1996); M. Sellink, Philips Galle (1537-1612): Engraver and Print Publisher in Haarlem and Antwerp (1997); T. Clayton, The English Print, 1688-1802 (1997) and A.W.A. Boschloo, The Prints of the Remondinis. An Attempt to Reconstruct an Eighteenth-Century World of Pictures (1998).31 This research has been paralleled by an increasing interest in collecting prints.32 in troduction

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The general expansion of research into prints has also been characterised by a growing fascination for graphic and photographic art reproduction. A number of special exhibitions on the subject, such as Bilder nach Bildern (1976), Painters and Engraving: the Reproductive Print from Hogarth to Wilkie (1980) and The Image Multiplied (1987), were accompanied by publications that have now become widely consulted.33 These general studies were followed by a range of more specific publications that examine reproductions after works by well-known masters such as Brouwer, Berchem, Van Dijck, Poussin and Canova.34 Although works on old masters tend to dominate research into graphic art reproduction, these are being increasingly supplemented by various studies associated with the nineteenth century, particularly those which deal with the English context, such as D. Alexander and R.T. Godfrey, Painters and Engraving; the Reproduction Print from Hogarth to Wilkie (1980), A. Dyson, Pictures to Print. The Nineteenth Century Engraving Trade (1984) and R .Engen, Pre-Raphaelite Prints. The Graphic Art of Millais, Holman Hunt, Rossetti and their Followers (1995).35 In recent years more research has also been conducted into French art reproduction during the nineteenth century. Musée Goupil in Bordeaux, which manages a significant part of the estate left by Goupil & Cie, the renowned nineteenth-century firm of art dealers and publishers, is an important source of publications on French art reproduction.36 A fine example of one of the museum’s publications is Gérôme and Goupil. Art and Enterprise (2000) which considers the renowned painter’s relationship with the firm. Another work on the French context is Stephen Bann’s Parallel Lines. Printmakers, Painters and Photographers in Nineteenth-Century France (2001).37 Works on nineteenth-century art reproduction in the Netherlands, Spain and Germany have also been published.38 Research into nineteenth-century art reproduction has been supplemented to an important degree in recent years by historical research into photography, a field in which increasing attention has also been paid to photographic reproduction of artworks. Important publications in this regard are E.A. McCauley, Industrial Madness. Commercial Photography in Paris 1848-1871 (1994) and A.J. Hamber, “A Higher Branch of the Arts” Photographing the Fine Arts in England, 1839-1880 (1996).39 Research into graphic and photographic art reproduction in the broadest sense of the term has been collected in the recently published Leids Kunsthistorisch Jaarboek: Beelden in veelvoud. De vermenigvuldiging van het beeld in prentkunst en fotografie (2002).

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Research into art reproduction has gradually developed in various directions, shifting its focus from printed art to photography, from the activities of publishers to the activities of collectors, from works by exclusive old masters to mass-produced photographs of the carte de visite type. Art history has thereby expanded its sphere of interest from a pure examination of images to analysis of the cultural context in which these images were produced, distributed and collected.40 Historical research into visual culture has also evolved a greater regard for the meaning of prints and photographs. In recent decades socio-cultural research by Burke, Ginzburg and Bourdieu has generated various studies that examine diverse forms of ‘high’ and especially ‘low’ or folk culture.41 Naturally, such broad cultural perspectives throw a spotlight on reproductions as part of general visual culture. An inspiring work in this regard is Peter Gay’s series The Bourgeois Experience. Victoria to Freud, which considers the bourgeois classes of the nineteenth century and includes the role of reproductions in the social environment. Remarkably, scholarly interest in art reproduction remains mostly ‘indirect’, and the subject only receives attention in its capacity as an unknown component of some famous artist’s work or renowned publisher’s output, as a factor in the development of photography or as an aspect of bourgeois visual culture. Interest in art reproduction is not, therefore, the object of research but rather a consequence of this research. Despite the increased amount of attention being paid to the subject, the phenomenon of art reproduction in itself is rarely the central focus of art historical or cultural historical research. As a result knowledge about this aspect of art history is neither consistent nor coherent, since it is scattered over various fields of research. Art reproduction is still largely uncharted territory, although current levels of interest in sixteenth- and seventeenth-century old masters means this statement should now apply specifically to the nineteenth century. Purpose and method: art reproduction in the nineteenth century

The nineteenth century is a fascinating chapter in the long history of art reproduction. It was an age in which a number of radical changes occurred: the transition from graphic to photographic reproductive techniques, the rise of intellectual property, the evolution of the art market and the enormous increase in public interest in (visual) art. As a result of these developments the production and distribution of art reproduction was greater in volume and diversity than

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ever before. Yet it was also an age whose character was determined, as never before, by romantic views on originality and authenticity. In this study I have endeavoured to comprehend the elusive phenomenon of art reproduction by considering these socio-cultural, economic and legal processes in context from a broad cultural-historical perspective. This approach, combined with the current state of research, determined the form of this study. I have opted for the ‘long’ version of the nineteenth century, extending from the end of the eighteenth century to approximately the beginning of the First World War, as the length of this period makes it possible to set and describe changes in the context of their time. During the nineteenth century, art reproduction was a phenomenon that crossed national frontiers. Many art dealers and publishers were internationally oriented in their outlook, as were the many artists, printmakers and photographers with whom they did business. New means of communication and transport allowed the public to learn about developments in the art world with increasing speed. However, research into art reproduction has tended to consign this international dimension to the background. In order to obtain a fuller picture of the art world’s international character during the nineteenth-century I therefore chose to conduct my research ‘in breadth’, supplementing my examination of art reproduction in the Netherlands with consideration of this phenomenon in England and France. These two cultural superpowers dominated not only art during the nineteenth century but also its reproduction.42 It was in England and France that the leading international art dealers, publishers and art institutions were based, that successful exhibitions were held and the latest innovations introduced in the field of art reproduction. The study specifically considers England, France and the Netherlands, fully aware that fascinating developments in the German states, Italy and the United States will remain largely beyond its scope. During the nineteenth century works of art, both by old masters and living masters, were reproduced on a large scale. Paintings by Rembrandt, Raphael and Murillo continued to be reproduced centuries after their death.43 However, nineteenth-century masters such as Turner, Gérôme and Scheffer almost matched these old masters in terms of popularity and volume of reproduction. One of the intriguing issues I faced when researching this study was the attitude of artists towards reproductions after their work. What did they think of these reproductions, how did they benefit financially from them and what role

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did art reproduction play in their work? When painting their canvases, were they influenced by how well these pictures would reproduce? These were the questions which guided my research into the reproduction of contemporary art in the nineteenth century, or the reproduction of art by ‘living masters’. We can generally identify a reproduction from inscriptions in the margin of the image. Widely used terms such as pinxit and sculpsit designate the names of the image designer and the image adaptor, in other words, the painter of the original work and the engraver of the print after this work. Such inscriptions are often the first indication that an image has been made after an existing work. However, the print itself cannot tell us anything about the reproduction process. What happens when art is reproduced? What is a reproduction? Are only prints, or also photographs, reproductions? How does a reproduction differ, for example, from a copy or a forgery? A reproduction represents the original work in another guise, technique, format and context, at the same time presenting itself as an independent work in its own right, with its own specific qualities. It is precisely this interaction between the original work and its adaptation in another medium that gives a reproduction its curiously hybridised yet fascinating character. The first chapter of this book, ‘Pinxit et Sculpsit’, systematically examines the phenomenon of ‘reproduction’, with a view to reaching a closer definition of a number of central terms and concepts. Preparatory to exploring the (photo)graphic reproduction process, elements characteristic to image ‘replication’ and ‘multiplication’ are then considered, as is the relationship between the various parties involved in the reproduction process, such as the designer of the original image and the adaptor of this image. A recurring theme is the issue of authorship. The chapter will conclude by defining several of the characteristics that set reproductions apart from other adaptations of images and forgeries. Art reproduction is inextricably associated with technological progress. The second chapter, From Engraving to Photography, aims to provide a chronological summary of the most important changes in the field of reproductive technology during the nineteenth century, plus the historical framework within which the actual process of reproduction occurred. The Industrial Revolution generated numerous innovations in reproductive technology. Although modernisation of this technology had already commenced in the eighteenth century, it was the nineteenth century that witnessed a rapid increase in methods and proce-

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dures. Traditional graphic techniques, such as engraving, mezzotinting and etching, were supplemented by new processes such as the many forms of lithography and photography. Sometimes the various techniques competed, other times they complemented each other. The strictly technical aspects of these many processes and methods are well known and have been sufficiently described elsewhere. So the aim of this chapter is not to offer an encyclopaedic overview of these technical changes but rather to delineate their dynamics from a historical perspective. Determining factors are the survival of traditional techniques from the past, graphic innovations during the nineteenth century, and the confrontation between the two. Tradition and innovation coexisted in a state of permanent tension. Whilst a stream of never-ending technical developments in the field of photography inspired excitement and enthusiasm, the impending demise of engraving, with all its ancient traditions, provided cause for sorrow and dejection. How did a reproduction come into being in the nineteenth century? Reproducing works of art was a complex process involving various parties, such as printmakers, photographers, painters, publishers and printers. My analysis of the reproductive process was partly inspired by Robert Darnton’s approach to the history of the book, presented in his article What is the History of Books?44 Darnton’s insight into a book’s production and distribution, in particular his view of ‘the life of a book’, offers useful perspectives for improving understanding of the reproductive process involved in producing prints and photographs.45 In the third chapter, From Original to Reproduction, I present a similar model for reproductions, based on ‘the life of the reproduction’. This approach enables the parties and processes involved in art reproduction to be considered wherever possible in relation to each other. The life of a reproduction can be divided into the following phases. The first phase comprises the initiative, intention or proposal, to reproduce a specific work. This is followed by a phase in which the various parties to be involved in the process are organised and agreement is reached on associated issues such as authorship rights, availability of the original and the engraver or photographer’s remuneration. Phase three comprises the actual process of reproduction, when sketching, engraving or photographing of the original image, and the correction of proofs, finally produces the material prints which are then ready for sale. In some instances prints may be signed and numbered. The purpose of this chapter is thus to present these first three

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phases in the life cycle of a reproduction, which generate the actual printed works, in a range of types, formats and prices. In chapter four, For Connoisseurs and Amateurs, ‘the life of the reproduction’ is followed through the distribution of reproductions to the public. This distribution can be regarded as the fourth phase in the life of a reproduction. The public was made aware of the new reproduction through advertising and publicity, and the print dealer and publisher’s distribution network was required to convey the print or photograph to its destination. A supplementary intermezzo then considers an important new form of publication in the world of art reproduction, the illustrated (art) journal. The public’s encounter with a reproduction, as an independent work or in illustrated publications, is the fifth and final phase in the life of the reproduction.46 A number of elements played a role in the reception of a reproduction: where could people see reproductions, who collected them and how? I conclude this chapter by considering what the nineteenth-century public thought of reproductions. How did they view reproductions? How did they judge the execution of the subject, the translation of colour into black-and-white and the adaptation of the original work into another medium? Ary Scheffer, Jozef Israëls and Lawrence Alma-Tadema

What was the attitude of artists to art reproduction during the nineteenth century? Many masters of the period saw their work reproduced in prints and photographs. To find out how artists dealt in practice with the opportunities offered by reproduction, I sought out several typical representatives amongst their ranks. Various artists emerged as potential candidates in the French and British contexts, ranging from Edwin Landseer (1802-1873) and John Everett Millais (1829-1896) to Jean-Léon Gérôme (1824-1904) and William-Adolphe Bouguereau (1825-1905). The possible Dutch masters included David Bles (1821-1899), Henriëtte Ronner-Knip (1821-1909) and Anton Mauve (1838-1888), whose work was reproduced and circulated in great numbers. In order to represent the international dimension to art reproduction I chose one artist from France, one from England and one from the Netherlands. None of these artists are completely unique, and therefore impossible to compare; all three are masters who to some degree are representative of other artists in their environment. If Ginzburg’s micro-historical approach allows one unknown miller to be representative of an entire layer of folk culture, three renowned artists must surely be a

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1

2

3

fig. 1 Léon Benouville,

fig. 2 A.J.M. Steinmetz,

fig. 3 Portrait of Lawrence

Portrait of Ary Scheffer (1858),

Portrait of Jozef Israëls (ca. 1881),

Alma-Tadema (ca.1880-1885),

drawing on paper, 27 x 22 cm,

photograph, Netherlands

photograph from: Onze Heden-

Dordrechts Museum,

Institute for Art History,

daagsche schilders, 1880-1885,

Dordrecht.

The Hague.

Netherlands Institute for Art History, The Hague.

serviceable tool for gaining greater insight into the historical phenomenon of nineteenth-century art reproduction.47 The three artists I selected were Ary Scheffer (1795-1858), Jozef Israëls (18241911) and Lawrence Alma Tadema (1836-1912). [fig. 1,2,3] All three were Dutch by birth. Scheffer found a new home in France and Alma-Tadema in England, while Israëls mainly worked in his native country where he evolved into one of the most authoritative artists of his time. All three were exceptionally successful, prominent figures in their cultural environment. Their works were reproduced on a large scale in engravings, lithographs, etchings and photographs in diverse publications. The first prints after Scheffer’s work appeared as early as 1817. During the 1830s, 1840s and 1850s the artist worked with the leading printmakers of his age and was closely associated with the French print publishers Goupil, pioneers in the production and distribution of reproductions. Scheffer was also one of the most reproduced artists of his age. When he died in 1858, the first engravings after Israëls’ work had already been published. Israëls’ collaboration with the publishers Kruseman and Buffa produced many prints after

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his work, making him one of the most reproduced artists in the Netherlands over a period of more than half a century. By this point the young Frisian-born Dutch artist Alma-Tadema had also been making a name for himself in England during the 1860s and 1870s. Working together with the influential art dealer and publisher Ernest Gambart he rapidly developed into one of the best-known Victorian painters of the late nineteenth century. Alma-Tadema’s paintings were reproduced on a large scale in engravings, etchings and photographs, which continued to be published until his death in 1912. The interval of time between the publication of the first prints after Scheffer’s work and the last photographic reproductions approved by Alma-Tadema encompasses virtually the entire nineteenth century. This combination of shared background yet different working context in terms of time and place makes the three masters interesting subjects for the present study. The first four chapters on nineteenth-century art reproduction in general form the background to chapters five, six and seven which discuss Scheffer, Israëls and Alma-Tadema. The intention of these later chapters is to analyse the attitude of each artist to reproduction of their work in ‘actual’ historical practice. What form did their collaboration with printmakers and photographers take? What did they know about authorship rights? How did they evaluate reproductions of their own work? What was the significance of reproduction to their work? The writer and critic Stendhal once complained that contemporary artists were increasingly painting work with an eye to its lithographic reproduction.48 Was his complaint well founded? Did artists intentionally paint ‘art for reproduction’? Analysis of these individual artists not only introduces greater differentiation into the picture that emerged in previous chapters, it also counterbalances this picture. For whilst the schematic ‘life of a reproduction’ offers an overview of nineteenth-century art reproduction, such an outline tends by its very nature to subordinate individual painters, engravers, photographers and publishers, and their paintings, prints and photographs, to general cultural processes which largely ignore the unique qualities associated with individual works of art. Research that specifically addresses these three artists not only shows the extent to which they fitted into general patterns but also the degree to which they did not. The book concludes with some thoughts on the significance of art reproduction in the nineteenth century in general, and in the careers of the three chosen masters in particular.

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All three artists – Scheffer, Israëls and Alma-Tadema – enjoyed status, prestige and income. Their work was awarded prizes at many exhibitions, sold for record sums at auction and was purchased by the leading collectors of their age. However, all three artists encountered more fame during their lifetime than after death, when their popularity declined rapidly. Scheffer and Alma-Tadema’s sentimental works, for example, were barely able to withstand the scrutiny of modernist criticism. This situation has now changed, however, and the paintings produced by Scheffer, Israëls and Alma-Tadema have become better known, thanks to research conducted by Leo Ewals, Dieuwertje Dekkers and Vern Swanson. I have made grateful use of their studies in my own research. Moreover, all three artists have recently been honoured with fine retrospectives: Scheffer was accorded an exhibition in his native city of Dordrecht, and Israëls in Groningen, the city of his birth; Alma-Tadema was even honoured in the Van Gogh Museum, ‘temple’ to the most famous artist in the world.49 The public visited all these exhibitions in droves. The price of all three artists’ work has since risen enormously at auction, making a painting by Scheffer, Israëls or Alma-Tadema just as prohibitively expensive for the simple amateur as it would have been during the artists’ lifetime. Once again a fine reproduction of an unattainable original, such as Alma-Tadema’s A Coign of Vantage, has become an attractive alternative for many enthusiasts.

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chapter 1

Pinxit et Sculpsit

The culture of the copy

In 1759 the writer Edward Young (1683-1765) declared in his Conjectures on Original Composition: c

‘The mind of a man of Genius is a fertile and pleasant field, pleasant as Elysium, and fertile as a Temple; it enjoys a perpetual Spring. Of that Spring, Originals are the fairest Flowers: Imitations are of quicker growth, but fainter bloom. Imitations are of two kinds; one of nature, one of Authors: the first we call Originals, and confine the term Imitation to the second.’1

Over the centuries some works of art have left long traces of their existence in diverse copies: Greek bronzes were imitated by the Romans in marble, while two-dimensional images were copied in paintings, drawings and, once the printing press had been invented, through graphic techniques. The result has been an assortment of copies of every type and format. The nineteenth century enjoyed an exceptionally rich culture of the copy.2 Works of art were replicated on a large scale in new paintings, drawings, prints

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and photographs by the original artist, his pupils, and by specialist printmakers and photographers. The art historian P. Mainardi has distinguished five kinds of copy from this period.3 At the top of the list are the copies of a work made by its original creator. These are followed by a painter’s different, yet closely re­ lated, versions of a specific composition, known in French as repetitions. ‘Re­ ductions’ are an artist’s reduced-format copies of his work. Under the artist’s supervision some paintings were also copied by pupils or assistants, in the form of a ‘replica’. A copy made outside the artist’s sphere of influence, or after his death, was known in the period as a copie. The final category, encompassing copies of original works executed in another (graphic) medium such as engravings or lithographs, offered the potential to multiply an image, unlike the previous categories. In terms of volume this is by far the largest category, for the application of graphic and photographic techniques allowed many works of art to be translated into numerous prints and photographs. It is this final category, comprising prints and photographs after works of visual art, which is central to this study. Nowadays, these prints after other works of art are usually described as ‘reproductive graphics’, a term whose historical roots various authors have endeavoured to uncover.4 In her study De Hollandse schilderschool in prent. Studies naar reproductiegrafiek in de tweede helft van de zeventiende eeuw (1998), the art historian Gerdien Wuestman properly describes the wide application of the term ‘reproductive graphics’ to the seventeenth century as an ‘unfortunate anachronism’. 5 However, the deployment of other terms, such as ‘gravures d’interprétation’ or ‘interpretative graphics’, has not managed to end this confusion. The term ‘reproductive graphics’ is similarly problematic when applied to a nineteenth-century context: although sometimes encountered in the period, it is certainly not associated with a clear-cut concept. This is shown by the fact that, whilst the vast majority of engravings, lithographs and etchings found on nineteenth-century exhibition lists and stock lists appears to consist of prints after existing works, they are not described as ‘reproductive graphics’. There is a further drawback to the term ‘reproductive graphics’, for this, by its very nature, appears to designate manual techniques such as engraving, etching and lithography, and thereby threatens to exclude photography from the picture. Yet art reproduction in the nineteenth century was actually shaped by graphic and photographic techniques, or a combination of these.6 Thus the term ‘reproduc-

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tive graphics’ is also problematic in that it does not cover the broad range of nineteenth-century art reproduction. In 1879 the Winkler Prins Encyclopedie wrote: ‘Ultimately one gives the name of reproduction to the multiplication of a drawing etc. by mechanical process, for example through stone or wood engraving, photography, etc.’7 Multiple meanings have traditionally been attached to the term ‘reproduction’ in itself.8 Derived from the Latin word ‘reproductio’ it was originally employed in a legal context, to denote the presentation of witnesses and/or evidence again during a trial. It also has biological and physiological connotations. In the context of the nineteenth-century art world ‘reproduction’ denotes the copying or multiplication of works of visual art, both in the form of prints and photographs. For this reason the term ‘reproduction’ is preferable to that of ‘reproductive graphics’. On the one hand it encompasses the process of reproduction, described as: ‘the aggregate of actions which lead to the correct rendering, in equivalent, reduced or enlarged measurement, of paintings, drawings, photographs, maps etc’; on the other hand it also designates the product of those actions, the actual print or photograph.9 Reproductions can often be identified at first glance from inscriptions in the margin of printed images. Terms such as inven(it), pinx(it), delin(eavit) and composuit refer to the creator of the original work, while sculp(sit), caelavit, incidit en fec(it) refer to the maker of the reproduction. The printer and/or publisher may also be designated with exc(udit), divulgavit or formis.10 These terms indicate that a work is a reproduction, nothing else. So what precisely happened when an original work of art was reproduced? I shall begin with a systematic review of the reproduction process and further definition of several key concepts.11 I shall then consider the relationship between the creator of an original work and the maker of its reproduction, a recurring theme being the question as to which of these two is entitled to claim authorship of the reproduction. The chapter concludes with several remarks about the products of the reproduction process, or the reproductions themselves. The aim of this systematic exploration of reproduction is to provide a set of tools for considering the phenomenon of art reproduction in the historical context of the nineteenth century, the central theme in the rest of this study.

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Pinxit Every reproduction presupposes the existence of an original work, a model on which the reproduction is based. The widely used term pinxit refers to this model, or, strictly speaking, to the creator of the original. It also indicates that this original would have been painted, just as the term delin (eavit) shows that it was drawn. Both terms mask an important aspect of the original work: that it was made by human hands. In order to avoid a confusion in conceptual terms, it is important to construe the designation ‘original’ in the sense of a material object designed and shaped by human agency, for, as Edward Young wrote: ‘Imitations are of two kinds; one of nature, one of Authors: the first we call Originals, and confine the term Imitation to the second’; if nature itself is the original, its representation in a work such as a painting is already a form of reproduction, making the subsequent translation of that painting into a print a repetition of the reproduction at most.12 So in order to distinguish reproducing from producing, it is essential to regard the term ‘original’ as a work made by human agency. An interesting question in this regard is whether the term ‘original’ can also be applied to a concept or a theory. Throughout (art) history many divergent views have been expressed regarding the relationship between the concept and the work in its concrete, material form, or the relationship between the corpus mysticum and the corpus mechanicum.13 Conceptual art in its most radical guise has now reduced the work to the concept in which the material form apparently ceases to play a role. Nevertheless the same relationship applies here as well: if the concept is ‘the original’ then the execution of this can be regarded as a form of reproduction, in which it is barely possible to distinguish production from reproduction any more. A reproduction presupposes an original that is more than simply nature or an idea, an original that has literally been given form in a material object. In this respect a reproduction can literally be interpreted as a re-production, as the remaking of a work previously created. The observation that an original is of necessity given form must be accompanied by the remark that every form is possible. If the discussion is restricted to the visual arts, this means that every painting, drawing, print, photograph or sculpture can of course constitute an original for reproduction. Nevertheless, an original does not even have to be a work of art. Every ‘product’, from a history painting to a ‘penny print’, is suitable for reproduction, regardless of whether it derives from ‘high’ or ‘low’ culture. Neither is it necessary for an original to

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be a finished work, as a sketch can also serve as a model. The large-scale reproduction of drawings and sketches during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries means that it is important not to disregard this group of works.14 Nor does an original have to be a complete artwork, for the nineteenth century also witnessed a developing tendency to reproduce just a few significant details from a specific work.15 The original is thus the model for the reproduction. However, use of the term ‘original’ does not imply something ‘better’ or ‘higher’ in a qualitative sense, but simply something that came ‘first’. The original inevitably precedes the reproduction. Nevertheless, as previously remarked, the nineteenth-century art world was characterised by a complex assortment of closely related works in the form of repetitions, replicas, reductions and other copies. This diversity of copies relied on an equally great diversity of comparable ‘originals’, created both after and alongside each other. During the reproductive process, use was also made of supplementary visual material, such as drawings, watercolours or photographs of the original.16 Photographic reproductions of original paintings, for example, were frequently made after prints of the original.17 As a result it is frequently unclear which piece served as the original for a reproduction, for this role was apparently played on occasion by a group of works. In the reality of historical practice it is often difficult to identify a single, undisputed original. For this reason it is advisable to differentiate between the ‘formal’ original and the ‘material’ original, the former being the work intended for reproduction, the latter being the model actually used for this.18 The original is an object that has been given form, although the exact identity of the object is often unclear. It is important in this connection to bear in mind that the reproductive process was generally not intended to reproduce the object, but only an aspect of this. The reproduction of a painting is actually the reproduction of the image in the painting, not the work itself. In 1859 the photographer O.W. Holmes wrote on the subject of photography: c

‘Every conceivable object of Nature and Art will soon scale off its surface for us. Men will hunt all curious, beautiful, grand objects, as they hunt the cattle in South America, for their skins, and leave the carcasses as of little worth.’19

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In a similar fashion the reproduction of an artwork focuses principally on the ‘skin’ of the work: although the artwork may function as the original, it is important not to identify this with the work itself, for only the image in the work of art serves as the original. A unique exception to this rule is the reproduction of Holman Hunt’s painting The Finding of the Saviour in the Temple, for which both the image was translated into print and the original frame copied in an attempt to multiply the entire material object.20

Sculpsit On 23 August 1799 the artist William Blake (1757-1827) wrote: c

‘I have no objection to Engraving after another Artist. Engraving is the profession I was apprenticed to & Should never have attempted to live by any thing else If orders had not come in for my Designs & Paintings which I have the pleasure to tell you are Increasing Every Day. Thus If I am a Painter it is not to be attributed to Seeking after. But I am contented whether I live by Painting or Engraving.’21

Although Blake engraved his own compositions, he did not object to producing prints after another artist’s work. In this respect he was a remarkable figure in the print world in which there was a clear boundary between painters who created compositions and professional printmakers who translated these into print.22 In the history of the printed arts, a long tradition lies behind this separation between creation/composition and the making of prints. Although printers engaged in the first graphic experiments, by around 1500 printmaking had become a separate discipline, practised by specialist craftsmen. Peintre-graveurs, or painters who also produced prints, were soon in a minority. Raphael’s paintings were mainly translated into print by the engraver Marcantonio Raimondi, while Rubens and Reynolds worked with dozens of printmakers on the reproduction of their work.23 This separation of creation/composition from the making of prints, of pinxit from sculpsit, remained virtually intact until well into the nineteenth century.24 Creating works of art was a task for specialists, as was the reproduction of these. Even the development of photography had little effect in this regard.

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This deep-seated separation of creator/designer from executor thus seems a characteristic feature of art reproduction in general, unlike ‘original’ graphic work which is designed or created and executed by the same person. Nevertheless acceptance of this separation can lead to confusion, for it suggests that the reproduction of works of arts depends on the individual, not only in historical practice but also in principal. Theoretically this would mean that an artist would never be able to reproduce his own work. Blake, however, made prints after other artists’ work and his own compositions. Naturally, there was a difference between the two, as he himself wrote: ‘To engrave after another Painter is infinitely more laborious than to Engrave ones own Inventions.’25 But this is not a difference based on principle. The determining factor, within the framework of the concept of ‘reproduction’, as previously discussed, is how the work is made, rather than by whom. The separation between creator/designer and executor in the history of art reproduction is thus a consequence of professionalisation and specialisation in the print world, rather than a theoretical precondition for a reproduction as such. It is important not to confuse this practice with theory. Once it has been established that it is not the individual but the technical execution that is the determining factor in reproduction, the question then arises of how this activity or action should be regarded. The reproductive process was described above as ‘the aggregate of actions which lead to the correct rendering, in equivalent, reduced or enlarged measurement, of paintings, drawings, photographs, maps etc.’ It is important to observe that reproduction has not been described as ‘the engraving, lithographing, etching and photographing of paintings and drawings’; a more open formulation has been chosen, the advantage being, of course, the avoidance of a restrictive summary of methods and techniques. The core issue is not a specific reproductive technique or method but the totality of actions that can be interpreted as a reproductive process, together with the product of these actions, the material print or photograph. Thus the criterion lies not in the technique but in the way in which this is used. Basil Gray expressed this acutely in his 1937 work, The English Print: c

‘We have assumed that the ‘artistic’ processes, etching, engraving, mezzotint, aquatint, wood-engraving and lithography, are radically different from the ‘reproductive’ processes, collotypye, photogravure, half-tone, the line block and offset lithography. Yet all the ‘artistic’ processes have been

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used for reproductive purposes; why should the ‘reproductive’ processes not be used for original design? The final distinction is not the process but the way in which and the purpose for which it is used [italics rv] .’26 It is from this perspective that we should consider both graphic and photographic methods and processes in the world of nineteenth-century reproduction, without, of course, providing an exhaustive summary of these. Taking such an approach to reproduction brings us face to face with a curious paradox. On the one hand ‘the action’ forms the basis for reproduction, on the other hand it can vary to such an extent that a restrictive summary would be meaningless. The reproductive process can be briefly characterised as being divided into two phases. During the first phase the original image is translated to its printed form through copying. During the second phase the image is multiplied through this printed form. The actions in both phases can be further divided into ‘preparatory actions’ and ‘executive actions’.27 The advantage of this division is that it does greater justice to the complexity of the reproductive process in the systematic sense as well. The process is represented in system form in diagram i.

Reproduction

Original

Execution

Preparation

Multiplication

Imitation

IMITATION

MULTIPLICATION

Preparation

Execution

Multiplication

Imitation

Printing matrix

diagram 1 The Reproductive Process.

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Copying the original image

During the nineteenth century a range of preparatory actions was required before the original image could be translated into printed form. Laws governing intellectual property required that the first step be to acquire the authorisation to make the reproduction, in other words the rights of reproduction.28 This was accompanied by agreements regarding the availability of the original work for reproduction or alternative visual material.29 Further considerations were the technique to be used, the time required for the reproduction and the remuneration.30 Such preparations provided the formal, practical and technical framework within which actual translation of the image could occur. They thus constituted decisive factors in the progress of the reproductive process and its final product. The next step was the actual depiction of the image in printed form. Activities at this stage naturally depended to a large extent on the chosen reproductive technique. An engraver had to incise the image into a metal plate, a traditional process that required several months to several years, while an etcher only needed to penetrate a thin layer of wax, after which chemicals in an acid bath did the rest. The invention of lithography at the beginning of the nineteenth century also enabled the printmaker to apply the image to the stone through ‘direct drawing’. Nevertheless, all these techniques share one major feature: the image is transferred to the plate or stone by hand in a traditional craft-based manner. For centuries this kind of manual reproduction was the only way to reproduce works of art, and its use continued during the nineteenth century, although the development of photography no longer made manual reproduction the only option. A characteristic feature of photography is that the image is not captured by a manual process of drawing or engraving, but by exposure of a light-sensitive plate. In his Pencil of Nature, the photographic pioneer W.H. Fox Talbot (18001877) stressed that: ‘The plates shown in this work have been produced solely by the action of light, without any help from the artist’s hand.’31 It was not the hand of a master but the light itself which applied the image to the photographic printing matrix, or negative. Photography developed rapidly in the wake of the early experiments conducted by J.N. Niepce (1765-1833), L.J.M. Daguerre (1787-1851) and W.H. Fox Talbot (1800-1877), generating a huge range of photographic processes, such as albumin prints, carbon prints, heliotypes, photogravures, photolithographs and autotypes. This development will be outlined in

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the following chapter. I will confine myself here to the observation that all these photographic techniques varied widely as regards light sensitivity, colour sensitivity, image stability, potential for multiplication, price and popularity. It is this diversity which makes any discussion of ‘photography’ in the nineteenth century problematic, for the range of techniques available to photographers was so wide that the concept of ‘photography’ as such does not appear to exist in this period; it was rather an umbrella term employed to designate the many techniques based on the photographic principle. As previously remarked, interaction between graphic and photographic techniques is a characteristic feature of nineteenth-century art reproduction. The crucial difference between graphic and photographic techniques lies in the method used to secure the image on or in the matrix. Although the reproductive process entails the translation, as it were, of the painted or hand-drawn original into another graphic medium, such a change of medium is not a defining characteristic of a reproduction. After all, the medium also changes in paintings and drawings after prints or photographs, but these are not reproductions. Many daguerrotypes were also photographed or otherwise transferred into print during the nineteenth century, as the sharp images produced by this technique could not be otherwise reproduced, while new engravings were sometimes made of existing engravings.32 In both these instances no change of medium occurred although there was reproduction of the original image. A change of medium might be usual, but it was no prerequisite for reproduction. One individual, the printmaker or photographer, was generally responsible for transferring the original to the printing matrix. However, there are also instances of printmakers collaborating. Engravers appear to have operated a studio system, with pupils and assistants, similar to that employed in the painting world, although we still know little about this subject. Evidence of such a system is provided by Blake’s remarks regarding Robert Strange and William Woollett, well-known engravers of reproductions: ‘Woolletts best works were Etchd by Jack Brown. Woollett Etchd very bad himself’, and ‘Stranges Prints were when I knew him all done by Aliamet & his french journeymen whose names I forget’. Like painters, renowned reproduction engravers such as Strange and Woollett ran studios where various assistants and pupils were responsible for a portion of the work, or, as the art historian Morris Eaves remarked: ‘Grinding is for grinders, preliminary etching for preliminary etchers, and finishing

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engraving for finishing engravers.’33 Collaboration between photographers evolved naturally from the engravers’ studio system. Although photographs inscribed with the name Braun may create the impression that they are the work of the renowned photographer Adolphe Braun, in practice they were often taken by an employee of his firm. Multiplication of the image

Although photographic and graphic techniques differ greatly as to how they capture an image, they are more closely related where multiplication of that image is concerned. An important link in this process is the ‘unique’ photographic or graphic printing matrix. The engraver applies the image to a metal plate, the lithographer uses a heavy lithographic stone and the photographer a negative, but in all these cases the different matrices form the link between capturing and multiplying the image. Images were printed with ink from woodcuts, steel engravings, mezzotint, etchings or lithographic stones according to the familiar processes of relief, intaglio and planographic printing.34 Photographic techniques generally employed chemical means to multiply images. Photomechanical techniques, such as photogravure and photolithography, form a separate group of processes, being combinations of photographic and graphic techniques, which capture the image in the printing matrix through photographic means, then print this image using relief, intaglio and planographic processes. Printing (or development) of the printing matrix makes it possible to produce multiple images. It is precisely this potential to multiply the image that distinguishes reproduction from the other nineteenth-century forms of copy listed above: the repetition, replica, reduction and copie, all types of copy after existing compositions, but also one-off works, whereas prints, to reprise their definition by print expert William Ivins, are ‘exactly repeatable pictorial statements’.35 Of course, this does not mean that a reproduction can only exist in multiple form, although the automatic association of reproductions with large numbers of identical works tends to make the existence of a single reproduction a purely hypothetical phenomenon. Nevertheless it is worth briefly considering this prospect. In theory it would be possible to print just one reproduction from a matrix, in which case this could be described, paradoxically enough, as a ‘unique’ reproduction. A crucial, defining aspect of a reproduction is not, therefore, the actual existence of several identical prints, but the technical potential to

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obtain these. The concept of a single reproduction gains in relevance in the nineteenth-century context, as many artists during this period were inspired by the idea of the l’estampe originale, particularly during the 1860s when they experimented widely with prints in very small editions. In their quest for the ‘unique print’ artists made frantic efforts to ‘deny’ the potential of their medium for multiplication wherever possible, especially in the field of ‘original’ graphic work and, to a lesser extend in art reproduction. Nineteenth-century peintre-graveurs, such as Manet and Redon, derived particular inspiration from the concept of the l’estampe originale. Yet it is precisely in the work of these artists that the dividing line between ‘original graphics’ and reproductions (by their own hand) is often unclear. I shall return to this subject shortly. Art reproduction may have offered the technical potential to multiply images, but the actual number of works in an edition could vary widely, from enormous quantities to a single, exclusive print. This multiplication of the image also required certain preparatory activities. Choices had to be made regarding the printing medium – the ink or, in the case of photography, the chemicals – and the printing surface. Although the image was generally printed onto paper, there were many kinds from which to choose, such as Dutch types or expensive Japanese or Chinese papers. The nature of the paper largely determined the degree of ink absorption and was thus a factor of considerable influence in the print’s final appearance. The choice of printing medium and type of paper also depended on the kind of print that was planned – a large edition, several proofs or a few exclusive works. Although graphic and photographic reproduction offered the potential to multiply images into a number of works, in practice these images were often not identical. Various prints were frequently made before the printing matrix was finally completed. Traditional manual techniques, such as engraving, etching and lithography, tended to use ‘proofs’ which allowed corrections to be made to the plate before commencing an edition. Sometimes printmakers would produce several proofs, printed from the plate at various stages of completion. As an extension of this they also printed several ‘states’ of the print. Once the image had been completed, various states of the margin were also printed. Prints ‘before the letter’ were prints without an inscription in the margin, followed by states inscribed in the margin with terms such as pinxit and sculpsit, indicating the name of the creator/designer (painter) and executor (printmaker) respec-

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tively. Subsequent prints were inscribed with the title of the work, sometimes accompanied by the publisher’s name, a vignette with the name of the owner of the original painting or the individual to whom the print had been dedicated.36 A long tradition lay behind the use of states, which continued unabated in the nineteenth century, when the term was broadly interpreted to cover the wide range of prints in circulation, such as proofs ‘before the letter’ and ‘with the letter’, prints on various kinds of paper, etc. The (reproductive) etcher Phillip Zilcken remarked in this connection: ‘epreuves d’artiste, a term that has been overly misused by art dealing speculations.’37 During the nineteenth century the ability to differentiate between various states was raised to great heights by print connoisseurs. Prestigious engravings with highly detailed execution of the image and margins regularly generated interim prints. Fewer states were generally produced in lithography, while in photographic reproduction they barely played a role, as the photographic printing matrix does not readily lend itself to correction, despite occasional retouching of the negative. Photomechanical reproductions with and without lettering in the margin were produced, however, in a semblance of different states. Nevertheless, it is not always clear what the term ‘state’ actually signifies, particularly when it is used so widely as to be in danger of losing all meaning. In his well-known survey of printmaking, A History of Engraving & Etching from the 15th Century to the Year 1914 , the print expert A.M. Hind employed a tighter definition of the term ‘state’, reserving this for one or more prints made after the plate had been modified. A ‘state’ is therefore always associated with the printing matrix, not the print. According to this criterion, prints of the same image that differ in appearance as a result of different ink being used are not regarded as separate states but as ‘impressions’. Hind uses the designation ‘variation’ to denote other versions of a print, these being the more or less related impressions within a specific state, such as prints ‘before the letter’ made on Dutch, Chinese or Japanese paper. Thus, variations are always prints made from a plate in the same state. I employ Hind’s definition of these terms in order to navigate my way through the motley archipelagos of states, variations and impressions in the nineteenth century.38 The diversity of states and variations does not detract from the fact that, within a single state and variation, multiple, almost identical, prints were produced. Yet the capacity for multiplication was not unlimited, for the printing process wore down the printing matrix. As a result the various reproductive techniques produced equally varied editions in terms of number. While fragile

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etchings could only produce several dozen to a hundred works, copper engravings could support editions that ran into the hundreds. Printmakers responded to these limitations by developing processes that employed a harder matrix, such as the steel engraving or the ‘steeled’ copper plate, which allowed the volume of an edition to be increased tenfold. Other procedures multiplied the matrix itself, producing several identical examples from which to print. Lithographic stones could produce ten thousand prints, while the number of prints derived from photographs was virtually unlimited. The major technical developments in this field are discussed below. I shall confine myself here to the observation that the opportunities for reproduction were not inexhaustible, being limited both by technical factors and commercial considerations. For example, it was important for the publishers of exclusive reproductions that the capacity for multiplying these images be restricted, so printing matrices were regularly destroyed by order of the publisher or artist, in order to prevent these from being printed from at a later date (by a rival). From a commercial point of view, therefore, it was sometimes important to restrict, or even eliminate entirely, the technical capacity for multiplying an image – an inherent feature of reproduction.39 Although the multiplication process was sometimes performed by the printmaker or photographer, this generally occurred in collaboration with a publisher and a printer. Professionalisation and specialisation had increasingly made the publication of reproductions the preserve of professional print publishers. In the tradition of Hieronymus Cock and the Remondinis, various firms, such as Colnaghi, Goupil, Gambart and Agnew, operated on an international scale during the nineteenth century, rapidly growing into large enterprises that would dominate the international print trade for decades.40 Nevertheless, the role of the nineteenth-century publisher was not always clear-cut.41 Publishers often engaged in various supplementary activities, not all of which were associated with publishing. Alongside their supervision of print production and distribution, they often sold prints and books too.42 Moreover, publishers frequently became involved in the art trade. Sometimes this involvement went no further than doing artists a favour, or supplying them with a modest range of painting equipment; in other instances, however, a modest trade in paintings developed into a substantial international enterprise that eventually overshadowed their original publishing activities. Well-known companies such as Ag-

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new, Goupil and the Dutch firm of Buffa operated both as publishers of prints and photographs and dealers in works of art. Thus, they were regularly associated with reproductions and original works. Many publishers expanded these activities by opening a gallery for exhibitions or auctions. Alongside this (sometimes large-scale) publication of reproductions, however, there were still engravers who published and sold their own prints, sometimes collaborating with colleagues in order to keep control over the production and distribution of their prints, plus the income generated by these. On rare occasions artists themselves acted as the publisher of reproductions after their own work, while sitters for portraits sometimes undertook the task of publishing portrait prints for private use.43 The reproduction process was concluded once the material reproduction had been completed. The print or photograph could now serve as an original, either for reproduction as a work in its own right or as an alternative in the reproduction of another work. Engraved reproductions, for example, were regularly used when photographing paintings, while artists sometimes provided the engraver with an impression of a painting in a photograph. With this new original the reproductive process could begin anew. The reproduction was copied by the engraver and secured in a new printing matrix. After the usual preparatory and executive activities the matrix was ready for printing, offering new potential to produce a number of identical reproductions. This potential could be then be exploited or restricted, depending on the parties involved and the chosen technique. The result was a new reproduction, which could then … etc, etc.

The author of a reproduction The reproductive process occupied the space between the original and the reproduction. The painter generally supplied the original, while the printmaker or photographer produced the reproduction. Both painter and printmaker/photographer therefore made an important contribution to the reproductive process. How should we now characterise their contributions? Who is the author of a reproduction? The creator/designer of the image (the painter) can contend that it is his work which provides the foundation without which no reproduction would be possible. However, this can be countered by the executor of the reproduction (the printmaker/photographer) that it is he who has actually made the

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print. Nevertheless, the question of authorship has rarely been posed, a primary reason being modernist thinking’s emphasis on sublime original works of art and their makers. Postmodernist thinking subsequently rendered this question redundant in many respects, for it was not only the author who was declared ‘dead’ by the paradoxically much-quoted philosopher Roland Barthes in his well-known essay ‘The Death of the Author’ from 1968. The concept of ‘representation’ has also made reproduction redundant as an independent category of works within the context of visual culture in general.44 In short, where modernism offered little reason to pose the question of a reproduction’s authorship, postmodernism now offers just as little reason to answer it. Yet this does not negate the fact that the question is an instructive one to ask during initial exploration of the reproduction phenomenon. To what extent does authorship entail being the actual maker or personal maker of an object, for example, in relation to the use of mechanical processes, such as photography? To answer these questions I shall successively discuss the creator/designer and executor as author of a reproduction, after which I shall briefly consider the combination of creator/designer and executor in one and the same person. The designer of the image as author

Although the creator of the initial image supplies the original, he or she generally does not make the reproduction. If the term ‘author’ is understood to mean the actual maker of a work, the initial artist seems to be out of the running as author of the reproduction. The question arises, however of whether we should interpret the concept of the author so restrictively. In his well-known essay, ‘What Is an Author?’, Foucault emphasised that ‘the author’ is not a general autonomous constant but should rather be regarded as a socio-cultural construct, determined by cultural and legal factors.45 For this reason it is important briefly to consider the development of the author concept. The transition from anonymous maker to recognisable individual with responsibility for his own creations has been clearly and concisely expressed by Roselind Krauss: c

‘Authorship – one such derivation of the notion origin – is dear to art history, for within the value system of our discipline authorship brings with it a host of privileges. It promotes the work’s emergence from the anonymity of shop or craft practice, securing its relation to the actions

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of an individual. It underwrites the hermeneutic activity with regard to the work, since the individual is seen as the source of an intention toward meaning. Investing the work with market considerations of scarcity, it also uncovers all those traces through which the author registers his individuality, a set of marks that only the original object can bear. If poststructuralism works against this interest in authorship, it does so by positing the ‘death of the author,’ reducing him or her to something referred to as an effect – as in author-function, author-effect – of other structures, and by exchanging the idea of the work (created by the author) for the concept of text (which generates the author-effect).’46 In various art disciplines ‘artistic labour’ was traditionally regarded as a craft, governed by time-honoured rules and possibly guided by divine inspiration. The anonymous craftsman’s involvement with his work was generally seen as going no deeper than being the actual maker of an object. However, Enlightenment individualism, combined with the advent of the romantic concept of genius, inspired a new vision of authorship.47 In the field of literature this development can be described as the transition from ‘writer’ to ‘author’. With the concept of ‘the author’, the realisation increasingly dawned that the individual maker of an object was the primary and sole person responsible for its creation; more than anyone else it was the author who had a special bond with his work. The traditional view of (craft) production had held that a writer was only responsible for his manuscript, while the book was the province of the publisher. The new vision of authorship now declared that every aspect of the book belonged to the author: not just the manuscript but also the potential for its multiplication or translation. This recognition of the special relationship between the author and his work was accompanied by a call for this relationship to be recognised in law. The author’s interests, rather than those of the publisher, state or church, were now the core issue. New views on authorship therefore prompted an important change in the legal sphere of intellectual property. The traditional system of privilege was increasingly replaced by modern laws on intellectual property.48 I shall consider this important legal change more extensively in chapter three, confining myself here to the observation that this change amounted to a ‘legal emancipation’ of the author, which also had significant implications for painters, engravers and photographers, in addition to writers. This development prompted the advent of a new view of authorship during the nineteenth century. pinx it et sculpsit

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According to this new vision the author had a special relationship with his work, which essentially amounted to an intellectual bond. A characteristic of this new notion of authorship was that it entailed much more than simply being the actual maker of a physical object, for it encompassed not only the manuscript but also the published book, plus any multiplication or translation of this. As a result, the ‘advent of the author’ was above all a conceptual expansion of the author’s sphere of influence beyond his physical creation. The crucial change is that the traditional factual approach to the maker was replaced by a more normative outlook. The central issue was no longer who had actually made a work but which individual should be regarded as its author. The concept of the author had thus acquired a prescriptive, moral component, derived directly from the idealistic and normative thinking of the Enlightenment on the subject of man, his property and society.49 It is no coincidence that the advent of the author concept occurred in the same period in which John Locke and Jean-Jacques Rousseau were formulating their views on the rights of man and Adam Smith his new vision of property.50 Within Europe the concept of authorship varied in its implications and gained ground at differing rates. Goethe and Schiller fought for their literary works, as did Hogarth and Vernet for the rights of their paintings, albeit with varying success.51 Distinct traditions developed in England and on the continent. In his historical survey of British copyright law John Feather wrote: ‘the author was a comparative latecomer into the development of copyright in England, rather than being its starting point as was the case in France.’52 Visual artists in the Netherlands, unlike writers, continued to be denied any rights to their work.53 Thus the practical implications of intellectual property differed greatly in practice, depending on social, political and legal developments, which are examined more closely below. In general, however, the intellectual importance of the author was no longer denied. The growing consensus on intellectual property is illustrated by the development of international law in this field. This was given expression in the 1886 Berne Convention, which acknowledged not only that intellectual property crossed national borders but also that these rights should be acknowledged in law at international level.54 The primary consideration was the interests of the author. Nevertheless, this normative notion of the author was not always self-evident. After the Russian Revolution, intellectual property was criticised in some quarters on the grounds that the author’s interests were fundamentally at odds with the collective good.55 Many Marxists

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thereby proclaimed ‘the death of the author’ much earlier than Barthes did in his 1968 essay. However, this does not detract from the fact that current national and international law on intellectual property is based upon the normative concept of the author. It is a political and legal principle that the author of the present study endorses with conviction.56 It should be remarked here that the term ‘author’ is not synonymous with ‘artist’, just as the work of an author is not always a ‘work of art’. A characteristic of the term is the conceptual relationship between the author and his work, irrespective of the nature or quality of that work. The ‘rise of the author’ is a general cultural development that occurred across a range of cultural expression, in the fields of fiction and non-fiction. Nevertheless it should not be viewed in total isolation from the artist’s acquisition of professional status and social independence. Both processes were shaped by the same Enlightenment ideas; both were conceivably reinforced by each other’s development. Yet the rise of the author implies more than the emancipation of the artist, just as modern laws on intellectual property protect more than simply artists and their work. The rise of the author encouraged the realisation that the author was ‘more’ than simply the physical maker of a work. The creator/designer of an image was thus no longer excluded from being the author of its reproduction. Artists were interested in the copyright on their work and showed their awareness of the fact that a painting was ‘more’ than just a canvas covered with paint. Their work was their brainchild, which was connected to its intellectual father by invisible yet unalienable bonds. The author’s special bond with his work extended to any adaptations of this work, such as reproductions. It was a system that would henceforth be protected as effectively as possible by laws governing intellectual property. From this perspective the original artist became an increasingly eligible candidate for authorship of any reproduction after his work: although he was generally not the individual who made the material reproduction, there was increasing awareness of the special bond that existed between the artist, his brainchildren and any reproductions of these. The interpreter of the image as author

The original artist can be regarded as the author of a reproduction on the grounds of his intellectual connection with his image, irrespective of who has actually made the work in which this image appears. The original image was generally a pre-existing fact for the individual who adapted this image for re-

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production, before transferred it to a printing matrix, ready for multiplication.57 It is precisely this action which generally makes the printmaker or photographer the actual maker of the reproduction, an action that also seems to imply their authorship. Nevertheless their role as the actual maker of a reproduction obscures another problem. During the nineteenth century a large-scale production mechanism developed, extending into the sphere of art reproduction. This was accompanied by a change from graphic to photographic reproduction, in the wake of the Industrial Revolution. So how does authorship of the image interpreter (the printmaker or photographer) mesh with a system of reproduction in which the person of the maker was increasingly assisted or even replaced by ‘impersonal photographic machines’? In other words, to what extent does authorship presuppose interpretation by an individual in a context of large-scale mechanical reproduction? The relationship between authorship of a reproduction and the de facto makership of the same has been outlined above. I now intend to discuss the question of the extent to which authorship of a reproduction presupposes de facto makership. For the interpreter of the image the original was generally a pre-existing fact which he endeavoured to copy as he saw fit. In situations where traditional graphic techniques were employed, such a copy was indisputably his personal interpretation of the original. This is illustrated by an 1806 missive from the German Romantic artist Philip Otto Runge (1777-1810) to Goethe (1749-1832), in which he enclosed a number of engravings that he intended to give the great writer an impression of his ideas and work. However, Runge also wrote that the engravings were not by his hand but had been made by several engravers, and that, however exact the prints might be, they were, of course, only interpretations of his work, elements of which he believed had been lost in the engravers’ interpretations; he therefore promised to send Goethe the original drawings as well.58 However, it could also be argued from the printmaker’s perspective that interpretation had actually added to the original image, through a subtle play of dots and lines. Numerous printmakers made a name for themselves with their interpretations of works of art. This personal interpretation of existing art is exemplified from the 1860s onwards by the fashion for etched reproductions. Thanks to etchers such as Jacquemart (1837-1880), Bracquemond (1833-1914) and Unger (1837-1932) the revival in etching’s popularity as a technique was also reflected in the field

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of art reproduction.59 Max Liebermann (1847-1935), no fan of photographic reproduction, described the etched reproduction as ‘the most artistic means of reproduction.’60 Oscar Wilde (1854-1900) aptly expressed his own view of etching in ‘The Critic as Artist’: c

‘The etcher of a picture robs the painting of its fair colours, but shows us by the use of a new material its true colour-quality, its tones and values, and the relations of its masses, and so is, in his way, a critic of it, for the critic is he who exhibits to us a work of art in a form different from that of the work itself, and the employment of a new material is a critical as well as a creative element.’61

Through the personal intervention of the printmaker, a ‘new’ work was created, as Vincent van Gogh wrote to his brother Theo: c

‘If the object represented and the manner of representation are consistent with each other, then it has style and quality. Thus does the serving girl in the large wall painting by Leys become a new work of art when etched by Bracquemont – or Meissonier’s little reader when Jacquemart makes an engraving of it, for the manner of engraving forms a whole with the subject that is depicted.’62

Various individual engravers, etchers and lithographers thus won renown with their interpretations of other artists’ compositions. In this respect there is also a special relationship between the printmaker and his personal interpretation of a work of art. Although the original was a pre-existing fact, this did not inhibit the printmaker’s interpretation. A ‘rise of the author’ can also be detected in the world of the printmaker, who, like painters, could increasingly count on legal recognition via laws on intellectual property. In England and the Netherlands in particular, printmakers gained recognition as the author of a reproduction, with their rights even taking precedence over those of painters. By their very nature, manual reproductive techniques such as engraving, lithography or etching, entail a personal interpretation by the printmaker. This is not so self-evident in photographic techniques, where the image is secured in the printing matrix, not by the flesh-and-blood hand of the printmaker but by an ingenious process of exposing this matrix to light. This gain in precision was

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offset by the loss of personal interpretation. Critics tended to compare photographic reproductions unfavourably with printmakers’ individual, free interpretations. John Ruskin (1819-1900) once proclaimed: c

‘Believe me, photography can do against line engraving just what Madame Tussaud’s wax works can do against sculpture. That, and no more. I tell you a square inch of man’s engraving is worth all the photographs that have ever been dipped in acid.’[...] ‘It must be man’s engraving, not machine’s engraving.’63

Ruskin’s view of photography reflected his well-known craft-biased view of art in general.64 He was certainly not alone in his criticism of photography’s mechanical character which left little room for a master’s hand. The French critic Philippe Burty also emphasised the latest medium’s mechanical, impersonal character. Photography did not interpret, Burty declared, and therein lay both its weakness and its strength. The role of the talented engraver and lithographer began precisely where photography failed to idealise.65 Both Ruskin and Burty formulated their vision of photography through comparison with traditional manual graphic techniques, largely ignoring the differences within photography itself. Van Gogh was more qualified in his approach when he wrote to his brother Theo on 21 December 1882: c

‘I fear that the new process [photography] is one of those things that cannot satisfy someone completely and that is actually too sweet. I mean an ordinary etching, an ordinary woodcut or an ordinary lithograph has the charm of originality that cannot be replaced by anything mechanical. The same is also true of engraving. The photogravure reproduction of Israel’s Sewing school, for example, or the painting by Blommers or Artz is superb – as published by Goupil & Cie. But if this process were to replace real engraving entirely, I believe one would miss ordinary engravings in the long run, with their drawbacks and imperfections and all.’66

On the one hand Van Gogh’s view concurs with Ruskin’s opinion, as both attach great value to the printmaker’s ‘individual hand …that cannot be replaced by anything mechanical’; on the other hand the painter also draws attention to the diversity of techniques within photography, through his admiration for

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Goupil’s photogravures. While photography seems to present a uniform face (perhaps even a mechanically uniform one) when compared with traditional manual graphic techniques, the picture is very different when the various kinds of photograph are considered. The wide range of photographic techniques employed during the nineteenth century, each with its own specific qualities, prompts a more qualified view of photography’s ‘mechanical’ representation of artworks.67 Nineteenth-century photographic techniques varied considerably in terms of image stability, colour sensitivity, print run, format and price. Strictly speaking the only genuinely photographic element in these techniques was securing the image in the matrix: the rest remained manual work. Photography was a complicated, ‘mechanical’ process that fascinated many people but was thoroughly understood only by a few. Although critics such as Ruskin may have disparagingly described photography as a mechanical process, there was scarcely one nineteenth-century painter or printmaker who was capable of photographing (his own) works of art convincingly. The lighting alone was a recurring problem. Whilst the ability to capture an image using light was, of course, a spectacular development, photographers were forced to rely on the sun until the invention of artificial flash lighting. So for many years the lighting, a core element in the photographic process, was as capricious and unreliable as the weather itself. The best option for a photographer, if this was possible and permitted, was to photograph paintings outside, during clear, bright weather. Many an Amsterdam photographer must have looked on enviously when the renowned photographers Braun and Hanfstaengl received permission to photograph The Nightwatch in the garden of the Rijksmuseum.68 Once a photograph had been taken the photographer then needed to obtain the finest prints from the matrix, using a process which he often kept secret, for fear that another photographer would ‘steal’ it. The specific preparations, choice of material and printing technique employed by each photographer meant that photography was (also) a subjective form of reproduction which clearly left room for an individual style and approach. Kodak’s famous advertising slogan, ‘you push the button, we do the rest’, dates from the end of the nineteenth century, although it was an illusion to believe that it was possible to create a successful art reproduction simply by pressing a button.69 Although photography may have left less room for individual interpretation than the graphic techniques such as etched reproductions, the potential for this

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was never absent. The photographers Braun and Hanfstaengel became famous for precisely this personal interpretation of the original which Van Gogh also valued in Goupil’s photogravures.70 Does this mean that individual photographers can also be regarded as authors who enjoyed a special bond with their work? Painters, printmakers and publishers often thought otherwise. Naturally photographers did not agree with them and the balance of opinion eventually came down on their side. In the wake of painters and printmakers they increasingly began to emerge as authors of their work, and their special bond with this work soon prompted them to face the challenge of protecting their intellectual property.71 Such efforts also brought photographers increasing recognition as the author of photographic reproductions. In their capacity as authors photographers found themselves in a similar position to painters and printmakers vis-à-vis their work. However, there was also an important difference, engendered by the very nature of the photographic medium. As previously observed, photography during the nineteenth century comprised a wide variety of methods and techniques that were still being developed. Photographers often invested a great deal of time and energy in experimentation and in perfecting their materials and techniques. Professional photographers in particular endeavoured to stay ahead of the competition through technical innovations and often ‘invented’ a specific reproductive technique. It was important for them to safeguard their business interests by protecting any such innovations through patent law. If a photographer’s invention received official recognition, the state granted him a guaranteed monopoly to employ this technique for a specific period. Once a patent had been granted it could be sold, entirely or in part, or used on licence, depending on the type of invention, the market and the individual entrepreneur. Ancient tradition underpinned this system of industrial property which contributed substantially to successful technical innovation. It is a field barely studied to date and yet one which can offer interesting new insights into the invention and dissemination of technology in general. Photographers also made grateful use of patent law when they invented new techniques, and even an initial impression suggests that it would be hard to overestimate the importance of patent law in the development of photography. However, comprehensive research into the significance of this law system in the history of photography lies beyond the scope of this study. I shall confine myself here to the observation that, in addition to being an ‘author’, the photographer often acted as an ‘inventor’ too, thereby functioning in an inter-

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esting twilight zone that straddled the worlds of artistic and technological creativity, the realms of author and inventor.72 This interface is admirably characterised by the photographer Alfred Stieglitz’s description of his colleague Joseph Albert (1825-1886) as ‘a scientific mind combined with a goodly portion of natural artistic feeling’.73 The designer of the image as interpreter

During the nineteenth century various artists produced prints and paintings that on closer examination appear to resemble each other considerably. Edvard Munch, for example, should be considered a peintre-graveur as he produced prints after his own paintings, including a print entitled The Sick Child.74 Influenced by Bartsch, many artists were inspired by the concept of the painter who also made prints. Peintres-graveurs were responsible for a complex production comprising works of art in a range of media – paintings, drawings, etchings and lithographs – all by the same hand. This production is exemplified by Manet, who painted his Les Petits Cavaliers after an existing work, then attributed to Vélazquez. [plate 2] He subsequently made an etching after his painting which prompted Melot to observe in The Impressionist Print: c

‘The painted reproduction of Velazquez is a very free reproduction, not a copy, and it is therefore difficult to decide whether, in his etching, Manet is interpreting Velazquez or copying his own work; is it a reproductive print of his own painting or an original etching?’75

Similar examples can be identified in the work of Whistler, Degas and Redon.76 The result was a collection of closely related works in various media. Since this is not the place to discuss this phenomenon comprehensively per artist, I shall consider it in relation to reproduction. The artists were responsible for the image and the adaptation of this image in the reproduction. But is this adaptation of the image really a reproduction or a new, ‘original’ work? Any discussion of this subject should be guided by the concept of reproduction as previously clarified, in which the term reproduction implies a photographic or graphic adaptation of an original work. Drawings, watercolours or paintings after existing works do not therefore qualify for this designation, so it is useful to find a designation for such pieces amongst the copies, repetitions or ‘reductions’ cited above. What then remains are photographic and graphic

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works designed and executed by the same artist. As previously remarked, photographers rarely took photographs after their own work. Although painters such as Breitner and Degas used a camera as well as a brush, as a rule they produced paintings after photographs, rather than photographs after paintings. I shall therefore concentrate my study on etchings and lithographs produced by painters. Every reproduction requires an original. It is also essential for this original to have been given material form: a concept or proposed subject is not sufficient. Previous reference has been made to the complicated task of reconstructing ‘the’ original. The traditional studio system, with its assortment of masters, pupils and assistants, had produced a complex body of closely related works; the peintre-graveur, working on his own, was equally capable of sowing the same confusion regarding the nature and order of his work. Sometimes an artist would make an etching after a painting, other times a painting after an etching. The former can be regarded as a reproduction, the latter cannot. So a vital first step is to gain some idea of the order in which works were produced. An original must by its very nature have been produced at an earlier stage than its reproduction, or at most contemporaneously. When an artist produces an etching at a later date than a similar painting, a painting which it resembles in some respects, but differs from in others, this prompts the following question: if the etching postdates the painting, is it also after the painting? When Whistler made a print after one of his paintings for publication in the Gazette des Beaux-Arts, he wrote: ‘One cannot produce the same masterpiece twice over!! I had no inspiration – and not working at a new thing from nature, I found it impossible to copy myself’.77 For Whistler, therefore, every work was by definition an original, and it is revealing that he regarded his lithographs as drawings.78 In this cultivation of originality, the eccentric Whistler was no exception. Many peintre-graveurs considered virtually everything they produced an original work: the concept of l’estampe originale even held that every print was unique. In the context of nineteenth-century art we do not have to search far for artists who were resolved to produce an original (work). Vincent van Gogh, for example, complained to his brother Theo that artist were always expected to supply ‘originals’:

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c

‘It is always expected of us painters that we compose [everything] ourselves and are just composers. All very well, but in music it doesn’t work like that, and when someone plays Beethoven, he adds his personal interpretation; in music and especially in singing the interpretation of a composer is something, and it certainly need not be the case that only the composer plays his own compositions. Well, particularly now I’m ill, I’m trying to make something to console me, something for my own gratification: I lay out the black-and-white representation after Delacroix or Millet as my motif. And then I improvise on it with colour.[…] My brush moves in my fingers like a bow over a violin, entirely for my own gratification.’79

Van Gogh viewed musicians with a touch of jealousy, for they could concentrate on performing an existing composition, whilst painters were expected to produce ‘new’ compositions. However, at this point in his career Van Gogh was also intending to adapt an existing composition.80 The work to which he referred was actually a painted copie, after a reproduction of a painting by Millet. The circumstances surrounding the production of a print determine whether or not this can be regarded as a reproduction. Has a print been made after an existing original? Is it a copy of a tried and trusted composition, or a variation on this? A variation is more likely to be an original print than a reproduction. There are also instances in which a print should be considered a reproduction. Hogarth, for example, made prints after a number of his paintings, Turner produced prints after several of his compositions, for his Liber Studiorum, while his contemporary John Martin made mezzotints after his own apocalyptic paintings.81 On occasion Van Gogh also expressed his intention of reproducing his own works, such as The Potato Eaters; when photography proved too expensive, he decided that he would make his own lithograph of his masterpiece, in the hope that Theo would be able to circulate the image in the Paris art world.82 When an artist makes a reproduction, the question then arises of whether this work is indeed a reproduction or an original print. In practice it is hard to define the boundary between an original and a reproduction, just as it is often unclear whether a painting is an original or a replica. The very question presupposes that artists made a clear distinction between ‘originals’, replicas, reductions and reproductions, and strictly adhered to these categories when producing their work. Yet in practice these differences appear gradual rather than

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absolute. Although it was not out of the question for artists to produce a reproduction after their own work, such pieces are exceptions within the world of nineteenth-century art reproduction. There are several feasible answers to the question of who should be regarded as the author of a reproduction. Within the context of nineteenth-century art reproduction it is vital not to exclude potential candidates in advance. Both the image creator/designer and the image interpreter are entitled to be regarded as the author of a reproduction, on the basis of their own particular contribution to a specific physical work. The former’s individual intellectual bond with his creation does not detract from the latter’s individual relation to his personal interpretation of this pre-existing composition. Their individual contributions to the reproductive process can thus produce a form of ‘combined authorship’, in which both the original artist and the printmaker/photographer participate. I shall return to this subject in the chapters on reproductions of work by Scheffer, Alma-Tadema and Israëls. From this perspective of combined authorship it is thus possible to designate more than one author for a particular reproduction: the painter, who is responsible for the image, and the printmaker, who is responsible for his specific interpretation or adaptation of this. The number of authors could rise still further, for, given the nature of art reproduction in the nineteenth century, it does not seem far-fetched to speculate to what extent a firm should be regarded as an author, particularly in view of the fact that enterprises such as Goupil were awarded medals for their specific contribution to printed art. I shall confine myself to the observation that there is no clear-cut answer to the question of who was the author of a reproduction in the nineteenth century. reproductions, translations, tableaux vivants and forgeries

A reproduction is by definition never identical to the original. The interaction between original and adaptation gives a print or photograph of a work of art its own internal structure.83 This dualistic character makes reproductions an unusual group of works. Not that they are scarce or uncommon; on the contrary, the nature and function of reproductions means that in practice they were often produced and distributed on an exceptionally large scale, in editions ranging from the thousands to the tens of thousands, although reproductions could also exist in atypical states and variations, some printed on special paper, which

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were exceptionally rare. Nor were reproductions uncommon on account of their exceptional quality, for the nineteenth century was characterised by an unprecedented form of mass production in which price and print run were often more important than aesthetic or technical refinement. We encounter reproductions in a wide variety of forms, from mass-produced carte-de-visite photographs to exclusive engravings. It is this diversity of expression, encompassing examples of both ‘low’ and ‘high’ culture, that makes reproductions such an unusual group of historical artefacts, for while they were often mass-produced and distributed, they were sometimes extremely rare.84 Although reproductions possess a characteristic structure within the visual arts, they also display some affinity with other adaptations of cultural forms. Bartsch drew attention to the correspondence between reproducing works of art and translating literature: ‘L’estampe faite par un graveur d’après le dessin d’un peintre, peut être parfaitement comparée à un ouvrage traduit dans une langue différente de celle de l’auteur.’85 The painter Turner also remarked in this regard: ‘Engraving is or ought to be a translation of a picture, for the nature of each art varies so much in the means of expressing the same objects, that lines become the language of colours.’86 Musical arrangements, such as popular nineteenth-century piano transcriptions of orchestral symphonies, are a similar phenomenon. The composer and pianist Frans Liszt, who produced many such musical arrangements, remarked in this regard: c

‘The relation between piano and orchestra is the same as that between painting and engraving: the piano multiplies the composition, makes this available to everyone, and while it may not reproduce the colours, it at least lets us see the light and dark tones.’87

In the sphere of music there is a similar interaction between the original composition and the transcription. Music brings us into the realm of the performing arts, where adaptation and arrangement flow into performance. Playing a musical composition or performing a play necessarily entails an adaptation of the original. The score or text is brought to life as it were by the musician or actor’s personal interpretation of this. As previously remarked, Van Gogh regarded musicians with a touch of jealousy since they were able to focus on arranging or adapting a pre-existing work of art while painters were always expected

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to ‘compose’, and enjoyed no such opportunity. Or did they? Pulchri, the renowned society of artists in The Hague, offered painters a regular diversion from the constant task of devising new, original compositions in the form of presenting, or performing, existing paintings as tableaux vivants. On 4 and 5 May 1865 the society presented a painting by Rembrandt and a contemporary artist, Paul Delaroche. The painter Bosboom wrote enthusiastically about the occasion to this fellow painter J.D. Kruseman: c

‘These were evenings of pleasure. Never have my eyes beheld something so beguiling, so moving, as several of those tableaux: the Anatomy Lesson by Rembrandt, the Return from Golgotha by Paul de la Roche [-] captivating!’88

The highly popular tableau vivant is a curious adaptation of a work of art, a metamorphosis of painting into a type of performance art. Finally there remains one other unusual adaptation in the field of visual art, the forgery.89 Given the wealth of closely related copies, ‘repetitions’, ‘reductions’, replicationsand reproductions, it is important to be on the alert for forgeries. There was a rich culture of illegal imitations in the nineteenth-century art world.90 The defining element in forgery is the use of deliberate deception to create a false impression as to the author of a work. Sometimes an original piece was copied precisely, with the aim of fraudulently presenting the copy as the original. A more effective approach than exact imitation of a specific work, however, was to produce a painting ‘in the style’ of the chosen master, displaying characteristic affinity with ‘his other work’. For the forger it was a more attractive proposition to add ‘an unknown work’ to the oeuvre of a famous master than it was to copy a well-known work. This was the tactic employed by the master forger Han van Meegeren with his painting The Disciples in Emmaus, allegedly by Vermeer. In practice, however, a more common forgery technique was to change, remove or add a signature, in order to create a false impression as to the author of a piece. Art forgery is closely associated with the (complex) import of the author. It is no coincidence that the development of legal protection of intellectual property also gave the author the right to take action against forgeries of his work.91 Forgery is characterised by the perpetrator’s intention to create a false impression of affairs, essential criteria when determining whether works are forgeries or not, particularly within the complex world of nineteenth-century (studio) practice.

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For centuries the painting and signing of works of art had often been the product of complicated teamwork, involving a master, his assistants and any pupils he may have taught. It is known, for example, that Delacroix put his own signature on various works painted by his pupils.92 So are these works forgeries? Hardly, as this would mean that the artist had forged his own work, something that is hard to conceive. If the master himself judged that a work was of sufficient quality to bear his name, in theory such a work cannot be a forgery.93 However, there is certainly an element of falsification in Delacroix’s deliberate denial of the contribution made to such works by his pupils who have remained otherwise unknown. Delacroix’s work was also copied in contexts far beyond his studio, by artists such as Van Gogh and other admirers. Of course, a copy is not necessarily a forgery, although this is definitely the case when such a copy is made with the intention of being passed off as an ‘original’ Delacroix, particularly for sale. Intention is a crucial element in forgery and also a defining feature. Imagine that a fan of Delacroix paints a copy of one of the master’s work, for his personal edification or to decorate his living room. When that individual dies his property, including the copy, is sold at auction. There the work is bought by a collector who subsequently sells it. The work is then acquired by a dealer who knows that it is a copy but sells it as a real ‘Delacroix’ to an unsuspecting collector. Does this mean that the dealer is a forger? No, but he is certainly a swindler. Without further discussion of the relationship between forgery and deception, I shall confine myself to applying the term ‘forgery’ only to those works that have been deliberately made, or altered, with the intention of creating a false impression as to their author. Of course, there are also works not produced as forgeries which have subsequently become the object of deception or other, less sinister misunderstandings. In the field of art reproduction the spectre of forgery has also loomed on occasion. Although it is not very feasible that engravers seriously attempted to counterfeit an original painting with their prints, the differences between the two media being simply too great to allow such an attempt, this was not the case, with reproductions of prints and drawings, where an unpractised eye could easily mistake a reproduction in crayon manner for an original drawing.94 The same is also true of sophisticated colour lithography, which was used for precise reproductions of watercolours. The products of photo-mechanical techniques, such as photolithographs and photogravures, could also be confused with handmade prints, making forgery a potential hazard in this field as well. Neverthe-

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less, during the nineteenth century, forgery of reproductions was largely confined to the field of states and variations, with or without signatures; these varied enormously in price, so it is hardly surprising that such prints were regularly forged.95 The etcher Philip Zilcken complained at length about the forged signatures which the firm of Buffa had added to his etchings after Mauve and Maris.96 Although forgeries may have been distinguished from reproductions and other works by ‘malice of forethought’, they formed an integral part of the nineteenth-century art world. This was also the forgers’ intention. A forgery is often hard to recognise, even by a ‘practised eye’, as Van Meegeren’s The Disciples at Emmaus amply demonstrated. Goodman rightly observed in Languages of Art with regard to distinguishing between a forgery and an original: ‘no one can ever ascertain by merely looking at the pictures that no one ever has been or will be able to tell them apart by merely looking at them’.97 Whether or not a work is a reproduction, and if so, who should be regarded as the author, cannot, therefore, be seen ‘by merely looking’. Terms such as pinxit and sculpsit may offer an indication, but nothing more than this. It is for this reason that the present study endeavours to view and understand original works, reproductions and authors within a broader cultural context.98 Where reproductions are characterised by their own manner of creation, it is important to study such works in a historical perspective. In his famous essay Walter Benjamin proposed that reproductive technology had taken the reproduced beyond the reach of tradition.99 My objective in the historical reconstruction below is to consider reproductions within their own tradition in the nineteenthcentury art world, in association with original works, repetitions, reductions and copies, described by Arnheim as follows: c

Art is a world of pervasive similarities and dependencies, imitations, remembrances, approximations, and reinterpretations – a collective effort to give shape to the common human experience. In such a world copies, reproductions, borrowings, and forgeries are to be considered not only, not even primarily, by what distinguishes them from their models or prototypes, but by how much of a given aesthetic substance they share.’100

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chapter 2

From Engraving to Photography

Mechanics

‘Mechanics’ was the term used by painters to designate the engravers who made prints after work by other artists. It was a legal dispute between the painter J.S. Copley (1738-1815) and the engraver J.M. Delatre (1746-1840) which had given rise to this term: Delatre had made a print after one of Copley’s paintings, but Copley had been so dissatisfied with the result that he refused to pay the printmaker for his work. Although the dispute was plainly financial in nature, the ensuing court case disguised an underlying struggle for artistic prestige. Painters had long been of the opinion that engraving, whilst admittedly a time-consuming, labour-intensive process, could not be considered art: reproduction, they maintained, was largely a menial, mechanical procedure, the antithesis of the artist’s creative force. So the opposing sides in the courtroom were more than simply Copley, the painter, and Delatre, the engraver, for the case essentially amounted to a confrontation between two cultural traditions, painting versus printmaking.1 ‘Mechanic’ may have been a denigrating and inaccurate term, but its use was understandable in the light of the traditions associated with printmaking. From its inception printmaking was regarded as one of the ‘mechanical arts’, as was

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fig. 4 Marcantonio Raimondi after Raphael, The Massacre of the Innocents (1513-1515), en­graving 28 x 42.5 cm, Fitz­ william Museum, Cambridge.

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painting, initially. During the Renaissance, however, painting evolved into a ‘liberal art’, while printmaking retained its ‘craft’ status.2 This explains why the first edition of Vasari’s Vite (1550) describes the life and work of renowned painters, but pays scant attention to engravers. The second edition of the work, from 1568, does include a chapter on the engraver Marcantonio Raimondi, but Vasari’s choice of this specific printmaker was prompted by his belief that printmaking’s value lay chiefly in its capacity to reproduce existing artworks; he thus ignored original prints, designed and executed by artists such as Mantegna or Parmigianino, believing that it was Raimondi’s engraved reproductions after Raphael, Michelangelo and Dürer which embodied the essence of printmaking as a graphic discipline in the service of painting.3 [fig. 4] This view of the graphic arts continued to resound throughout the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.4 An early sign of changing status dates from 1660, when Louis xiv decreed that printmaking should be classified as one of the liberal arts and as such be encouraged by the French state.5 During the eighteenth century the boundaries between the liberal arts and the applied arts became increasingly blurred.6 The École Royale des Elèves Protégés, for example, founded in 1748, introduced a more craft-based approach to the arts, which greatly irritated members of the traditional academy in Paris.7 Academies elsewhere in France and Europe, however, allowed increasing space for courses in engraving, which were generally

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fig. 5 Thomas Landseer after Edwin Landseer, The Shepherd’s Bible (1856) mixed method engraving, 48.9 x 62.2 cm,

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The Maas Gallery, London.

associated with the applied arts.8 Within these institutions, slowly but surely, printmaking and painting began to draw closer together. In England the Royal Academy was not founded until 1768, much later than its counterparts in France and Italy. The institution aimed to promote the liberal arts, but ignored the graphic profession. Although doors had been cautiously opened to printmaking elsewhere in Europe, the Royal Academy in England held firm to the traditional view of the liberal arts, which did not include the graphic disciplines. One suggested explanation of this attitude is the fact that painting itself was only classified as a liberal art in England at a relatively late date, a delay which may have deferred any recognition of printmaking.9 There was also greater differentiation in England between courses to train artists and more practical, craft-based programmes.10 After the foundation of the Royal Academy, engravers continued to suffer lower status than painters for many decades. When the engraver J.M. Delatre won his case against the painter J.S. Copley, this was a significant step on the road to official recognition for engravers in England. An important figure in this connection was the engraver John Landseer, who dedicated himself to the task of improving engraving’s status in the early nineteenth century.11 Landseer regarded printmaking and painting as of equal status, just as his two sons, Thomas Landseer (1795-1880), an engraver, and Edwin Landseer (1802-1873), a painter, were equals. The elder Landseer must have been delighted to observe his sons collaborating for many years, with Edwin producing the paintings and Thomas the reproductions of these. [fig. 5] In

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1812, John Landseer, a fierce advocate of printmaking, submitted a petition to the Royal Academy in which he demanded that printmaking and painting be accorded equal status, and described engraving as: c

‘a profession, which perhaps of all the Fine Arts stands most in need of your Royal Favor & protection, and whose memorandum if acted upon, would have the further power of raising the Art of Engraving in England to the rank of which it holds in all the principle Royal Academies of the Continent.’12

However, the Royal Academy responded with a rebuff, declaring that printmaking lacked: c

‘Those intellectual qualities of invention and composition which painting, sculpture and architecture so eminently possess […] it’s greatest praise consisting in translating with as little loss as possible the original arts of design.’13

So there was to be no question of printmakers and painters enjoying equal standing.14 In his plea for the status of printmaking to be raised to that of painting, John Landseer pointed to the higher standing enjoyed by engravers at academies on the continent. In France, for example, where the Revolution had brought the traditional academy to an end, various reorganisations had led to the emergence of a new permanent Academie de Peinture et Sculpture in 1816, supported by painters, sculptors, composers and printmakers.15 The new French academy inspired the founders of the Dutch Koninklijke Academie, established in Amsterdam in 1817, to make similar space for printmaking.16 The Amsterdam academy was intended to breathe new life into Dutch art, including printmaking. Whilst the English Royal Academy was still taking great pains to exclude printmaking from its premises, its French and Dutch counterparts were fostering painting and printmaking as two artistic disciplines of equal standing. To a large extent the theoretical debate on the position of printmaking and painting was an academic one, chiefly conducted within the various academies’ walls. Outside these walls it was common practice for printmakers and painters to associate with each other. Aspiring painters and engravers learned their pro-

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fession under the guidance of a master, in a shared studio culture.17 This studio system was based on longstanding tradition, deriving from a period in which both disciplines, painting and printmaking, were still regarded as mechanical arts. Academies had never completely replaced the traditional studio culture, and well into the nineteenth century young printmakers continued to learn their profession under the supervision of a master, whose studio-based instruction they sometimes supplemented with lessons at an academy or institute of drawing.18 On occasion young printmakers literally worked side by side with their painting colleagues: the famous engraver Louis-Pierre Henriquel-Dupont (1797-1892), for example, received his first instruction at the studio of painter Pierre Guérin (1774-1833), alongside the young painters Gericault, Delacroix and Scheffer, before he moved from this painting environment to the studio of the distinguished engraver C.C. Bervic (1756-1822), in order to specialise further in engraving.19 Henriquel-Dupont owed his subsequent renown to his reproductions of work by celebrated contemporaries. Once the academic boundaries between painting and printmaking had become blurred on the continent, this development began to spread to England. In 1855 Samuel Cousins (1801-1887) became the first engraver to be admitted to the prestigious Royal Academy, which thereby accorded equal status to printmaking.20 This late admission of engravers into the Royal Academy occurred at the same time as photography’s breakthrough in the world of art reproduction. When the engraver George Thomas Doo (1800-1886) was asked if the Royal Academy’s support for printmaking was still advisable in the light of recent photographic developments, he confidently adduced the superior value of printmaking over that of ‘impersonal’ and ‘uncritical’ photography: an engraver, he contended, could bring a unique, personal vision to an original work, unlike photography which was ‘incapable of correcting the faults of a bad picture, bad drawing, want of keeping, etc., but copies all the vicious with the good’.21 Doo thus regarded photographic reproduction as an essentially menial and mechanical replication of artworks – a somewhat incongruous criticism on the part of an engraver who would himself, until quite recently, have been dubbed a ‘mechanic’ by painters. The nineteenth century witnessed the radical shift from graphic to photographic art reproduction. Around 1800 English engravers had still been denigratingly referred to as ‘mechanics’; fifty years later they were granted admission to the

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Royal Academy as ‘artists’; a further fifty years on, however, circa 1900, they were virtually extinct. Inevitably this shift from graphic to photographic methods was not a smooth process: the world of nineteenth-century art reproduction was characterised by perpetual tension between the disappearance of graphic traditions and large-scale technological innovation.22 Within a relatively short period, changes in the (photo-)graphic landscape could transform the character of a sparticular reproductive technique.23 In order to understand such changes I have chosen to set nineteenth-century graphic and photographic methods within their historical context, rather than simply consider these from a strictly technical point of view. This decision was partly influenced by the fact that the technical and chemical aspects of graphic and photographic methods have already been extensively enumerated in various manuals, to which the present study gratefully refers.24 Moreover, the changes which occurred in the field of graphic art and photography were not simply technical in nature: although an engraved reproduction from 1890 may resemble a print from 1810 in terms of technique, it would have made a very different impression in a world now dominated by photographs. Taking a historical approach to reproductive techniques is not without its difficulties, however. The history of reproductive methods, particularly that of the nineteenth century, is complex and unlimited. In the middle of that century, W.J. Stannard counted 156 graphic and photographic techniques.25 The number of reproductive techniques had never been so great before the nineteenth century; after this period the range of methods employed rapidly diminished. As photography perfected its skills, the traditional techniques of engraving, mezzotinting and lithography exited the scene within a few decades. So the nineteenth century offered a unique range of both graphic and photographic methods for replicating and multiplying artworks. The aim of this chapter is not to provide an encyclopaedic overview of nineteenth-century reproductive techniques, but to sketch a picture of the most important changes in the field of graphic and photographic methods. Two types of change play an important role in this regard. In the first place, there was ‘internal’ development within commonly used techniques. A certain amount of time necessarily elapsed between the invention of a technique and its (successful) commercial application. Years of experimentation were required before both lithography and photography could be transformed into effective mass media; the quest to develop specific forms of these for the reproduction of

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colour soon followed. However, some reproductive techniques barely survived the experimental phase and quietly disappeared after a time.26 Such processes of innovation and professionalisation occurred throughout the nineteenth century, sometimes evolving smoothly and steadily, often proceeding in fits and starts, according to the specific time and place. This ‘internal’ development of techniques was also accompanied by ‘external’ development in the field of reproduction, in the form of interaction between engraving, lithography and photography. This chapter aims to sketch these historical developments by offering a Benjamin-style ‘short history of reproductive techniques’ in the nineteenth century.

Graphic art reproduction: 1800-1835 Engraving; the traditional medium

‘Une idée de génie...graphique’ was the response to the plan proposed by engraver Pierre Laurent (1739-1809) to reproduce in print all the paintings and sculptures in the French royal collection, and thereby breathe new life into French printmaking.27 In 1791 Laurent received permission to proceed with the project, but political instability prevented the first prints from appearing until 1803, when they were published under the title Musée Francais recueil complet des tableaux, statues et bas reliefs qui composent la collection nationale. Although Laurent’s plan was commendable, there was nothing new about it; the engraver appears to have been directly inspired by similar initiatives during the reign of Louis xiv, the heyday of French printmaking, when famous engravers such as Gérard Audran, Edelinck and Peine had made prints after works by Raphael and Veronese, and also after French masters such as Poussin, Vouet and Lebrun.28 An important initiative in the reign of Louis xiv had been the proposed establishment of the ‘Cabinet du Roi’, which was to comprise prints of monuments, gardens, palaces and artworks.29 The project was never completed but Laurent breathed new life into the idea with his Musée Francais, published between 1803 and 1811, with contributions by dozens of engravers. The project was continued by Laurent’s son, Pierre Louis Henri Laurent (1779-1844), under the title Musée Royal, which appeared between 1816 and 1822.30 In early nineteenth-century France the reign of Louis xiv was regarded as a benchmark for engraving, as it was for many other forms of cultural expres-

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fig. 6 Charles-Clément Balvay (Bervic) after Pierre Bouillon, Laocoon, (1809) line engraving, 34 x 28 cm, Bibliothèque National Paris.

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sion. Laurent’s publications thus endeavoured to connect contemporary printmaking with France’s renowned seventeenth-century printmaking tradition. During the nineteenth century, admiration for seventeenth-century prints was closely associated with a widespread aversion to eighteenth-century works.31 Despite the fact that the eighteenth century had also witnessed large-scale reproduction of art – with work by Rigaud, Chardin and Watteau, plus prints after Boucher, Greuze and Fragonard32 – and although printmaking had flourished during this age of the galante estampe, early nineteenth-century engravers such as C.C. Bervic nevertheless regarded seventeenth-century prints as the prime examples to emulate. [fig. 6] In 1810, when Bervic’s print after Enlèvement de Déjanire was declared the best French engraving of the new century’s opening decade, it was regarded as the first print for a long time that could rival the engravings produced by the seventeenth-century’s old masters.33 The fame of French printmaking was closely connected with line engraving on copper. Although engraving had traditionally been the primary technique asso-

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ciated with the reproduction of artworks, by the early nineteenth century this was no longer the case.34 New techniques had undermined the supremacy of traditional engraving, which no longer enjoyed a monopoly in the field of art reproduction. In 1828 an anonymous reviewer wrote in the cultural journal Le Globe: c

‘Les gravures au burin deviennent presque aussi rares que le traductions en vers. On aime si fort, de nos jours l’expeditif et le bon marché, que la lithographie, l’aquatinta, la maniere noire, se substituent tous les jours a ce pauvre burin, si lent et si couteux, lui arrachent quelques fleurons de sa couronne et s’arrogant le monopole de reproduire de toutes les creations de la peinture moderne.’35

In 1834 the annual Salon exhibition prompted L’Artiste to declare sombrely: ‘La grande gravure penche toujours vers sa ruine’.36 That same year the publication proclaimed its admiration for English printmaking: ‘dans cette art, Londres a long-temps possède sur Paris une incontestable superiorité.’37 The extensive distribution in France of high-quality prints from England caused critics to regard French engraving with some reticence.38 During the early nineteenth century, English printmaking was still dominated by the golden age it had enjoyed in the late eighteenth century. The mezzotint was to English printmaking what line engraving was to the French. Unlike traditional engraving, the mezzotinting technique had been specially developed for the purpose of reproducing paintings. The origins of the method lay in the Low Countries, but it was perfected in England and soon became known as the ‘maniera anglais’.39 The stipple structure of the mezzotint allowed the technique to represent the subtle nuances between light and dark far more successfully than the rigid line-based structure of the line engraving. This made the mezzotint the paramount technique for reproducting texture and chiaroscuro. Printmakers could also make a mezzotint much more quickly than an engraving, which took six times as long to produce. A major drawback to the mezzotint technique, however, was the delicate plate, which could not support the print runs achieved by traditional engravings.40 While mezzotints were printed in batches of several dozen, engraved plates could generate hundreds, even thousands, of prints.41 Yet this does not detract from the fact that the mezzotint

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was an exceptionally successful reproductive technique, employed on a large scale during the golden age of English printmaking in the late eighteenth century. Renowned mezzotinters such as James MacArdell (1728/29-65), Valentine Green (1739-1813) and John Raphael Smith (1752-1812) made Sir Joshua Reynolds one of the most reproduced artists of his age.42 While French printmakers of the early nineteenth century pursued the tradition of seventeenth-century line engravers, English mezzotinters were still working in the ‘Great Age of the Mezzotint’. Engravers such as Charles Turner and William Ward perpetuated the typically English tradition, combining the mezzotint technique with etching in their quest for new graphic effects. The most important printmaker of this period was probably S.W. Reynolds (1794-1835).43 [fig. 7] He produced many prints after works by celebrated painters such as Joshua Reynolds (no relation), and also contemporary French masters such as Gericault, Délaroche, Prud’hon and Scheffer.44 After Reynolds’ death in 1835, L’Artiste described him as ‘un graveur de génie’.45 He had gained international renown while working in the typically English mezzotint tradition. On the run from his creditors, the English engraver Charles Howard Hodges (1764-1837) found refuge in the Batavian Republic (now the Netherlands), settling in The Hague in 1792.46 Hodges had learned his profession from the distinguished English mezzotinter John Raphael Smith and was one of the school of engravers associated with the painter Joshua Reynolds. So what did Hodges find in his new home? What was happening in Dutch printing in the early nineteenth century? Hodges probably came into contact with the Vinkeles, a wellknown family of Dutch engravers. The head of the family was Reinier Vinkeles (1741-1816), who had been apprenticed to the French master engraver J.Ph. LeBas and subsequently established a studio in Amsterdam, together with his brother Harmanus and two sons Johannes and Abraham. J.E. Marcus (1774-1826) also trained at Reinier Vinkeles’ studio, before specialising in engravings after Dutch old masters. Like their foreign colleagues Dutch engravers worked in a combination of techniques, such as etching and copper engraving.47 Hodges did not keep his distance from his Dutch counterparts, but quickly integrated into the Dutch printmaking world, where he developed into a leading printmaker and portrait painter. The Englishman thus made an important contribution to Dutch art in the early nineteenth century. 48 His list of achievements includes his involvement in the founding of the Koninklijke Academie in Amsterdam,

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fig. 7 Samuel William Reynolds after James Northcote, Heron and Spaniel (1799), mezzotint with engraving, 47.9 x 59.7 cm, British

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Museum, London.

together with the printmakers Reinier Vinkeles and J.E. Marcus.49 Marcus, the first professior of engraving at the Koninklijke Academie, died unexpectedly in 1826. The search for a successor extended to France; William I eventually appointed the talented young French engraver André Benoît Barrau Taurel (1794-1859) as head of the engraving faculty, in order to stimulate Dutch printmaking.50 Taurel had learned his profession in the studios run by the painter Pierre-Narcisse Guérin and the engraver Charles Clément Bervic, alongside other aspiring, and later distinguished, printmakers such as Louis Henriquel-Dupont. Taurel may be regarded as one of the renowned generation of French engravers associated with Henriquel-Dupont and subsequently dubbed ‘le grand mouvement de 1830’.51 Taurel enjoyed even earlier success than the talented Henriquel-Dupont when he – and not Henriquel-Dupont – was awarded a Prix de Rome. It may have been this award which prompted the decision to invite Taurel, rather than another French engraver, to come to the Netherlands to encourage Dutch printmaking. The Prix de Rome had allowed Taurel to stay in Rome from 1818 to 1823, during which period he became friends with artists such as the French painter Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres.52 On his return to Paris Taurel took the young Italian Luigi Calamatta (1802-1869), later a famous engraver, under his wing.53 Although Taurel’s son Charles Édouard was born in

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Paris, he grew up in Amsterdam, where his father was appointed head of the engraving faculty at the Akademie voor Beeldende Kunsten with effect from 1 January 1828. it was a post he would hold until 1855. Although Taurel produced various prints after portraits by Nicolaas Pieneman and J.A. Kruseman, he probably made his most important contribution to Dutch printmaking in his capacity as professor at the academy, where he trained various talented engravers, including his son Édouard Taurel, J.W. Kaiser and H.W. Couwenberg.54 The influence exercised by the English mezzotinter Hodges and the French line engraver Taurel in the Dutch printmaking world reveals the situation in the early nineteenth century. The renowned printmaking tradition established by Lucas van Leyden and Hendrik Goltzius was little more than a memory. Although not much is known about Dutch printmaking in the early nineteenth century, foreign prints appear to have played a substantial role in this period, as is illustrated by the 1836 dispute between the influential editor of Vaderlandsche Letteroefeningen, J.W. Yntema, and the publisher G.J.A. Beijerinck. The conflict had been prompted by a number of Beijerinck publications whose illustrations, by foreign engravers, had elicited a highly critical reaction in Vaderlandsche Letteroefeningen: c

‘particularly when the state of national engraving is still much com­tem­ ned, yet at present somewhat advancing again, and still unceasingly requires so much encouragement, products of the foreign burin are imported and distributed amongst us through all kinds of means by the well known Stores and also by the above-cited publications, [productis] in which no national artist or workman has participated, and from which no-one in our country derives any advantage, other than publishers bent solely on their gain.’55

The publisher Beijerinck responded with a fierce defence in the form of an extensive advertisement which offers an interesting insight into the world of Dutch engraving of the period: c

‘The general approbation for these costly undertakings has convinced me how far the judgement of the Dutch Public in no way accords with that of the writer of Vaderlandsche Letteroefeningen, who thought that he should censure these and similar undertakings, because he deemed it

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detrimental to our Land, that the plates were engraved by foreign artists. Yet the writer has judged in this matter without understanding, for the number of engravers in the Netherlands is so few [italics, rv] , that meritorious artists in this profession will always have such an abundance of work at home, that with the best will they mostly have to keep the publisher waiting longer than is desired by the same undertakings, so that it would be impossible for them to provide works equivalent to the above in a brief space of time; even if this possibility were to exist, in a Land as small as ours the costs would run too high for steel engravings, equivalent to those supplied here. In order to be able to compete with the Foreigner in this way in costliness and cheapness, one is constrained to procure prints of English engravings [italics, rv] and I believe that I have thus truly done my fatherland a service with cheap publications of these magnificent works, since many a young Artist in our Land will be encouraged to become increasingly proficient in this fine art, the more so because the composition of the text is conferred on men, on whose skill and taste the Netherlands rightly prides herself ’56 Beijerinck’s personal rancour notwithstanding, his defence contains interesting information about the strengths and – above all – the weaknesses of Dutch engraving during this period. Although there were engravers working in the Netherlands, the modest nature of the Dutch market did not allow them to compete with much cheaper (mainly English) engravings. When Vaderlandsche Letteroefeningen responded to Beijerinck’s defence with cutting, personal recriminations, the publisher decided to bring in bigger guns. His aim was now to undermine the authority of Vaderlandsche Letteroefeningen structurally, by launching a ‘truly Critical’ journal. In August 1836 he published the prospectus for a new journal, De Gids, whose less than subtle, secondary title was Nieuwe Vaderlandsche Letteroefeningen. De Gids would evolve into one of the most authoritative cultural journals in the Netherlands. Beijerinck commissioned Dutch printmakers such as J.P. de Lange and J.W. Kaiser to produce the illustrations, thereby actively promoting the development of Dutch printmaking.57 Thus the origins of this renowned journal are directly associated with the (humbler) nature of Dutch printmaking during the early decades of the nineteenth century. Whilst engravers in France were harking back to their renowned seventeenthcentury traditions and mezzotinters in England were still employing their na-

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tional technique, a new school of engraving was being established in the Netherlands, with the aid of the English mezzotinter Hodges and the French line engraver Taurel. Alongside the many mezzotints and engravings printed from metal plates, the early nineteenth century also witnessed an increase in the number of works printed from wood. Although the traditional woodcut was as old as printmaking itself, use of this technique for art reproduction had been relatively limited up to this point, the chief reason probably being the relatively rough character of the woodcut’s line structure, in comparison with the fine quality of copper engraving or mezzotinting. However, new opportunities were offered by the wood engraving technique, which was developed in England in the late eighteenth century. By using the much harder, end-grain of the wood (mainly hardwood), the wood engraver was able to achieve a much finer line structure. Thomas Bewick (1753-1828) in particular made a substantial contribution to the use of wood engraving with his well-known illustrations of British fauna in The History of Britsh Quadrupeds (1790) and The History of British Birds (1797-1804). [fig. 8] The use of wood engraving as an illustrative technique was no accident, for the major advantage of this method over other graphic techniques was the potential it offered to print text and illustration together. Thus the development and success of this technique is inextricably associated with the production of illustrated travel guides, scientific treatises and works of prose and poetry.58 Wood engravings in the Bewick tradition flourished particularly in the 1830s, thanks to the many illustrated journals such as The Penny Magazine (1832-1845). After this period the technique also became widely used for the reproduction of art works. Crayon manner, stipple engraving and aquatint

During the final decades of the eighteenth century the traditional line engraving and mezzotint were supplemented with the invention, within a comparatively short period, of several new reproductive techniques, the crayon manner, the stipple engraving and the aquatint. Where the mezzotint had been specially developed for the replication and multiplication of paintings, these new methods were chiefly intended to reproduce chalk drawings and watercolours, thereby constituting a major expansion in the range of graphic techniques available to printmakers.59

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The crayon manner, a method related to etching, was developed in 1757 by the French printmaker J.C. Francois (1717-1769).60 Unlike engraving or etching, the technique did not require the printmaker to incise a plate: instead, he used engraving tools to apply stipple patterns to a prepared ground covering the plate. The acid in a bath etched into the plate through the stipple structure; once the ground was removed, the stipple pattern could be printed onto paper, producing a graphic image resembling a chalk or crayon drawing. This method was particularly used to produce fine reproductions of popular pastels by Watteau, Boucher and Fragonard. [plate 3] William Wynne Ryland (1732/8-1783) soon introduced the crayon manner technique into England, where it quickly became popular; his contribution to Charles Roger’s 1778 publication A Collection of Prints in imitation of Drawings subsequently enjoyed great success.61 By the time this work was published Ryland had also developed his own version of the crayon manner, known as stipple engraving.62 This method employed a burin to apply many small dots to the printing matrix, allowing fine tonal variations to be obtained by varying the density of the stipple pattern. Stipple engraving is actually the reverse of the mezzotint. A relatively accessible technique, it is easier for a less-practised hand to master than intractable line engraving, as making a dot in a plate is less demanding than incising a suitable line. As with the crayon manner, the stipple-based character of stipple engraving made the method extremely suitable for reproducing chalk drawings, whose characteristic grainy structure it could imitate exactly. Ryland, the spirfig. 8 Thomas Bewick, The Female Horned Owl, wood engraving proof, from: The History of British Birds (1797), Rijksprentenkabinet, Amsterdam.

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itual father of the technique, was even accused of forgery and thrown into gaol.63 The best-known engraver to make a name with stipple engraving was Francesco Bartolozzi (1727-1815), with his prints after work by Reynolds, Romney (1734-1802), Lawrence (1769-1830) and Kaufmann (1741-1807). [plate 4] One example of stipple engraving is the publication Imitations of Original Drawings by Hans Holbein in the Collection of His Majesty (1792-1800). The method was chiefly used in England and even vied with the mezzotint for the title of typically English reproduction technique.64 The French printmaker Jean Baptiste Le Prince (1734-1781) was probably one of the first artists to publicise the aquatint technique with his specimen works from 1768. It is closely related to etching. A drawing is first etched into the plate, which is then covered with an aquatint ground: once the printmaker has worked this ground, the plate is again etched in an acid bath. Printing from the plate produces etchings with a tonal character. As was often the case with new reproductive methods, the precise nature of the aquatint remained obscure for some time. Protection through patents often obliged engravers to speculate as to the new processes employed by their colleagues, leaving them little option than to conduct their own experiments, based on luck and rumour. On 8 September 1775, however, the English artist Paul Sandby (1725-1809) informed his good friend John Clerk: ‘perceive you have been trying at Le Prince Secret. Know my good friend I got a key to it and am perfect master of it.’65 [plate 5] Paul Sandby and Thomas Rowlandson then popularised the technique for the reproduction of watercolours, through publications such as Imitations of Modern Drawings.66 The aquatint proved an excellent technique for imitating the fleeting, fluid character of a watercolour. In the Netherlands Cornelis Ploos van Amstel (17261798) experimented with related techniques, publishing 46 drawings in the form of aquatints between 1765 and 1785. The majority of his works, however, were published after his death by Christian Josi in Collection d’imitation de Dessins (London 1821), comprising a hundred crayon manner and aquatint prints.67 The crayon manner, stipple engraving and aquatint were three widely used methods for reproducing (highly popular) works on paper: chalk and crayon drawings, pastels and watercolours. These techniques offered more than simply a method for reproducing the original composition, for they also allowed printmakers to approximate the appearance of the original technique. Stipple engraving reproduced the characteristic grainy structure of chalk, while the aq-

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uatint was able to represent the ‘fluid’ character of a watercolour. The mezzotint had been invented to imitate the chiaroscuro of oil paintings, but this ‘black art technique’ was not well suited to the light and airy reproduction of drawings. New methods opened the way for a new kind of reproduction, which precisely imitated the original work, in prints that looked like drawings. While these were, of course, still personal interpretations of original works, the printmaker’s contribution was reduced as far as possible, in an effort to capture the hand of the original artist in the print. In his study, Faksimile und Mimesis. Studien zur Deutschen Reproduktionsgrafik des 18.Jahrhunderts (1981), Rebel shows that this attempt to create the most accurate reproduction possible, using crayon manner, stipple engraving and aquatint, is associated with the advent of the concept of the ‘facsimile’, described as a ‘technische Reproduktion einer Bild- oder Schriftvorlage mit Anspruch auf gröstmögliche Nachbildungstreue’.68 The facsimile concept thus set new standards of fidelity to the original, for the ultimate facsimile is ‘identical’ to the original. This new vision also entails another approach to reproduction techniques, or, as Ivins saliently put it: c

‘Up to this time engravings had looked like engravings and nothing else, but now, thanks to the discovery of new techniques, the test of their success began to be the extent to which they looked like something else.’69

The facsimile concept can be regarded as the driving force behind graphic innovation whose aim was to reproduce the original, whether this was a drawing or a medieval manuscript, as accurately as possible. The crayon manner, the stipple engraving and the aquatint thus gave printmakers new graphic capabilities, which they employed on a large scale for the reproduction of artworks. Yet the diverse reproductive techniques now available to printmakers were not interchangeable, for they differed as to nature, method and cost, while other, aesthetic considerations also played a role. Linear techniques, such as line engraving, were more highly esteemed from an aesthetic point of view than more tonal methods featuring a stipple structure, such as mezzotints, aquatints and stipple engravings. Circa 1800 there was a clear hierarchy of reproductive techniques, with line engraving at the top, followed by the mezzotint, stipple engraving, and finally the aquatint.70 This classification was supported by diverse arguments. The line engraver Sir Robert Strange declared:

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c

‘I cannot help lamenting an innovation of late years has crept into the art of engraving and has in no small degree retarded its progress. Scarce had this art (line engraving) been introduced into this country on a respectable footing when a species of invention took place, best known by the name of stippling or dotting, and has insensibly made so rapid a progress in the course of a few years that it has deluged the metropolis and the country at large with a superfluity of inferior productions. Far be it from me to depreciate this talent when it is confined to the hands of ingenious artists; but what is much to be regretted is that from the nature of the operation and the extreme facility with which it is executed it has got into the hands of every boy of every print-seller in town, and of every manufacturer of prints, however ignorant and unskilful.’71

The practical advantage of a simple technique tended to be regarded as a dis­ad­ vantage when assessing the value of a print. The Algemeene Konst en Letterbode of 1802 likewise regarded stipple engraving as inferior to traditional line engraving: c

‘With uncommon pleasure we understand that the mad passion for engraving in the punctuated manner, which has predominated for so long with sacrifice of common sense and good taste, is beginning to decline, and that line style engraving is beginnning to surface again.’72

Traditional line engraving was also increasingly associated with history painting, while the mezzotint was mainly used for the less-esteemed genre of portraiture.73 Over the course of the nineteenth century this hierarchy of techniques appears to have blurred, although there are still clear signs well into the century that the various techniques were not yet regarded as interchangeable or equivalent. It is no accident, for example, that L’Artiste continued to talk of ‘La grande gravure’.74 Even in England, the land of the mezzotint, many critics continued to regard line engraving as the superior technique for many years. Where prints were displayed at exhibitions depended not only on their technique but also on that technique’s place in the hierarchy of techniques. Goupil, the renowned firm of art dealers, remained faithful to this normative grading of reproduction techniques in its stock lists until the early twentieth century. Reproductive techniques may have been similar in many respects, but this did not make them of equal value.

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It should be noted, however, that in reproductive practice these normative distinctions were frequently less clear. In the quest for new graphic effects various techniques were combined in an often ingenious fashion, making it almost impossible to tell them apart with the naked eye. Even the terms crayon manner, stipple engraving and aquatint were sometimes used to designate a range of related variations on a technique. Such methods were regularly combined with each other, or with traditional engraving and the mezzotint, to create prints in what was known as the ‘mixed method’ or ‘mixed manner’. Although the various graphic techniques constantly provided printmakers with new ways to reproduce art, these were never enough. By the early nineteenth century printmakers were already experimenting with a new kind of medium that would be even more effective for art reproduction – the lithograph. Lithography: a new medium

According to Alois Senefelder (1771-1834), the inventor of lithography, the reproduction of drawings was one of the chief merits of the new technique.75 [fig. 9] While lithography found its first application in the reproduction of sheet music, the method was soon employed to replicate and multiply works of visual art. The earliest example of this use of lithography is probably the publication of Albrecht Dürer’s Christlich-Mythologische Handzeichnungen in 1808. Another early publication, Les Oeuvres lithographiques. Contenant un choix de dessins d’après les grands maîtres de toutes les écoles, tiré des Musées de sa Majesté le Roi de Bavière, by Johann fig. 9 Portrait of Aloys Senefelder.

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Nepomuk Strixner (1782-1855), appeared between 1810 and 1816. Encouraged by this success, Strixner then applied the technique to the reproduction of paintings. In 1817 he published Königliche Bayerische Gemälde-Saal zu München und ­Schleissheim, which comprised two hundred paintings reproduced as lithographs.76 Although lithography would develop into a mass medium for art reproduction, these early publications remained somewhat exclusive in character.77 The first lithographs were printed in southern Germany, in a region where Solenhofen stone, a type of limestone generally used as the printing matrix, occurred. Lithography was also known as stone printing. The first lithographic presses outside Germany were in England. Senefelder had travelled to London as early as 1800 to obtain a patent for his new reproduction method.78 His decision to apply for a patent in England is understandable, given the country’s rich graphic tradition, major technological advancement following the Industrial Revolution and large domestic market. Three years later Specimens of Polyautography (1803) was published (lithography was originally known as polyautography), with original prints by artists such as Benjamin West (1738-1820) and Henry Fuseli (1741-1825). In England the technique was soon employed for art reproduction, unlike in Germany where the medium was also used for other, commercial purposes. Important pioneers in the field of English lithography were the publishers Rudolf Ackermann (1764-1834) and Charles Joseph Hullmandel (1789-1850). Ackermann mainly stimulated lithography in a quantative sense, while Hullmandel, who had started out as an artist, helped to improve the quality of the technique.79 Lithography next arrived in France, where the miniature painter Godefroy Engelmann (1788-1839) brought the first lithographic press into service in Mulhouse in 1814. Prior to this he had gone to Munich in order to study with Clemens Senefelder, the brother of Alois Senefelder. Engelmann made a great success of his lithographic business, prompting him to open another lithographic printing shop in Paris, in June 1816. However, he was not the only person to realise the significance of the new medium, for in April of that year, Baron Charles Philibert de Lasteyrie (1759-1849) had already introduced lithography in Paris. A publicist, philanthropist and liberal, he was soon producing prints after compositions by C. Vernet and Charlet.80 Although the baron contributed significantly to early lithography in France, it was Engelmann who proved the stronger of the two and was responsible for making Paris the European capital of lithography from the 1820s.

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In the Netherlands the Koninklijke Courant of 1 August 1807 contained the first report on Senefelder’s ‘highly ingenious invention’, in which it pointed out the major advantage of the lithographic technique: ‘One of the greatest advantages, which this operation yields, consists of this, that instead of one copy one obtains a perfect impression of the original drawing.’81 Despite this enthusiasm the medium was not introduced in the Netherlands until two years later, in 1809. The following year, the Hollandsche Huishoudelijke Maatschappij endeavoured to encourage printmakers to adopt the technique by organising a competition optimistically entitled: ‘The Stone-Print will go far’.82 Initially, however, lithography was only employed in one-off experiments.83 Production would not grow until the 1820s, when the technique was promoted through the efforts of the lithographers C.H.G. Steuerwald and Jean Augustin Daiwaille (1786-1850). Daiwaille in particular made a significant contribution to Dutch lithography, ensuring that a lithographic press was installed at the newly founded Koninklijke Academie and instructing the academy’s first pupils in the technique. He left the academy in 1826 to work as an independent lithographer, producing prints of his own designs and also collaborating closely with other artists, such as the painter B.C. Koekkoek, on the reproduction of their work.84 However, the new medium also encountered criticism. In 1824 Jacob de Vos even warned the Fourth Class of the Koninklijk Instituut [the Royal Advisery Council for Science, Literature and Fine Arts] about the dangers of lithography: c

‘Are we not inundated daily by the products of [lithography], and does not almost every pupil reckon himself capable of drawing on the Stone? Does he not already deem himself to be an artist, since his scribbles and sketches are so easily multiplied and find a ready market owing to their cheap price? I readily confess that I have been no advocate of Lithography from the beginning, because I foresaw that precisely this ease in manipulation would be the cause of much paltry work, and would cause the study of the noble art of Engraving to flag. Thus far I have seen almost nothing that has recalled me from this prejudice [..] If the Stone-Print had only been employed for examples in Education, for representations of objects of Natural History, for Maps and for more things of this ilk; if only it had been wisely left at sketches, thereby giving artists something of their mind, but no! The desire was to imitate engraving, the desire was to shove all printing arts behind the bench and then vehemently insist to us that this is fine.’85

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When the Dutch government asked the members of the Fourth Class to advise on the new lithographic technique, their answer was clear: lithography should be regarded as a threat to the traditional art of engraving. Despite lithographic progress abroad, they could not recommend the method: ‘Thus far lithography has produced still little elsewhere and in our country nothing as yet, which merits keeping in a collection of Printed Art.’86 During the 1820s Dutch Romantic artists were not quite familiar with the technique of lithography, although some were experimenting with it, like the talented painter Johannes Schotel.87 Early Dutch lithography received an extra impulse in the form of two professional lithographers from Brussels, Jobard and Desguerrois & Co, who set up shop in Amsterdam in 1827. The following year Desguerrois started work on the prestigious publication Koninklijk Museum van ’s Gravenhage. This was inspired by the French Galerie de la Duchesse de Berry and comprised an album with sixty lithographs after old masters in the Mauritshuis.88 As the work was to be executed by Dutch printmakers, Desguerrois asked the well-known (Belgian) painter Madou to instruct several young artists of the ‘Northern Netherlands’ in the lithographic craft., thereby giving C.C.A. Last, N. Pieneman, W.J.J. Nuijen and H. van Hove their first training in lithography. Last, in particular, subsequently developed into a productive lithographer. After a hesistant start, lithography in the Netherlands also evolved rapidly into an effective and widely used reproduction technique. The renowned lithographer Simon Moulijn (1866-1948), who was chiefly interested in producing original works, described this development as: ‘the self-satisfied making of prints, for dull periodicals such as Het Schilder- en Letterkundig Album, De Kunstkronijk etc. So, simultaneously with its technical perfection, the deterioration of the lithographic printing art in effect set in.’89 The production of relatively good-quality lithographic reproductions began to get under way from circa 1830 onwards. In general it can be said that in the first quarter of the nineteenth century, lithography remained in an experimental phase. During this period, use of the word ‘lithography’ should also be regarded as an umbrella term, accommodating a wide range of related techniques.90 Around 1825 Alois Senefelder’s invention had outgrown the experimental phase and developed into a major new technique for art reproduction, supporting print runs of 30,000 to 40,000 copies without significant loss of quality.91 From the late 1820s onwards lithographic

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reproductions were produced on an industrial scale, becoming the first mass medium for art reproduction and a modern alternative to traditional engraving techniques. Lithography was thus the most significant change in the graphic landscape during the initial decades of the nineteenth century. Constant innovation eventually led to widespread modernisation in the graphic world and caused art reproduction to gain momentum from the 1830s onwards.

Graphic innovation: 1835-1860 The steel engraving: a new take on a traditional medium

Although copper plates had traditionally been used for engraving, during the 1820s steel plates became an important alternative.92 Steel was much harder than copper and thus much more resistant to wear during the printing process.93 Use of steel plates considerably increased print runs, which could now rise into the thousands, instead of the few hundreds supported by copper plates. So the new material was responsible for a tenfold increase in print runs. Steel plates were soon employed for both line engravings and mezzotints. Although line engravings had originally supported higher print runs than mezzotints, the use of steel plates eliminated this advantage, prompting many line engravers to switch to the production of mezzotints, in order to survive.94 England was the first country to move from copper to steel engraving, a development quickly followed by printmakers on the continent.95 In France and the Netherlands, the use of steel engravings became established during the 1830s, from which point steel plates were used for the majority of prints.96 This change of material constituted a significant qualitative improvement in the nineteenth-century graphic industry, which affected all its products, from banknotes to art reproductions. The adoption of steel plates, however, did more than simply increase print runs. The new opportunities offered by this material encouraged a revival of engraving in France, England and the Netherlands during the 1830s, a revival which also extended into the field of art reproduction. In 1835 the authoritative French art journal L’Artiste observed of this revival in engraving:

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fig. 10a Louis Henriquel-Dupont after Paul Délaroche, L’Hemicycle des Beaux-Arts (1853), engraving (left) 53 x 112.5 cm, Musée Goupil, Bordeaux.

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‘Il est à remarquez que les notables progres qu’elle a faits en France dans ces dernières années ont coïncidé avec une augmentation sensible dans le nombre des graveurs, preuve que la multiplicié des artistes n’est pas aussi nuissible aux arts que quelques personnes semblent le croire.’97

Leading French engravers of this period were Z. Prévost (1797-1861) and A.J.B.M. Blanchard (1792-1849). The talented Italian engravers Luigi Calamatta (1802-1869) and Paolo Mercuri (1804-1884) had also relocated to Paris where they likewise made a name for themselves with prints after old masters and contemporary works. However, the undisputed leader of this generation of engravers was LouisPierre Henriquel-Dupont, who established his reputation with his 1831 engraving after l’Abdication de Gustave Wasa by Hersent in 1831.98 This print laid the foundation for his fame as the ‘chef d’une brillante école’, which Charles Blanc also described as ‘le grand mouvement de 1830’.99 While engravers of the old guard had largely owed their reputation to prints after old masters, Henriquel-Dupont chiefly specialised in works after contemporaries, many of whom were his friends. Among the artists whose work he reproduced were Gros, Ingres, Decamps, Scheffer and Délaroche, several of whom

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10c

fig. 10c Louis Henriquel-Dupont after Paul Délaroche, L’Hemicycle des Beaux-Arts (1853), engraving (right) 53 x 112.5 cm, Musèe Goupil, Bordeaux.

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fig. 10b Louis Henriquel-Dupont after Paul Délaroche, L’Hemicycle des Beaux-Arts (1853), engraving (centre) 53 x 65.5 cm, Musée Goupil, Bordeaux.

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he had met in Guérin’s studio. In particular, Henriquel-Dupont made prints of various works by Délaroche, including an 1831 engraving after Cromwell devant le cercueil de Charles i, and his successful 1840 print after Lord Strafford.100 The engraver’s greatest work was undoubtedly his print after Délaroche’s muralpainting, L’Hemicycle du palais des Beaux-arts [fig. 10 a,b,c], a colossal engraving (260 x 56 cm), in three parts. Published in 1852, the print was much admired at home and abroad, and was for many years the most prestigious work in the Goupil stock list.101 Henri Beraldi, the print encyclopedist, regarded Henriquel-Dupont as the most renowned engraver of the nineteenth century; the critic H. Delaborde even believed that his work could be favourably compared with that of his illustrious seventeenth-century predecessors.102 During the nineteenth century, a French engraver could be paid no greater compliment, so such praise set Henriquel-Dupont apart as the primus inter pares amongst the ‘engravers of 1830’. Moreover the master engraver taught a number of pupils who would also develop into leading engravers.103 As French printmaking flourished, confidence in the face of English printmaking also grew. In 1845, in a reversal of its position during the early 1830s, L’Artiste condemned English engravers for working ‘sans inspiration, sans études et sans gout.’104 The critic L. Clement de Ris took a more qualified view of relations between English and French graphic art, and also had an eye for the merits of printmakers on the other side of the Channel. Whilst English printmakers continued to live up to their reputation in the field of the mezzotint and the wood engraving, French engravers were now superior in the field of line engraving, the critic proclaimed: c

‘En fait d’illustrations, et en laissant à part la manière noire, la GrandeBretagne possède les premiers ouvriers du monde, mais dès qu’il faut aborder la grande gravure, faire de l’art, elle n’a personne à opposer à nos Henriquel-Dupont, à nos Blanchard, à nos Martinet, à nos Jules Francois.’105

The renowned English printmaker S.W. Reynolds (1773-1835) died in 1835, in the same year as his most talented pupil, Samuel Cousins (1801-1887), signed a contract to reproduce Bolton Abbey in the Olden Time by Edwin Landseer, marking the beginning of a long and successful career.106 Like his French colleagues, Cousins mainly produced prints after works by contemporary masters, such as Edwin Landseer, Frederick Leighton, John Everett Millais, and also the renowned Ger-

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fig. 11 Samuel Cousins after Edwin Long, Portrait of Samuel Cousins (1884), mezzotint 42.5 x 33 cm, British Museum, London.

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man painter F.X. Winterhalter.107 His fame is demonstrated by the fact that he was the first engraver to be awarded the status of ‘RA’ from the Royal Academy. Cousins rose to become the uncrowned king of Victorian art reproduction. [fig. 11] In his shadow numerous printmakers worked on reproductions of contemporary English art. The engraver Thomas Landseer no longer needed lessons from his father John Landseer and was already producing a range of engravings after the paintings of his now-famous brother Edwin Landseer. The well-known printmaker C.G. Lewis (1808-1880) made prints after the work of W.P. Frith, while the engravers W.H. Simmons (1811-1882) and T.O. Barlow (18241889) reproduced the paintings of the Pre-Raphaelites Millais, Holman Hunt and D.G. Rossetti.108 Although Cousins made mezzotint prints entirely in the English print tradition, by this time the technique was no longer employed in its pure form. The vast majority of prints from this period were mezzotints and mixed method engravings, which combined various graphic techniques.109 Cousins ended his ca-

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reer in 1870. Unlike Henriquel-Dupont he had only one famous pupil, T.L. Atkinson, who would chiefly become known for his prints after works by Millais.110 Line engravings continued to be published alongside these mezzotints.111 In particular, John Burnet (1784-1868) followed in the footsteps of the renowned engravers Woolett and Strange, producing traditional engravings after works by the popular artists Wilkie, Turner and Landseer until well into the 1850s. In the Netherlands engraving also flourished during the course of the 1830s, largely thanks to the efforts of A.B.B. Taurel. [fig. 12] As previously explained, Taurel had been brought from France during the 1820s to teach engraving at the Koninklijke Akademie voor Beeldende Kunsten in Amsterdam. His instruction soon began to bear fruit, for in 1829 one of his pupils, Johannes de Mare, was awarded the Grand Prize for engraving. De Mare set off for Paris to perfect his drawing skills under the supervision of Ingres, who was a good friend of his professor, Taurel. De Mare’s decision to use his Dutch prize to finance study abroad did not meet with universal approval. The Board of Governors of the Koninklijke Academie even regarded it as evidence of a lack of confidence in the academy’s own teaching. Moreover, in 1835, at a new presentation of the Grand Prize for engraving, the Dutch Minister of the Interior openly speculated on whether it was advisable for young, talented engravers to abandon the world of Dutch printmaking so quickly, since the prize was actually intended to stimulate printmaking in the Netherlands. However, the influential critic Jeronimo fig. 12 Andre Benoit Taurel after Cornelis Kruseman, Man (1852), engraving 25.2 x 18.5 cm, private collection.

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de Vries pointed to the beneficial effects of enabling young engravers to train abroad, as later stipulated in the French-style Prix de Rome. In 1836, another of Taurel’s pupils, H.W. Couwenberg (1814-1845), was also awarded the Grand Prize for engraving. Taurel’s other pupils included Dirk Juriaan Sluyter (1811-1886), Willem Steelink senior(1826-1913) and, of course, his own son C.E. Taurel (18241892). All of these young engravers went on to produce prints after old and contemporary masters, including Rembrandt, Van der Helst, Pieneman, Kruseman and Bles. It was thanks to these successful pupils that Taurel manage to effect a revival in Dutch engraving during the late 1830s; a development noted by the new art journal De Kunstkronijk in its first year of publication (1840-1841): c

‘With exceptional satisfaction we see engraving once again reviving in our land. Through this the products of painters become universally known; and we too possess artists, whose names would be glorified abroad, if their work were to be found in art lovers’ collections, through means of the engraving tool. This not only is true of living masters, but also with regard to many artists from past times, which are less known amongst other peoples, than they really deserve. In Italy, in France, in England, we saw every means being deployed to multiply to infinity a ‘Raphael’, a ‘Van Dijck’, a ‘Lebrun’ through the engraving tool. Here nothing of this was happening […]. For want of public or special encouragement, we cannot [...] praise the artists enough for erecting memorials to painters, through engraved work, undertaken at their own cost and risk.’112

Taurel died in 1859 and was succeeded at the academy by his pupil, J.W. Kaiser. To summarise: from the 1830s onwards, engraving flourished in France, England and the Netherlands. While the master engraver Henriquel-Dupont breathed new life into France’s engraving tradition, Samuel Cousins maintained the reputation of the English mezzotint tradition in Victorian printmaking and Taurel brought engraving to life in the Netherlands. All three worked with different traditions in a different context. Printmakers increasingly replaced traditional copper plates with plates made of steel, which considerably augmented the print run per plate. In the meantime, however, other methods had been found to multiply the plate itself.

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Stereotypes and electrotypes: multiplying the printing matrix

Although the introduction of steel plates was an important step forward in the quest to obtain higher print runs, it was only one of the innovations. During the eighteenth century, printing establishments were already employing a technique, known as stereotyping, to multiply the printing matrix, with its costly lead letters, in a number of duplicate matrices, or stereotypes. This development made it possible to print the same material from more than one plate simultaneously.113 The advent of the stereotype was also accompanied by other major innovations. In 1799, for example, Louis-Nicolas Robert (1716-1819) introduced his paper machine for papier sans fin, or paper without end, allowing loose sheets of paper to be increasingly replaced by ‘endless’ paper rolls. Changes in printing press technology also occurred in the same period. Circa 1800 the Englishman Charles Earl Stanhope (1753-1833) introduced the iron printing press, replacing the wooden, hand-operated presses which had changed little since the time of Gutenberg. In 1810 the German mechanical engineers Friedrich König (1774-1833) and Andreas Friedrich Bauer (1783-1860) completed their revolutionary printing machine, presenting their invention in England where they were working because of the greater protection afforded by English patent law. From this point onwards the presses literally began to roll. During the 1810s and 1820s various types of printing press appeared on the market. In 1828 the publisher Johan Enschedé introduced the König and Bauer-style printing machine in the Netherlands. In the mid-nineteenth century this type of press was itself superceded by the cylinder press and the rotary press. By this time, steam power was also replacing the manual operation of presses. In England, The Times had been printed on steam-powered presses from as early as 1814, although the first such press was not brought into service in the Netherlands until 1852, where it was introduced by the firm of Thieme. During the 1830s the stereotype, ‘endless paper’ and much faster presses made it possible to multiply images on a huge scale, in (almost) unlimited print runs ranging from several hundred thousands of copies to several million and, just as importantly, within a comparatively short time.114 The speed of (re)production was particularly important for illustrated journals which were under pressure to keep abreast of current affairs. Such publications needed both text and illustrations to be multiplied rapidly. The engraver Thomas Bewick had already shown that the wood engraving was the ideal medium for combining words and images. The stereotype technique allowed the

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wood engraving to be rapidly multiplied, producing multiple matrices which could then be used to reproduce the image. In England in particular these developments encouraged a considerable increase in the number of illustrated journals, from as early as the beginning of the 1830s. The Penny Magazine was one of the first successful illustrated journals. The printing matrices for the illustrations, or stereotypes, were rapidly made for the various periodicals, and often used again in later issues or sold to other publishers of illustrated journals. Thus an extensive trade in stereotypes arose during the 1830s and 1840s, with English publishers supplying the majority of images. The range of ‘secondhand’ illustrations on offer was so great that the editors of many journals found it financially unrealistic to employ their own wood engravers. The volume of cheap foreign illustrations on the market was partially responsible for the failure of the Dutch school for wood engraving, despite the efforts of influential publishers, such as Beijerinck, Fuhri and Sijthoff, to keep this open.115 In chapter four I shall return to the subject of illustrated (art) journals at length, so I shall confine myself here to the observation that the stereotype technique proved a highly successful way to multiply printing matrices. The stereotype received a considerable boost through the introduction of electricity. During the 1830s, scientists such as Michael Faraday (1791-1867) increasingly managed to harness the power of electricity in a range of applications, including the electric motor, the telegraph and lighting. In 1837 Moritz H. von Jakobi (1801-1874) presented his method for duplicating metal printing plates through electrolysis, which created matrices known as galvanographs.116 These duplicate matrices were much stronger than traditional lead stereotypes and supported much greater print runs, producing several thousands prints a day, while ordinary plates could barely yield two hundred. In 1846 the French journal L’Illustration reported on a galvanograph from which no less than 1.6 million prints had been printed, without loss of quality.117 The new technique combined the strengths of traditional copper engraving and modern steel engraving, as it allowed the unique qualities of a copper engraving to be transferred to a steel plate capable of supporting much larger print runs, of at least ten thousand.118. Another new technique was the ‘steeling’ of copper plates. Although ‘soft’ copper was easier to engrave than ‘hard’ steel, plates made of steel could produce much greater print runs. During the late 1850s it became possible to apply a thin layer of steel to engraved copper plates, allowing these to support the kind

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of high-volume print run previously only attainable with steel plates.119 From the moment the electrolysis technique was introduced, the benefits for art reproduction were pointed out.120 L’Artiste described Jacobi’s invention as ‘une invention merveilleuse, qui se compare, sous tous les rapports, à l’invention de M Daguerre.’121 The journal also hinted that galvanography could be combined with Daguerre’s photography, making both painter and engraver redundant: c

‘Il est certain,[…] qu’aucun artiste ne peut produire des dessins aussi fidèles; mais la science a fait agir le doigt de la nature, et au lieu d’inscrire sur son oeuvre:- Dessiné par Ingres, gravé par Calamata, elle y a tracé ces mots:- Dessiné par la lumière et gravé par l’electricité.’122

The use of electroplating or galvanoplasty, to produce galvanographs, quickly spread: ‘l’importance des résultats commerciaux a rendu les progrès beaucoup plus rapides. La galvanoplastique a déjà fait le tour du monde civilisé.’123 In 1844 the Dutch journal De Kunstkronijk even predicted: ‘The kingdom of woodcarving is at an end; a great revolution in the field of steel and copper engraving is at hand.’124 On further reflection, in 1850, De Kunstkronijk decided that this would not be the case: galvanography (or glyphography) was rather a complement to existing techniques than a threat to them: c

‘Here in our land this art appears to be attempting to approach copper engraving. We are of the opinion that the art is still too young to be able to pass a definitive judgement on this. It is enough that we have not been misled in our expectations, and that which was represented at its inception has been verified. It [this art] deserves, really deserves an honourable place amidst the fine arts. We believe it will not supplant any kind of en­graving, for like every [art], it stands on its own, possesses its own particular character, has its special requirements, demands a special treatment, and produces a special effect in its works. As regards elaborateness, it holds the middle ground between wood and copper engraving, and on account of the durability of its relief forms, it offers important advantages when printing on the printing press. Meanwhile the wood engraving appears to produce warmer tone and colour, and the glyphographic plate, [though] sharp in its lines, is, for want of colour, somewhat round and flat.

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It is equally to be expected, that Mr Binger will gradually manage to introduce all those improvements to which the thing [ie glyphography] is open. Verily, when we consider its practice in our land in the short term, we have to admit that he [Binger] has already made great advances, and we rest assured that [...] it could by degrees actually come very close to copper engraving.’125 The stereotype and the galvanograph were thus major innovations in the graphic industry.126 While the adoption of steel plates had already increased the print run by a factor of ten, the duplication of matrices caused a further exponential rise. [fig. 13] Moreover, it was now possible to print from multiple, identical matrices simultaneously, a development that not only produced much higher print runs than previously attained but also saved considerable time. While a wood engraving could theoretically support enormous print runs, ranging from several hundred thousand to several million, the stereotype made it possible for such an output to be achieved in a relatively short time. However, this capacity could now be matched by the lithograph, which had been transformed into a mass medium by a new experimental technique. Lithography as mass medium

During the 1830s lithography also experienced a boom. Between 1838 and 1845 the number of lithographers working in Paris rose from 93 to 159.127 In London, lithographic printers quickly outnumbered printers who worked with engraving.128 In 1840 L’Artiste drew attention to the growth of the nieuwe medium: ‘Après le souvenir, l’actualité; après la captivité, le triomphe; après la gravure, la lithographe’.129 fig. 13 Adolphe Mouilleron after Gendron, Francesca & Paolo Passant aux Enfers (1856), lithographe

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35.5 x 49.8 cm, private collection.

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Lithography enjoyed unprecedented popularity in France.130 The publisher Engelmann soon faced competition from other successful lithographic publishers, such as Bertauts and Lemercier. The technology was deployed on a large scale for advertisements, decorative prints and cartoons. The enormous success pf lithography quickly caused the process to be viewed in a commercial light.131 L’Artiste looked admiringly to Germany, where lithography was valued more as a developed technique for reproducing art works.132 This journal also lamented the fact that French painters sometimes still viewed lithography with: c

‘dédaigneuse indifference[...]Les peintres se refusent à leur contier leurs compositions; ils aspirent tous aux honneurs de la réproduction par la gravure, et perdent ainsi une popularité qui leur serait bien vite par l’immense et facile publicité de la lithographie.’133

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fig. 14a After Jean-Francois Millet, Les Glaneuses (1890), copper and zinc typogravure, Musée Goupil, Bordeaux.

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It was not a question of talent, for lithographers such as Aubry-Lecomte (17871858), described by Beraldi as ‘le prince des lithographes’, Léon Noël (1807-1884) and Adolphe Mouilleron (1820-1881) were causing a great stir with prints after famous masters such as Girodet, Prud’hon and Winterhalter.134 [fig. 14 a,b,c] Their prints proved that lithographs no longer had to play second fiddle to traditional engravings.135 Lithography also flourished in England, where the medium was mainly used for the reproduction of watercolours.136 During the course of the 1820s it already began to compete with the older aquatint process; from circa 1840 onwards lithography became the most commonly used reproduction technique for artworks on paper.137 The close association between lithography and watercolour painting is illustrated by the fact that the most important lithographers, such

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14

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fig. 14b After Jean-Francois

fig. 14c After Jean-Francois

fig. 14d After Jean-Francois

Millet, Les Glaneuses (1890),

Millet, Les Glaneuses (1890),

Millet, Les Glaneuses (1890),

copper and zinc typogravure,

copper and zinc typogravure,

copper and zinc typogravure,

Musée Goupil, Bordeaux

Musée Goupil, Bordeaux

Musée Goupil, Bordeaux

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14

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fig. 14c After Jean-Francois

fig. 14c After Jean-Francois

fig. 14c After Jean-Francois

Millet, Les Glaneuses (1890),

Millet, Les Glaneuses (1890),

Millet, Les Glaneuses (1890),

chromotypogravure 42 x 56

chromotypogravure 42 x 56

chromotypogravure 42 x 56

cm, Musée Goupil, Bordeaux

cm, Musée Goupil, Bordeaux

cm, Musée Goupil, Bordeaux

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as J.D. Harding (1797-1863), came from the watercolour tradition. Harding was a productive reproductive lithographer, whose output included prints after work by the well-known landscape painter R.P. Bonington, including A Series of Subjects from the Works of the Late R.P. Bonington (1829-1830).138 Another influential lithographer was Louis Haghe (1806-1885), who worked for many years with the publisher William Day (1797-1845). Since the 1840s, Day had been the chief rival of the English publisher and lithographic pioneer Charles Joseph Hullmandel. After a hesistant start lithography was also adopted in the Netherlands, around 1830.139 The tone had been set by the above-cited album, Het Koninklijk Museum van ‘s Gravenhage op steen gebracht, printed between 1828 and 1833 by Desguerrois of Amsterdam. The period around 1830 also witnessed the first results of the collaboration between the lithographic publisher J.A. Daiwaille and the painter B.C. Koekkoek. This collaboration, which was probably instigated by Daiwaille, produced three lithographic series of nature studies, entitled Landschap studien.140 During the 1840s other productive lithographers worked in the footsteps of Daiwaille, including the brothers C.C.A. Last (1808-1876), H.W. Last (1817-1873) and A.C. Nunnink (1813-1894), all of whom made prints after popular Dutch masters such as Schelfhout, Kruseman and Rochussen. The stream of lithographs continued, with works such as Het Hollandsche Schilder- en Letterkundige album and Verzameling van teekeningen door onze voornaamste schilders, which were both made and printed by C.W. Mieling’s Koninklijke Lithografie between 1847 and 1849.141 Attention should also be drawn to the involvement of the artist August Allebé (1838-1927) in Dutch lithography of this period. In 1855 he produced his first lithographs, encouraged by Jozef Israëls who also introduced him to his close friend, the French master lithographer Adolphe Mouilleron.142 In Paris, Allebé moved into a house in Rue Cadet, opposite the premises of the renowned lithographic printer and publisher Bertauts, where he had his lithographs printed. Bertauts was commonly regarded as the best printer in Europe. In the Louvre, Allebé made lithographs after works by Rembrandt, Murillo and Chardin; at the École des Beaux-Arts he took a course in lithography, under the supervision of Mouilleron.143 In 1858 Allebé returned to Amsterdam, where he supplied lithographs to De Kunstkronijk, collaborated on the Scheffer Album and produced folio-format lithographs of Israëls’ Adagio con Espressione and The Pilgrimfathers by J.G. Schwartze. After 1860 lithography would only play a modest role in Alle-

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bé’s career, although he did continue to make prints, including a lithograph after Lutetia by Alfred Stevens.144 Printmakers from Daiwaille to Allebé made a significant contribution to Dutch lithography, despite the fact that output in the Netherlands was not yet on a par with lithographic production abroad. In 1865 De Kunstkronijk acknowledged that Dutch lithography had ‘not yet reached the eminence, at which we see it abroad; either in the artistic merits of its products, or in the perfection of the technical process in printing.’145 At the same time, however, the journal pointed out that the medium was being deployed on such a large scale, that any support by the state would be unnecessary. In general it can be stated that lithography gained momentum in France, England and the Netherlands from the 1830s onwards. The rise of illustrated journals in particular generated a major increase in lithographic production. The best-known example of such a publication is probably the art journal L’Artiste, which served as an important showcase for lithographic reproductions of art over many decades.146 The equivalent publication in the Netherlands was the De Kunstkronijk, which incorporated a wealth of works by many lithographers, including J.H. Weissenbruch and J.J. van der Maaten.147 In chapter four I shall return to the subject of the role played by illustrated journals in the production and distribution of art reproductions. The important issue here is that the popularity of such publications with lithographic illustrations should not be viewed in isolation from lithography as a mass medium in the mid-nineteenth century. The development of the lithographic medium also brought a new prospect within reach, the large-scale production of reproductions in colour. Colour Lithography

‘Colouring of prints is a lucrative employment,’ wrote Priscilla Wakefield (17511832) in 1798.148 For centuries the only way to produce colour engravings, mezzotints or etchings was to colour these by hand. The graphic reproduction of colour was an irksome problem.149 Even lithographs initially had to be coloured by hand. The colouring of prints was rewarding work, particularly for women, the ‘emancipating’ Wakefield proclaimed in 1798, the same year in which Alois Senefelder developed his form of lithography. This technique offered new opportunities in the quest for a graphic method capable of reproducing colour. After the medium had reached maturity, around 1830, experiments chiefly focused on devel-

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oping an effective colour printing process. Various processes for reproducing prints in colour evolved at a rapid pace, under the umbrella of colour lithograph or chromolithography. In 1835 the English engraver and printer George Baxter (1804-1867) was granted one of the first patents for a colour printing process, which he initially developed for printing wood engravings but soon applied to lithographs as well. Two years later Baxter published the first art reproductions to be made using this method, in The Pictorial Album; or, Cabinet of Paintings, which comprised 11 colour reproductions.150 The watercolour painter and lithographer Thomas Shotter Boys (1783-1874) also made a substantial contribution to the development of colour lithography: by the late 1830s he had already collaborated with the publisher Hullmandel on various colour lithographs. By this point the French had also been experimenting intensively with colour lithography. In 1837 France’s most important lithographer, Engelmann, was granted a patent for a colour printing process.151 Between 1835 and 1840 his major treatise on the new process, Traité theoretique et pratique de lithographie (Mulhouse 1835-1840), was published, heralding a new phase in the development of lithography.152 The products of colour lithography, including colour prints by the distinguished lithographer Louis Haghe, were displayed at the Great Exhibition of 1851 in London.153 During this period the English firms of Day & Sons and Rowney evolved into specialists in the field of chromolithography, mainly employing the technique for the reproduction of watercolours.154 The principle of colour lithography was both simple and effective: each colour was printed using a different stone. No trouble or expense was spared in the quest to reproduce some original works accurately in colour, with colour lithographs being printed from 37 different stones in some instances.155 The quality of these reproductions and the high expections engendered by chromolithography prompted The Art Journal to point out, in 1854, what a threat to the traditional, prestigious technique of line engraving the new medium represented.156 Nevertheless, the publication still envisaged a role for traditional engravings: c

‘in truth, these coloured prints seem now-a-days to be occupying the win­ dows of the printseller, almost to the entire exclusion of the works of the engraver. We have no fear that however for the latter, inasmuch as there is ample room for both, and each will maintain its own position, and receive its share of public patronage, according to the taste of the purchaser.’157

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In the Netherlands the firm of Tresling & Co was conspicuous for its production of colour lithographs. De Kunstkronijk wrote of a print made by Hermann Wolff after Gerard Dou’s Evening school in the Rijksmuseum: c

‘Draughtsman and printer have in surprising fashion overcome the great difficulties, which the reproduction of a painting, so vigorous and warm in colour, so complicated in effect as this, must produce. The result obtained gives us the right to bring this truly artistic undertaking to the attention of the art-loving public, to recommend it and to express the wish that the aforesaid firm be encouraged by success to continue along the road it has taken.’158

Thus, colour lithography literally introduced long-awaited colour into the history of the graphic arts. The technique found application in many fields, from the reproduction of rare watercolours by Turner to the creation of advertising posters. Nevertheless the advantages were confined to the lithographic medium, for steel engravings and etchings still had to be coloured by hand. Colour lithography was one of the most spectacular innovations in the graphic world during the nineteenth century, and colour lithographs stood out brightly against the somber tones of black-and-white engravings, mezzotints and etchings. Yet all these techniques still shared one thing in common: they demanded a certain degree of drawing skill from the printmaker. The need for such skill would be made redundant, however, by other technologies under development in the same period. Photography: the newest medium

In January 2002 an exceptional photograph was put up for auction.159 The image, made by Joseph Nicéphore Nièpce (1756-1833), dates from 1825 and is thus the earliest -known photograph in history. Since the subject of the photograph is a seventeenth-century print, it is also the earliest-known photographic reproduction. The physicist Nièpce was a man of many talents, who had already designed an early type of bicycle. During the 1820s he turned his attention to photography, working with his assistant and pupil, the panorama painter Louis-Jacques-Mandé Daguerre (1787-1851).160 However, the pupil would rapidly compete with his master for the title of founder of the newest medium.161 In 1839 L’Artiste enthusiastically reported on the new technique developed by

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Daguerre, which convincingly demonstrated that reality could be recorded with the aid of light alone.162 From the moment of its development, the advantages of Daguerre’s technique for reproducing art works were recognised. In 1839 the critic Jules Janin declared: ‘Le Daguerreotype est destiné à reproduire les beaux aspects de la nature et de l’art, à peu près comme l’imprimerie reproduit les chefs-d’oeuvres de l’esprit humain’.163 Daguerre’s method was soon used for the reproduction of art works. Given the lighting problems associated with the technique, plus its (lack of) sensitivity to colour, the daguerreotype method proved best suited to photographing outdoor artworks, such as sculpture and architecture.164 It also became popular for portraiture. Although the process produced exceptionally sharp images, these could not initially be reproduced and thus remained ‘unique’. Daguerre’s technique quickly became known outside France, for close contacts existed between English and French pioneers of photography.165 His invention was quickly noticed in the Netherlands as well. On 23 September 1839, the Dutch painter Christiaan Portman exhibited a daguerreotype of the Binnenhof at an exhibition in The Hague.166 The significance of the technique was also recognised with equal speed, for the Nederlandsche Konst en Letterbode noted that same year: c

‘If painting remains unviolated by Daguerre’s invention, and rather is able to learn new useful lessons from the same, there is no doubt that the art of begetting Drawings by means of Sunlight will soon be general. The products of Heliography will speedily vie with those of Lithography, and, just as this brought Engraving into a sad decline, a competitor at present awaits it [lithography], who, in speed of execution coupled with the most striking accuracy, surpasses the Lithographic Art, and threatens Wood Engraving with complete contempt.’167

Before this point had been reached however, some serious technical problems had to be solved, such as how to multiply the image. Whilst reproducing the print remained a problem for Daguerre, the English pioneers William Henry Fox Talbot (1800-1877) and John Herschel (1792-1871) were already experimenting in the 1830s with the principle of reproduction from a photographic negative.168 When Fox Talbot published his new principle, he promised that one of

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his aims was to reproduce works of art, such as sculptures, reliefs, drawing and engravings. His omission of painting from this list was probably deliberate.169 Polychrome paintings were particularly problematic works to photograph, for it was still impossible to reproduce colours, and even the translation of colour to a black-and-white photograph seemed beset with difficulty. The balance between various colours and tones was hard to capture, and for many decades an engraver’s eye proved considerably more sensitive to these elements in a painting than a light-sensitive plate. This is why many a photographer commissioned to photograph a painting often preferred to work with an engraved reproduction of the work in question than the painting itself.170 In his Pencil of Nature, Fox Talbot felt obliged to stress that his images had been made purely by light, without any help from engravings.171 He also asserted that his technique was an entirely new method, which he regarded as having more in common with lithography and drawing than Daguerre’s invention.172 During the 1840s, Fox Talbot’s calotype was soon employed to reproduce artworks, alongside Dageurre’s method.173 The photographic negative was the essential factor that allowed images to be reproduced and multiplied. In France Louis-Désiré Blanquart-Evrard (1802-1872) was granted a patent in 1847 for a negative-based process, similar to Fox Talbot’s method. From 1851 onwards the Frenchman became one of the first photographers to specialise in photographic reproductions of art, publishing albums with photographs of mainly old masters, such as Album Photographique de l’artiste et de l’amateur, L’Oeuvre de N. Poussin, Musee photographique (with photographs of seventeenth-century French and Italian engravings and reliefs) and Galerie photographique (with photographs of sixteenth- and seventeenth-century Italian prints). In 1854 Blanquart-Evrard also published the album L’Art contemporain, which comprised photographs of twelve modern works displayed at the Salon of the previous year.174 The French photographer’s success was based to a large degree on his use of negatives, an element whose advantages had already been demonstrated by Fox Talbot. However, they both used paper negatives, which proved highly delicate. This problem was resolved in 1851-1852 when new glass negatives and the collodium process were introduced. Glass negatives were much more resistant to wear during reproduction, required shorter exposure times and also produced prints of a higher quality.175 Photography effected a radical change in the graphic landscape of the nineteenth century. The differences between this new medium and the traditional

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techniques of engraving, mezzotint and photography scarcely require elucidation. Nevertheless photography did not represent a definitive break with the graphic techniques and developments previously described. On the contrary, from its invention, photography was closely associated with these disciplines, a fact illustrated by the photographer Nièpce’s intense collaboration with the printmaker Lemaître and the (panorama) painter Daguerre. In the technical field photography was quickly combined with existing relief, intaglio and planographic processes to create what became known as ‘photomechanical techniques’.176 In 1853, for example, The Art Journal drew attention to successful experiments with ‘photolithography’: ‘Photo-lithography promises much already; the results are of the most favourable kind.’177 At the 1855 Exposition Universelle in Paris the well-known firm of Lemercier exhibited admirable examples of photolithography.178 The combination of photography and galvanography had already been suggested in 1845, by L’Artiste, which wrote that such a development would make the painter and the printmaker redundant, and could ­produce exceptional images.179 A little more than ten years later, this idea had become reality and The Art Journal reported on the phenomenon of photogalvanography: c

‘Photogalvanography […] relieves us from the risk of possessing fading picures. Here we have pictures possessing in the highest degree the perfection of the original photograph, and the permanence of a copperplate print.’180

Photomechanical technique thus formed a valuable addition to the (by then) traditional daguerreotypes and calotypes.181 In 1855 the well-known French photographer Louis Désiré Blanquart-Evrard suddenly went bankrupt.182 His financial problems had largely been caused by the rise of the new (photomechanical) techniques. His bankruptcy is perhaps symbolic of the phase that photography had now entered. The period of enthusiastic experimentation was over and photography had evolved into a successful new medium in the graphic world. Blanquart-Evrard, a pioneer in the field of photography, unfortunately became one of the first victims of its success. Clearly, photography was destined to become the technique of the future and radically change the graphic landscape.

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1860-1900: graphic versus photographic art reproduction Engraving under threat

On 1 February 1859 the leading printmakers Henriquel-Dupont, Adolphe Mouilleron and Léon Noël, together with the publishers Goupil, submitted a petition to Napoleon iii, in which they requested protection for traditional reproduction techniques from the threat of technical innovations such as photography.183 This call to save traditional techniques illustrates an awareness that increasingly resounds in various commentaries during this period: that traditional engraving was menaced by innovation in the graphic world, with photography representing the greatest threat. In 1863, for example, the critic Philippe Burty wrote of the prints displayed at the Salon, where there was a profusion of cheap photographic reproductions: c

‘“Ceci tuera cela” murmure un des personnages du poëte. La photographie tuera la gravure, pouvons-nous dire avec non moins de certitude. Oui, le jour est proche où les graveurs au burin ne seront pas plus nombreux qu’apres le XVe siècle ne le furent les scribes et les enlumineurs de manuscrits. Niepce et Daguerre auront été, à leur facon, les Faust et les Gutenberg des temps nouveaux. Leur invention, à la fois si merveilleuse et si imparfait, ne répond que trop bien aux besoin d’économie et des rapidité de notre époque. Que la science, demain donné à l’héliographie le moyen de reproduire les tons, au moins dans leurs rapports d’intensité lumineuse, et le dernier buriniste, quel que soit son génie, n’aura plus qu’à briser son burin, jugé inutile et trompeur par une génération affolée d’exactitude littérale.’184

In the mid-1860s Burty proclaimed the death of engraving.185 He was moved to tears as he responded to the Salon of 1865: c

‘S’il fallait prendre au sérieux la Gravure, telle qu’elle est répresentée au Salon de 1865, il ne resterait plus qu’à écrire en tête de cet article: Consummatum est…tout est fini! Et à se livrer à de longues lamentations! Mais, en matière de critique, la philosophie doit l’emporter sur le sentiment. Si les conseils n’ont qu’une influence limitée, les lamentations sont

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plus vaines encore. Les larmes que nous aurions versées dans les deux grandes salles qui ont été consacrées cette année à l’exhibition des gravures au burin, à l’eau-forte ou sur bois ainsi que des lithographies, n’auraient eu d’ailleurs pour témoins que les gardiens du Palais.[…]’la Gravure se meurt!’186 Engraving had been murdered and the culprit was photography, Burty asserted. He was not the only critic to think this: M. de Saint-Santin also contended that the latest medium had produced ‘disastrous effects’ for traditional techniques with their long history.187 In England there was equal concern about the future of traditional line engraving.188 In 1850 John Burnet, the grand old man of English line engravers, had already foreseen the demise of English line engraving. He believed that things had started to go awry with the adoption of steel plates instead of the familiar copper ones: c

‘It brought the art of mezzotinto into the field, in competition with the more laborious and expensive style of line engraving, and has at present nearly extinguished the production of large works executed by the graver. Since the career of Wilkie (who was a great advocate for the superiority of line engravings) there has been a gradual falling off in this branch of art, while mezzotinto engraving, on the other hand, has rapidly increased.’189

The disappearance of line engraving thus threatened the existence of a rich print tradition.190 In 1864 The Art Journal wrote: c

‘Photography and chromo-lithography have interfered sadly with engraving of all kinds, and in lieu of line, the highest and purest style of engraving, we now find it, in the great majority of prints, exchanged for mezzotinto, or that stipple is incorporated with it’.191

The eighteenth-century hierarchy of techniques, described above, still echoes through such comments, although the superior art of line engraving had in practice been increasingly overshadowed by stipple techniques, such as mezzotints. Lithography and photography were simply administering the coup de grace. Renowned English engravers such as Charles William Sharp (1818-1899)

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had become a rarity.192 The situation in England was not helped by the fact that any prints that were still commissioned were regularly sent to French engravers for execution. Gambart, for example, sent the popular Frith paintings Derby Day and The Railway Station to the engravers M. Francois and Auguste Blanchard.193 When Holman Hunt’s painting The Afterglow in Egypt also went to a French engraver, The Art Journal anxiously wrote in 1864: c

‘It may, or may not be, a fancy of the owner to have the work done abroad; but it seems as if line-engraving was at a low ebb in this country, when preference is given to a foreigner. Our line-engravers are not so burdened with work as to compel them to refuse commissions.’194

In the late 1860s The Art Journal called on publishers not to ignore English engravers any longer. The editors of the publication felt that they had every right to speak out in this matter as for decades they had pursued a policy of commissioning engravings after modern masters. Nevertheless their responsible behaviour had done little to prevent the increasing threat to engraving: ‘except in our own Journal the line-engravers of England are “nowhere”’.195 Naturally the opinions quoted should not be taken too literally, for the printmakers Samuel Cousins, Henriquel-Dupont and their pupils were still active. Nevertheless, both in France and England, two superpowers in the graphic worlds, concern as to the future of traditional techniques was now being expressed. Previous reference has been made to the Dutch publisher Beijerinck, who had to admit during the 1830s that Dutch engravers had little chance of finding work amidst the profusion of prints produced by foreign – in particular English – engravers. Three decades later, however, the uncertain future of traditional printmaking was also causing unease in France and England. Various efforts were made to save the ‘endangered’ art of engraving from total ruin.196 The Louvre granted commissions for engravings after old masters, to the great satisfaction of Philippe Burty, the renowned critic quoted above.197 These engravings were to be the kind of large-format print that many publishers no longer dared to invest in.198 Burty himself even proposed a plan for the state to organise major commissions, envisaging that such an arrangement would provide significant opportunities to compile extensive publications, comprising prints after artworks, the French palace interiors and art works from the Musée Luxembourg.199 His idea may have been inspired by similar plans

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during the reign of Louis xiv or the engraver Pierre Laurent’s Musée Francais project in the early nineteenth century. Engraving eventually received organised support in 1868, with the founding of the Société Francaise de Gravure. A year later Burty wrote hopefully: ‘Le burin compte cependant encore des amis. Le succès rapide et sérieux de la Société francaise de gravure l’a bien prouvé.’200 The critic approvingly quoted the words of the society’s founder E. Galichon (the society was a private initiative, unlike the Louvre’s department of chalcography which had state connections): c

‘Bien des esprits faciles à s’alarmer ont prédit la mort de la gravure par le fait de l’engouement du public pour la photographie. Il n’en sera rien cependant. Si la photographie sert à merveille nos besoins de curiosité, de renseignements exacts, elle ne répond à aucune des conditions sérieuses de l’art; et nous en avons la certitude, prochainnement, il se produira une réaction favorable à la gravure. Mais, jusqu’à ce jour, qui ne peut être éloigné, il est bon, il est nécesaire de maintenir le burin dans la main de nos graveurs, pour ne perdre les bénéfices d’une tradition si longuement et si péniblement acquise.’201

It is hard to determine in retrospect to what extent the Société Française de Gravure actually managed to keep engraving going. The organisation certainly commissioned various engravings, at a time when many publishers were no longer willing to risk such projects.202 However, its objective was more than simply to create work for contemporary engravers, as historical considerations were also of primary importance: the ancient tradition of engraving had to be maintained, in defiance of technical innovation if necessary. By the mid-nineteenth century, a period in which photography was experiencing explosive development, the threat to engraving had become clear. At the same time, however, another graphic trend was emerging, closely associated with traditional engraving. the etched reproduction: a new trend

In his outline work Les Graveurs du xix Siecle Henri Beraldi wrote: ‘Apres la réforme, la révolution: l’art absolument libre de nos peintre-graveurs, si éclatant depuis 1850, tente les graveurs de reproduction; ils se font graveurs “à l’eau­forte.”’203 In the mid-nineteenth century a new trend materialised in the

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fig. 15 Félix Braquemond after Corot, Le cheval blanc (1858), etching 26 x 19.9 cm, Van Gogh Museum, Amsterdam.

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printmaking world: a penchant for reproducing art works through pure etching. Instead of traditional engraving techniques, printmakers such as Charles Albert Waltner, Felix Bracquemond, Jules Jacquemart and Léopold Flameng now preferred to use the convenient art of etching.204 [fig. 15] Naturally the etching technique as such was nothing new. For centuries engravers had been accustomed to commence an engraving by etching a sketch onto the plate, often using the etching technique to work up details during the finishing stages. So the technique had already been widely used in the multiplication of art works in the sixteenth and especially seventeenth centuries.205 Printmakers of this period were also aware of etching’s advantages over engraving: not only was it a much faster technique, it also possessed its own interesting qualities. During the second half of the seventeenth century in particular, the ‘sketchy’ character of the etching in the reproduction of art works was favourably compared with the somewhat stiff appearance of engravings, as the French engraver Abraham Bosse noted in his influential treatise on etching

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from 1645.206 A disadvantage of etching, however, was that the delicate matrix could produce far fewer prints than engraved plates: while several hundred to several thousand copies could be printed from an engraving, the etching plate showed signs of wear after only several dozen prints. This was one reason why the traditional techniques of engraving and etching were often combined to compensate for their inherent weaknesses. During the Estampe Galante period in eighteenth-century France this combination became standard procedure. Once the contours of an image had been lightly etched into the plate, engraving was employed to work this image up.207 Etching was also combined with the ­aquatint and mezzotint techniques, a practice that continued into the nineteenth century.208 Etching was thus a technique that was generally deployed in the service of other graphic techniques when reproducing art works.209 Over the course of the nineteenth century, however, it became increasingly used as an independent technique for the creation of original graphic works and art reproductions.210 The rise of the etched reproduction is evident at the print section of Salons during the 1860s. The critic Philippe Burty wrote of the graphic works submitted to the Salon of 1863: c

‘Or, l’eau-forte est le traît d’union entre la peinture et la gravure. L’ébauche doit être tracée de main d’artiste, et par “artiste” j’entends toujours désigner celui qui obéit immédiatement à l’inspiration, et n’ose s’approcher des maîtres que lorsqu’une étude sincère et intelligente de la nature à leurs enseignements variés.’211

An enthusiastic champion of the etching, Burty regularly reviewed prints in this technique. He pointed out that etching was a relatively simple graphic process, with major advantages for printmakers when compared with the labour-intensive and relatively troublesome technique of engraving.212 The dynamic etching process appeared to be taking the place of the inflexible line engraving as the latter slid into decline: ‘Si le burin périclite, jamais au contraire l’eauforte n’a triomphé comme de nos jours.’213 A year later Burty opened his article ‘La Gravure au Salon de 1866’ with a proclamation: ‘L’eau-forte triomphe cette année toute la ligne, et ce Salon pourrait être appelé “le Salon des Aquafortistes”.’214 Etching was increasingly used as an independent technique for reproducing art works, instead of simply playing a supporting role.

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Although the trend for etched reproductions initially arose in French printmaking circles, this development quickly spread to England. A number of French printmakers, including Felix Braquemond and Charles Albert Waltner, spent some time in London, a few escaping there from the 1870 Franco-Prussian War. During the 1870s Braquemond’s pupil Paul Rajon was also active in the English capital, where he made his name both with etchings after old masters and Gérome, and after the English masters Gainsborough, Romney and AlmaTadema.215 The influential critic (and great fan of etching) P.G. Hamerton declared in his Etching and Etchers: ‘M. Rajon is one of the most productive of the modern etchers from pictures and at the same time one of the surest.’216 Alongside the French etchers in London there were also two Dutchmen, P.J. Arendzen and L. Löwenstam. Although etched reproductions may have been popular in England, it was hard to find English reproduction etchers. One of the few was the printmaker C.O. Murray. Unlike their French colleagues, English printmakers largely continued to use etching as a subsidiary technique in the service of the more prestigious art of engraving or mezzotinting.217 The English attitude to the technique of etching is illustrated by a reference in The Art Journal to the well-known artist Hubert von Herkomer: ‘having arrived at the conclusion that etching was not a suitable medium for the reproduction of subjects depending for their effect on subtle gradations of tone and high finish, set to learn mezzotint.’218 Following developments in France and England, the etched reproduction also came into vogue in the Netherlands. In this country, too, etching had already been used for the reproduction of artworks during the sixteenth and seventeenth century, mainly in combination with other techniques.219 Engravers such as Jacob Ernst Marcus continued this tradition into the nineteenth century. During the final decades of the century the etched reproduction enjoyed a golden age in the Netherlands, as it also did elsewhere in Europe. Among the new generation of Dutch printmakers to use etching was L. Löwenstam, who trained as an engraver at the Koninklijke Akademie in Amsterdam and specialised in the etching technique from the early 1860s onwards. In 1873 he moved to London where he collaborated closely with Alma-Tadema. At this point etching had not yet attained its period of greatest success in the Netherlands. As late as 1870, fine etched reproductions after old masters in the Braunschweig Galerie by the German printmaker William Unger (1837-1932) prompted Carel Vosmaer

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to exclaim : ‘Oh, if only we had such albums of our museums! Is it for want of publishers, public or artists, who know how to wield an etching needle? There is certainly no lack of objects.’220 During the 1890s, in his capacity as editor of De Kunstkronijk, Vosmaer endeavoured to set a good example by regularly including etchings by Unger in the publication.221 However, the 1880s were the principal period in which the etching technique was widely applied in the reproduction of art works. The engraver Willem Steelink senior produced several etched reproductions, but was surpassed in output by his son Willem Steelink junior (1856-1928). C.L. Dake, J.M. Graadt van Roggen and Philip Zilcken were also productive printmakers who reproduced many works of Dutch contemporary art in etching.222 In France, England and the Netherlands a number of artists made a name with etchings after works of visual art. Some were specialists in art reproduction, such as Paul Rajon and William Unger, others, such as Léopold Flameng and Jules Jacquemart, produced both reproductions and original etchings.223 Philip Zilcken also alternated between etching works by others and his own compositions, as he himself recounted in an interview for Elsevier’s Geillustreerd Maandschrift in 1896: c

‘In those days I was one of the first in Holland who tackled several large etchings after old and modern masters, although I also continued to create original works with the needle.’224

While the etcher Graadt van Roggen had originally specialised in art reproductions, over the course of his career he increasingly produced original works. Throughout its history the etching technique was used both to adapt existing works for reproduction and to create new, original compositions. The accessibility of the etching technique ensured that it did not remain exclusive to the ‘guild of printmakers’. Etching was also popular with a number of painters, who were inspired by the concept of the peintre-graveur in general or Rembrandt in particular. Eugène Delacroix, Alexandre Decamps, many Barbizon School painters, Edouard Manet and the impressionists wielded both the brush and the etching needle. They generally produced original etchings, occasionally sometimes reproductions and sometimes both. During the 1850s the young painter Charles-François Daubigny made various etchings after old masters in the Louvre, including Le Buisson after Jacob Ruysdael, a work much admired by

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Vincent van Gogh.225 Daubigny was so fascinated by the technique that in 1862 he decided to concentrate on etching original compositions, rather than adapting works by others.226 Clearly, the rise in popularity of the etched reproduction cannot be viewed in isolation from the popularity enjoyed by etching in general during the nineteenth century.227 This popularity is attested by the numerous etching societies which were founded in the nineteenth century, particularly during its second half.228 The Société des Aquafortistes, founded in 1862 by the printer Alfred Cadart and the artists Edouard Manet and Felix Braquemond, was typical of these organisations. Daubigny was one of the first artists to join this society, whose aim, formulated by the writer-critic Théophile Gautier, was to stimulate the use of etching and dam the flood of mass-produced, mass-distributed photographs, lithographs, aquatints and steel engravings, techniques widely used in this period for the reproduction of art works.229 The society’s response to this largescale art reproduction was to cultivate the etching technique.230 The relationship between original etchings and reproductions was fairly complex in such societies. Although their chief aim seems to have been to stimulate the creation of original etchings, their founders also made etched reproductions. Braquemond, for example, produced both original works and reproductions after Camille Corot.231 Although the fanatical etcher Philip Zilcken preached the gospel of the original etching, he also made many reproductions after masters of the Hague School. This shows that it was not frowned on for representatives of the modern school to make reproductions, a fact also illustrated by Mathijs Maris’ etched reproductions after The Sower by Jean-François Millet and Karl Koepping’s etching after Rembrandt’s The Syndics, which were displayed at exhibitions organised by the Nederlandse Etsclub (the Netherlands etching club). Etching societies may have stimulated use of the etching technique in the creation of original works, but they do not seem to have rejected reproductions as a matter of principle. In order to grasp the complex relationship between original etchings and etched reproductions, it is prudent to review the concept of ‘reproduction’, as expounded in the previous chapter Pinxit et Sculpsit. The terms ‘reproduction’ and ‘original’ should be considered independently of the medium – be this engraving, etching, lithography or photography – as it is not the nature of the medium but the context in which a work is produced that determines whether this

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may be regarded as an original or a reproduction. Nineteenth-century critics such as Théophile Gautier and Philippe Burty, however, were less systematic in their use of these concepts. Gautier, for example, regarded every etching as an original work, whilst Burty’s ideology of the original print also associated the etching technique with originality.232 In the mid-1870s Burty developed his eulogies of etchings at the Salons of the 1860s into the concept of the belle epreuve, which proposed that the etching technique was in itself original, irrespective of its application.233 Other graphic or photographic techniques were identified with their most usual application, so engraving, lithography and photography were reproductive in character, while etching enjoyed an aura of originality, regardless of whether the technique was used to create a new image or a reproduction after an existing artwork. The concept of the belle epreuve accorded etching an exceptional status in the world of nineteenth-century art reproduction. Although etching and engraving had been almost inextricably associated for more than two centuries, the emergence of the peintre-graveur and the development of the concept of original graphic art drove a wedge between the two. Engraving and etching grew apart, to a point where it was difficult to imagine that they had been used in combination for so many years. Their relationship also grew more complex. On the one hand etching was a reaction to stiff, traditional engraving, on the other it represented a continuation of manual graphic techniques for reproduction, including engraving, and thereby served to counterbalance mass photographic art reproduction. For this was the period in which photography was developing into the leading reproductive technique, to a point where lithography was no longer regarded as a self-evident choice. Lithography under threat

In 1859 the critic Clément de Ris pointed out how photography seemed to be affecting lithography; he believed that forms of cheap, commercial lithography would soon disappear, something he did not particularly regret, for he hoped that that photography might call a halt to the proliferation of lithography, and optimistically wrote: c

‘L’invention de Daguerre n’est pas plus destinée à tuer celle de Senefelder, que celle-ci n’était capable de porter un coup mortel à la gravure. Graveurs, lithographes et photographes peuvent donc vivre en paix à côté les uns des autres.’234 114

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However, De Ris also thought that the high-quality lithographs produced by Adolphe Mouilleron and Celestin Nanteuil would not be affected by photography and continue to exist alongside the new medium.235 Two years later, in 1861, the critic Philippe Burty was far less optimistic about lithography’s future.236 He pointed out that the technique was mainly used for cheap prints, if at all: ‘La Lithographie, […] est devenue la poie des reproducteurs à bas pris’[.]237 Burty believed that high-quality lithographs by Mouilleron, Nanteuil or Eugene le Roux would suffer badly from new graphic developments.238 In 1866 he even wrote that lithography would disappear as quickly as traditional engraving: ‘Finis lithographiae’.239 Which critic was accurate in his predictions of lithography’s future? Well, both Clement de Ris and Burty were partially correct. During the 1850s and 1860s lithography was in decline: the future of high-quality lithographic reproductions was less self-evident than Clement de Ris thought, although such works continued to be published. Nevertheless, Burty was too pessimistic in his view: Adolphe Mouilleron, Karl Bodmer and Celestin Nanteuil would continue to produce high-quality lithographs which were printed and published by Bertauts and Lemercier, while the success of chromolithography remained undiminished, outshining photography for many decades to come.240 During the final decades of the eighteenth century, lithography, like etching, was influenced by the rise of original graphic art. Although Burty had been thinking primarily of etching when he conceived the concept of la belle épreuve in 1875, he certainly acknowledged that handmade lithographs were also artistic in character.241 Original lithographs by Romantic artists such as Eugène Delacroix, Richard Parkes Bonington, Eugène Isabey and the realist Honoré Daumier were particularly popular in this period. Edouard Manet, Camille Pissarro, Edgar Degas and James McNeill Whistler followed their example and experimented widely with (colour) lithography, mainly using the technique to create original prints and thus contribute substantially during the late 1870s to the acceptance of lithography as a medium with its own artistic qualities. Odilon Redon, another important artist in this connection, initially used the lithographic technique to reproduce his own drawings, before shifting to the creation of original lithographs in the late 1880s.242 During this period, colour lithography, used in advertising and art reproduction for some time, now found favour with the avant-garde through series such as L’Estampe Originale (March 1893 and 1895),

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fig. 16 William Thornley after Degas, Dancer (1889-1890), lithograph 58.5 x 41 cm, Musée Goupil, Bordeaux.

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L’Album de la Revue Blanche (July 1893-December 1894) and L’Image (December 1896-1897).243 In the meantime lithographic reproductions continued to be published. Théophile Chauvel (1831-1909) made lithographs after work by Camille Corot and Constant Troyon; Auguste Lauzet (c.1865-1898) translated Adolphe Monticelli’s paintings into lithographs which were much admired by Vincent van Gogh; and William Thornley (1857-1935) produced fine lithographs after work by Degas, Puvis de Chavannes, Monet and Pissarro.244 [fig. 16] However, such lithographic reproductions had now become exclusive prints. By 1891 the medium had become so rare that an extensive exhibition was organised to prove that lithography was not yet dead. This exhibition included reproductions after French masters in the section ‘Lithographes de traductions’.245 Although these developments chiefly occurred in France, the land of lithography, they can also be seen on other countries, including the Netherlands. When the artist-writer Jan Veth (1864-1925) wanted to become proficient at lithogra-

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phy, he immediately thought of his old tutor, August Allebé. Allebé had taught many painters at the Koninklijke Akademie voor Beeldende Kunst, by then the Rijksacademie, and had himself learned lithography from the famous French lithographer Mouilleron. On 16 April 1889 Veth wrote to Allebé: c

‘I would very much like to do some stone drawing – it may be a whim, because everyone nowadays is etching – but yet I’m brought to this by a fierce inclination. Now I’m old-fashioned in that I would like to know some technical tips regarding this sort of thing, or officious in that I like to be conversant with a metier, and I would like to ask you: is there not a good Traite de la lithographie or something? It seems to me that Mouilleron or other great stone drawers will have written something down about their art … (P.S.) in default of any literature on the subject I hardly dare ask you for much appreciated instructions from your hand, though I should certainly be the best for them.’246

Veth was extremely aware of the fact that etching was particularly in vogue amongst his artist colleagues and was also involved in such initiatives as the founding of the Nederlandse Etsclub.247 In his missive to Allebé he seems slightly apologetic about his ‘whim’ to try ‘old-fashioned’ lithography, although he was not the only artist with such an inclination. Just as Burty never forgot lithography in his love for etching, so Veth’s contemporaries displayed an interest in lithography alongside their preoccupation with etching. The Nederlandse Ets­ club also contributed to the survival of lithography, although its name might not suggest this. The club’s exhibitions and albums included lithographs by J. Toorop (1858-1928), R.N. Roland Holst (1868-1938) and H.J. Haverman (18571928); its second exhibition in 1888 also presented several lithographs by George Thornley after Degas.248 During the late nineteenth century Alois Senefelder’s lithographic technique, which had proved so suitable for reproducing art works, finally lost favour as a reproductive process. Lithography was eclipsed by photographic art reproduction, which had taken over the role of mass medium.249 Lithographic art reproduction had become a rare phenomenon. The technique seems to disappear at the end of nineteenth century, just as quickly as it had emerged at the beginning. The critics Clement de Ris and Philippe Burty had anticipated lithography’s demise. Several decades after their predictions, Vincent van Gogh was

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fig. 17a After Jean-Léon Gérôme, Femmes Turques au bain (1876), Woodburytype Goupil ‘Carte Album’ 10.6 x 9.1 cm, Musée Goupil, Bordeaux.

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witnessing the end of the technique with his own eyes. On 8 August 1888 he wrote to his brother Theo: c

‘I am curious whether you know De Lemud’s lithographs. At present there are still many fine lithographs to be had, Daumiers, reproductions after Delacroix, Decamps, Diaz, Rousseau, Dupre etc. That will soon be over however; what a terrible pity that this art is disappearing!’250

Photography as mass medium

The imminent demise of traditional engraving, the rise of the etched reproduction, the changing status of lithography: these were all developments that emerged from the 1860s onwards. They have regularly been associated with the rise of photography, and with good reason, for this was the period in which photography was evolving at a tremendous rate. So what was happening in the photographic world in the period following the Blanquart-Evrard bankruptcy in 1855?

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fig. 17b After Jean-Léon Gérôme, Odalisques au bain (1876), Woodburytype Goupil ‘Carte Album’ 10.6 x 9.1 cm, Musée Goupil, Bordeaux.

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The photographer Louis Désiré Blanquart-Evrard was an early victim of expansion. New photographic and photomechanical techniques, products and competitors appeared on the market at a rapid pace. The volume of photographic art reproduction also increased rapidly. In 1853 photographic reproductions in France accounted for approximately 5.5 per cent of photographic production as a whole; in 1860 that share had risen to 28.5 per cent. The increase in the volume of photographic art reproduction in France during the early 1860s can be attributed to a large extent to the firm of Goupil, which was evolving in this period into a leading player in the field.251 [fig. 17 a,b] Technical innovations, such as the introduction of the Woodburytype, made photographic art reproductions commercially profitable, prompting various firms to specialise in this field.252 An early well-known specialist was Robert Bingham who produced photographs after contemporary masters such as Paul Délaroche, Ary Scheffer, Jean-Louis Meissonier, Camille Corot and Gustave Courbet.253 Other firms active in the field of art reproduction were the Italian firm Alinari and the German entreprises Braun and Hanfstaengl, who quickly grew into prominent companies. In

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the shadow of these international companies, however, increasing numbers of photographers were becoming involved in art reproduction at national and even local level.254 Developments in technique and chemicals increasingly improved photographers’ ability to solve troublesome questions. A recurrent problem was the discolouration of photographs. It was one thing to ‘capture’ a subject, quite another to ‘retain’ it, for photographs often deteriorated into a ghost of their original image within a short time. Many photographers must have been frustrated by their inability to capture colour and the sight of their images ‘discolouring’. The problem of discolouration was solved by the introduction of the carbon process for printing photographs in permanent pigment. In 1864 the photographer Joseph Wilson Swan (1828-1914) was granted the first patent for this technique which produced stable prints that did not discolour. Swan’s technique quickly came into the hands of two renowned firms, Hanfstaengl and Braun. From the late 1860s onwards, Braun in particular used this method on a large scale to photograph various European museum collections.255 [fig. 18] In 1868 The Art Journal pointed to ‘examples of its powers which surpass in softness mezzotinto, and far exceed in beauty and clearness the kind of engraving called mixed.’256 Braun owned the patent for carbon printing in France, while the Autotype Company, established in 1868, held possession of the patent for England.257 This company made wide use of carbon printing for the reproduction of chalk drawings, reliefs and sculptures. In 1878 The Art Journal wrote in a hopeful vein: c

‘We are […] persuaded that modern artists will ere long adopt this process as the best means of publishing their works, as the more moderate cost of reproduction by this method will insure a wider circulation, and consequently a more extented reputation.’258

The quality of carbon-printed photographs was so high that The Art Journal deemed them worthy successors to traditional engravings: ‘if the business of the engraver be, as it certainly is, dying out, it is fortunate that so well will these printed pictures take their place, that mourning for a dead art will be at all events materially lessened.’259 Braun’s carbon-printed photographs made even the popular etched reproduction redundant, or so Jan Veth believed. He voiced this opinion in a debate with Carel Vosmaer, prompted by Charles Albert Waltner’s etched reproduction after Rembrandt’s Nightwatch. Vosmaer ex-

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pressed his admiration for the etching in De Nederlandsche Spectator, to which Veth responded in De Nieuwe Gids: c

‘In our time, in which one can obtain such perfect reproductions of paintings as the Braun photographs are, there is no reason for the existence of an assiduous etching, so spiritless, so cold, such a failure in terms of colour.’260

Another important, new photographic technique was heliogravure.261 This was a photomechanical process which involved the photographic transfer of the image to a metal plate (generally copper or steel), where it was fixed using aquatint and etching, before printing with ink. During the 1870s heliogravure grew into one of the most widely used photomechanical reproduction techniques. There were numerous variations on the heliogravure technique, which was also known as photogravure. The well-known photographer Edouard Baldus was one of the first to use the method.262 The firm of Armand-Durand also made fine heliogravures, described by De Kunstkronijk in 1872: c

‘Seldom or never has the art of imitating old prints gone as far as in the heliography of Amand-Durand of Paris. The twenty plates that comprise the first two instalments, published in Paris by Amand-Durand and by fig. 18 Detail of Rembrandt, The Nightwatch from: Le Musée de l’État à Amsterdam (1887-1894), carbon print, A. Braun 46.8 x 36.6 cm, Rijksprenten­ kabinet, Amsterdam.

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Goupil (also obtainable at the latter’s premises in The Hague), likewise restore to us many masterpieces of old etching and engraving for the truly trifling sum of 20 guilders. The fidelity of the reproduction has been carried to an astonishing height: the lined and brownish or subtly tinted paper perfectly imitates that of old prints; the sheet is laid out as these; but what is of more consequence, through photographic process and printing ink, the print is so fine and so similar to the original that these new methods deserve the very highest praise.’[...]’ in short the finest works of the first masters, works that are only to be had in fine, original prints for formidable prices, as once they were to be had.’263 As De Kunstkronijk reported, heliogravures by Amand-Durand could be obtained in the Netherlands from the well-known firm of Goupil. However, Goupil also produced its own photographs, using a technique related to heliography. In Asnières, near Paris, the firm had its own photographic works where it made many photogravures of (modern) French art works.264 English firms such as the publishing house of Tooth also produced heliogravures after works by the PreRaphaelites and their followers.265 In the late 1870s photogravure had become the most prominent photographic reproduction technique.266 By this time the range of photographic reproductive processes was incalculable, leading to great terminological confusion. Scaling up of activity in the midnineteenth century had been followed by many efforts to introduce technological improvements into the photographic profession. As mentioned above, photographers were often the ‘inventors’ of new techniques. In order to secure protection under patent law they would give a new name to every ‘new’ process they developed, even when they had only made a minimal change to an existing process or its chemicals, for each new process brought a new monopoly. The result was a continually rising torrent of new processes, as The Art Journal wrote in 1885: ‘Photographic processes, which are already numerous, seem almost daily to increase in number, although not a few of these so-called new processes appear to be novelties chiefly in name.’267 Amidst this torrent of technological innovation photographic techniques were increasingly perfected. Looking back on the final decades of the nineteenth century, the etcher C.L. Dake declared in 1913:

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c

‘And now in the last thirty years the industry, which reproduces artists’ work, has developed so incredibly through the dazzling techniques of photogravure, and phototype, that within a short time graphic drawing work can be reproduced in thousands of facsimile copies and distributed throughout the world. In books, in portfolios, on circulars, in newspapers and journals, as illustrations to advertisements, etc. etc. The world is being inundated, by graphic art.’268

Photographers managed to improve light sensitivity, sharpness of focus, image stability and productivity, and progressively reduced the exposure times required to secure a successful image. Moreover, they even made headway in tackling perhaps the greatest challenge of all: the invention of colour photography. Colour photography

As printmakers already knew, reproducing colour was a major problem. Lithography was the exception that proved this rule. To obtain a reproduction in colour generally left no other option than for the image to be coloured by hand. Even the advent of photography brought no change in this situation for a long time; daguerrotypes and calotypes were handcoloured in watercolour on a large scale, with varying results.269 Nevertheless, intensive efforts were made to find a technological solution to this problem. In England, and particularly in France, photographers had experimented with colour images from the moment photography had first been invented, although convincing results would not be achieved until the 1860s.270 In 1862 the Frenchman Louis Ducos du Hauron (1837-1920) published his Solution Physique du Problème de la Reproduction des Couleurs par la Photography, mainly illustrating his colour photography process with images of old Italian masters. His contemporary, Charles Cros (1842-1882), was working on a similar process, using modern artists for his reproductions. Both techniques were based on the same principle. Three colour filters were used to produce three negatives which were printed in the primary colours and subsequently combined to create a colour picture. These pioneers of colour photography were followed by other photographers with similar techniques, including Louis Désiré Blanquart-Evrard, who had not been discouraged by his earlier bankruptcy. An important step was taken by the photographer Joseph Albert (1825-1886), whose albertype or albertotype process, a form of collotype, was also used in colour photography dur-

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ing the course of the 1870s. Combining prints in different colours was a familiar principle, employed by the still highly successful technique of colour lithography, which also merged images in diverse colours to create a colour picture.271 Despite the best efforts of diverse photographers, colour photography barely went beyond the experimental phase during the nineteenth century. Colour photography remained an interesting, yet marginal phenomenon, producing results that were regarded as curiosities rather than examples of successful innovation. Colour lithography retained its status as the most commonly used method for colour reproduction until the end of the nineteenth century.272 The photomechanical replication of art works in colour would not become feasible until the early twentieth century. In 1907 the renowned photographer Alfred Stieglitz could write: ‘Color photography is an accomplished fact. The seemingly everlasting question whether color would ever be within the reach of the photographer has been definitely answered.’273 The ‘answer’ was provided by the Lumières brothers who had presented their Autochrome process earlier that year. Photographic colour reproduction gained increasing ground. In 1912 C.L. Dake wrote: c

‘For five or six years now […] the colour reproductions, which were once regarded as undesirable, have now become accepted in our land too, so that even artists here, who were then violently opposed to them, were later (not very much later) pleased if their own work appeared in threecolour print (fairly dismal) in German publications.’274

However, large-scale, mass production of colour photographs would not develop until after the Second World War.

From graphic to photographic art reproduction Looking back on art reproduction during the nineteenth century, The Art Journal wrote in 1887: c

‘The changes which have been experienced during the century have not been changes uniformly indicating progress, for in some departments of

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the reproductive arts a retrograde movement has to be chronicled. The art of line-engraving, […] is fast becoming a thing of the past. […] the field formerly occupied by line-engraving is gradually being taken possession of by the modern and partly automatic process of photogravure. A similar fate seems also to be overtaking both mezzotint and stipple engraving.’275 If we survey the field of graphic and photographic processes, the recurring tension between the disappearance of traditional techniques and the rise of photographic methods for reproducing artworks is more than evident. During the final decades of the nineteeth century, engraving increasingly displayed the characteristics of an ‘endangered species’: there was no doubt it would become extinct; the only question was when. If we are to believe the critics, by the early 1860s visitors to the Salons and other exhibitions were less than enthusiastic about this traditional graphic art.276 Was Philippe Burty correct when he accused photography of murdering traditional engraving? It seems obvious to make a causal connection between the rise of new processes such as photography and the demise of traditional engraving and lithography.277 The production costs of handcrafted engravings were unprecedentedly high in comparison with photographic reproductions, especially once photography had evolved into a successful mass medium. Yet there were also clear differences between an engraving and an etching in terms of time and cost. The critic J.S. Hodson, writing in The Art Journal, pointed out how economic factors could influence changes in the graphic world: c

‘Etching, has in a degree supplanted line engraving, and it is quite possible that the modern process of photogravure may in turn displace etching. It should not, however, from this circumstance, be inferred that any superiority in quality is implied by the modern process taking the place of the older; but merely that there are other circumstances – such as economy of time or cost of production – that give its special advantage.’278

Economic factors thus played a major role in the rapidly growing international market for printed matter. Circa 1800 Adam Smith’s principles for a free market economy were widely disseminated through various translations of his Wealth of Nations.279 Influential economists such as Jean-Baptiste Say, David Ricardo (1772-1832) and John Stuart Mill (1806-1873) had adapted Smith’s ideas but were

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already living in a world that had been substantially shaped by liberal ideas associated with the concept of the free market economy. In his Principles of Political Economy and Taxation, published as early as 1817, Ricardo had explained the important role played by differences in production costs in the development of international trade. During the course of the nineteenth century the print market also began increasingly to reflect Ricardo’s theory of comparative cost differences. Inventors of new processes, such as the lithographer Alois Senefelder, the printer Friedrich Koenig and the photographer Louis-Jacques Mandé Daguerre, took an international approach in their quest for patents to apply their technical innovations. Print dealers and printers bought prints in an international print market: Beijerinck imported his engravings from England, English publishers looked to French engravers for their illustrations, while the firm of Braun travelled all over Europe to photograph the work of famous masters. This open economy was a factor which contributed substantially to the continual introduction of technical innovations in the field of (reproduction) technology. New methods and processes were constantly supplemented by further new inventions, or, as the mathematician-philosopher Alfred North Whitehead put it in 1932: ‘the greatest invention of the nineteenth century was the invention of the method of invention.’280 Economic considerations increasingly forced labour-intensive engravings to lose ground to photographic reproductions that were much cheaper to produce. The introduction of new processes made it possible to turn out a higher volume of images at lower cost and a faster rate. Differences in production costs undoubtedly played a major role in the shift from graphic to photographic reproductive processes. From this perspective, it does seem plausible to lay all responsibility for engraving’s demise at photography’s door. However, there are other considerations which undermine the theory of a direct connection between the rise of photography and the demise of engraving. Le Globe was already drawing attention to the ‘decline’ of engraving as early as 1828, a time at which photography barely existed, let alone presented any kind of threat. Moreover, expensive engravings continued to be made after photography had evolved into a successful mass medium. If cost was the deciding factor, these high-priced prints would surely have made way for cheaper photographs at a much earlier stage. Why did printmakers continue to produce engravings in traditional techniques when there were so many, much cheaper photographic processes available? Although engraving may have been in decline, it contin-

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ued to be used for a relatively long period, despite the costs: engraved prints were published alongside photographs for many decades. Some publishers employed both traditional techniques and modern photographic processes, a practice exemplified by the firm of Goupil which published the latest photographic reproductions alongside traditional engravings by Henriquel-Dupont and his pupils. Contrary to expectation, this dual production does not appear to have caused any tension in the firm’s activities. Nor does there seem to have been any bias in Goupil’s choice of these competing techniques: on the contrary, the firm’s stock lists demonstrate its careful policy of targeting a wide public, through the sale of both cheap photographs and expensive traditional engravings. Graphic and photographic techniques were largely born of the same graphic tradition. Exposing photosensitive material to light had made it possible to capture an image as accurately as possible. But the desire to produce an exact copy of an original work emerged much earlier in graphic history, well before Nicéphore Nièpce and Louis Daguerre invented their processes. The ambition to produce an image faithful to the original can be discerned in the development of the facsimile concept, described above.281 In his study Ernst Rebel described the importance of this concept in the development of new graphic techniques, such as the crayon manner, aquatint and stipple engraving, during the second half of the eighteenth century. These methods were characterised by their facility for reproducing the structure of (chalk) drawings as precisely as possible. Decades later lithography would be widely used for the accurate duplication of drawings and watercolours. Photography can also be placed in this tradition, for through photography the long-cherished desire for accurate reproduction of artworks finally became reality. The fact that the earliest known photograph by Nièpce is a reproduction of a print possibly reveals the background to this new medium. From this perspective photography can be regarded as the nineteenth-century realisation of a longing for an ‘exact’ reproduction voiced in the previous century. Thus photography is not so much the cause of new requirements in the reproductive industry, as the consequence of these.282 The concept of the facsimile seems to have acted as a driving force in the field of graphic and photographic change, paradoxically contributing to two contrary developments: in the first place the quest to achieve an exact copy caused the range of reproductive techniques to be expanded, with the addition of the crayon manner, aquatint, stipple engraving, lithography and photography, which

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shattered engraving’s monopoly; in the second place it appears to have subsequently fostered a contraction in the range of reproductive techniques, which were ultimately reduced to purely photographic reproductions. Photography proved the ideal way to create a facsimile, which also explains why engravings, mezzotints, lithographs and ultimately even etchings became irrelevant in the multiplication of artworks. Photography acquired a monopoly in the field of art reproduction because it was more capable of reproducing an original work in facsimile than any other technique. Photography made it possible to represent an artwork as it ‘really’ was, apparently without the intervention of an interpretor. Alfred de Lostalot’s 1888 analysis of the situation is illustrative: c

‘le burin languit, le burin se meurt.’[...] Et puis, le genre lui-même a vieilli; il jure par les règles étroites de sa technique avec toutes les idées d’indépendance dont l’art moderne est imprégné; procédé de convention et de mode par conséquent, il a perdu tout pouvoir sur le public le jour où la mode s’est éloignée de lui. Par ce siècle de photographie et d‘exactitude documentaire, le burin classique devient presque sans emploi; ce n’est pas l‘outil qui convient au naturalisme triomphant.283

According to Lostalot the stern, rigid technique of engraving did not lend itself to art from the modern period. It is interesting to see that he made a connection between the triumph of photography and naturalism. At the time of writing, in 1888, naturalism reigned supreme in visual art. Since the development of realism in the mid nineteenth century, painters had endeavoured to suggest a direct rendition from nature in their work. Gustave Courbet and his circle strove to obtain a ‘merciless’ reproduction of the world around them, apparently free from the academic conventions that governed subject, composition and colour. Photography offered a parallel way to reproduce artworks as realistically as possible. It seems no accident that Courbet, the supreme realist, attempted to photograph his paintings during the same period in which he was writing his realist manifesto. Photography released art reproduction from the academic conventions of traditional engravers. In the words of an anonymous reviewer, the photographer made it possible to reproduce: ‘the picture, the whole picture and nothing but the picture’.284 However, just as the realists and the naturalists arrived at a highly personal reading of reality, so photographic art reproduction could never be completely free of the photographer’s individual interpretation.

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Nevertheless, the newest reproductive technique offered unparalleled potential to satisfy the desire for a process which could achieve the most faithful reproduction of an artwork possible. The disappearance of traditional graphic techniques and the rise of new photographic methods for the reproduction of artworks were brought about by the interplay of various factors at the level of use, distribution and reception of reproductive techniques. In the first place, when engravers disappeared, their studios vanished, too, and therewith the traditional environment in which to learn or teach the graphic profession.285 In the second place, considerably improved facilities for communication and distribution ensured rapid distribution of new methods and processes. Finally, reproductive techniques were naturally influenced by their reception, so public diversity also explains the diversity of reproductive techniques. The line engraving or mezzotint may have been expensive, but they were also imbued with a rich graphic tradition that continued to be valued for a long time, much longer than expected. In the world of nineteenth-century art reproduction there was graphic crosspollination rather than straightforward competition.286 The individual char­ acter of the various graphic and photographic techniques did not prevent the combination of these. A. Dyson points to a number of variations on this crosspollination.287 In the first place, printmakers and photographers were often proficient at a range of techniques: Thomas Shotter Boys is generally associated with (colour) lithography, but also made etchings and engravings; the master engraver Henriquel-Dupont sometimes produced etchings, while the wellknown lithographer Alophe was also active as a photographer. So the various techniques were never isolated in reproductive practice. In the second place, techniques were not chosen on account of their own specific character, but in order to imitate the character of another technique. The origins of various graphic techniques lay in the reproduction of oil paintings, drawings, watercolours and pastels, as already observed. Graphic techniques were used to imitate other graphic methods, and as early as the seventeenth century, printmakers were producing etchings that looked like engravings. The imitative aspect of graphic techniques is also illustrated by Hullmandel’s prospectus from 1824, with reference to lithography: ‘to all commercial purposes…Whether required as facsimiles or in a Superior character in imitation of Engraving.’288 Such graphic imitations were often associated with aesthetic considerations governed by

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the traditional hierarchical classification of techniques. Finally, the interaction between diverse techniques took the form of combinations: engraving, etching and the mezzotint were often combined in graphic hybrids, to which photographic processes were sometimes added, creating photomechanical techniques, such as photolithography and photogravure. Some critics viewed the rise of photography as a graphic revolution that offered unprecedented opportunities to reproduce images exactly on a large scale. Others took a more qualified view, regarding photography as ‘merely’ an interesting addition to existing techniques. A third group responded by emphasising the ‘unique’ handcrafted graphic character of traditional media when compared with photographic innovation.289 Photographic processes did not, therefore, render existing manual graphic methods immediately redundant. On the contrary, at the end of the nineteenth century there was an unprecedentedly rich range of graphic and photographic reproductive techniques, which largely managed to co-exist. In 1893 Jules Adeline declared in his Les Arts de reproduction vulgarises: c

‘Les procédés de reproduction, purement mécanique, ont donc rendu déja d’immenses services et en rendront peut-être de bien plus grands encore. Est-ce à dire qu’ils doivent conduire à l’abandon complet des anciens precédés de gravure? Oh! Que non pas. Les uns donnent un résultat et les autres en donnent un autre.’290

This does not alter the fact that circa 1900 photography was the dominant reproductive technique. At the beginning of the nineteenth century the monopoly of line engraving had definitively been broken; by the end of the century photography had established a new monopoly. The plan to publish the Gedenkboek der Nederlandsche Schilderkunst tusschen 1860 en 1890 is a revealing episode. The book was intended to provide a textual and visual overview of modern Dutch painting. The artist-critic Jan Veth was to write the work which was to be published by the firm of Van Gogh. Well-known artists such as Marius Bauer, George Hendrik Breitner, Roland Holst, Isaac Israëls and Veth himself were to supply reproductions of Dutch paintings in the form of etchings, lithographs and wood engravings; Antoon Derkinderen would provide any other illustrations. However, the project was undermined by a difference of opinion between Veth and Derkinderen regarding the reproductions in the book, of which Johan Huizinga later wrote: 13 0

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c

‘Free reproduction of impressionistic paintings was in itself already a lost cause in 1892, not on account of its disharmony with decoration, Derkinderen’s objection, but owing to the invincibility of the photographic reproduction.’291

As a result of this conflict, the book was never published. In the early nineteenth century, engravers had still been regarded as ‘Mechanics’ on occasion; by the end of the century their profession had been virtually obliterated by mechanical reproductive techniques. The graphic changes outlined above offer an impression of the graphic world’s rich and fascinating landscape during the nineteenth century. Although numerous graphic and photographic processes set the boundaries in which the act of art reproduction occurred, these processes were themselves in a constant state of flux. The methods and processes chosen depended on the nature and function of the intended reproduction. This brief history of nineteenth-century reproduction technology thus provides a historical framework in which the actual process of art reproduction occurred. The following chapter will explain how this process functioned in practice.

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chapter 3

From Original to Reproduction

A process of difficult management

As he worked on his engraving after David Wilkie’s painting The Village Politicians (1806), the engraver Abraham Raimbach (1776-1843) was already engaged in correspondence with publishers and printmakers at home and abroad, with a view to publishing his work. In his own words: c

‘A good deal of time was necessarily occupied in superintending the publication, and maintaining a rather extensive correspondence with dealers, English and foreign; but the interruption in itself was more agreeable than otherwise, and made a cheerful and animated break in the usual secluded and monotonous course of the unsocial life of an engraver.’1

Making arrangements for the publication of his prints thus provided Raimbach with a welcome change from the monotonous, labour-intensive task of engraving the metal plate. The practical aspects of nineteenth-century art reproduction are the central subject of this chapter. In 1836 the English engraver John Burnet described the making of reproduc-

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tions as ‘a process of difficult management.’2 So what were the stages in this process, and who was involved in it? The following analysis of the production and distribution of art reproductions in the nineteenth century derives its inspiration from Robert Darnton’s treatment of the history of the book, in his well-known essay ‘What Is the History of Books?’ Darnton believed that the specialised study of publishers, printers and writers tended to fragment the history of the book, which is why he was determined to take the book itself as the starting point from which he would proceed to examine the parties and processes involved in its overall creation. His paramount theme was thus the book itself, or rather ‘the life of a book’. Darnton described this life of the book as ‘a communications circuit that runs from the author to the publisher (if the bookseller does not assume that role), the printer, the shipper, the bookseller, and the reader’.3 By examining the life of the book, he contended, it was thus possible to analyse these diverse parties in relation to each other.

The life of the reproduction A reproduction is not a book, but it is a printed work. So we encounter the same parties – authors, publishers, printers and booksellers – in the world of prints and photographs as we do in the world of the book. As with the printed word, these parties play their own role in the production and distribution of the printed image. Darnton’s treatment of the book assumes the existence of discrete parties – author, publisher, reader, and so on – but in historical practice these parties often coincided: the author could also be the reader, the publisher could often be the bookseller. While Darnton does acknowledge this coincidence of function, he does not apply the theoretical consequences of such coincidence to his model. Yet the reality of historical practice can be reflected more accurately by taking a more ‘function-based’ approach to the relevant parties. I have already explained in the chapter ‘Pinxit et Sculpsit’, for example, that various individuals – the painter, the printmaker and the photographer – should be regarded as potential candidates for the authorship of a reproduction. I have also opted for a more function-based communications model, in which it is not the author but the function of author, not the publisher but the function of publisher, that is the decisive factor. My model is not, therefore, organised according to individu-

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al or party, but according to the functions that successively play a role in the ‘life of the reproduction’ [diagram ii], which can be divided into five successive phases.

v

I

Reception of the

Initiating the

reproduction

reproduction

-individuals

-publisher

-art academies

-painter

-museums

-printmaker

-libraries

-photographer

-associations

-other

Iv

II

Distributing the reproduction

Cultural, legal,

-publishers -printsellers and art dealers

economic and social context

-museums -associations

Organising the reproduction -authorship rights -original -adaptation -timescale -remuneration

-individuals

III Producing the reproduction -reproductive process

diagram 2 Communication Model of Nineteenth-Century Art Reproduction.

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The initial phase comprises the initiative, the intention to make a reproduction. Which party conceives the plan and sets the wheels of the reproductive process in motion? This first step down the road of reproduction could be taken both by the creator of the original work, the painter, and the potential adaptor of that work, the printmaker or photographer. A public body, such as the state or various organisations, could also take the initiative. Within the nineteenthcentury context, however, it was generally the publisher who instigated the reproductive process. By this period centuries of specialisation within the world of art reproduction meant that various parties had to be involved in the multiplication of art works. A painter could not manage without an engraver, an engraver could not manage without a printer and a printer could not manage without a publisher. Art reproduction in the nineteenth century was thus a question of collaboration. The organisation of this collaboration between the various parties should be regarded as the second phase in the ‘life of the reproduction’. Various issues played a role in this organisation. First and foremost, the reproduction of art works increasingly presupposed the right to reproduce these. So copyright formed an important factor in the agreements reached between the publisher, printmaker, photographer and owner of a work. The parties involved in reproducing an artwork also had to agree which visual material would be used (the original or an alternative) as the basis for the reproduction, which printmaker or photographer would adapt the image for reproduction, which reproduction technique would be employed, what the deadline for completion would be and what remuneration would be paid. These agreements were generally verbal, although they were sometimes set down in a written contract. Once all this had been organised, work could begin. The third phase in ‘the life of the reproduction’ therefore consists of the actual reproductive process.4 Printmakers and photographers would set about their task, using the visual material supplied to them. How did they treat this material? How did they prepare the printing matrix? What role was played by proofs? These are questions that will be examined in the context of historical reproduction practice. The result of the reproductive process was the reproduction itself. By now it should be evident that any attempt to gain a comprehensive view of the total volume of nineteenth-century art reproduction is a virtually impossible task: the previous chapter has already delineated the enormous range of reproduction techniques available, and the total output of prints and photographs was many times this.

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Nevertheless, I intend to offer some idea of the number of reproductions on the market, by considering the stock lists issued by a leading publisher in the field of art reproduction, the French firm of Goupil. For decades this company played a significant role in the international print market, so its stock lists offer an interesting insight into the tremendous numbers of reproductions that were being sold in the nineteenth century. Once a reproduction had been included in a publisher’s list, it became available for distribution to the public. This distribution stage can be regarded as the fourth phase in the life of a reproduction. Publishers used various instruments to bring their prints to the public’s attention. An extensive distribution network of print dealers and publishers was then required to ensure that the reproductions offered for sale actually reached the individuals interested in acquiring them. Large firms such as Goupil had their own networks which sometimes included a number of foreign branches. Smaller local publishers sold prints doorto-door, operating either independently or in collaboration with colleagues. The result was a complex, intricate network for distributing reproductions to a wealth of print amateurs, connoisseurs and institutional collectors, as will be examined in the next chapter, ‘For Connoisseurs and Amateurs’. This brings us to the use and reception of reproductions, the fifth and final phase in their life. Who was interested in these works? Private individuals and institutions such as academies, libraries and print galleries purchased prints and photographs after works of visual art. Sometimes they bought a single print, sometimes they assembled enormous collections. They kept their reproductions in albums and portfolios, or framed and hung them on the wall, with their primary consideration being that these reproductions should be looked at. The reception of reproductions thereby constitutes ‘the end of their life’. Of course reproductions did not lead an isolated ‘life’, so it is essential to consider their production and distribution in a wider social context; a context shaped by social, legal and socio-economic factors. As with Darnton’s model for books, this context is also integrated into the communications model for nineteenthcentury art reproductions. The diverse parties involved in art reproduction were both determined by their context, but they also determined their context. Print publishers operated in a market which they had partially created; artists similarly profited from the copyright laws which they themselves had promoted. Individuals were subject to the influence of a context which they had helped

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to shape. To indicate this interaction between the life of the reproduction and its context the arrows in the diagram point in two directions, as they do not in Darnton’s model. So is the proposed communications model valid for all reproductions? No, not always.5 The purpose of this model is to provide an impression of nineteenthcentury art reproduction in general. The life of a reproduction, as outlined above, applies to a range of reproductions, from engravings to photographs, made in 1820 or 1880, in London, Paris or Amsterdam. Nevertheless, a word of caution is in order here. As the previous chapter explained, engravings and mezzotints formed part of a longstanding graphic tradition that continued well into the nineteenth century. Traditional engravings, etchings and photographs mostly appeared in the same form, as one-off, independent reproductions. However, the new range of reproductive techniques also gave rise to new forms of publication. Illustrated catalogues, periodicals and other ‘deluxe albums’ generated an exceptionally wide and diverse range of graphic works. The illustrated periodical in particular rapidly developed into a new, important form of publication for reproductions, and the ‘life of a reproduction’ model also applies to reproductions published in this manner. However, the development of illustrated periodicals constituted such a radical change in the field of reproduction that this subject merits special attention. In the following chapter I therefore wish to consider an early and, in many respects, exemplary illustrated publication, The Penny Magazine, plus three rather more specialised art magazines: L’Artiste, The Art Journal and De Kunstkronijk.

Initiating the reproduction Painters

In the autumn of 1806 the young English painter J.M.W. Turner (1775-1851) came up with a plan to publish a prestigious series of reproductions, the Liber Studiorum, comprising prints after a range of landscape drawings. The idea was inspired by the Liber Veritatis, an album of prints after landscape drawings by Claude Lorrain (1600-1682), engraved by Richard Earlom (1743-1822), and published in 1777 by the renowned publisher John Boydell. In emulation of this graphic monument, Turner made a number of drawings and etchings which were then reproduced by various engravers. His interest in the graphic arts also

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prompted the artist to reproduce several of the compositions himself. Turner’s Liber Studiorum ultimately consisted of 71 plates, mostly mezzotints, and was completed in 1819.6 Several years later, in 1824, John Constable (1776-1837) proposed a similar plan for a series of twenty plates of the English landscape. His initial choice of engraver was the renowned master mezzotinter S.W. Reynolds, who referred him, however, to one of his pupils, David Lucas (1802-1881). The original plan for twenty reproductions was expanded, but the project encountered all kinds of difficulty. Constable was beset by problems, and despondently wrote to Lucas that he wished to revise the plan: c

‘I have thought much on my book; and all my reflections on the subject go to oppress me; its duration, its expense, its hopelessness of remuneration; added to which, I now discover that the printsellers are watching it as a prey, and they alone can help me. I can only dispose of it by giving it away.[...] It harasses my days, and disturbs my rest at nights. The expense is too enormous for a work that has nothing but your beautiful feeling and execution to recommend it. The painter himself is totally unpopular, and even will be on this side of the grave; the subjects nothing but art, and the buyers wholly ignorant of that. I am harassed by the lengthened prospect of its duration; therefore I go back to my first plan of twenty, including frontispiece and vignette, and we can now see our way out of the wood. I can bear the irritation of delay […] no longer, consider, not a real fortnight’s work has been done towards the whole for the last four months. Years must roll on to produce the twenty-six prints, and all this time I shall not sell a copy. Remember, Lucas, I mean not, nor think one reflection on you. Everything, with the plan, is my own, and I want to relieve my mind of that which harasses it like a disease. Do not for a moment think I blame you.’7

Turner and Constable are two examples of English artists who saw the opportunities offered by art reproduction.8 They both initiated the process of reproducing their work, albeit with dissimilar outcomes, for Turner met with great success, while Constable suffered sleepless nights. In 1825 the French painter Horace Vernet took the initiative, like Turner and Constable, and approached the young, talented engraver Luigi Calamatta with a

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request to engrave his picture Voeu de Louis xiii.9 Once photographic processes had been invented, painters also asked photographers to reproduce their work. Around 1842, for example, Vernet had one of his pictures committed to daguerrotype. Several years later Eugène Delacroix also had the first photograph taken of one of his paintings, on 5 June 1847. Other examples of artists who turned to photography for reproductions of their work include Dante Gabriel Rossetti, who had a daguerreotype made of his painting Girlhood of Mary (1848) in 1853, and Gustave Courbet, who commissioned photographs of his paintings by the well-known photographer Robert Bingham, also in 1853.10 Once the painter Jean-Louis-Ernest Meissonnier had met Bingham (in the early 1860s), he allowed no work to leave his studio before it had been photographed.11 During the final decades of the nineteenth century, artists increasingly tended to have photographs taken of their work. Vincent van Gogh made various attempts to have his work photographed; his friend Gauguin was more structural in his approach.12 Despite the possibilities offered by photographic processes, many painters were still interested in traditional engravings after their work, even in the final decades of the century. In 1874, for example, the Dutch painter Hendrik W. Mesdag wrote to his art dealer and publisher Frans Buffa: c

‘Now you have made a new gallery there is perhaps more occasion for business henceforth. Perhaps also through the making of engravings after my work. At this moment 2 of my paintings (Shrimp fishing) are being engraved in London by the house of Graves & C. At this moment I am engaged on a couple of subjects that would be particularly appropriate for this – Putting out the Lifeboat, The return – Both with many figures. Unger would also make a fine engraving of the painting which you shall now receive. Enfin, if you are coming to The Hague sometime then come and see.’13

Constable, Vernet, Van Gogh and Mesdag are just a few of the nineteenth-century painters who clearly took the initiative in reproducing their work. Printmakers and photographers

Sometimes printmakers initiated the plan to reproduce a work. After the engraver James Heath (1757-1834) had made a print of The Dead Soldier by the painter Joseph Wright of Derby (1734-1797), he decided to produce a second print in

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order to publish both works as pendants.14 As Wright had not painted any other picture that could function as a pendant to The Dead Soldier, Heath wrote to him in March 1797, requesting him to paint such a work: c

‘As I am going to publish The Dead Soldier, I wish to announce The Shipwrecked Sailor as a companion. I should therefore be much obliged to you to inform me whether your health will permit you painting it.’15

However, Wright’s poor health prevented him from acceding to Heath’s request and he died in the summer of 1797. The engraver then asked the painter Robert Smirke (1752-1845) to produce an original work that he could use for his reproduction to accompany Wright’s The Dead Soldier. So Heath not only initiated the reproduction, he even instigated the creation of the original painting he required. James Heath was not the only printmaker to cherish plans to reproduce specific works. The renowned engraver S.W. Reynolds made a print after Constable’s The Lock, at his own expense. The painter was pleasantly surprised and delightedly wrote to a good friend: ‘I am at no expense, and it cannot fail to advance my reputation.’16 The etcher Philip Zilcken is also known to have regularly instigated etched reproductions. In the summer of 1885, for example, on a visit to a large international exhibition in Antwerp, he was attracted by the painting The Bridge by Jacob Maris, of which he wrote: c

‘a fresh, clear, luminous painting, deep in colour, full of life and clarity. This canvas particularly attracted me to etch it; through the benevolence of Mister Tersteeg [who worked for goupil’s branch in the hague, rv], after the end of the exhibition, I obtained that painting in my studio, where working hard without interruption, I made the large etching in a relatively short time.’17

Following in the printmakers’ footsteps, photographers also decided to reproduce artworks. From the early 1840s onwards, photographers travelled around in order to photograph paintings. Well-known companies such as Disderi or Bingham regularly initiated the reproduction of artworks. From the late 1860s onwards, the renowned firms of Braun and Hanfstaengl even travelled throughout Europe to photograph celebrated collections of art. Large museums such as

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the Louvre, the British Museum and the Rijksmuseum were regularly approached by photographers with requests to reproduce their masterpieces. The number of requests received reached such heights that museums were obliged to set limits on art reproduction by referring to their statutes.18 Publishers

The many painters, printmakers and photographers who initiated reproductions were overshadowed, however, by one other party involved in the reproductive process – the publishers. In his biography of the art dealer and publisher Ernest Gambart, Jeremy Maas emphasises the influence of such figures in the Victorian art world: c

‘It is impossible to over-estimate the importance of this trade in the Victorian art world.[…] it was the printsellers who were the un-acknowledged legislators of the art world. It was they who carried an artist’s reputation into every home in the country and to all the four corners of the globe.’19

The influential publisher John Boydell (1719-1804) had laid the foundations for Victorian print publishing in the nineteenth century. Although he had started out as an engraver, during the 1760s Boydell increasingly applied his energies to importing large numbers of prints, mainly from France. At this time French publishers were the leading producers and distributors of prints in the international market, while the French domestic market remained carefully shielded from foreign (i.e. English) prints through high customs duties, for the French wanted money, not English prints.20 Despite these import restrictions Boydell engaged the well-known engraver William Woolett (1735-1785) to make prints for export to the Continent.21 They achieved major successes in 1776 with Woolett’s prints after Battle of La Hogue and The Death of General Wolfe, by the ‘first’ American painter Benjamin West, which were published in the same year the United States declared its independence. These prints after West were responsible for Boydell’s international breakthrough in the print trade, which symbolically coincided with the publication of Adam Smith’s analysis of the international economy, Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations. From this moment onwards Boydell’s prints enjoyed wide distribution in an international market. In 1787, for example, during a visit to Paris, Boydell was pleased

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to observe that even in the French capital the tone was being set by his prints, made by well-known English engravers such as Woollett and Earlom (1743-1822) after work by leading contemporary English artists. Boydell was partially responsible for economic relations between the French and English print trades being turned on their head. Where once the English print trade had consisted of importing mainly French prints, by 1785 English print exports to the Continent were many times greater than these.22 English prints, published by Boydell and others, enjoyed enormous popularity in large areas of Europe.23 On the basis of this success Boydell embarked on his most famous undertaking, the creation of the Shakespeare Gallery. He commissioned contemporary painters to depict famous scenes from plays by the legendary English writer, and displayed these pictures in a purpose-built gallery, which later accommodated the British Institution. The paintings were also reproduced as prints, in a range of techniques and formats, sold for varying prices. However, the project almost ruined Boydell financially. A flourishing print publishing industry subsequently developed in England in Boydell’s footsteps. Francis Moon and Thomas Agnew founded publishing concerns and generated a stream of reproductions. Like Boydell they tended to specialise in works by ‘living masters’. Moon collaborated with leading English painters such as David Wilkie (1785-1841), Edwin Landseer and William Mulready (1786-1863).24 During the 1840s in particular the English print publishing industry and print trade evolved rapidly, and the market was dominated by a group of publishers and dealers – Rudolph Ackermann, Martin Colnaghi, Ernest Gambart, Joseph Dickinson, Henry Graves, Thomas McLean and Arthur Tooth – who quickly made a name for themselves both nationally and internationally.25 All fitted the profile expounded by The Art Journal in 1850: c

‘The print-publisher must be a man of taste and judgement, as well as a capitalist, to select such works as are adapted for engraving, and such as will be able to afford him a return for the large sums invested in bringing them out.’26

In order to produce successful reproductions, publishers had to combine an eye for art with a nose for business. A degree of commercial opportunism was a typical quality, as the artist Millais noted in his writing on 17 May 1859:

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c

‘Whatever I do, no matter how succesfull, it will always be the same story. ‘Why don’t you give us the Huguenot again?’ Yet I will be bound the cunning fellow is looking forward to engraving this very picture. You see he says, at the end of his note, he will ‘risque’ engraving it if I like!’27

Millais’ much-reproduced painting The Huguenot (1857) had been responsible for his initial rise to fame. The flourishing Victorian print industry also compelled admiration in other quarters. In 1834 the French art magazine L’Artiste wrote: c

‘Les imprimeurs, forcés de fournir à des tirages plus nombreux, devrons améliorer leurs procédés d’impressions; ils devront apprendre des Anglais le secrèt et l’emploi des ces beaux noirs aux gravures anglaises, car en Angleterre les impriméries, excitées par le besoin de fournir aux demandes d’un public nombreux, ont amélioré leurs moyens matériels à un degré dont les imprimeurs francais sont encore loin.’28

During the initial decades of the nineteenth century the Napoleonic wars and political instability had undermined the French print market. Moreover the Industrial Revolution had been slow to take a hold in France, leaving socio-economic relationships in the grip of Ancien Régime structures for many years. These relationships stabilised somewhat in the wake of the 1830 July Revolution, and trade came to life, including the print trade. An important figure in this respect was Adolphe Goupil, who, together with the German print dealer Joseph Henry Rittner (1802-1840) founded the firm of Rittner & Goupil in 1828. The firm was based in Paris, at 12 Boulevard Montmartre, and its purpose was to: c

‘contracter tous marchés pour la vente, l’achat, la commission, la confection et l’édition de toutes gravures et lithographies et généralement pour tout ce qui concerne le dit commerce [...] en quelque pays quíl soit situé, notamment en France, Angleterre et en Allemagne.’29

During the 1830s the company steadily gained ground in the field of nineteenthcentury art reproduction.30 When Rittner died in 1840 he was succeeded by

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Théodore Vibert, and the firm was renamed Goupil & Vibert, then, from 1846, Goupil, Vibert & Cie.31 The company commissioned reproductions of works by the most important contemporary French artists, Horace Vernet, Ary Scheffer, Paul Delaroche and Jean-Leon Gérôme, and worked with leading French engravers from Henriquel Dupont’s school. Goupil was often praised for its support of French printmaking and L’Artiste claimed that the firm had even brought back the glory days of the seventeeth century: c

‘Elle [rittner & goupil, rv] contribuera à maintenir la haute réputation que s’est acquise de notre école de gravure dans tous les temps. Nous ne devons pas oublier que des artistes du talent de MM. H. Calamatta, Desnoyers, Dupont, Forster, Mercuri soutiennent dignement le renom qu’on acquis à la gravure francaise les oeuvres des Callot, des Nanteuil, des Morin, des Edelinck et des Berwick.’32

In addition to promoting reproductions in traditional techniques, Goupil also worked with the best photographers, such as Robert Bingham. The company specialised in contemporary art, mainly French, and published numerous engravings, lithographs and photographs over many decades. Goupil’s stock lists will be considered in greater detail below. In Goupil’s shadow other well-known French firms, such as Petit and Vollard, also instigated reproductions of contemporary art.33 In the Netherlands as well, publishers developed plans to issue reproductions, albeit within the limited Dutch (print) market. The most important publishing concern was the Amsterdam firm of Buffa. The brothers Pieter and Frans Buffa originally came from the small Italian town of Pieve Tesino, close to Bassano, where the famous Remondini publishing house was based. They arrived in Amsterdam as itinerant print sellers and decided to stay.34 In 1806 they opened their own shop in Kalverstraat, a street where several other Italian print dealers also had premises. The Buffas quickly acquired a fine reputation. As early as 1816 the English painter David Wilkie wrote of his time in Amsterdam: ‘Mynheer Buffa, an Italian printseller long established in that city, was the most respectable person in that line in the whole country.’35 Wilkie also recorded that Buffa talked of old Boydell as if they were well acquainted. We do not know if Buffa was really on close terms with the famous English publisher, just as we

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know very little about the firm as a whole, as its archives have been lost. However, the name of Buffa regularly crops up in connection with reproductions, and the Buffas did business for many years with successful Dutch artists such as Jozef Israëls. Wilkie was not the only person who respected the firm. In 1847 De Kunstkronijk reported: ‘We have seen with pleasure, that Messrs. F Buffa and sons are still continuing with their best and so often entirely disinterested efforts to stir up Engraving in Holland.’36 The writer Potgieter also praised the firm’s work at a time when cheap foreign prints were streaming into the country: ‘Buffa’s on the other hand, Buffa’s publish real art, satisfying the most particular of connoisseurs […]’37 Although Buffa was probably the most important publisher of reproductions in the Netherlands, it was certainly not the only firm, for Josi, Maaskamp and the well-known Immerzeel concern published art reproductions as well. In 1838 Immerzeel was taken over by H.J. van Wisselingh, who also published diverse reproductions.38 Little is known of these Dutch publishers, however, including whether they initiated reproductions on a large scale. Reference was made in the previous chapter to the publisher G.J.A. Beijerinck, who apologised for not being in a position to commission reproductions from Dutch engravers, as the flood of (mainly English) prints from abroad was simply too great. Despite the best efforts of some Dutch firms, Buffa in particular, the limitations of the Dutch market remained obvious. In 1865 De Kunstkronijk openly criticised Dutch publishers (or ‘middle-men’) for their inadequate commitment to the production of engravings: c

‘Our school of engraving shelters more talent, more ardour, more tenacity, than one would infer from the number of its important works. Shelters, we say, for the fact that the cited qualities are there is attested by several reproductions on a wide scale of our old masters, which would in truth not have come into being without it [the school]. However, engraving needs middle-men, who bring its products onto the market and, for whatever reason, but experience teaches this, we cannot now expect of them that which could put it [Dutch engraving] in a position to fly high and strong. Publishing important engravings is, we believe, an extremely costly affair. To compensate for this, the first step is to economise on the price, which the artist is paid for his work, and to such a degree, that if his ardour is not already cooled, tenacity is rendered nigh on impossible for him. He

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has to live and when he wishes to devote to his work that care, that prolonged diligence, which he knows is necessary for a good result, he runs the risk of suffering want. There thus remains just one choice: either to do a careless job, or to accept no work of this nature, but to confine himself to works of which the public and he himself demand less high standards; works which are suitable for an ampler sale and more profitable for the dealer, who is then willing to pay a reasonable price.’39 In the opinion of De Kunstkronijk, it was not the engravers but the print publishers who were failing in the field of engraving. This cannot be said, however, of the publishers Buffa (later Slagmulder), Van Wisselingh, C.M. van Gogh, Schalekamp (who specialised in photographic reproduction) and J.H. De Bois, all of whom circulated a range of reproductions.40 The state

The French state had a long tradition of publicly sponsoring printmaking, from the reign of Louis xiv until well into the nineteenth century. Although the French economist Jean-Baptiste Say supported the ideas expressed by Adam Smith in his Wealth of Nations and Traite de l’économie politique (1803), his advocacy, around 1800, of no state intervention in the market was only partially heeded.41 Protectionist legislation made it hard for the free market in France to extricate itself from the ‘government’s invisible hand’. In the field of printmaking the French state also retained a large measure of control, and initiated major projects, particularly during the early decades of the nineteenth century, when publications such as Le grand ouvrage de l’Egypte, Le Sacre de Napoleon, l’Iconographie grecque et romain and Le Sacre de Charles x appeared. However, the stormy political developments of the Restoration and the July Revolution were followed by the reign of the liberally inclined, bourgeois King Louis-Philippe, and the stream of government-sponsored projects rapidly subsided.42 Although the connection between the French state and printmaking was no longer self-evident, it was never entirely severed during the nineteenth century. In the 1830s and 1840s, for example, there were repeated calls for the state to protect the traditional and valued art of printmaking, especially from the baneful influence of commerce. L’Artiste regularly published articles which underlined government responsibility for traditional engraving on the one hand and the dangers represented by the commercial market on the other: ‘Sous le rap-

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port commercial, cet art mériterait donc la protection du gouvernement.’43 Where the government failed to act, engraving was left to the mercy of market impulses.44 Contributors to the art magazines often laid the blame at the door of commercial publishers: c

‘La gravure du commerce! Savez-vous le conséquence qui en résulte? La conséquence, c’est ce qui existe déjà, le protectorat des éditeurs, le régime absolu de leurs bonnes comme de leurs mauvaises inspirations, et nous vous demandons si le bien l’emporte ici-bas sur le mal. Ce protectorat, basé sur des idées purement mercantiles, asservit l’homme de coeur aux démarches les plus humilaintes, aux mortifications les plus pénibles.’45

However L’Artiste also published more liberal-minded articles which assigned considerably less responsibility to the government and admiringly wrote of the role played by publishers such as Goupil.46 One example of the French state’s involvement in printmaking was Napoleon iii’s 1853 project to reorganise the Chalcography department at the Louvre, where major art works were reproduced in print, in imitation of Louis xiv’s original initiatives (the Cabinet d’Estampes and the Cabinet du Roi).47 During the 1860s the French government decided to issue commissions for the reproductions of paintings in government buildings and churches. These plates would remain the property of the city of Paris and the prints from these were published in collaboration with the printroom at the Louvre.48 Thus new prints were published by order of the French state which, as The Art Journal wrote in 1862, ‘seems to have become alarmed at the state of line engraving, and is now determined to support it by all means in its power’.49 In contrast with the situation in France the English government generally kept its distance from (the reproduction) of art. When a special House of Commons committee investigated the position of English printmaking in 1836, the engraver John Pye declared: ‘as far as I know, except for a few private patrons, no encouragement is extended to art, besides that which comes through the printsellers.’50 The English state, unlike the French, did not systematically instigate the reproduction of art works, although Queen Victoria and her husband Prince Albert did encourage photography. The royal couple, Prince Albert in particular, displayed an interest in the new medium from its inception. Albert even ini-

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tiated a comprehensive ‘catalogue raisonnee’ with reproductions of Raphael’s work entitled Works of Raphael Santi da Urbino As Represented in the Raphael Collection in The Royal Library at Windsor Castle, formed by H.R.H. The Prince Consort 18531861 and Completed by Her Majesty Queen Victoria, an imposing publication, which contained a number of prints and no less than 2,000 photographs. Although this catalogue was not published until after Prince Albert’s death, it may be considered one of the few publically instigated art reproduction projects in England during the nineteenth century. What was the Dutch state’s attitude to art reproduction? Initially there were various public initiatives to stimulate printmaking, in imitation of France. However, rather than issuing specific commissions, the Dutch government encouraged printmaking through more indirect means, by establishing a department of engraving at the Koninklijke Akademie voor Beeldende Kunsten in Amsterdam. Young, talented printmakers were also motivated by the Grand Prix. Although William i continued centralist government on the French model, the constitutional crisis of 1840 was followed by a liberal offensive in public administration, led by Johan Thorbecke.51 The 1848 Constitution eventually confirmed and laid down the new political relations. In 1851 this was followed by a somewhat symbolic change, when the centralist Koninklijke Instituut was abolished and the new Local Government Act, designed to bring greater centralisation, came into force. The government’s new attitude to the arts in general was succintly summarised in Thorbecke’s famous declaration, that art ‘is not a matter for government’.52 This does not mean, however, that Thorbecke was not interested in the arts. On the contrary, he was a great fan of the arts but an opponent of centralist government, so he believed that it was in the interest of those arts for government to keep its distance from them.53 At most the government could take measures to encourage the arts, although any role in this field lay primarily with the local authorities.54 Being one of the driving forces behind the new Local Government Act, Thorbecke clearly understood the importance of this layer of government, with central government merely playing a supplementary role. While French printmakers were reproducing old masters in the Louvre, by order of the French state, and even travelling to the Rijksmuseum for this purpose, the Dutch state refrained from such initiatives. Art was not a matter for government, and neither was the reproduction of art.

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Associations

In addition to private initiatives by painters, printmakers and publishers on the one hand, and state efforts on the other, there were numerous associations which contributed to the reproduction of art works. In the tradition of eighteenth-century association-based culture, many private organisations de­veloped, such as the ‘Art Unions’ which sprang up in Europe, particularly during the 1830s.55 Such societies were especially common in England. They often shared a similar objective: to promote art and culture in general. Many of these organ­ isations often had a lottery-style structure: the annual fee paid by members was used to purchase works of modern art which were then raffled among them. Anyone who did not win this lottery was generally allocated a ‘presen­ tation plate’, in many cases a specially commissioned engraved reproduction ­after works of modern art. Thanks to the fees paid by their members, Art ­Unions became wealthy organisations which commissioned numerous reproductions over the decades. Although London was the home of the most influential Art Union, founded in 1837, the Art Union ‘format’, including the presentation plate, enjoyed wide international distribution in Europe and the United States. Many other associations also contributed to the production of reproductions. In 1838, for example, the Maatschappij tot bevordering van de Beeldende Kunsten (Society for the promotion of the Visual Arts) was established in the Netherlands. A presentation plate for the society’s members was to be made by Taurel, the most authoritative engraver of the period. However, other commitments prompted Taurel to entrust this task to his most talented pupil, Henricus Couwenberg. Although the Maatschappij was dissolved after several years, owing to financial problems, the organisation returned under a different name, as De Vereniging ter Bevordering van de Beeldende Kunsten (Association to promote the Visual Arts) (1845). In this new guise it met with greater success and commissioned dozens of reproductions as presentation plates for its lottery.56 Alongside these general cultural organisations there were more specialised associations, such as the French Société des gravure Francais, founded for the purpose of producing and distributing fine engraved reproductions, and the English Arundel Society which commissioned many prints after old Italian masters.57 To summarise: various parties were responsible for initiating the reproductive process, including the painter John Constable, the etcher Philip Zilcken, the

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photographer Adolphe Braun, the publishers Adolphe Goupil and Ernest Gambart, the French state and numerous associations. A single overriding motive for deciding to reproduce one work and not another cannot be established. In some instances a painting had met with exhibition success or formed part of a popular series, in others it did not even exist, as the engraver James Heath discovered. The decision to reproduce a specific work as a print must be considered in the context of each reproduction. I shall return to this subject at length in the chapters on Ary Scheffer, Jozef Israëls and Lawrence Alma-Tadema. With different characters and different backgrounds, the various parties were inspired by varying motives to set in motion the first steps in the manufacture of a reproduction. After this the same rules applied: if you wanted to make a reproduction, you needed the cooperation of other parties. It was then essential to reach agreement with these parties concerning the various preconditions that governed the actual reproductive process; in other words, it was necessary to organise the reproduction, the second phase in its lifecycle.

Organising the reproduction On 7 May 1827 the painter David Wilkie wrote from Italy to his brother: ‘Martin Colnaghi wrote me at Rome, wishing to purchase the copyright of the Chelsea Pensioners.’58 The well-known print dealer was hoping to obtain the exclusive rights of reproduction for this painting. Reproducing an artwork increasingly presupposed the right to be allowed to do this.59 Since the late eighteenth century there had been a fundamental change in the legal system, involving the transformation of the traditional privilege system into modern laws on authorship rights and copyright. This cultural change had far-reaching consequences for the artist, his work and reproductions of this work. With the advent of the ‘author’ a new approach to the question of makership arose, previously discussed in the chapter ‘Pinxit et Sculpsit’. As has been stated, the author, or originator, possessed a unique intellectual connection with his work. But what was the nature of authorship? To answer this question I would first like to consider the transition from the traditional privilege system to copyright law, during the nineteenth century in general, then more particularly with regard to English copyright, French droit de reproduction and Dutch reproductierecht. Once the right to reproduce a work had been secured, the following step was to agree on the

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printmaker, the technique, the timescale and the remuneration. These agreements were sometimes committed to a written contract. From privilege to authorship rights

The traditional privilege system dates from the early years of printing.60 Printing books demanded major investments on the part of printer and publisher. In order to make these investments pay, extra protection was required in the form of a privilege, or exclusive permission to multiply a work. The philosopher Johann Fichte once described privilege as an exception to the general rule of reprinting books.61 This ‘monopoly’ allowed a publisher to distribute a book amongst the public on a large scale. Church and secular authorities soon perceived a danger in this widescale distribution, and generally treated the privilege system as a powerful tool for censorship and a way to obtain income.62 Although the interests of publisher and authorities (church and state) did not always concur, the system served both, whilst ignoring the writer’s interests.63 A writer could also apply for a privilege, but had to wait and see if the authorities were favourably disposed towards him. A privilege entailed the right to publish and exploit a work, independently of the writer, and allowed the printer, publisher and bookseller in particular to distribute a specific work within a specific period and region.64 This system was widespread in Europe, where its objectives and organisation were largely similar in various countries.65 Although the system was primarily of consequence in the production and distribution of words, it also played a role in the production and distribution of images. When Albrecht Dürer discovered that prints after his compositions were being distributed in Italy without his permission, he travelled south to tackle the problem. The culprit was the renowned Italian engraver Marcantonio Raimondi, known for his prints after Raphael and Michelangelo. Raimondi had also been making prints after Dürer’s woodcuts and had even been putting the German master’s monogram on these. Dürer found that he was powerless to stop him. The only concession he could obtain from the local authorities was that Raimondi was forbidden to sign his prints with another artist’s signature.66 Dürer is thus an early example of an artist who sought to secure legal protection for his work, albeit without much success. At this point he could not yet refer to his rights as an ‘author’; neither does he appear to have secured a privilege to his own work. During the course of the sixteenth and especially the

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seventeenth century, it became increasingly common for painters and printmakers to apply for such privileges. In 1607, for example, the painter Mierevelt secured a privilege for prints after one of his paintings; a few years later the engraver Jacob Matham also obtained a privilege for a print after one of Mierevelt’s works.67 Rubens is known to have made pointed efforts to secure privileges for the publication of prints after his pictures.68 In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries the publishing of prints, like that of books, was closely associated with the privilege system, which offered protection to publishers, engravers and painters when producing and distributing prints.69 It should be noted, however, that under this system painters and printmakers were not protected as authors but as publishers. Despite this small measure of protection offered to painters and printmakers, there was, as yet, no such thing as a law that acknowledged authorship rights and protected them as the originator, or author, of a work. This changed over the course of the eighteenth century, when new ideas about individuality and intellectual property, propounded by John Locke and J.J. Rousseau, made an important contribution to the ‘rise of the author’. This new vision of the originator, governed by the author’s connection with his brainchild, forms an essential element in the development of authorship rights. Once the special bond between the originator and his work had been acknowledged, protection of this bond became advisable. This was an international development, within which various national traditions became apparent. An Anglo-American tradition, shaped by ‘copyright ideology’, essentially developed the traditional privilege system, while recognising the author as the party with primary entitlement to this commercial right of reproduction, a right that the author was also free to transfer to another party. On the continent, however, a French-dominated tradition evolved, in which authorship rights were rather regarded as a droit moral, closely associated with the originator.70 In several respects Dutch law fell between the English and French traditions. A brief comparison can offer more insight into the nature and implications of nineteenth-century authorship rights. For centuries the judicial relationship between law and rights in general has been the subject of a discussion that also encompasses the field of authorship rights. In the context of the present study, however, I do not intend to consider this question of jurisprudence and shall confine myself to the observation that (authorship) rights amount to more than simply applying the law. The core issue is not the application of the law but the construction, or finding, of the law, as

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the professor of law Paul Scholten wrote in his famous Algemeen Deel: ‘The law is there, yet it must be found; the innovation lies in the finding.’71 The forces that shape authorship rights are legislation, jurisprudence, treaties, contemporary opinions, customary or common law and individual oral or written agreements between pertinent parties. Bearing these forces in mind, I shall outline the importance of copyright, droit de reproduction and reproductierecht in the organisation of the reproductive process.72 Copyright

In 1863 the art dealer and publisher Ernest Gambart wrote in his critical pamphlet On Piracy of Artistic Copyright (1863): ‘It is now a question for the legislature and the public to decide whether or not the school of English line-engraving, once occupying so high a position, shall perish or be maintained.’73 Gambart was responding to large-scale, illegal reproduction with a passionate plea for improved authorship rights. During this period English authorship rights were still largely determined by eighteenth-century legislation, whose foundations had been laid by Queen Anne’s Act of 1710, in which the (literary) author had been acknowledged for the first time.74 Protection for the author had subsequently been extended to printmaking, through the efforts of the artist William Hogarth. In his battle to reduce the might of publishers, Hogarth had proclaimed that he was the primary party entitled to exploit his work and eventually saw his efforts rewarded with the Engraving Copyright Act of 24 June 1735, also known as the Hogarth Act: c

‘every person who shall invent and design, engrave, etch or worked, in mezzotinto or chiaro oscuro, or from his own works and invention shall caused to be designed and engraved, etched or worked, in mezzotinto or chiaro oscuro, any historical or other print or prints, shall have the sole right and liberty of printing and reprinting the same for the term of fourteen years, to commence from the day of the first publishing thereof, which shall be engraved with the name of the proprietor on each plate, and printed on every such print or prints’75

The law offered protection to anyone who made prints after their own design or commissioned other to produce such prints. It thus reflected the interests of Hogarth, who was both a painter and engraver, originator and executor of many

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of his prints, such as A Rake’s Progress, which he regularly published himself. [fig. 19] Naturally there were many other engravers who reproduced his work without permission and received no such protection.76 Where protection did exist, this applied for a period of fourteen years after initial publication, and offered the right to act against publishers or others who attempted to copy, print, trade, publish or exhibit prints, or incited third parties to do so, without permission of the person with legal title to do this.77 On his death Hogarth left his possessions (including the rights to his work) to his widow Jane Hogarth. In 1767 this situation partly inspired a remarkable amendment to the original Hogarth Act, which proclaimed: c

‘[…] that Jane Hogarth, widow and executrix of the said William Hogarth, shall have the sole right and liberty of printing and reprinting all the said prints, etchings, and engravings of the design and invention of the said William Hogarth, for and during the term of twenty years[…]’78

From this point onwards the rights of the author were extended beyond his death and transferred to his legal heirs, such as his widow and children. Legal protection was also extended to include engravers who made prints after other artists’ work, for a new period of 28 years. Moreover, this amendment to the Hogarth Act of 1767 contained an interesting redefinition of the prints to be protected. Where the Hogarth Act had offered protection to ‘any historical or other print’, in the new law the definition was explicitly expanded to encompass ‘any portrait, conversation, landscape, or architecture, map, chart, or plan or any other print […]’. It was precisely in this period that history painting lost its importance within the traditional hierarchy to ‘lower’ subjects such as portraiture, landscape and genre pieces, a fundamental change in the art world, which also left its traces in the law. Thanks to the Hogarth Act, and its subsequent amendments, authorship rights enjoyed a rare degree of protection in England during the eighteenth century, especially when compared with the situation on the European continent and in the United States.79 In 1800 Joseph Farington wrote in his Diary about the Hogarth Act: ‘This was an important step as it encouraged speculations. Before such security was obtained plates intended to be published were through the intrigues of Artists copied & the Copies preceded the Originals.’80 In The Art Union (predecessor to The Art Journal ) of 1846 the lawyer Richard

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fig. 19 William Hogarth, A Rake’s Progress, plate 3 (1735), etching and engraving, 35.5 x 40.8 cm,

19

British Museum, London.

Godson emphasised the importance of authorship rights, but admitted that much in this field was still unclear: ‘Copyright in prints – This subject although one of great inportance, seems to be uncertain and unsettled: it is difficult to say how the right is required and in what it consists.’81 The Hogarth Act, together with its amendments, continued to apply in the nineteenth century. If a painter made his own prints after one of his paintings, or commissioned such prints, these were protected. Yet strangely, the painting itself was not protected, so a painter was powerless in the face of prints produced by a printmaker on the printmaker’s own initiative. The curious outcome of this anomaly was that reproductions were better protected than original works. However, legal protection was not initially extended to cover original work. In 1819 such protection was even explicitly rejected, on the grounds ‘that it would destroy all competition in art’, and thus posed a threat to the free development of the arts.82 The interests of the artist were essentially deemed of secondary importance to the interests of art in general: the painter’s rights did not extend beyond that of possession of the paint-covered canvas.83 Arguments against expanded legal protection of artworks were heard in England even after authorship rights had received further form. In 1849, for example, The Art Journal wrote:

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c

‘There is a tendency in the present age to legislate for everybody and for everything, and to estimate the productions of the mind by their pecunairy value. The consequence of this utilitarian policy must be to lower Art, and, as such, we beg to protest against it. In our own day, we are begining to perceive that all adventitious modes of fostering Art, founded upon pe­c­uniary motives, only cause its degeneracy. Public opinion, in a highly civilised society like that of England, is itself the highest species of legis­ lation. To this the Artist, like every other citizen, can appeal, and successfully, when he is injured. The laws of Copyright, however, assume that artists are unable to take care of their own rights, and by heaping together a mass of technicality, really may be said to “encumber them with assistence”.’84

According to The Art Journal the artist was only entitled to the sum derived from the sale of his work and did not require any further protection; after all, did he not benefit from reproductions through the dissemination of his name and reputation?85 Moreover, the painting was further protected by its intrinsic qualities which were impossible to copy and thus needless to protect, unlike other art forms, such as literature, which did not possess such ‘internal protection’, for copying and reprinting the written word did not require any literary talent. The Art Journal supplemented these arguments against authorship rights for painters with the much adduced primacy of ‘common law’ over legislation in general. This argument was characterised by an enormous confidence in public common sense, and traditionally regarded the codification of law as unnecessary, and even incompatible with the dynamics of law itself. In several respects The Art Journal’s vision of authorship rights is a typically English attitude towards law in general and the rights of the artist in particular. Thus, in English law a curious situation emerged in which engravers enjoyed the protection denied to painters. Indeed, the protection accorded to printmakers was increasingly extended. The Hogarth Act, and its 1767 amendment, had offered protection to the makers of engravings, etchings and mezzotints. This protection was soon expanded to encompass the makers of lithographs.86 However, the development of photography generated new problems. Once a popular painting had been photographed by fraudulent photographers, the publisher of an engraving after this original work could forget his income.87 So it was highly important for publishers to improve protection of their rights – acquired for a

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great deal of money – in the face of what Gambart described as artistic piracy. In his article On Piracy of Artistic Copyright (1863), the publisher emphasised: ‘It is not, […] against competition that protection for copyright in art-works is demanded, […] but against robbers.’88 During the 1850s and 1860s Gambart and other publishers took many photographers to court; Gambart instigated more than twenty lawsuits in connection with William Holman Hunt’s world-famous painting The Light of the World alone.89 According to the historian A.J. Hamber, the many lawsuits brought against photographers in England discredited the phenomenon of photographic reproduction.90 Thus the problematic legal situation even affected the image of the photographic medium. A conflict about photographs of engraved reproductions after The Light of the World and Rosa Bonheur’s The Horse Fair once again provoked the question of how much protection against photography the Hogarth Act could provide. The photographer defended himself with the remark that photography was not mentioned in current laws, an argument refuted by the judge who cited the objective of copyright law: although the Hogarth Act might not specifically refer to photography, this did not exclude the latest reproductive medium from being subject to its principles, which had been generally accepted.91 Henceforth a photographer was also required to seek permission to photograph prints. This was an important verdict, which clearly established that the core issue was the act of reproduction, rather than the nature of the technique.92 The principles of authorship rights and copyright had yet to be applied to original works. When the artist John Everett Millais wished to establish explicit claim to a work as its author, he asked the dealer Gambart to sign a declaration to this effect. Gambart refused, however, as the inadequate legislation of the period did not allow for this. On 3 May 1856 Millais wrote in his: c

‘Gambart [the dealer] has been here, but I cannot get him to sign the paper. No one will, under the present state of the copyright law. If he signed it he would be responsible for the action of others, which no man would do. Besides there would always be such a drag in the sale of the picture, for men will not purchase anything with a claim on it. There is a great stir in the matter of copyright, and I think something will be done. As it stands I hear it is impossible to obtain any, legal, hold in the matter. But enough of ‘shop’ I must be off to the Royal Academy again, to make sketches of the heads in ‘Autumn Leaves’ for the Illustrated London News’93 from or igina l to r eproduction

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In protest against this unequal protection a petition was presented to the House of Lords in 1858 by the Society of Arts and the Royal Institute of British Architects. This was followed a few years later by the long-awaited amendment to the law, with the act of 29 July 1862, which stated: c

‘The author, being a British subject or resident within the dominions of the Crown, of every original painting, drawing and photograph which shall be or shall have been made either in the British dominions or else­where, and which shall not have been sold or disposed of before the commencement of the Act, and his assigns shall have the sole and ex­ clusive right of copying, engraving, reproducing, and multiplying such painting or drawing, and the design thereof, or such photograph, and the negative thereof, by any means and of any size, for the term of the natural life of such author, and seven years after his death’94

Before an author could claim this right, he first had to register his work at the ‘Hall of the Stationers’ Company’, a formality which shows that an author’s title to a work did not belong to him as a matter of course: he could only have legal recourse to his right once he had explicitly laid claim to it. Copyright law allowed an author to take action against attempts to ‘[…] repeat, copy, colourably imitate, or otherwise multiply for sale, hire, exhibition, or distribution, any such work or the design thereof […]’.95 It should be emphasised that the core issue was the author’s right to reproductions of his work. Thus an artist was enabled to act against the exhibition of illegal reproductions of his work, a measure which probably did not apply to the original work. The law also prohibited the forging of an artist’s signature or monogram on a painting, drawing or photograph, and incitement to do this.96 This prohibition of forgery shows how closely the world of art forgery was associated with authorship rights. Taking action against illegal reproductions, however, assumed that an artist’s copyright had been registered, and that the plaintiff still possessed this right. If an artist had sold the copyright to a work (to an art dealer and publisher, for example), the artist himself was no longer entitled to duplicate the work, or commission its duplication, without the permission of the copyright holder. He also lost the right to take action against reproductions made without his knowledge or consent. In order for an artist to be able to protect his work against illegal reproductions, he had to hold and keep the copyright to this.97 An

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interesting development is that the period for which a copyright applied no longer consisted of a set number of years but was dynamically associated with the life of the author. In this respect too, the originator of a work constituted the basis for the existence of the right to reproduce that work. Moreover, this approach also considered the interests of an artist’s legal heirs, such as his wife or children. The 1862 Act was an important step in the development of English copyright law in the field of visual art. The tone had been set by Hogarth more than a hundred years previously, and resounded well into the nineteenth century, thanks to various new laws. Alongside the Act of 1862, however, others laws remained in force. In the late nineteenth century, for example, engravers were still obliged to have recourse to the Hogarth Act and its 1767 amendment. English law in the field of authorship rights can be regarded as a patchwork of legal rulings relating to literature, printmaking, painting, sculpture and applied art, with various inconsistencies. For prints the period protected by copyright law was twenty-eight years, for paintings, drawings and photographs, the life of the artist plus seven years, for sculpture fourteen years with the option to extend this for the same length of time. In 1891 the lawyer G. Haven Putnam ironically remarked: ‘We do not think it desirable that these distinctions should continue.’98 The much-desired standardisation of copyright law in England was partially encouraged, as elsewhere, by the development of international law in the field of authorship rights, a subject to which I shall return below. What did these changes in the law governing authorship rights mean in practical terms for the English art world? As in the age of the traditional privilege system, financial motives prompted publishers to seek the exclusive right to reproduce an artwork. However, the development of copyright law meant that they now had to apply to the artist to obtain this, rather than to the church or state. This new situation is illustrated by the art dealer and publisher Colnaghi, who directly approached the painter Wilkie when he wished to obtain the copyright to Wilkie’s Chelsea Pensioners. The Victorian art dealer and publisher Ernest Gambart in particular was often interested in copyrights to works by popular artists. At one point he approached the painter Holman Hunt with an eye to acquiring his work The Light of the World (1850-1853).99 However, the painting had already been sold, so he inquired about the copyrights. Holman Hunt had already received an offer of 300 pounds for these, from two engravers, but even-

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tually agreed to transfer the copyrights to Gambart for the sum of 200 pounds, on condition that a good engraver be commissioned for the print.100 The Light of the W orld would ultimately become one of the most reproduced artworks of the nineteenth century. During the first year the art dealer earned around 10,000 pounds from the reproduction: ‘a tolerably succesfull speculation’ in the words of The Art Journal. By the early 1860s, however, his sales had collapsed as a result of the many illegal photographs of the print.101 Holman Hunt’s The Light of the World also illustrates the interaction between the law and the economy. The law required Gambart to apply to the painter for the right to reproduce Hunt’s painting. Whether he had to pay for this, and if so, how much, was then a purely economic question of supply and demand. The copyright to the painting was a legal (moveable) property, whose price was established through economic channels, like the price for (possession of) the painting itself. In the mid-nineteenth century the price of copyrights increased explosively as a result of the huge demand for rights to works by popular masters. Celebrated artists such as William P. Frith and David Wilkie earned a fortune with the sale of copyrights. The famous animal painter Sir Edwin Landseer (1802-1873) also owed more than half of his considerable fortune to the sale of reproduction rights.102 The price of copyrights regularly exceeded that paid for (possession of) the painting itself. In 1846, for example, Landseer received 2,400 pounds for four paintings, and 4,400 pounds for the copyrights. The painter Sir Thomas Lawrence (1769-1830) had an exclusive continuous contract with his publisher, who enjoyed the exclusive right to reproduce Lawrence’s work for the sum of 3,000 pounds per annum.103 Thus, these artists were already earning a great deal of money from copyrights before this right had been convincingly guaranteed in law. As early as 1850 the experienced engraver John Burnet was concerned about the detrimental effects which expensive copyrights would have on art reproduction.104 He believed that the high costs would make it impossible for many engravers to publish prints themselves, while publishers would be unable to finance the production of many different prints at the same time. Burnet also maintained that copyright law would cause the art world to become disproportionately dominated by the work of artists such as Wilkie, Landseer and Morland. The high costs of copyrights would require savings to be made in other areas. The engraver Abraham Raimbach, for example, pointed out that the high prices paid for copyrights often resulted in the use of cheaper techniques.105 Nevertheless the level of such sums should not be overestimated, as it is more

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than likely that only the most popular artists could demand such high prices for copyrights, for they were in a position to play interested publishers against each other. For the ‘winning’ publisher the considerable sum paid for a copyright was an investment in what he hoped would become a successful print publication. Although our insight into the income derived from publishing prints is still limited, the revenue from a successful reproduction could be many times that of the publisher’s investment, as was the case with the reproduction of The Light of the World. Undoubtedly many other painters demanded such high prices in vain. It is also quite feasible that some artists were willing to waive such a fee. For example, John Everett Millais wrote with regard to the reproduction of his work The Return of the Dove to the Ark: c

‘I would not ask anything for the copyright, as the engraving will cost nearly five hundred pounds. That in itself is a great risk, particularly as it is the first that I shall have engraved. I shall not permit it to be published unless I am perfectly satisfied with the capabilities of the etcher. It is to be done entirely in line, without mezzotint. I am myself confident of its success; but it is natural that men without the slightest knowledge should be a little shy of giving money for the copyright.’106

Millais was probably not the only artist who did not ask a fee for his reproduction rights. It may have been common practice for artists to forgo income in the short term, in order to spread their reputation and gain a higher price for their work in the long term. While paying a high price for copyright can be regarded as an investment on the part of the publisher, willingness to waive the copyright fee should be viewed as a similar investment on the part of the artist. At any rate, copyright law had become rooted in the English art world. In 1879 The Art Journal described the phenomenon as ‘one of the very deepest importance to the future of British Art, to Art all over the world, and of all time.’107 Droit de reproduction

‘Come to France, and travel from Calais to Marseilles, and you will not find any pirated copies of English engravings for sale’, declared the art dealer and publisher Ernest Gambart.108 In his criticism of English legislation Gambart often turned for comparison to its French counterpart. From the sixteenth century onwards the privilege system also existed in France, where it had been used as

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an important tool for censorship, more than in any other country. Permission from the state was thus required for the publication of printed matter, including prints. The system remained largely unchanged, even during the eighteenth century. While in England the first steps towards recognition of the author were being taken as early as 1710, such measures would fail to emerge in France for many years to come. However, the political momentum of the French Revolution did leave its mark in the field of intellectual property. On the one hand the traditional system of privilege, closely associated with the guild structure and censorship under the Ancien Régime, was overthrown; on the other the rights of the individual were acknowledged and laid down in the Déclaration des Droits de l’homme et du citoyen (1789).109 This acknowledgement of the individual was soon translated to the individual artist as author, as can be seen in a decree from 1793, which proclaims in article 3: c

‘Les auteurs d’écrits en tout genre, les compositeurs de musique, les peintres et dessinateurs qui feront graver des tableaux ou dessins, jouiront, durant leur vie entière, du droit exclusif de vendre, faire vendre, distribuer leurs ouvrages dans le territoire de la République, et d’en céder la propriété en tout ou en partie.’110

The article gave the author title to his own work: unlawfully published prints could be confiscated and handed over to him.111 The decree of 1793 provided protection for a range of authors.112 Alongside writers and composers, painters were also recognised as authors and protected against reproduction of their work without their permission. Protection also extended to designers of prints, the draughtsmen who supplied compositions for reproduction. The continental tradition is characterised by the fact that it immediately offered legal protection to the author for the duration of his life. French authorship rights were thus inherently and closely associated with the concept of the maker or originator of a work, unlike the English system of copyright which was long regarded as a commercial monopoly, granted to the author, but nevertheless terminated after a specific period. Under French legislation the originator owned the authorship rights to his work throughout his life. His legal heirs, his widow and/or his children, enjoyed a further ten years of protection after his death. The decree of 1793 probably did not apply to engravers who produced prints after another artist’s compositions, for it seems that

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printmakers were not accorded equivalent recognition as authors until the decree of 1810 which declared: ‘Les auteurs, soit nationaux, soit étrangers, de tout ouvrage imprimé ou gravé, peuvent céder leur droit à un imprimeur ou libraire, ou à toute autre personne[…].’113 This amendment to the law also extended the period to which authorship rights applied to twenty years after the author’s death.114 In the early 1840s the French Court of Cassation made an important ruling, which was summarised in the Dutch artjournal De Kunstkronijk: c

‘The Court of Cassation in Paris, has recently decided, that if the Painter, when selling his paintings, does not expressely reserve the right of having the same engraved, then through the act of selling itself, he relinquishes that right to the buyer.- The grounds are principally these: a. that the painter, having reason to fear that the right of engraving will be made over by the buyer to unskilled hands, by the sale has freedom and power, to make all such stipulations as his interests require, and neglecting this has no further claim. b. that in all instances an agreement, in which the right of engraving is not mentioned, should be interpreted according to the principles of rights in favour of the buyer.’115

Although the Court took account of the artist’s interests in the reproduction of his work, it also underlined his own responsibility in this regard. In the event that the artist did not explicitly mention his rights of reproduction when selling a work, the purchaser was protected against this lack of clarity.116 As a result of this ruling it became immediately important for an artist to be aware of the authorship rights associated with his work. Inattention in this regard would result in those rights evaporating, to the irritation of the renowned painter Horace Vernet who fiercely resisted this prospect in his essay Du droit des peintres et des sculpteurs. Sur leurs ouvrages (1841).117 The core of the problem lay in the legal relationship between ‘authorship rights’ and ‘ownership rights’, which I shall consider in more depth below. In France, as in England, the question arose of whether a photographer could count on the same protection as a painter or printmaker. During the 1850s it was made clear in various lawsuits that the photographic reproduction of artworks was not permissible without the consent of the artist. Photographers in

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France were therefore required to obtain (written) consent from the artist.118 But were photographers also protected? The problem was complicated by the fact that during the 1850s it was far from clear what was meant by the term ‘photography’. As previously observed, there was no single photographic technique. The rapid accumulation of methods was constantly accompanied by the question of whether these were ‘techniques’ or ‘art’, prompting an unpredictable and often specious debate on which photographers should receive protection, and which should not. In its quest to obtain protection for authorship rights, the photographic firm of Mayer and Pierson brought an end to this uncertainty with two legal victories in 1862 and 1863. From this point onwards photographers, like painters and printmakers, could also protect their rights through reference to the decree of 1793.119 The droit de reproduction soon became an accepted right in the French art world, as can be seen from such evidence as the commercial processes surrounding art reproduction, described by L’Artiste in 1839: c

‘Nous aurons à examiner, non-seulement les travaux des artistes, mais encore la marche que suivront les éditeurs dont les spéculations et les vues commerciales ont plus d’influence qu’on ne semble le croire, sur l’état et les perfectionnements de l’art. S’agit-il, en effet, de faire graver un tableau: le peintre traite avec un éditeur et lui vend le droit de reproduire son ouvrage. Ce droit dévient pour le commercant une propriété exclusive.’120

As in England publishers played a decisive role in the French art world. However, artists were also extremely conscious of the legal aspects to their work. In 1841, for example, Horace Vernet had already pointed to the legal and financial importance of reproduction rights for contemporary artists, in his essay Du droit des peintres et des sculpteurs Sur leurs ouvrages.121 Artists such as Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres, Paul Délaroche and Ary Scheffer enjoyed substantial revenues from the sale of their droit de reproduction. Alongside these popular masters, there is also the example of Henri Toulouse-Lautrec, who informed his friend Leon Dechamps in a letter: ‘Reçu de la Societe anonyme “La Plume” la somme de deux cent francs pour droits de reproduction d’un affiche demi colombier The Chap Book.’122 Although the actual level of income is often hard to ascertain, French artists appear to have earned less from droit de reproduction than their English contemporaries Edward Landseer or William Powell Frith from

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their copyrights. Délaroche, for example, received 20 pounds for the droit de reproduction for his portrait of Napoleon, while Landseer in the same period received 200 pounds for the copyrights to Highland Drovers.123 However, the fact that English artists were earning more than their French counterparts may have had more to do with the market for which they were working, than the legislation which applied to them. Moreover, popular French artists could also pick and choose their publishers. Henri Toulouse-Lautrec, for example was approached by two publishers who wished to publish one of his prints, Javal (who published L’Art Francais) and Roques (who published Le Courrier Francais). The painter had already relinquished the droit de reproduction to Javal, when Roques applied to him. Toulouse-Lautrec’s response was to urge Roques to reach agreement with his fellow publisher Javal; he also assured Roques that he would take action if Roques attempted to publish the print before Javal.124 Toulouse-Lautrec’s self-assurance attests to the development of authorship rights in France which reached maturity during the nineteenth century, or as Emile Cantrel wrote in L’Artiste as early as 1860: ‘Ce procès, s’il est gagné par le droit, sera l’un des plus beaux triomphes de la raison au dix-neuvième siècle.’125 Reproductierecht (the right of reproduction)

To a certain degree the law governing authorship rights in the Netherlands fell between the English and Dutch legal traditions.126 During the sixteenth and seventeenth century the Netherlands had developed into the ‘publishing house of Europe’, thanks to an extensive trade in printed matter that chiefly comprised the mass reprinting of foreign publications. The privilege system played an essential role in this large-scale publication of printed matter. While the system had long been maintained in France as a tool for censorship, in the Netherlands it tended to be exploited by the publishers as an effective instrument for monopolising the market. The Dutch publishing industry flourished in the liberal political climate, where progressive ideas could appear in print without a problem. As a result the privilege system remained intact in the Netherlands for many years, much longer than elsewhere in Europe. In the spring of 1795 the French Revolution echoed through the ‘velvet’ Batavian Revolution in the Netherlands, where there were also evident consequences in the field of intellectual property, albeit in considerably diluted form. Instead of the unconditional recognition of authorship rights enshrined in French law, the Dutch law of 1796 only made a small breach in the publishing front

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with its limited acknowledgement of Dutch authors’ rights. The principles of the privilege system remained largely intact. Thus reprinting without permission of the author and ‘wild’ translation (the translation of foreign works without the author’s consent) were expressly permitted, which they were not abroad.127 The arrival of Napoleonic rule under Louis Napoleon led to a further increase in French influence, particularly in the legal sphere.128 In 1810 Louis Napoleon’s Kingdom of Holland was transformed into a province of his brother’s French empire, and Dutch legislation was replaced by French codifications which also brought into force France’s progressive 1793 decree on authorship rights, cited above.129 Once the French had been driven out of the Netherlands, the French legal system was also abandoned. Although this made French-style censorship a thing of the past, it constituted a backwards step in the development of authorship rights, for such rights were not longer accorded directly to the originator of a work, but to the publisher (once again). Legally speaking this amounted to volte-face, a return to the eighteenth-century privilege system. Although the law of 28 September 1817 (Stb. No. 5) once more represented a cautious step in the direction of authorship rights, this legislation was still largely dominated by publishing interests.130 The author’s liberal rights remained minimal; in 1864 the Catholic conservative leader Alberdingk Thijm still wanted nothing to do with them: ‘Amongst the most irksome inconsequences to which the liberalism of our time is reduced, is certainly the increasingly strict control of so-called “literary property”.’131 He mainly regarded authorship rights – the rights of the individual deriving from the revolutionary ideas of the Enlightenment – as an objectionable ‘crusade against reproduction’, intended to prevent the limitless reproduction of other people’s work which he believed was in the interests of the community. However, the critical writer Eduard Douwes Dekker, alias Multatuli, was a fierce advocate of the individual author. Although he had relinquished his manuscript of Max Havelaar to Jacob van Lennep in order to get this published, he was determined to judge the results himself, as he wrote on 12 October 1860: ‘on the treatment of M.H. it is I who can and must pass judgement. That right has neither been sold, nor paid for. That right is not for sale, and cannot be paid for.’132 On 16 August 1871 he wrote in similar vein to the publisher G.L. Funke: ‘Ignoring an author in a reprint of his work – abroad this would be unheard of – is a mistake’.133 He could find little support in the law. Dutch legislation on authorship rights was still summary in the field of litera-

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ture. A writer’s only comfort was that the situation was even worse for visual artists. In protest at legislation’s failure to protect authorship rights in the field of visual art, a group of well-known artists, led by Jozef Israëls, submitted a petition to the Dutch Lower House in 1879. This petition had been signed by twenty contemporary artists: D.A.C. Artz, H.W. Mesdag, P. van der Velden, O. Eerelman, J. Vrolijk, B. Höppe, J.J. van de Sande Bakhuyzen, J. Maris, J.A. Neuhuijs, F.P. ter Meulen, J. van Gorkum, J.M. Schmidt Crans, T. Offermans, J.H. Neuhuijs, E. Verveer, F.J. van Rossum du Chattel, H.J. van der Weele, C.L.Ph. Zilcken and J. Bosboom.134 The petition was intended to draw attention to the fact that works of visual art were still not covered by the protection afforded by legislation governing authorship rights. c

‘They are pointing out that the rights of the practioners of the visual arts should be guaranteed by the law as much as the rights of writers, composers and authors of plays […] Just as in other countries so should here the free and untrammeled reproduction of artworks by publishers, only mindful of personal advantage, be curbed by the law; hereby shall the law be respected, art exalted and the artists’ social standing improved; and that, just as the artist’s spirit is filled with the noblest and most exalted inspirations, just as his heart knows no other impulse than that which elevates him to the beautiful and the true, so the artist, no less than other authors, belongs in the first place to his own family, which more than others has claim to the fruits of his labour obtained through study and exertion.’135

In De Nederlandsche Spectator, the artist, critic and lawyer Carel Vosmaer called for artists to be supported in their efforts to secure legal protection. Authorship rights belonged to the artist: ‘he should know and decide whether his work should be duplicated or not,’ Vosmaer declared.136 The law of 1817 offered no protection to visual artists. Vosmaer proposed to grant artists the right of reproduction, similar to ‘writer’s rights’ over translation. At the time of writing, in 1879, artists did not possess such rights and he described the Dutch situation as follows:

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c

‘At present the artist must passively look on while his work is reproduced in exceedingly unlovely or sometimes entirely defective prints, that do not represent the faintest glimmer of his masterpiece. And this occurs all too often. Not every engraver or lithographer may simply fling himself on a work of art and copy this in his own, sometimes imperfect fashion. The author should be allowed to decide whether he is able, should examine the proofs and approve these. That is the principal issue. But the monetary side is also far from insignificant. Engravings after a painting sometimes produce a great deal of profit; it is therefore equitable that the author enjoys something of this. Thus is the matter conceived in civilised lands in Europe, and the Netherlands alone makes an exception to this. Denied a share in the proceeds of interpretation, here the artist must calmly tolerate that his work is distributed in often extremely poor copies and thereby his name sorely injured, in foreign lands as well.’137

While Vosmaer pointed out the similarities between visual artists and men of letters, others took an opposite tack and adduced the differences between these arts. In his recommendations for the new law of 1881 on authorship rights, the lawyer Fresemann Viëtor declared that since the very nature of art works made their mechanical reproduction impossible, there were no grounds for independent authorship rights for painters. However, graphic works, such as engravings, lithographs and photographs could be reproduced using such means, so printmakers and photographers did require legal protection. Another lawyer, De Ridder, also made a fundamental distinction between visual art (paintings, drawings and sculptures) on the one hand and literary and graphic works on the other. The makers of paintings, drawings and sculptures drew the short straw. With reference to German legislation, where separate laws governed authorship rights in the visual and literary arts, the new Dutch law on authorship rights of 28 June 1881 was only to apply to authors of printed matter, as stated in article 1: c

‘The right to make public through print writings, plates, charts, musical works, plays and oral performances, also to put on or perform works of musical drama and plays in public, belongs exclusively to the author and his heirs.’138

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The law thus offered authors of works on plates protection against unwanted reproduction, although they were required to register this right with the Ministry of Justice, after which they were protected for a period of fifty years.139 So while legislation in other countries now associated this right with the lifetime of the author, in the Netherlands there was still a fixed period. Authors of visual art works (paintings, drawings and sculptures) remained unprotected. During discussion of this new law in the Dutch Lower House, arguments against every form of protection for authors continued to be raised. Some representatives still regarded authorship rights as an undesirable ‘tax on reading’, which kept the price of printed matter artificially high and prevented many sections of the population from acquiring knowledge.140 So while the neighbouring countries of England and France had employed a system of authorship rights for many years, the principle of such a system was still being contested in the Netherlands in the late nineteenth century. The illustrious past of Dutch publishing in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries was one factor which caused echoes of the traditional privilege system to resound for a long time to come. Possibly influenced by the artists’ petition of 1878, the Dutch government decided to accede to their request, by making separate provision for the visual arts, to supplement the law of 1881. This was intended to offer special protection for works of painting, drawing and sculpture.141 Article 1 of this separate provision for artists stated: c

‘The right to copy, imitate, represent and multiply a work of visual art in its original size, on a larger or smaller scale, either entirely or in part, or to have this done by others, either by means of the same or another visual art, or through mechanical process, exclusively belongs to the original maker of the work of art and his heirs.’

Article 4 stressed that anyone who reproduced a work of art photographically should enjoy the same protection as the maker of work, in accordance with article. 1. This separate provision was inspired by German legislation which had also incorporated such protection for works of visual art since 1876.142 Nevertheless this special measure to protect authorship rights in the visual arts still met with criticism.143 A major point of contention was that the Dutch government had refused to give (visual) artists the same protection for writers as Vosmaer had envisioned. At the same time it was feared that artists would claim their

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rights in another way, through patent law for example.144 The special provision died a silent death and did not become law, creating a peculiar situation in which prints were protected in the Netherlands, but not works of painting, drawing and sculpture.145 Although similar situations had once existed in neighbouring countries, as outlined above, by the end of the nineteenth century they had long been superceded in France and England. In the Netherlands visual artists did not receive true recognition as authors in the legal sense until 1912. The lawyer H.L. de Beaufort, spiritual father of the 1912 law and specialist in authorship rights, described the legal change as ‘the conversion from tow-boat to automobile’.146 The development of this law was partially prompted by the Berne Convention (1886), which the Netherlands eventually joined after lengthy procrastination. I shall return to the subject of international authorship rights below, confining myself here to the observation that countries were expected to have national laws on authorship rights in place before they signed this international treaty. It is not easy to assess the economic ramifications of reproductierecht in Dutch art. Although Vosmaer described the financial aspects of art reproduction as ‘far from insignificant’, the actual level of income generated remains unclear. English artists such as Frith and Landseer had proved that an artist could make a fortune from copyright agreements, even without the benefit of legal protection. Yet it is highly debatable whether this was also the case for Dutch artists. As previously remarked, prices were determined by market forces rather than laws on authorship rights. In many respects the Dutch print trade was modest in scale, and a seemingly small number of publishers exhaustively pursued the reproduction rights to works by popular artists. However, there are a few examples that show that the Dutch print business was serious business too. The Dutch engraver J.W. Kaiser and his publisher Frans Buffa signed a contract on 26 January 1853 to engrave the famous painting, The Celebration of the Peace of Munster, 18 June 1648 in the Headquarters of the Crossbowman’s Civi (1648) by Bartolomeus van der Helst for 15,000 guilders. A few years later, on 15 March 1864, Kaiser signed a contract with this publisher to sell his engraved plate after Rembrandt’s Nightwatch for 12,000 guilders.147 Remarkably, the engraver earned a lot of money, which the publisher apparantly could afford. Unlike the select company of individuals in England, France and the Netherlands who earned a great deal from copyrights, the majority of artists in the nineteenth century probably did not profit in any way, or only to a limited de-

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gree, from the rights to their work. They may not have been consulted at all, or may have agreed to their work being reproduced without asking for any money in return, as in the case of Millais who clearly explained his reasons for this. More important than economic interests, however, is the fact that during the nineteenth century authorship rights had become a permanent feature in the artistic and commercial landscape, redefining and prescribing the relationship between an author and his work.148 International regulation to protect authorship rights

The pirating of printed works was a phenomenon that transcended national borders, so an international response to the problem was required.149 An author might be protected in country x, but this counted for little if country x was being flooded with illegal reprints from country y. France especially tended to suffer from illegal prints made abroad. For centuries there had been a strong tradition in the Netherlands of reprinting foreign works, a practice that continued in the nineteenth century; Belgium was also known as an ‘ocean of literary and artistic piracy.’150 Initially individual countries had made efforts to protect against such foreign influences through national legislation. During the course of the nineteenth century, however, such measures were supplemented by a series of treaties intended to provide more international protection for intellectual property. Within a short period, France in particular made a number of agreements with various (neighbouring) countries in order to secure protection for its authors’ rights abroad.151 During the final quarter of the nineteenth century this international recognition of authorship rights caused the Anglo-American and European Continental traditions to grow closer together. A series of bilateral treaties was followed by efforts to achieve uniform international regulation of authorship rights.152 At the congress of Rome in 1882 delegates decided to draw up a treaty of union, an agreement between diverse nations in the sphere of intellectual property, to be based on the principle of equality, whereby foreign authors received the same protection as each country’s own, domestic authors. This treaty established a permanent context of international law, guaranteeing participating countries a basic level of protection in the field of authorship rights, which was accorded to the originator of a work for a period of up to thirty years after his death. Such protection required no formalities and belonged to the author by right. It should be remarked here, that this international treaty assumed that each participating country had al-

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ready introduced some form of national law pertaining to authorship rights. The treaty was signed in Berne by ten countries, including England, France and Germany, on 9 September 1886. Although the Netherlands had already concluded several bilateral treaties, this international agreement on authorship rights was viewed with apprehension as a threat to the lucrative practice of unauthorised prints and translations of foreign works.153 Circa 1900, however, the tide of opinion turned and realisation grew that the Netherlands could no longer lag behind in the field of international authorship rights. Nevertherless, it took until 1908 before the laywer Robbers could write in De Gids: ‘At last!… At last that bill for our admission to the Berne Convention!’154 The Netherlands had finally joined the international community of nations which subscribed to the basic principles of modern authorship rights.155 Yet it was not the last country to seek admission to this union, for the United States did not join until 1989. Founded in 1886 by ten countries, by 1993 the Union of Berne had 95 members.156 The development of (international) laws regulating authorship rights introduced an important change in the position of the author. Where once the state, church or publisher had been the crucial party in the privilege system, recognition of authorship rights now accorded this role to the author in laws governing the legal protection of intellectual property. The shift toward the rights of the author did not leave the interests of other parties, such as the publishers or purchasers of a work, unaffected, with tension concentrating around the relationship between the new legislation on authorship rights and traditional property rights. An exhaustive analysis of this legal question exceeds the scope of the present study. Nevertheless, when considering the organisation of a reproduction, it is useful to have some idea of the complex relationship between the artist and the owner of an artwork, between authorship rights and property rights. Authorship rights versus property rights

In his essay ‘Du droit des peintres et des sculpteurs sur leurs ouvrages’ (1841), Horace Vernet underscored the importance of authorship rights to the artist. His observations were prompted by a judgement delivered by the French court which prescribed that when a painting was sold, the right to reproduce this painting was also transferred to the purchaser, unless otherwise explicitly stipulated. The painter emphasised the ‘portée immense pour les artistes’ of this decision, taking the standpoint that a basic separation should be made between authorship rights and property rights157:

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‘Le peintre a deux moyens de tirer de son tableau des avantages pécunaires, savoir: La vente du tableau même Et la cession du droit de la graver.’158

The strict, legal separation of the property rights and authorship rights associated with an artwork made it possible for artists to make money from the same painting in two ways: they could sell the property rights and/or the reproduction rights to the work, independently of each other. However, the French court’s pronouncement had created a dangerous situation in which artists might inadvertently alienate their reproduction rights when selling their work. Although this probably did not happen to Vernet himself, the painter was nevertheless indignant that it was even possible for an artist to lose his rights in such a manner.159 His colleague Paul Délaroche and various English contemporaries were of the same opinion.160 Dutch artists emphasised in their petition that authorship rights should be separate from property rights, and even declared that artists should be able to avail themselves of their reproduction rights at any time, irrespective of the interests of an art work’s owner. At the International Congress on authorship rights, held in Paris in 1878 and chaired by the renowned artist Jean-Louis-Ernest Meissonier, the artists present unanimously declared: ‘La cession d’une oeuvre d’art n’entraîne pas par elle même le droit de reproduction.’161 The radical view of authorship rights held by Vernet and his colleagues constituted a direct encroachment on the rights of the owner. The Enlightenment ideas propounded in John Locke’s Two Treatises of Civil Government and the 1789 Déclaration des droits de l’homme et du citoyen in France had helped the right to property to acquire the status of a right that was virtually equated with the essence of individual freedom. The right to property was ‘sacred’, inviolable and formed the core of many an Englightenment constitution.162 Yet now this ‘right of rights’ was being threatened by the development of authorship rights. In theory this was a conflict between the basic rights of the owner and the ‘basic rights’ of the artist, both of which derived from the same tradition.163 In 1858 The Art drew attention to the precarious relationship between the artist and the owner, a relationship on which both were equally dependent:

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‘The subject is, indeed, environed by difficulties that must be treated with exceeding care, with a view, certainly, to protect and increase the interests of artists by every possible means; but not to prejudice or to ruin them by such restrictions as may alarm collectors – especially such collectors as, being merchants, manufactures, and dealers, are very sensitive of any interference with a right to “do what they like with their own.”’164

Contradicting the views held by many an artist, The Art Journal repeatedly wrote that it would be fundamentally unjust for property rights to be harmed by authorship rights. Athough the publication had always championed the cause of art and its makers, the now put the interests of the owner above those of the artist, even predicting that authorship rights, which only upheld the interests of artists, would ultimately turn against these same artists, for authorship rights would deter many potential buyers from purchasing art.165 The Art Journal adduced the following comparison to support its contention: c

‘We knew a gentleman who, when completing the sale of a large estate, sought to reserve a right of walking in the park: the contracting party at once declined the purchase; very gladly would he have accorded the permission, but he objected to have concede the right.’166

The engraver Abraham Raimbach also warned against an overly radical application of copyright law in the fragile relationship between artist and owner, in the interests of the artist: c

‘As far as I am aware, this claim of copyright in pictures has only been put forward recently, and is not unlikely to become a Quaestio Vexate between painter and their patrons, whenever one of the latter shall feel disposed to stand upon his hitherto unquestioned power in these matters of doing what he likes with his own. A noble lord, a great collector of the modern as well as of the old masters, was desirous of befriending a young engraver of talent by allowing him to make an engraving from a picture in his gallery; when the painter, hearing of the circumstance, interfered and prevented the fulfilment of his lordship’s benevolent intention, the patron was unwilling to enter into a contest on the subject. How far the

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painter’s claim may ultimately be established is not to be predicted; but in my opinion it will scarcely survive the first collision it might have to encounter in a court of law. Be that as it may, the policy of the painter’s proceedings may well admit of a doubt. The patronage of the fine arts is a plant of too sensitive a nature to bear the rude touch of legal discussion, and many gentlemen well inclined to foster and encourage genius, would perhaps rather forego their inclination than indulge it, coupled with the chance of a lawsuit, if resolved to maintain the ordinairy privileges identified with property.’167 Even if the painter was in the right legally speaking, it was debatable whether he would be wise to press this point. The experienced engraver therefore advised: c

‘At all events, the artist should distinctly make known to the purchaser the conditions with which his picture is encumbered before the bargain is completed, to the end that the unsuspecting Maecenas may not have just reason to complain of uncandid, if not dishonourable dealing, when, after years of possesion, the claim of copyright is put forward. Another form in which this claim has been urged is, that the proprietor of the picture, having given up the copyright to the painter, thereby precludes himself from the power of bestowing the privilege to any other person at a future time. Although perhaps less presumptuous than the first mode, this has been in two or three instances somewhat contemptuously resisted.’168

Despite the efforts of various artists the fundamental separation of property rights and authorship rights was not laid down in legislation. Carel Vosmaer’s appeal to the Dutch legislative body, cited above, was also in vain. Both in France and England artists were expected to safeguard their own authorship rights. If they sold a painting they were required to make explicit reservation of their rights. The unwitting buyer was thereby protected in the possession of his newly acquired property. However the English Copyright Act of 1862 did offer some protection to the unwitting artist: although artists were required to make explicit reservation of their rights, buyers were also expected to make their desire for the rights of reproduction explicitly known.169 Nevertheless, problems could still occur, as the painter John Everett Millais knew only too well. He had

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fig. 20 George H. Every after Millais, Bubbles (1887), mezzotint 45.7 x 32.4 cm, The Maas Gallery, London.

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sold his painting Bubbles to The Illustrated London News with a view to its reproduction in the newspaper’s supplement; the newspaper, however, then sold the work to Pears, the well-known soap manufacturer, who used the picture in an advertising poster, to the great annoyance of the (legally) powerless painter.170 [fig. 20, plate 6] If Millais had followed Raimbach’s sensible advice, and made clear that the painting was only to be reproduced in The Illustrated London News when he parted with the picture, he might have been able to avoid the problem. The renowned collector W.H. Vanderbilt left no opportunity for misunderstanding: any works he bought were not allowed to be reproduced.171 Legal misunderstandings were mainly a hazard for professional art dealers, who worked as intermediaries in transactions between artist and buyer. Use of a copy or replica could avoid many problems, as the original work could be sold without ‘jeopardy to copyright’ and yet be reproduced.172

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If no special agreements had been made regarding an artwork, artists had no alternative but to approach the owner of their brainchild with a cordial request to be allowed to reproduce this. Gustave Courbet, for example, asked the Comte de Morny, owner of his Les Demoiselles de village, for permission to reproduce the painting in a publication by Théophile Silvestre (1823-1876), who wished to incorporate a photograph and woodcut of the picture in a work on living masters. Courbet was eager to obtain the Comte’s permission in writing, and submitted the following declaration to the him for signature: ‘J’autorise Monsieur Théophile Silvestre à reproduire par la photographie et la gravure sur bois le tableau Les Demoiselles de village dont M.G. Courbet est l’auteur et moi le propriètaire. Paris le…etc.’173 The artist then had to hope that the Comte would accede to his request. Tension between authorship rights and property rights did not only exist when artworks were reproduced, for the exhibition of work could also produce similar friction. In the shadow of reproduction rights another exclusive right emerged during the nineteenth century: the right to be allowed to display a work, or the exhibition rights. The exhibition of art formed another important – and lucrative – way to exploit work. England’s rich exhibition culture in particular offered artists and dealers the opportunity to derive a threefold income from the same painting: through sale of the property rights, the reproduction rights and the exhibition rights. Similar problems arose between artists and owners regarding the exhibition of artworks. If a painter wished to display his brainchild, he usually had no other recourse than to meekly apply to the owner with a cordial yet insistent request that the latter relinquish possession of the work for some time. To what extent was an owner expected to comply with such a request? Although legislation generally did not explicitly acknowledge exhibition rights, these were implied to some degree in authorship rights, or copyright law.174 The Hogarth Act of 1735, for example, allowed artists to take action against the exhibition of unlawful reproductions. Yet the exhibition of original paintings remained unregulated for many years.175 Nevertheless, some artists claimed fundamental exhibition rights vis-à-vis the owner. James McNeill Whistler stirringly declared: ‘[…] I do not acknowledge that a picture once bought merely belongs to the man who pays the money, but that it is property of the whole world, I consider that I have a right to exhibit such picture […]’.176 When the collector Henry S. Theobald was not inclined to release work by

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Whistler for an exhibition, the painter expounded his views in a detailed letter:











‘Dear Mr. Theobald, – It cannot be that you really mean to withhold pictures of mine from the recognition that the occasion of exhibition offers them, for the mere accidental reason that you happen to possess them. Surely dear Mr. Theobald this view is absolutely unworthy of the keen sense of things that you showed me in buying them. You were on the former occasion charming to me, immediately lending the pictures, but this is the privilege of the man, who, like yourself acquires a work of art and knows that he has the care of what really belongs to the world and to posterity. Dont you see, dear Mr.Theobald that when a picture is purchased by the Louvre or the National gallery, all can come and see it on the walls, but when a painting is bought by a private gentleman, it is, so to speak, withdrawn from circulation, and for public fame is missing from the story of the painter’s reputation. Your role here in, as the “patron,” certainly is that of taking every occasion of spreading his fame by showing them, and is pleased and proud to do so – thereby achieving also for himself, the esteem and affection of history. Do let me send those lovely things to Munich. I dont believe that they will be absent much more than a month or two, (they will be insured until returned to you) – and next year when the great International Exhibition takes place, do not the cruelty to me, and to yourself the injustice of proposing to hold back these dainty pictures that should take their part before my confrères in the chapter of my work. After all you have these beautiful things with you – like the poor! – and seldom indeed shall I have troubled you for their loan!’177

Whistler was entirely dependent on the owner’s cooperation. It was not until the twentieth century that exhibition rights would be explicitly incorporated in laws on authorship rights, as formulated in article 1 of the Dutch law of 1912: ‘Copyright is the exclusive right of the maker of a work […] to make this work public and to multiply the same […] According to this new law the sale of a work was not automatically accompanied by the copyright, a basic principle that still applies today. Article 23, however, subsequently laid down an exception to this

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rule: the owner of an artwork was entitled to exhibit this in public without permission, and was even allowed, with a view to selling the work, to reproduce this in a catalogue without permission, unless otherwise agreed. However, even this provision was not unable to entirely dispel the tension between property rights and authorship rights.178 To summarise: during the nineteenth century the rise of authorship rights was a universal, cultural development, which took different forms in different countries. In England this development began early and moved gradually, in France it was late and intense, in the Netherlands even later and gradual. Although time and place affected the tenor of the legislation regulating authorship rights, it increasingly became a factor to consider when organising the reproductive process. Acknowledgement of authorship rights introduced drastic changes in the relationship between an author, his work and reproductions of this work, and also perceptibly affected the other parties involved in the reproductive process. The publisher depended more than ever on the artist’s cooperation. If a work was already hanging on a collector’s wall, the owner’s interests had to be taken into consideration. Moreover, a sharp eye had to be kept on the rights that would accrue to printmakers through their prints and to photographers through their photographic reproductions. These diverse interests made it vital to establish effective agreements about the rights of reproduction when organising the reproductive process. The legal protection of authorship rights thus constituted a far-reaching change in the graphic world and became a significant factor in the production and distribution of reproductions, as the art dealer and publisher Ernest Gambart repeatedly stressed. Nevertheless, some qualification of the situation is appropriate. Although the same Gambart knew better than anyone else that many (illegal) reproductions were being distributed, despite the law, the fact that he and other publishers and artists were well aware of this drastic legal change does little to change the probability that many others in the graphic and publishing worlds would have been largely ignorant of this development. So it is not inconceivable that during the nineteenth century many reproductions were still produced and distributed as if nothing had changed, in other words without regard for the proper legal interests. Reaching agreement

Once the engraver Abraham Raimbach and the painter David Wilkie had decided to make an engraved reproduction after The Village Politicians, their first step

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was to enter into negotiations with S.W. Reynolds, the engraver to whom Wilkie had already granted the rights of reproduction. Raimbach wrote: c

‘A negociation was therefor entered upon with Reynolds for the purchase of his right to publish &c, which ended in Wilkie’s payment to Reynolds of one hundred guineas for his claims, and receiving from him the plate, which remains unused and unserviceable, and is likely so to remain. This sum was intended to be charged on our joint concern, but Wilkie sub­ sequently took it most liberally upon himself.’179

In 1905 Holman Hunt also described his negotiations with the art dealer Ernest Gambart concerning the copyright to The Light of the World, cited above: c

‘I asked him the sum hitherto mentioned [300 pounds]; but he [Gambart] objected on the ground that there was the chance of the public not liking the print, and then no one would divide his loss, while if it became popular, photographers throughout England would pirate the work, and the prosecution of each would cost him £ 70 [pounds]; the only penalty to them would be the loss of a simple camera. In France, where the law treated piracy as a penal offence, the publisher was safe from such a violation of his rights, and so could pay the artist better. With this con­ clusion to the debate the business ended for the time; but in a few months the monetary pressure upon me became more stringent, and I was induced to accept £ 200 as my reward.’180

Although reproduction rights were important, they were certainly not the only element that had to be agreed upon when organising a reproduction. The choice of printmaker, for example, was naturally of great importance. Some publishers had regular printmakers. The firm of Dixon & Ross, for example, often worked with the well-known engraver Samuel Cousins, while Gambart did a great deal of business with the French printmaker Auguste Blanchard. Gambart also made a curiously international effort to employ French engravers, wherever possible, to engrave English prints and English engravers to engrave French prints.181 Painters similarly had their preferences: Ingres liked to have all his work engraved by the celebrated Luigi Calamatta.182 Frith always preferred manual reproduction techniques to photographic methods, while the painter Edward

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Burne-Jones remained true to the use of traditional copper plates, instead of their widely used steel counterparts.183 For a critical painter it was not always easy to find a suitable printmaker, as Holman Hunt discovered when he wished to have his painting The Light of the World reproduced: c

‘The difficulty in the way will be the obtaining of a first rate engraver who is disengaged; for my part I would rather wait three or four years that it be done properly, but I know those business men are always impatient to turn over their profits, and so he might make an objection.’184

If it had been up to Hunt, he would have preferred to wait patiently until an expert printmaker could be hired for the work. After he had asked his good friend John Everett Millais for advice about a suitable engraver, the religious painter considered using T.O. Barlow: ‘He is religious too, I think, which is not likely to be any Frenchman’s merit.’185 The critical Burne-Jones even looked abroad for suitable engravers to reproduce his work, as he considered foreign printmakers better than engravers from his own circle.186 Family loyalty prompted the renowned painter Edwin Landseer to give preference to his brother Thomas. When the publisher H. Graves suggested that he work with another (and better) engraver, the painter was provoked into replying: ‘If anyone has a right to the benefit of my signature, it is my brother, the engraver of your fortune; this you must be well aware of.’187 The kind of collaboration required could also play a role in the choice of printmaker. Turner, a demanding painter, worked a great deal with young, largely unknown printmakers, and relatively little with renowned engravers such as John Landseer (1769-1853), John Pye (1782-1874) or John Burnet (1784-1868).188 Undoubtedly his preference was inspired by the fact that young printmakers would be more willing to receive his instruction and less likely to argue with him. Rubens had been similarly motivated in his choice of engraver. Collaborations between painters and printmakers took various forms. In some instances they were ad hoc coalitions, in others they lasted for years, as was the case with the painter John Constable and his printmaker David Lucas (1802-1881).189 Publishers often had the final say in the choice of a printmaker, as can be seen from a description of preparatory negotiations, published by L’Artiste in 1839:

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‘Nous aurons à examiner, non-seulement les travaux des artistes, mais encore la marche que suivront les éditeurs dont les spéculations et les vues commerciales ont plus d’influence qu’on ne semble le croire, sur l’état et les perfectionnements de l’art. S’agit-il, en effet, de faire graver un tableau: le peintre traite avec un éditeur et lui vend le droit de reproduire son ouvrage. Ce droit dévient pour le commercant une propriété exclusive. L’auteur du tableau est ordinairement consulté sur le choix du graveur; mais ses conseils sont fort peu suivis, et le choix du reproducteur, choix importante et grave, est presque toujours déterminé par l’interêt bien ou mal entendu de l’editeur.’190

Publishers thus played a decisive role in the negotiations surrounding the droit de reproduire and selection of a printmaker. For artists and publishers who had no clear preference (yet) for a specific printmaker or photographer, there were special publications to guide them in their choice, such as Hector Maclean, Photography for Artists (Bradford London 1896), whose extensive appendix listed the names and addresses of photographers, together with their specialities, which included art reproduction.191 It was also advisable to reach agreement concerning the time required to produce the reproduction and the remuneration. Generally –speaking, the factors which determined the amount of money paid to printmakers were the type of print required (its format and technique) and the printmaker’s own reputation.192 These sums could vary considerably. The Dutch printmaker August Allebé, for example, received forty guilders for an ordinary lithograph for De Kunstkritiek, 100 guilders for a presentation print after Israëls’ Adagio con espressione, and the princely sum of 1,000 guilders for a large-format lithograph after The Pilgrim Fathers by J.G. Schwartze.193 As mentioned before, his collegue J.W. Kaiser even earned 15,000 guilders for his engraving after The Celebration of the Peace of Munster, 18 June 1648 in the Headquarters of the Crossbowman’s Civi (1648) of Bartolomeus van der Helst, which made it one of the most expensive works of art in the Netherlands. The historian A. Dyson has pointed out that engravers’ income rose as a result of the printmaker’s increasing status and explosive growth in the print trade, although this was a development from which the best printmakers mainly profited.194 The nature of the remuneration could also vary: printmakers could receive cash sums, which were sometimes supplemented by

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a number of prints, and sometimes paid in different instalments. On 3 December 1825, for example, Ingres entered into a contract with the engraver Luigi Calamatta for the reproduction of his painting Voeu de Louis xiii; the engraver was expected to complete the engraving within five years for the sum of 15,000 francs, to be paid in ten instalments; painter and engraver would jointly own the printing plate, but the engraver would be responsible for any retouching, to be financed from the sale of the prints. Annick Bergeon has drawn attention to an 1832 contract between the firm of Goupil and the engraver Paul Mercuri for reproduction of the painting Ste Amélie Reine de Hongrie/ Offrande à la Vierge by Paul Délaroche. The two parties had agreed that the work would be completed in ten months for the sum of 2,000 francs, to be paid in instalments of 150 francs a month; the publisher would also return twelve prints (épreuves avant la lettre) and all proofs to the engraver. A revisal of the contract agreed upon a smaller format and stipulated that all the proofs were to be destroyed, to prevent these from coming on the market.195 Similar agreements were reached between the publisher Hogdson-Graves and the engraver Samuel Cousins concerning reproduction of Abercorn Children: Cousins was to deliver an engraving within ten months and was allowed to choose the printer, provided that he supervised the printing process himself; he also had to guarantee a print run of a 1,000 copies; the engraver was to receive a total of 300 pounds in payment (100 pounds at the first proof, 100 pounds during the first three months of printing and 100 pounds when the last proofs were supplied); he was also to receive an additional five guineas for every 100 prints (after the first 200 to 800 prints).196 Other agreements that regularly appeared in contracts related to the printing matrix, which represented a considerable investment and could even be used as the basis for new editions of a print. Reproduction was primarily a task for the printmaker or photographer, who sometimes worked closely with the publisher and painter. Rodney Engen has drawn attention to an interesting case, the reproduction of The Shadow of Death by Holman Hunt, for which the firm of Agnew secured the painter’s cooperation in advance. On 26 June 1873 the publisher and painter agreed that: c

‘The said picture and the sketch or study thereof shall be forthwith delivered to the said William Agnew and Thomas Agnew who shall have the entire and sole property in and control of the same and they shall at their own costs and charges undertake the Exhibition of the same and the

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engraving thereof and the publication and sales of the impressions of the engraving.’197 Holman Hunt was expected: c

‘[to] give all necessary instructions for and superintend the production of a copy of the said picture for the use of the engraver and shall be paid for only the days he expends in painting upon it and from time to time inspect and touch upon the engraver’s proofs if and when necessary for the effective finishing and perfection of the said engraving and when required by the said Wm Agnew and Thomas Agnew sign the Artist Proofs and to do all things which they may require to promote the success of the said engraving and the sale of the impressions thereof.’

These are just a few examples of contracts associated with the making of engraved reproductions. Naturally the agreements reached by the various parties were governed to a major degree by the technique chosen. While the period of ten months, mentioned above, was usual for an engraving, a lithograph or photograph required considerably less time. Moreover, photography, more than any other technique, depended on an amply supply of daylight, so additional agreements were sometimes made regarding carriage of the original work to a location with sufficient sunlight.198 All in all, the parties involved in the reproductive process had to reach agreement on varying aspects of this process: the reproduction rights, the choice of engraver and technique, the trajectory and timescale and, of course, the payment. Moreover, agreements were sometimes made concerning the sale or exhibition of the work. These different factors were not, of course, independent of each other and so were always considered together in reproduction practice. Holman Hunt once wrote on the subject of reproducing his painting The Finding of the Saviour in the Temple [fig. 21]: c

‘[…] I have no inclination to work to enrich picture dealers and publishers alone. I have many reasons to think that the public will be really interested in it, although the canvas is not a large one; I wish it were three times as big, it would have cost me less labour; I am told it will make an

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fig. 21 Auguste Blanchard after Holman Hunt, Finding the Saviour in the Temple (1858) engraving and etching 85 x 110 including size frame, private collection.

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attractive and remunerative exhibition, and this will persuade some publisher to buy the copyright. I have no doubt that it will help my position as an artist, and bring purchasers for my other works. I shall soon pay outstanding claims, and have this picture to the good, yet I don’t want to waste my time on business, and I should be very glad to find some dealer to take it off my hands.’199 The art dealer Ernest Gambart paid the unprecedentedly high sum of 5,500 pounds for the painting, including the copyright.200 He described his plans for the work in a letter of 12 November 1860 to his fellow printdealer George Pennell, and offered his colleague a chance to become involved in the project. This letter offers a rare insight into Gambart’s view of reproduction practices and is therefore quoted at length: c

‘Holman Hunt’s Picture of “the Finding of the Saviour in the Temple” is now exhibiting in New Bond Street at no.168 under the charge of Mr Nutter & I propose that it remains there until a drawing which Mr Morelli is making, in black chalk from it, be finished – the Picture will then be free to travel all over the provinces, & the Engraving will be made entirely from the Said Drawing, which, being made with the assistance of Hunt, will be in every way satisfactory to engrave from –

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the Engraving from the Drawing if done by either Simmonds or any other Chalk engraver will cost 1,000 Gs [guineas] & take two years; if done by Blanchard, Morelli or any other pure line Engraver, will cost 2,000 Gs take 4 years to do The Printing of the Plate will cost about 10 Gs per hundred, including the paper, or say 1000 Gs for 10,000 impressions – the whole future outlay will be about 3,000 Gs at most. I trust we can reckon on receiving at least 5 £ a day during 4 years from its exhibition alone being only 100 visitors per diem at 1/This would produce 6,000 £ & would be sufficient to pay for the Engraving & the printing as we go on & also Mr Nutter’s Commission of 1% on all orders received & 2l per week additional I propose to Print from 1,000 to 2,000 artist’ Proofs at 15 Gs [guineas], 1,000 Before letters Proofs at 12 Gs, & I hope 10,000 Prints at 5 Gs – I have now already orders which I can Submit to you for verification amunting to 10,000 Gs, & I have no doubt these orders will reach 50,000 Gs in 4 years. I offer half the property in the Copyright & receipts from admissions & Sale of the Engravings, deducting the charges named above, for 10,000 Gs Cash down. The Picture I will reserve for six years so as to exhibit it, also if desirable in America & other Parts My own labours, or those of my executors & assignees in case of death, to be given gratis & I will carry this arrangement out fairly & equitably to the best of my ability.’201

This letter shows how Gambart commanded an overall view of an art reproduction. A drawing was to be made of the painting by one Morelli, about whose work the painter later declared: ‘it was a wondrously exact and elaborate transcript of the original.’202 Morelli’s drawing was to be used as the basis for the engraving, which would be made with Hunt’s assistance. A major advantage of this strategy was that it left the painting available for exhibition. As has been remarked, the choice of technique and printmaker had a significant influence on the timescale and cost. The publisher also had clear ideas concerning the actual prints, such as the various states proposed, the print runs and the price. While the reproduction was being made, the original painting would be sent

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on the road for exhibition, possibly for a period of six years, which could prove highly lucrative. Although the route had not been finalised, the United States was one of the possible destinations. Exhibiting the original painting on tour could assist the reproduction, both financially and in terms of publicity. It is not known if Gambart managed to persuade his colleague George Pennell to become involved in the reproduction. At any rate the enterprise proved exceedingly successful. Payment of a shilling allowed visitors entry to the travelling exhibition, where they viewed the painting in a dark room with subdued lighting, hanging in a frame specially designed by Hunt and sparkling ‘like a jewel in a gorgeous setting’, as his fellow painter Millais later remarked.203 The public flocked to the exhibition where they could sign up for the reproductions and also purchase a pamphlet, specially written by F.G. Stephens, about the painting and the ideas of the Pre-Raphaelites. Thus Gambart made 4,000 pounds from exhibition of the painting alone.204 The actual manufacture of reproductions, exhibition of original works and the importance of publicity will be discussed in more detail below. At this point, however, it is essential simply to bear in mind that the publisher had a clear picture of the reproductive process, including all the associated factors, before a single mark had been made on the printing matrix. In some instances agreements were quickly reached, in others tough negotiation was required. Once the painter Holman Hunt and the publisher and art dealer Gambart had reached basic agreement regarding the reproduction, sale and exhibition of The Finding of the Saviour in the Temple, the negotiating process was continued by both parties’ lawyers, and the results of this eventually committed to paper.205 Contracts concerning art reproduction are an extremely rare phenomenon in historical practice. There may be two reasons for this. In the first place, they may have been lost, like the archives kept by the publishing house of Goupil, in which little remains in the way of contracts in the surviving portions of the archive that otherwise contains many prints, stock lists and information on printing presses.206 Another reason for the rarity of this kind of contract is the possibility that they may not have been drawn up very often. Publishers, painter and engravers regularly collaborated for years on the reproduction of artworks. Given these personal relationships, it is not inconceivable that most agreements were verbal in such informal contexts.207 Verbal agreements were no less binding than written agreements, but have naturally left fewer traces of their existence.208

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The agreements entered into by the various parties can be regarded as the final event in the organisation of the reproductive process. This organisation was crucial to the subsequent life of the reproduction. Substance had now been given to the intention to reproduce an artwork, the first phase. The actual context of rights and custom had required that the painter, publisher, printmaker, photographer and owner be brought together. Each then made his own essential contribution to the reproductive process: the publisher had his plan, the painter his rights, the engraver his skill and the owner the original work. After some negotiation the organisational framework for the actual reproduction had been completed. This marked the beginning of a new phase in the life of the reproduction: the actual production of the reproduction.

The production of the reproduction The original or an alternative

Although every reproduction presupposes the existence of an original work, the availability of this original could not be taken for granted. A painting might be unfinished, hanging at an exhibition or already on display in a collector’s home.209 A range of often conflicting interests were therefore associated with the original work. Good contacts with the owner of a painting were essential in order to gain access to the work destined for reproduction. The painter David Wilkie, for example, asked the collector Samuel Dobree to receive the engraver John Burnet and allow him to reproduce a work from his collection: c

‘Agreeable to a request which I formerly made to you respecting the engraving of your picture of The Letter of Introduction, as one of the series of engravings from my works, I write to say that I am now desirous of having it engraved by Mr Burnet, as a companion to one lately published of The Rabbit on the Wall. With your permission, therefore, I should be glad if Mr Burnet could be allowed to see the picture; and, if convenient to you, will be happy myself to accompany him.’210

When the Dutch firm of Buffa wished to publish Vermeer’s View of Delft in print, it had to pull out all the stops in order to gain access to the popular masterpiece. At this time the painting was owned by the Six family, who rarely gave permis-

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sion for their works of art to be copied and multiplied. The publisher had pinned all his hope on Philip Zilcken, the etcher, who recalled: c

‘it once happened, that they [the firm of buffa, rv] commissioned me to make an etching after the famous “City View” by the Delftenaar Vermeer, then in the Six collection; they asked me to do this so forcefully that they said that “the money” was no object if I could just obtain leave. At that time the Six family categorically gave no leave to reproduce its paintings; even Bode was refused permission to include “Burgomaster Six” in his great work on Rembrandt! Chance, which has often played a role in my life, had it that I was befriended with Dr. Voûte and his wife. The latter was exceedingly well-disposed towards me and knew the Six family’s drawing master; in my interest as an artist permission was asked to be allowed to make the etching after Vermeer; I soon received this permission on condition, that I would not work in the halls where the paintings hung; that was a great burden, but I solved the difficulty by having a photograph taken, on the scale of my etching, while Jacob Maris loaned me an extremely fine copy of the painting, – by Brugman – , that enabled me to verify the colours and tone.’211

So Zilcken received permission to make his etching, but had to work within the Six family’s restrictions. Well-known printmakers would sometimes send their assistant ahead to examine the original work. The renowned engraver S.W. Reynolds regularly dispatched the young Samuel Cousins to make meticulous drawings which served as the basis for his prints.212 This form of delegation was probably the preserve of only the most successful printmakers: others would have relied on their own drawing skills. Photographers used similar collaborative patterns. During the heyday of photography, from the early 1860s onwards, some photographic studios grew into organisations that employed more than ten members of staff.213 Renowned photographers such as Adolphe Braun or Franz Hanfstaengl often sent their assistants ahead to make initial preparations. While the printmaker, photographer or assistant sometimes went to the original, in other cases the work came to them. When the painter Henry Raeburn (1756-1823) sent a painting to a printmaker for reproduction in 1821, he asked him to take extreme care with the new work as it was still wet:

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c

‘I regret having kept Lord Hopetoun’s portrait for so long from you, but I would not venture to send it sooner, it has now received its last touch and varnished, and I therefore hope you will take the utmost care of it, – if any dust should get upon it, do not allow it to be rubbed off, but merely blown off with the wind of a soft silk handkerchief.’214

When the printmaker William Simmons had a valuable painting in his house, he promised George Agnew the publisher ‘to take every care of the picture, locking it in his bedroom every night.’215 Sometimes things went wrong, however. The etcher Philip Zilcken found himself in an awkward situation when he lost an original work (a valuable watercolour by Willem Maris) which he had been loaned by the well-known collector Van Eeghen. On completion of his etching Zilcken had sent the plate, a final print and the watercolour to Buffa, the publisher. He was horrified when he then received a letter from Buffa in which the publisher reported that while the plate and print had arrived, the Willem Maris watercolour had not: c

‘I was terribly startled; chance had it, that Willem Maris was staying close by me to make studies in the polder, as was sometimes his wont in fine weather. I went directly to him with the letter and he advised me to go to Amsterdam as speedily as possible in order to put the affair in the hands of the police. On arriving in Amsterdam I went immedately to call on Mr Biederlack, who counselled me first to go and talk with the art dealer again; the latter ordered the institution of a further investigation in the store-room; before my eyes the package was brought forth, but nothing was to be found of the watercolour. I was beseeched not to pursue the matter, as this “would be so unpleasant for the firm”, and I relented; the final straw was, that after some time I was requested to go and present Mister van Eeghen with a new watercolour, of entirely different colour and character, that Willem Maris had largely made after my etching, to replace the little jewel that has probably ended up in another part of the world. Mister van Eeghen was extremely accommodating; he accepted the matter with a nicely ironic smile, full knowing what goes on at some art dealers.’216

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The image depicted by the original work was often supported by a rich collection of replicas, repetitions, reductions and copies, as already noted in the chapter ‘Pinxit et Sculpsit’. There were thus sufficient alternatives from which a reproduction could be made when an original work was unavailable.217 The major advantage of this option was that other interests associated with the original could be better accommodated. The original work remained free from reproduction (even from a legal point of view) and could continue to hang in its owner’s salon or be viewed at an exhibition. The major disadvantage, as has been said, is that it is now often hard to establish the identity of the ‘original’ used in the reproductive process.218 During the second half of the nineteenth century photographs were regularly used as supporting material. For example, Ernest Gambart and the painter William Powell Frith agreed that for the reproduction of three paintings from the series The Streets of London the painter ‘shall touch up the Photographs of the said Pictures in order to assist the Engravers in engraving the said Pictures’.219 Although such photographs were sometimes made available by the painter, the publisher generally provided the printmaker with these. In other instances painters supplied the printmaker with drawings, prints or watercolours, as supporting material. Where possible, the original would be used, if only for commercial reasons, as reproductions after an original work were often preferred to prints after an intermediary drawing or sketch.220 On occasion not even the original would suffice: when the engraver Henriquel-Dupont made a print after a portrait painting of the French king, he also used the king himself as the model for his engraving.221 Although printmakers had a natural predilection for making prints from the original painting, this was not the case with photographers, for the technical limitations of their medium caused them to prefer working with a black-and-white reproduction, rather than the colour original, gleaming with varnish. Sketches, engravings and photographs

In his handbook for the engraver, Nouveau manuel complet du graveur ou traite de l’art de la gravure (1825), A.-M. Perrot described the printmaker’s ideal studio: c

‘Le local destiné à servir d’atelier de gravure doit être assez vaste; il est important que le jour y soit direct et pur; une seule croisée, grande, et percée dans une direction libre de toute interception de la lumière, doit être préférée à plusieurs ouvertures dont les jours se croisent et deviennent faux.’222 from or igina l to r eproduction

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The actual process of reproduction was largely conducted in the printmaker’s studio. Sufficient space and daylight were essential here. Although printmakers sometimes worked with pupils or assistants, the engraver Abraham Raimbach describes how they generally led a lonely and monotonous existence.223 Photographers too, initially worked in a modest studio. Around 1860, however, some photographic studios expanded and took on more employees.224 In their studios the engraver, mezzotinter or etcher kept an extensive range of burins and other tools for working metal, plus the necessary chemicals.225 Printmakers also had access to specialised manuals and other reference works with practical information about the various techniques, including Perrot’s book, the traditional manual by A. Bosse, Traite des manières de graver (Paris 1645), and other publications such as A. Fokke, De Graveur (1796), T.H. Fielding, The Art of Engraving (1841) and J. Roller, Praktische Handleiding bij het etsen op koper (1889).226 Anthony Dyson’s study Pictures to print provides an extensive insight into the workings of a printmaker’s studio.227 Before a single scratch was put on the plate it was customary to make a precise drawing of the original work.228 The young Samuel Cousins regularly produced drawings for his master S.W. Reynolds, just as Anthony van Dyke had once done for the engravers in Rubens’ studio. Sometimes the painter had already lent a helping hand by reducing the original image to the format of the reproduction as a painted reduction. Generally, however, it was the printmaker who had to reduce the image. In The Art of Engraving (1841) Theodore Henry Fielding described how a watercolour grid was often painted over the original, as an aid to producing the drawing. Once the the drawing had been finished, the image was transferred to the plate in mirror image.229 After printing the print was ‘identical’ to the original.230 With woodcuts the image was sometimes sketched directly onto the woodblock, producing a mirror-image print of the original. Once the image had been transferred to the plate, the engraving could begin. This was described by John Ruskin as follows: ‘Engraving, then, is, in brief terms, the Art of Scratch. It is essentially the cutting into a solid substance for the sake of making your ideas as permanent as possible, graven with an iron pen in the Rock for ever.’231 The principle lines in the engraving were generally etched in first, a procedure already common in the eighteenth century. The print was then worked up in the final technique – line engraving, mezzotint, aquatint, etching, drypoint or a combination of these methods, as outlined in the previous chapter.232 In general the composition was developed from the ma-

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jor forms into the details. Figures were inserted into the background, their most detailed elements, such as the hands and face, usually being left to the final stage.233 This method of working is illustrated by the fact that the Scottish portrait painter Henry Raeburn was briefly able to borrow his painting for an exhibition from the stipple engraver William Walker; in the absence of the painting the engraver worked on the background to his print, intending to fill in the details once the original was available again.234 Lithography removed the need for a great deal of laborious scraping and scratching, for in many instances the lithographer could draw the image directly on the stone or simply transfer this using transfer paper. This translation of the painted or drawn original into a graphic reproduction prompted the question of to what degree the image adapter (i.e. the printmaker) should remain faithful to his own profession or should actually endeavour to suggest another technique and the hand of the original maker.235 Printmakers held varying opinions on this subject, and could be divided into two camps, those of the ‘moderate’ and those of the ‘orthodox’ persuasion. The prominent English engraver W.J. Linton applauded the former view, that the printmaker should be free in interpreting the original technique, while an advocate for the other ‘orthodox’ camp was the American engraver J.P. Davis: c

‘The more the original artist’s work appears in the engraving, unobscured by the personality of the engraver – the more “brush marks” there are and the fewer tool marks – the better is the effect produced.’236

The engraver Luigi Calamatta emphasised the fact that when he was engraving he never wished to modify or beautify details in the original.237 Printmakers from the ‘orthodox’ camp considered themselves to be entirely at the service of the original work and the original artist. This was also Philip Zilcken’s aspiration. When the man of letters Frans Netscher once reproached him for not sufficiently setting his personal stamp on his etchings, Zilcken wrote: c

‘When I read this, I wrote a letter to Netscher, in which I said, that my opinion was, that in “an interpretation” one should not show one’s “self”, but in the first place the character of the artist, after which one has worked, and finally I cited the words of Willem Smalt (in the R. Nieuwsblad), “is not a silent homage done to the designer [of the print, rv] , when

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one, looking around, forgets his name, and that of Rembrandt or Stevens, Maris or Israels and so many others hovers on the lips?”’238 Despite Zilcken’s clearly stated objective, his etched reproductions often tell another story, as his prints after Jozef Israëls will show. If engraving sometimes required years of patience, the photographer largely pinned his hopes on several minutes of clear daylight. A.-M. Perrot had already stressed the importance of having a large window in the engraver’s studio, to provide sufficient daylight; for the photographer, however, this was often not enough. Good lighting was essential for the production of a successful photographic image, and lack of this was a recurring challenge. Lighting problems probably caused Courbet difficulties when photographing his works, for he wrote: c

‘Nous avons tres occupés, ces temps-ci, à faire les photographies des Lutteurs, de La Fileuse, des Baigneuses et [de] mon portrait. Il n’y a rien de si difficile que ces opérations-là. Nous avons essayer par trois ou quatre photographes, qui n’y pouvaient rien. Mon portrait est superbe, quand j’en aurai des exemplaires je vous en enverrai ainsi que de mes tableaux.’239

When the Dutch art historian Abraham Bredius approached the director of the Rijksmuseum to inquire about the facilities for having a number of paintings photographed, he requested that the photographer be allowed to do his work on the next clear day: c

‘With this dark weather it will be quite a feat to obtain a good photograph. Which photographer do you recommend? W.A. Mottu? Or Oosterhout or Hof? – And could it be arranged thus that, for example: it is agreed that he can come on the first clear day? Should this not take place in the garden? In the building it will always go less well.’240

The business of photographing artworks was literally as changeable as the weather. In order to make optimum use of the scarce Dutch sunlight, the firms of Braun and Hanfstaengl even received permission to photograph Rembrandt’s Nightwatch in the museum garden. The Amsterdam photographer Jager also

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knew that photographing artworks outdoors would produce the best results: in 1885, when the Rijksmuseum’s paintings were due to be moved from the Trippenhuis to the new building designed by Pierre Cuypers, he pointed out to the museum’s director that the move offered a unique opportunity to photograph the works. Although his plan came to nothing, this suggestion shows the creative spirit of photographers who were always in search of suitable lighting for reproducing artworks. Only the brightest sunlight was sufficient for a convincing reproduction. Successful photographers occupied ingenious studios with plenty of sunlight. The famous French photographer Felix Nadar built a photographic studio whose facade was made almost entirely of glass, while his colleague Paul Gueuvin even removed most of his studio’s facade in order to obtain maximum light.241 After taking photographs in full sunlight the photographer retired to his dark room to develop the image, using an arsenal of chemicals. Proofs, states and false variations

Once the plate had somewhat advanced, it was time to print proofs. The choice of printer was vital in this regard. McQueen, Lemercier, Cadart and Brugman were several well-known printshops for printing engravings, lithographs or etchings. Given the printer’s influence on the final result, artists had their own particular preferences.242 In many instances, however, the printer remained an anonymous presence in the shadow of the publisher.243 Proofs were needed in order to be able to assess the progress of the plate. With the engraving technique especially, the image was easier to assess on paper than on the plate, unlike lithographs. Naturally proofs were primarily important for the printmaker, who needed to check the composition and the tonal balance between black, gray and white. Proofs were also submitted to other parties for assessment and approval. When the painter J.M.W. Turner received a proof of a reproduction for the Liber Studiorum by the printmaker William Miller (1796-1882), through his publisher F.G. Moon, he wrote to the printmaker in a letter of 22 October 1841: c

‘so now to business. It appeares to me that you have advanced so far that I do think I could now recollect sufficiently – without the Picture before me but will now point out turn over and answer your questions viz. If the sky you feel [is] right you could advance more confidently therefore do not touch the sky at present but work the rest upon to it. The distance may be

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fig. 22 W. R. Smith after Turner, Saltash, Cornwall (1827), engraving proof 16.3 x 23.3 cm, Yale Center for British Art, New Haven, Connecticut.

22

too dark, tho it wants more fine work, more character of woods down to the very campagna of Rome a bare sterile flat… much lighter in tone.’244 Turner, who was notorious for his strict supervision of printmakers’ work, continued his letter with painstaking commentary, writing optimistically: c

‘I am glad to hear you say I can have the picture after the first touched proof and that [deleted] this long letter of directions will be equal to one and you will be able to proceed with confidence-write if you feel any difficulty and believe me truly yours, J.M.W. Turner.’

Turner is just one example of an artist who meticulously checked proofs of prints after his paintings, making comments in the margin and returning the annotated print to his printmaker. [fig. 22] In his Herinneringen, Philip Zilcken described how Jacob Maris employed a similar practice: c

‘Whenever I showed a state of an etching to Jacob Maris, he immediately took charcoal and white chalk and in a minimum of time he managed to introduce repose and harmony into such a proof. I still possess several of those states, some of which have been elaborated with much love, as well as several treated in the same fashion by J. Israels. Once I had then made

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the improvements, I repaired to the artist again, until he declared, that I need do nothing more to my plate.’245 The painter Hendrik W. Mesdag likewise checked Zilcken’s etched reproductions for the album H.W. Mesdag. The Painter of the North Sea (1896), while his wife supervised the etcher’s captions.246 His French contemporary Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec also kept his finger on the pulse. An intermediary wrote to the painter’s printseller A. Arnould on his behalf: ‘Monsieur de Toulouse-Lautrec me charge de vous dire qu’il autorise à reproduire toutes les affiches que vous voudrez à condition de lui montrer les épreuves avant l’impression.’247 Any comments were then incorporated into the plate, from which another proof was sometimes printed and submitted to the painter, until he was satisfied with the result. An engraving by James Ward after the painting Lady Heathcote as Hebe (1804) by John Hoppner provides a remarkable example of a printmaker’s influence on a painter: after Ward had submitted a proof to Hoppner, the painter corrected the print, but left several details untouched, subsequently deciding to adapt his original to the reproduction, as he informed the engraver via a remark on the proof.248 Proofs were also submitted to the publisher as evidence that the reproductive process was progressing, thereby affording the publisher an opportunity to remain in control of the process. This is illustrated by the fact that printmakers were sometimes paid according to the various proofs delivered.249 The nature of the photographic reproductive process made proofs less of an option, although similar procedures were also followed. Dante Gabriel Rossetti, for example, is known to have taken great pains to have his work reproduced photographically, and to have retouched the negatives and photographs: ‘My own impression is that there is no chance of a full success with the Lady of the Window unless by the retouching process.’250 Writing with regard to photographic reproductions of his work, Whistler made clear to David Croal Thompson, Goupil’s representative: ‘However first I must see the photographs themselves.’251 The painter Anton Mauve used comparable terms in his letter of 12 July 1886 to the art dealers and print publishers Tripp & Arnold: ‘Je désire de voir les photographies d’après mes tableaux.’252 On 13 August 1903 the painter August Allebé wrote in a similar vein to H.P. Bremmer concerning reproductions of his work for the popular series Beeldende Kunst in Nederland:

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c

‘Will you permit me courteously to remind you of our agreement and your promise to publish no kind of sketches by me without my having seen the proofs, – I should also like to be consulted concerning the order.’253

During the nineteenth century there appears to have been widescale circulation of proofs, which travelled between printmakers, artists, printers and publishers. In many instances such proofs formed the linchpin in the reproductive process, particularly when this involved traditional engraving rather than lithography or photography.254 The engraved techniques were the most labour intensive and therefore the most expensive reproduction methods. Given the considerable investments associated with these techniques, supervising the progress of the reproductive process was vital. So it was fairly common practice for various artists to check the proofs of prints after their work. This is not to say that this was the case with all artists and all reproductions, although the letter sent by the painter August Allebé to the critic H.P. Bremmer, cited above, reminding Bremmer that he wished to check the reproductions carefully, may best illustrate actual practice.255 The fact that the painter took the trouble to write such a letter shows his personal interest in the reproductive process, while the fact that he needed to write it seems to indicate that he was not being involved in this. As the first products of the reproductive process, proofs were not without commercial significance, as Ernest Gambart remarked: c

‘The unfinished Proofs publishers are in the habit to canvass with, are generally only shown to the Trade with all due intimation of their unfinished state [and this is] rather a favourable circumstance than otherwise since it leaves to the imagination to fancy the wonders that are coming… When a plate is finished the illusion ceases, there is the fact, and in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred the interest abates.’256

An ‘unfinished’ print had the charm of a graphic sketch, appreciated for its own intrinsic qualities. It was precisely this unfinished, sketchy character which gave such prints an artistic and economic value completely unrelated to their function. This was also the case with the notes made by the painter in the margin of the print; although such remarques were essentially no more than instruc-

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tions to the printmaker, in practice they also acquired their own aesthetic value independent of the reproductive process. The proofs were followed by various ‘states’ of the print. At a certain point, depending on the technique, printing from the plate began to cause wear and the quality of the image deteriorated. In order to make new prints, the plate was regularly ‘worked up’ for a ‘second life’. The publishers Hodgson-Graves and the engraver Samuel Cousins, for example, agreed that Cousins would work up the plate of his print after Abercorn Children to guarantee a run of a thousand prints.257 With popular prints, it was regular practice for the plate to be regularly worked up to produce more images. The engraver Abraham Raimbach emphasised the amount of work this sometimes entailed: c

‘Very considerable and constant reparations were of course rendered necessary by the wear and tear of the plates in the process of printing, amounting in some cases to as much time probably in their execution as might have sufficed for a re-engraving of the plate.’258

Signatures

Finished reproductions were regularly signed by the painter, the printmaker or both. On completion of Kratke’s etching after Jules Breton’s L’Alouette the art dealer George A. Lucas invited both the painter and the printmaker to his home in order to sign a number of proofs.259 James McNeill Whistler signed photographs after his work, as he indicated in a letter to David Croal Thompson, who worked at Goupil’s London branch: c

‘In signing to proofs I find considerable difference in their condition – There is no doubt that the negatives have given most remarkably beautiful proofs – If you only sift them out and insist upon it you can have perfect collections. – At present some of the Carlyles are too pale-and some of the Valparaiso Crepuscules are too black – Otherwise seriously I think when they are seen they will be a success.’260

In his Herinneringen Philip Zilcken also refers to this practice of signing prints, with reference to his print after The Bridge by Jacob Maris:

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c

‘when van Wisselingh bought the “epreuves d’artiste” from this plate, [jacob maris, rv] agreed to set his signature alongside mine on 25 copies, (if I recall correctly), as proof of approval and to give a special value to these copies. These have now become rare and precious, as in our time more than ever and rightly so, great value is attached to the handwriting or signature of a renowned artist.’261

The signing of reproductions (both prints and photographs) was general practice in the nineteenth century. It is interesting that Zilcken points out two functions of the signature: as proof of the painter’s approval and to give the print a special value. The artist’s signature may be regarded as the crowning moment of the reproductive process and the artist’s involvement in this. The fact that the painter may not have made the print himself did not detract from his involvement with his brainchild. The popularity of signed prints also reflected the enormous popularity of autographs in general: trade in signed photographs, letters and reproductions flourished in the nineteenth century, particularly from the 1860s onwards. The painter John Everett Millais wondered despairingly: ‘Do they suppose I have nothing else to do than to sit and write my name all day?’262 Naturally a signature affected the price of the print, for it made a reproduction unique. It could even turn a reproduceable print or photograph into a scarce item with a higher price. The signature’s value sometimes led to abuse and deception, as Zilcken described: c

‘On one subsequent occasion, I noticed at an art dealer’s in The Hague that there were so-called “epreuves d’artiste” of my etchings, on which an apocryphal signature appeared, which drew my attention and proved counterfeit. Such artifice had been employed, that this did not immediately strike the eye, because my pencil signature had been precisely counterfeited and had not been put on the proof by me. When I inquired into the matter, it became evident that the art dealer in Amsterdam, had proceeded so cleverly, that there could be no question of prosecution. I had gone to consult one of our best and most art-loving lawyers, Mr. V., [vosmaer, rv]; he followed my information with interest, but instantly said that nothing was to done about this deception, because my signature had not of course been “registered”. If the contrary had been the case, it would have been possible to have prosecuted the art dealers immediately, for, registering

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my signature as a trademark, such as the well-known “Liebig” one, would have placed all the rights in my hands, while now I have no other recourse than to “request” the cessation of these practices. When I subsequently discussed the matter with my friend Mr. Louis Israels (a cousin of Jozef Israëls), then attached to the Bureau voor Auteursrecht [Bureau for Authorship Rights], he likewise told me, that there was nothing to be done, thereby adding “in other countries such a thing would be an im­­ possibility”.’263 The practice of forging signatures on reproductions was not an isolated abuse. In England, for example, publishers tended to print more copies from exclusive states than from later states, creating a paradoxical situation in which more prints from exclusive states were published while less exclusive states were sometimes relatively scarce. The natural relationship between states and print runs was therefore deliberately manipulated in commercial practice, within the margins set by the limitations of technology. The publisher Mary Parkes fiercely condemned these ‘fraudulent’ practices in her pamphlet Art Monopoly. Deception in the publication of engravings (1850), in which she criticised publishers for modifying the plate after lettered prints had been produced, in order to print off more copies avant la lettre.264 The actual extent of these dubious practices is hard to ascertain, as those responsible tended not to flaunt them. Various collective measures were taken in an attempt to combat fraud in the print world. Competitors or not, publishers and printsellers had a common interest in the legitimate distribution of reproductions. In 1847 a number of leading publishers founded the Printsellers’ Association, in order to protect the print trade in England. The aim of the organisation was: c

‘to ascertain and record the number of proof impressions of each grade, taken from plates of Steel, Copper or other materials, engraved, etched or otherwise prepared for the purpose of Printing or otherwise reproducing Pictures, Drawings, and other works of art.’265

Members of the association – ‘Publishers of Prints, Printsellers, Artists, Engravers, and Printers of Steel, Copper and other plates, and other, who in the opinion of the Committee are connected with the Print trade (but no other persons)’ – were expected to register prints for publication, specifying the subject, the

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name of the painter, the name of the engraver, the format and the style of engraving.266 Also registered were the numbers to be published, classified according to the four recognised states: Artist’s Proofs, Proofs before Letters, Lettered Proofs and Prints.267 The association was the print trade’s own initiative, aimed at self-regulation, and as such resembles the guild structures of previous eras. The organisation rapidly evolved into the fulcrum of the printworld in Victorian England, where it was used by all the leading printsellers and publishers. In 1894 there were 126 publishers affiliated to the association.268 The organisation’s growing influence soon prompted criticism of the powerful monopoly position enjoyed by the new ‘publishers’ guild’. The publisher Mary Parkes, for example, cited above, was highly critical of the Printsellers’ Association, and particularly disapproved of the permission required from the association for any print publication: c

‘This is, in fact, tantamount to an imperial decree that nobody shall buy and nobody shall sell without permission of the Printsellers’ Association, which is in its way a democracy of absolutism, for its numbers only increase the amount of its dictation, while its tyranny is crushing over all whom it can bring under its way.’269

Her irritation focused on her many colleagues for complying with the association’s stipulations without demur. An exception was the headstrong Ernest Gambart, who was not afraid to confront the organisation.270 The primary aim of the Printsellers’ Association was to protect the English printworld, by overseeing the production and distribution of prints by English and foreign publishers. On the European continent there were also structures for controlling print publishing. These included private trade organisations, such as the Nederlandse Vereniging ter bevordering van de belangen des Boekhandels [Dutch Association for the Promotion of Booksellers’ Interests], which fostered self-regulation, and more public bodies responsible for supervising print publishing and the print trade, such as the Dépôt légal for registering new publications, books and print, established in France in 1852. The objective of such organisations was everywhere the same: to regulate and protect the market for publishing and selling prints.

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The firm of Goupil: a producer of reproductions

It is virtually impossible to gain a comprehensive view of the total range and volume of reproductions produced during the nineteenth century. We can obtain some idea, however, by briefly considering the production of an internationally prominent firm, Goupil, the French art dealers and publishers. [fig. 23] Once a reproduction had been completed, it was entered into the firm’s stock list. Over time this list steadily expanded; during the final decades of the nineteenth century the firm even published entire books with comprehensive lists of all the publications available at that moment.271 Complete reconstruction of the Goupil stock greatly exceeds the scope of this study: a few general characteristics will suffice here.272 The Goupil stock list for 1878 is prefaced by the statement that of course the firm’s stock consisted of prints registered with the Dépòt légal: c

‘Le dépòt légal, exigé par le dècret-loi du 17 février 1852, a été fait pour toutes les publications figurant dans ce catalogue, et en conséquence, la vente en a été autorisée pour toute la France par le Ministère de l’Intérieur.’273

This formal reference to the Dépòt légal is not without significance, and should be interpreted against the background of large-scale fraudulent practices in the fig. 23 Boussod, Valadon & Cie Branche (before Goupil & Cie) in 1898 in The Hague.

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fig. 24 After Henry Scheffer, Marie et Marthe, Woodburytype Goupil ‘Carte Album’ 10.6 x 9.1 cm, Woodburytype, Musée Goupil, Bordeaux.

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nineteenth-century print trade. This statement gave anyone who used the stock list, be they private individuals or dealers, the guarantee of doing business with a bona fide firm, which was only involved in the legal production and distribution of prints. To bring some order into the enormous range of prints, the Goupil stock list for 1878 was divided into three sections according to the three primary techniques: engraving, lithography and photography. The engraving section comprised line engravings, etchings, aquatints, mezzotints and photogravures respectively. The inclusion of photogravure, a photomechanical technique, in the category of engraving, rather than photography, is curious and is discussed further below. The total number of engravings in the 1878 stock list was 982 titles, approximately twelve per cent of the entire stock. The number of titles in the li-

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thography section totalled 2,161, or approximately twenty-seven per cent of the stock. However, the Goupil stock list in this period seems to be dominated by photographic reproductions, with 4,897 titles representing approximately sixty-one per cent of the total stock. The photography section comprised various photographic series, Galerie Photographique, Musée Goupil, Cartes Album and Cartes de Visite. [fig. 24] Such series had featured in the Goupil stock list from 1860 onwards and were regularly expanded with new variations.274 Although the ratio between the total number of engravings, lithographs and photographs was roughly 1:2:4, this was the ratio between the total number of titles. Per title various states and variations of engravings, aquatints, mezzotints en lithographs were published, as previously described, including states designated ‘epreuve d’artiste’, ‘avant la lettre’ and ‘après la lettre’, prints on varying kinds of paper and sometimes even prints in colour. With photography only one version of an image was usually published.275 So when the various versions of graphic works are brought into the equation, the ratio between the different kinds of reproduction in the Goupil stock is very different: the total number of engravings amounts to thirty-seven per cent of the stock, lithographs twenty-five per cent and photographs approximately thirty-eight per cent. From this perspective, the various techniques’ share in the stock list is less divergent. The Goupil stock list presented potential buyers with a wide variety of subjects, ranging from historical, religious, mythological or military scenes to countless portraits, genre works, animal pictures, landscapes, urban views, vehicles, costumes and ornamental prints.276 Although the works were roughly arranged according to subject, not every type was specified. In the engravings section, for example, history pieces, genre pieces and portraits were amalgamated in a single category, while photographic reproductions were not subdivided into subject at all. Even a cursory examination of the stock list reveals the dominance of genre art, followed at some distance by religious subjects. Given the general popularity of genre paintings, a popularity also evident at exhibitions and in illustrated magazines, this predominance is hardly surprising. The many prints of portraits, history pieces and military subjects display a similar pattern. However, the modest number of landscapes in the stock list is more remarkable, as this category of paintings was also extremely popular, yet not widely available from Goupil in reproduction form. Only close examination of the stock list reveals a few works by the Barbizon School, amongst many sentimental and religious genre pieces.

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An interesting facet of the classification employed in the stock list is that this not only offers an overall view of the works sold by Goupil, but also reflects implicit hierarchical relationships. Thus the ordering of techniques in the list largely corresponds with the late-eighteenth century hierarchy of techniques, in which line engraving was considered superior to techniques such as the aquatint and mezzotint. Even the development of lithography and photography in the nineteenth century had not managed to erase this hierarchy entirely. It is indicative of photogravure’s status that this photomechanical technique was deemed to be more closely affiliated with engraving techniques than photographic ones. In a similar vein the prescriptive ordering of subjects continued to echo through the Goupil stock list, which largely adhered to the traditional hierarchy of genres within the ordering of prints by technique, successively listing history pictures, genre pictures, portraits, animal pictures and still lifes. It is known that these prescriptive hierarchies (of technique and subject) gradually fell out of use during the course of the nineteenth century, when such theoretical art systems lost their meaning, both at traditional academies and Salon exhibitions. So it is remarkable that such notions were still being employed by a modern, commercial print firm as late as the eve of the twentieth century. The structure of Goupil’s stock list thus displays an interesting combination of a functional layout with a traditional, prescriptive ordering of prints and paintings. For the most part Goupil’s stock consisted of reproductions, with original graphic works playing a virtually negligible role. Amongst the exceptions was the print series La Hollande with six etchings of landscapes by the Dutch etcher C.N. Storm van Gravensande (1841-1924). Surveying the stock list of reproductions with an eye to the originators, the artists responsible for the original works, even a cursory examination reveals that Goupil’s stock was dominated by nineteenth-century artists: old masters are sparingly represented and account for barely five per cent of the total. Where old masters are present, the tone is set by the ever-famous Raphael, although even he cannot compete with the range of work by popular nineteenth-century masters such as Paul Délaroche, Horace Vernet, Ary Scheffer, Jean-Leon Gérôme, Constant Brochart, François Compte-Calix and William Adolphe Bouguereau. In the ample selection of genre pieces, it is mainly genre painters from the juste milieu who dominate, in all three sections, engravings, lithographs and photographs. Work by realists such as Camille Corot, Gustave Courbet, Charles-François Daubigny or

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Jean- François Millet are not to be found in the Goupil ‘canon’, which had not been penetrated by the impressionists either in the late 1870s. Another striking feature of the Goupil stock list is that contemporary art is dominated by French painters, while artists from other countries are manifestly rare. Conspicuous absentees are popular Victorian artists such as David Wilkie, Willian Powell Frith or Edward Landseer. Neither does the stock list mention any reproductions by Pre-Raphaelites, although the firm of Goupil does appear to have sold diverse reproductions by the popular German artist Franz Xavier Winterhalter and several works by Hendrik W. Mesdag, Jozef Israëls, Henriëtte Ronner and Johannes Bosboom. The dominance of French masters is also evident in the names of the printmakers, where the tone of Goupil stock is mainly set by the master engraver Louis-Pierre Henriquel-Dupont and his pupils. The very first print in the stock list, Henriquel-Dupont’s own engraving after L’Hemicycle du Palais des Beaux-Arts by Paul Délaroche, is possibly symbolic. This is followed by works by various pupils of the master, such as the brothers Alphonse and Jules Francois, Jules Levasseur, Jules and Achille Jacquet (1846-1908), and Pierre Rousseau (1812-1867).277 Other engravers with a number of prints to their name include Auguste Blanchard (1819-1898), Z. Prévost, Jean Jazet (1788-1871) and the etcher Paul Rajon (1843-1888). Productive lithographers in Goupil’s stock are E. Lassalle, Alophe, and Léon Noël. Amongst the many French printmakers are several of their foreign counterparts, such as the Belgian Leopold Flameng (1831-1911), the German Joseph Keller (1811-1873) and the Italian Paolo Mercuri (1804-1884). English printmakers, however, are largely absent. We do not know who produced the many photographs in the stock list, for the photographers remain anonymous, although we do know that the well-known photographer Robert Bingham took a number of photos for Goupil. It is possible that the photographs in the various series were mainly produced by unknown employees at Goupil’s photographic workshop in Asnières. Goupil’s art reproductions appeared in various published forms, from single prints to prestigious albums. By far the largest number could be obtained as autonomous images – an engraving, a lithograph or a photo, or possibly a state or a variation of this image. Nevertheless, the many independent prints were far from being random, isolated publications. Many titles in the stock list are grouped as pendants.278 These are related prints after paintings by the same

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original painter, or prints with a related subject. Some prints are listed as triptychs, or in even longer series of associated titles. It is only a small step from a series of related prints to a series bound in an album, so the Goupil stock also included diverse albums with reproductions of subjects such as sculptures in the Louvre, paintings in the new Opera House, picturesque landscapes and modern art.279 There were also special albums devoted to Salon exhibitions, produced by Goupil to commemorate the highpoints once an exhibition had closed. Although such albums were associated with a specific year, they do not appear to have dated quickly: albums for the Salon exhibition of 1873, for example, continued to appear in Goupil’s stock lists until well into the 1880s. The firm also published monographic albums devoted to the work of a single artist, such as Jean-Leon Gérôme, Paul Délaroche, Ary Scheffer, Mariano Fortuny and Gustave Doré. And just as various versions of a single print were available, so it was often possible to obtain albums in various finishes.280 Goupil published a range of albums associated with the Salon exhibitions, from plain and simple works to stylish, beautifully executed volumes; the firm had built up a name as a purveyor of what were known as ‘deluxe albums’. Philip Zilcken also noted this when he planned to publish a series of his etched reproductions after Jacob Maris as a deluxe edition for Goupil: c

‘During that winter [1888, rv] I carried on finishing a series of twelve etchings after landscapes by Jacob Maris, a de luxe portfolio, which was being published by the house of Goupil in London. […] As evidence of the difficulties which stand in the way of a young artist at the beginning of his career, I must add here that, for the original publication of these etchings in portifolio, I had to part with the not inconsiderable sum of 70 per cent, while I had to bear all the costs. Regarding this it was suggested that I should be happy, that such an important firm was distributing my work over the world, something which can only do good to my name.’281

The different kinds of reproduction varied greatly in price. Henriquel-Dupont’s engraving after L’Hemicycle by Paul Délaroche cost 150 francs when printed ‘lettered’ on ordinary paper, 200 francs when ‘lettered’ on Chinese paper and 800 francs ‘before the letter’. Prints in the most exclusive épreuves d’art state were as much as 1,000 francs, although this was an exceptional print that may be regarded as the flagship of Goupil’s stock. As a rule the price for an engraving var-

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fig. 25 Paul Rajon after Jean-Léon Gérôme, Un duel après le bal (1869), etching 15.8 x 23 cm, Musée

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Goupil, Bordeaux.

ied from around fifteen francs for ordinary ‘lettered’ prints to between 100 to 200 francs for the most expensive épreuve d’art state. Lithographs belonged in a cheaper class with prices varying between five and thirty francs. Photographic reproductions were even cheaper. While photogravures were relatively expensive, with prices ranging between ten to forty francs, countless photographs from the varying series were available for between one to ten francs. Much more expensive than autonomous images, of course, were Goupil’s range of albums, at prices varying from 100 to 400 francs, with Décorations du Foyer du Nouvel Opéra de Paul Baudry (an album with twenty-four large-format photographs), costing no less than 1,500 francs.282 It should be emphasised, however, that these are only rough indications. The price for a print mainly depended on the format, the technique, the engraver, the painter, the subject and other such factors. A striking feature of the stock list is the diversity of reproductions which also translates into a diversity of prices. Roughly speaking, Goupil’s reproductions ranged in price from 1 to 1,000 francs, and thus targeted both individuals with a limited budget and the well-to-do. The most popular paintings could be supplied in every price class: L’Hemicycle by Paul Délaroche, mentioned above, was available as an engraving (Épreuves d’art) for 1,000 francs and a photograph for 20 francs; a reproduction of Délaroche’s painting Martyre Chrétienne could be purchased in the form of an engraving in various states, an aquatint and a pho-

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tograph. Goupil even published fifteen different reproductions of Gérome’s Un duel après le bal.283 [fig. 25] All in all the stock held by the firm of Goupil largely consisted of art reproductions of mainly French contemporary art, interpreted by French printmakers and photographers. Although this predominantly French tone might seem self-evident in a French firm, based in Paris, it is less so when we remember that Goupil, more than any other firm of art dealers, operated on an international scale, with branches in cities such as London, Vienna, Brussels, The Hague and New York. In this light Goupil’s overwhelmingly French stock seems curious. An explanation for the firm’s French orientation can be sought, however, in the collaborative nature of the international print trade. Like many other firms, Goupil belonged to an international network of publishers, in which English firms mainly distributed English prints, Dutch firms Dutch prints and Goupil thus French prints. So the French character of Goupil’s stock could be a result of the firm’s extreme specialisation in the international print publishing world.

From original to reproduction The production of art reproductions in the nineteenth century offers fascinating glimpses of intriguing legal problems, ingenious reproduction techniques, critical artists, commercial publishers and an endless stream of reproductions in diverse forms, sold at diverse prices. This chapter has endeavoured to use the first three phases in the lifecycle of a reproduction – initiating the reproduction, organising the reproduction and producing the reproduction – to consider these aspects in association, within the historical context of the nineteenth century. In many respects this period forms an exceptional episode in the history of art reproduction, and was characterised by two fundamental changes in the production of reproductions, which largely occurred in this period. In the first place there was an important change in the field of intellectual property. In Europe and the United States the traditional privilege system was definitively transformed into the modern system of authorship rights. Henceforth the maker, author or originator’s personal and intellectual connection with his work would form the anchor for the new system. The author or originator, rather than the publisher, acquired an increasingly central position in the system of legal protection. This legal emancipation of the artist through au-

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thorship rights brought about major changes. In the first place, the new system turned the legal relationship between the government and the individual originator ‘upside down’, as it were. Where Rubens in the seventeenth century had been required to ask the state for permission to be allowed to publish prints after his own work, during the nineteenth century the state was increasingly obliged to guarantee the artist’s rights. Moreover the advent of authorship rights led to tensions in the sphere of property law. The property rights of the collector, for example, were subject to increasing pressure from authorship rights, not only in the form of reproduction rights but also through exhibition rights. However, the most important change in authorship rights during the nineteenth century was the ‘legalisation’ of art itself. The artwork as an object was increasingly transformed into an abstract collection of different rights, which could function independently of each other in the art world. The property rights could be sold to a collector, while the reproduction rights could be sold to a publisher. The exhibition rights to a painting were similarly independent. Thanks to these different rights it was now possible to exploit artworks in a way that had not previously been the case. Of course the sale of paintings still generated a great deal of money. What was new were the expanding opportunities offered by these independent rights to earn money without selling a work, in various circuits for the reproduction, exhibition and collection of artworks. In the second place, there was an important shift from graphic to photographic reproduction techniques, as outlined in the previous chapter. As a result reproductions were produced in many different ways, ranging from traditional manual methods to modern mechanical techniques. In the field of manual reproduction, painters, printmakers and publishers continued to rely on centuries-old graphic traditions and still referred to Abraham Bosse’s seventeenth-century handbook.284 At the same time various photographers were experimenting with the latest chemical discoveries to produce their reproductions. While an engraver could spend several years making his printing matrix, a photographer only needed one sunny afternoon. In the manual techniques proofs played an important role, for they allowed the printmaker, painter and publisher an opportunity to check and correct the reproductive process. Moreover, proofs were commercially profitable in the production of various states and variations. Together, the manual and mechanical techniques generated an enormous range of reproductions. Goupil alone sold a huge diversity of reproductions, featuring varying subjects, in varying techniques and formats, at varying

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prices. The production of reproductions was thus greater in volume and diversity than ever before. Although these changes gouged deep trails through the landscape of nineteenth-century art reproduction, they should be viewed in their proper perspective. The processes outlined above can be observed in England, France and the Netherlands, but varied in character according to time and place. Moreover, some profound changes occurred within a relatively small, closed environment. The shift from graphic to photographic art reproduction, for example, may have been a sweeping change, but it was a change which largely occurred at the level of the small-scale workshop or studio, rather than that of the factory.285 Many reproductions continued to be made using methods from the seventeenth or eighteenth centuries.286 Engraving the plate, making proofs, correcting proofs and publishing the image in various print states are only a few of the elements entailed in the reproductive process, which formed part of a centuries-old tradition of printmaking that continued deep into the nineteenth century.287 Turner and Whistler’s critical supervision of the reproductive process readily recalls that of Joshua Reynolds or Rubens. Moreover, the continued use of traditional reproduction techniques meant that the print runs for independent reproductions remained modest for many years, ranging from a few hundred copies to a few thousand at most. However, one crucial element in the field of art reproduction remained unchanged, even during the nineteenth century: the reproduction of artworks continued to be a task for specialists. Even the development of photography did not change this. The extensive production of art reproductions created a huge and diverse range of works, ready for distribution to the nineteenth-century public. The following chapter will consider the next two stages in the lifecycle of a reproduction: its distribution and reception. Where did reproductions end up, who was interested in acquiring such works, and how were they received?

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chapter 4

For Connoisseurs and Amateurs

Publication

‘Were the two plates done, we must next think of their publication’, the painter David Wilkie wrote on 12 September 1827 to his brother Thomas.1 It was essential to reach the public in order for a reproduction to be a success.2 The extensive networks established by printsellers and publishing houses ensured that reproductions were distributed on a considerable scale to all corners of society. This chapter follows the final two phases in the life of the reproduction: its distribution and reception.

The distribution of a reproduction Publicity

Prior to distribution it was important to bring completed prints to the public’s attention. Entrepreneurs in the graphic world used various ways to inform the public about their new publications. Art criticism was a primary instrument for publicising reproductions, as it was for many other art forms. Many journals had a regular section which discussed new publications, ranging from novels

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fig. 26 Anonymous after detail of Paul Délaroche, Lady Jane Gray (1859), litho­ graphy 62.5 x 49 cm, Musée Goupil, Bordeaux.

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and poetry collections to engravings, lithographs or photographs of artworks. In extensive reviews of varying length, critics discussed the original work, its subject and the specific technique employed in the reproductive print. Their observations offer an interesting insight into how reproductions were viewed and will be discussed further below. At this point it is important to be aware that such reviews were an important instrument for publicity when publishing new reproductions. It mattered a great deal to publishers that their prints were discussed and preferably judged as favourably as possible. We know from the world of literature and visual art that publishers and art dealers often enjoyed close contacts with art critics. Similar relationships seem to have existed with regard to art reproduction. Journals were inevitably interested in the latest publications, while publishers could gain significantly from favourable reviews of their new prints in widely circulated journals. The publisher Ernest Gambart is

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known to have regularly sent reproductions to The Art Journal in order to have these reviewed.3 The artist John Everett Millais also noticed a connection between a particular publisher of reproductions and the world of art criticism: ‘curiously enough, whenever an engraving comes out from his firm there is always a favourable article in the papers.’4 The broad stream of new reproductions generated a considerable collection of reviews. In 1852 the wealth of prints after the work of Edwin Landseer caused an anonymous critic to sigh in The Art Journal: ‘It is almost impossible to write anything new respecting to the engravings after Landseer.’5 Publishers regularly advertised new publications at an early stage in their production, by distributing prints showing details from the picture. In France in particular this was a common way to offer the public an initial impression of a future publication. Ernest Gambart became one of the first publishers in England to use this method when he published parts of his print after William Powell Frith’s The Derby Day.6 There were various advantages to this piecemeal publication of prints. Details provided an impression of the future print at an early stage in the reproductive process. A print could easily take a year or longer to produce, particularly in the case of traditional engravings. So ‘detail prints’ could provide publicity and a first opportunity to earn back investments. The details were also carefully chosen to give the ‘detail print’ its own particular charm, making this both an advertisement for the completed work and an addition to the range of prints on offer. [fig. 26] Once the new print had been published, this could be followed by a pendant, a series of prints or even an entire album.7 A tried and tested method for generating publicity was the commercial exhibition of the original painting, sometimes in combination with the reproduction. It was a practice already employed in the eighteenth century by the publisher John Boydell, who organised exhibitions of the original work together with its reproductions, so that ‘the public may judge how far he has succeeded in his Endeavors to improve the Arts of Engraving’.8 In Boydell’s wake a number of nineteenth-century art dealers organised similar exhibitions of an original work to launch its reproduction. Although we still know little about this particular exhibition culture, it must have been fairly widespread, for The Art Journal wrote in 1858: ‘This practice of introducing an engraving by exhibiting the picture of which it is the popular translation is becoming general, as well in our provincial cities and towns as in the metropolis’.9 Once again it was the print-

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seller and publisher Ernest Gambart who regularly organised exhibitions with an eye to selling reproductions. A well-known example is The Light of the World by Holman Hunt, which spent eighteen months touring England and the Channel Islands. Gambart even sent Frith’s Derby Day to Australia.10 Naturally such tours were highly commercial in their intention. Once curious visitors had secured admission and admired an original work, they were then able to purchase various reproductions of this. [fig. 27] The great success enjoyed by The Light of the World prompted Gambart’s decision to have a new, small-format print of the painting made by the engraver William Ridgeway.11 In 1905 a replica of The Light of the World left England for a lengthy tour of Canada, Australia, New Zealand and South Africa, accompanied by reproductions.12 The publishing and exhibition of artworks thus went hand in hand and sometimes even seemed synonymous. The engraver John Landseer, for example, regarded the exhibition of work as a form of publishing, while the critic P.G. Hamerton described artists’ greatest preoccupation as: ‘How are they to publish their pictures.’13 Finally, another way to obtain publicity was to organise the public destruction of a printing plate. Once a plate had been destroyed, no more prints could be made from it.14 This was an act that deliberately negated a defining characteristic of graphic works, their ability to be reproduced, in order to guarantee the exclusive nature of the existing impression. A principle much applied to reproductions, it was also found to be effective with original graphic works: for example, the concept of l’estampe original inspired Semour Haden and other etchers to destroy their plates. Whistler aptly declared: ‘To destroy is to remain.’15 Destruction of the plate also opened the way for new prints. Once Ernest Gambart had deliberately destroyed the original plate after the renowned painting The Horse Fair (1853) by Rosa Bonheur, a new, smaller-format print of the work was published.16 The deliberate destruction of valuable plates constituted a commercial show of strength which only strong and wealthy companies could afford. The only form of publicity available to most publishers and printsellers was to peg up a new print on the washing line in their shop window, in the hope it would catch the attention of passing trade. Networks for distribution

The painter David Wilkie sometimes set out to sell reproductions of his work. During his stay in Paris he noted in his journal entry for 23 June 1814: ‘Called on a printseller of the name of Delpech, […] whom I requested to call upon me to-

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fig. 27 William Ridgway after Holman Hunt, The Light of the World (1863), engraving 30.5 x 15.3 cm, The Maas Gallery, London.

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morrow at 10 o’clock to see the print of The Village Politicians.’17 He subsequently wrote on 2 July: c’[...]

I had this morning taken to M. Delpech two prints and one proof of The Village Politicians, to put in his windows, he called me this morning to give me a receipt of the prints. He told me that a number of people had been looking at the prints, and that some English people had told him of the prints of Blindman’s Buff they had seen in London.’18

When Wilkie was in Amsterdam, he visited the firm of Buffa in Kalverstraat, reporting on his visit to his engraver Abraham Raimbach: c

‘Mynheer Buffa, an Italian printseller long established in that city, was the most respectable person in that line in the whole country. I accordingly called upon him, and found both himself and his son, to all appearance very respectable in point of stability and connexion in their trade, and very willing to do what they could for our concern. They showed me impressions both of The Politicians and The Blind Fiddler which they had had from the Boydells, whom they talked of as very old acquaintances in the way of business. They told me they would rather not give me an order for the Politicians, as it would be better for them to have it with The Fiddler of Boydell; they would subscribe for half a dozen prints and one proof of The Rent Day, on the terms which I offered, and at their request I left the etching and one of the proofs of the Politicians; the former to be shown by way of gaining suscribers, and the latter to be accounted for to us. The terms of payment I also arranged with them, and will explain when I see you.’19

Thus the painter Wilkie personally applied himself to the task of distributing and selling reproductions after his work.20 The distribution of reproductions was effected through an ingenious network of printsellers, booksellers and publishers. In A New Introduction to Bibliography Philip Gaskell identifed the tripartite structure of publisher-wholesaler, printer and bookseller as the determining parties in the distribution of books in the nineteenth century.21 We can recognise the same structure in the distribution of prints. The publisher was the central figure who prescribed the distri-

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bution of prints to dealers and sellers. As previously observed, the role of publisher was not always an exclusive activity, for publishers could also function as dealers and sellers of prints, books and paintings, and sometimes ran a gallery for exhibitions and auctions. Print publishers thus developed a range of activities connected with the production and distribution of prints, supplying booksellers and printsellers with the latest publications which they often sold themselves in their retail capacity. Thanks to the growth of the international print trade in the second quarter of the nineteenth century, print publishers and art dealers increasingly opened branches in other cities. During the 1840s new forms of transport and communication, such as steam trains and postal and telegraph services, increasingly allowed firms and their branches, at home and abroad, to participate in print publishing and dealing at an international level. In the early 1840s, for example, Goupil sent its young representative Ernest Gambart to London to conquer the English market.22 The firm also had contacts with the London-based publishers Ackerman & Co, and Hering & Remington, and Sachse in Berlin. In 1852 Goupil opened a branch in Berlin, followed several years later by a branch in London (1857). Goupil subsequently purchased the firm owned by Vincent van Gogh (also known as Uncle ‘Cent’) and converted this into its branch in The Hague (1861); further branches followed in Brussels and Vienna.23 The brothers Vincent and Theo van Gogh both worked at various branches of Goupil: Vincent began his career at Goupil’s branch in The Hague, then transferred to the firm’s London establishment where he was employed between 1873 and 1875. From here he wrote to his brother – and colleague – Theo, inquiring about the sale of certain new prints at Goupil’s branch in The Hague: c

‘How go the nouveautés in Holland? Here there is literally nothing to be done with the ordinary engravings after Brochart & co. The good burin engravings we’re selling rather well, among the things we’ve already sold are +/- 20 epr. d’artiste of the Venus Anadryomene after Ingres. But it is a delight to see how the photogravures are being sold, particularly the coloured ones, & there’s a fine profit on those.’24

After his time in London the firm transferred Vincent to its Paris establishment where his career with Goupil came to an end in April 1876. Several years later, in November 1879, Theo was also appointed to the firm’s Paris establishment.

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Publishers’ activities were not confined to Europe. The development of propeller-driven steamships during the 1840s considerably simplified seaborne transport, as this no longer depended on the wind. Henceforth the American market could also be accessed by the print trade. Goupil was one of the first companies to undertake the conquest of the New World. In 1846 Michael Knoedler crossed the Atlantic Ocean on behalf of the firm, in search of new markets for prints, in particular reproductions. In 1848, after two years of preparatory research, he opened a branch of Goupil in New York for ‘the promotion of the taste for the fine arts in the United States of America’.25 The firm initially operated there on a wholesale basis, as attested by an advertisement in a local newspaper of 12 February 1848: c

‘Goupil & Vibert & co., Printpublishers in Paris, having established a branch of their business in this city, beg to call the attention of the Trade to their extensive assortment of French, English, German, and Italian engravings and lithographs. (The Trade only supplied).’26

The company both stimulated American interest in European art and introduced prints by American artists to the European market. In 1857 Knoedler bought himself out of Goupil and subsequently became a renowned dealer in prints, and later also in paintings, under his own name.27 In Goupil’s wake other firms tried their luck in America, from the 1850s onwards: Colnaghi and Gambart, for example, regularly travelled there on business.28 American dealers also began coming to Europe to buy prints, the best known of these being George Lucas and Samuel Avery, who were often to be found on transatlantic steamers.29 Technological developments in transport and communications advanced so rapidly that in 1856, De Gids even ventured to suggest that the traditional trade in prints and photographs would soon become obsolete, predicting that, in the foreseeable future, it should become possible to send photographs at lightning speed: ‘Or might it remain impossible to transfer the photographic portrait through the electro-magnetic telegraph?’30 When firms distributed reproductions they relied in the first instance on the resources of their own ‘imperium’. Correspondence between Vincent and Theo van Gogh gives us an insight into how close the ties were between Goupil’s establishments in London and Paris. We may assume that there was intensive in-

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ternal traffic in prints and photographs between the firm’s various branches. Publishers also worked with other firms on a regular basis when distributing their publications.31 Michael Knoedler, for example, continued to look after Goupil’s interests in New York after he had bought himself out of the firm; he also did business with Ernest Gambart.32 The art dealer George Lucas regularly reported in his journal on the work he had done for other firms. In both London and Paris a range of companies collaborated on various fronts:33 prints ordered from one firm could often be collected from another.34 Moreover, firms sometimes embarked on joint publications, with each firm being responsible for the print’s distribution in its own country. All this seems to show that there was not only competition between the various entrepreneurs, there was also some degree of collaboration and perhaps even cartel forming. Such instances of cooperation between firms raise a number of questions. What authority did one dealer have when acting on behalf of colleagues? The interaction between competition and cartel forming seems an important factor in the print and art market. In historico-economic research, however, insufficient attention appears to have been paid to competition and cartel forming, as the economist E.J. Fisher has observed.35 Moreover, market relations in the nineteenth-century art sector remain largely unclear in this regard. However, an extensive international print trade does seem to have existed from as early as the 1840s, thanks to the international network of publishers.36 In 1850 The Art Journal even feared that the flood of prints from abroad would threaten the continued existences of England’s own print culture.37 Circa 1900, however, the Dutch art dealer J.M. Schalekamp declared that he was mainly targeting the foreign market with expensive reproductions, as the Dutch market was too small.38 Reproductions were distributed widely and sometimes ended up in the most exotic locations, as the son of the artist John Everett Millais observed in connection with prints after well-known works by his father: c

‘Considering the vast number of cheap, and generally excellent prints of Millais’ works that have passed into the hands of people of all nations, it is not surprising to hear some of the most popular have found their way into places where one would least expect to come across them; “Cherry Ripe”, for instance, in a Tartar’s hut, and “Cinderella” (gorgeously framed) in the house of a Samoan chief. “The North-West Passage” I met myself in the remote wilds of South Africa. I had been shooting springbuck on the Great

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Karroo, when a tropical thunderstorm compelled me to gallop off to the nearest shelter – a hut of a Hottentot shepherd, some miles away – and there before me hung a gaudy German Oleograph of this picture nailed to the mud walls – the only adornment of the place. Anywhere else I should have been disposed to laugh at it as a ludicrous travesty of the original; but here it seemed like the face of an old friend bidding me welcome in the wilderness.’39 According to Millais junior, his father received countless letters from fans all over the works, expressing thanks and admiration for the reproductions of his work.40 In the shadow of ‘multinationals’ such as Goupil and Colnaghi, with their networks for large-scale international distribution, there were numerous regional and local publishers operating on a considerably more humble scale. Some engravers still made prints on their own initiative and sold these door-todoor; many modest photographic studios faced the same challenges with their reproductions.41 In fact, little had changed in the world of small-scale publishing since the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. Alongside all these commercial enterprises, societies of artists and museums also circulated reproductions.42 Neither should the small-scale, informal distribution of reproductions by artists be forgotten: David Wilkie was certainly not the only artist who sold his own reproductions, while it appears to have been fairly common practice for artists to distribute reproductions amongst their friends and acquaintances. So reproductions were not only a source of income, they were also a tool for building up and expanding an artist’s own personal networks, as will be seen in the chapters on Ary Scheffer, Lawrence Alma-Tadema and Jozef Israëls. Van Gogh mailed lithographs of his Potato Eaters to his brother Theo to distribute in Paris art circles; he also sent prints to the influential art dealer E.J. van Wisselingh in Amsterdam, and used small-format photographs of his work to ‘strike up some connections in another way than through words’.43 Thus artists made their own informal contribution to the distribution of reproductions.44 To summarise: during the nineteenth century the distribution of reproductions was effected via a close-knit, international network in which the efforts of individual entrepreneurs linked continents, countries, cities and villages. In Van Gogh’s career we can identify the extremes of nineteenth-century print distri-

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bution: on the one hand he was involved at various branches of Goupil in the mass production and international distribution of reproductions, on the other hand, later in life, he applied himself, on a more modest scale, to the task of making reproductions of his work (or having these made) and personally despatching these. While major enterprises such as Goupil and Gambart despatched reproductions from London and Paris to America, Australia and New Zealand, individual printmakers and photographers hoped to sell a few prints to casual passersby.

Intermezzo: art reproduction in illustrated periodicals The nineteenth century saw the emergence of many new kinds of publication that incorporated reproductions, such as almanacs, illustrated sale and exhibitions catalogues and illustrated (art) journals. These new publications made an important contribution to the production and distribution of reproductions. As with reproductions in their traditional, independent form, the life of the reproduction in these new publications can be roughly divided into the same five phases: initiative, organisation, production, distribution and reception. However, to simply include these publications in the general five-phase framework would not do justice to the changes which these brought about in the production and distribution of reproductions. The most striking development was the rise of the illustrated (art) journal, which emerged as a new medium and rich source of art reproductions simultaneously throughout Europe within a short period.45 Although the illustrated periodical was a nineteenth-century invention, the phenomenon as such had existed for quite some time. In his study De barometer van de smaak. Tijdschriften in Nederland 1770-1830, G.J. Johannes identifies two parallel developments that occurred in the periodical market in various European countries during the course of the eighteenth century: an explosive growth in the total number of periodicals, caused by a substantial increase in titles and print runs, on the one hand, and a rise in diversity on the other, with publications ranging from magazines concerned with general news and commentary, amusement, satire, academic subjects or the theatre, to highly specialised trade and professional journals.46

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The Penny Magazine (1832-1845) set the tone for the development of the illustrated periodical in the nineteenth century. An early example of these publications, its contents and function would prove exemplary. The magazine soon enjoyed success in England and abroad, both in terms of quality and quantity, thereby establishing the most common ‘format’ for illustrated periodicals. In Europe The Penny Magazine was translated – sometimes literally – into all kinds of variations on the format. Alongside this type of general, cultural magazine there were numerous specialised periodicals with illustrations: in the field of art and culture, for example, there were illustrated art journals such as L’Artiste, The Art Journal and De Kunstkronijk. For many decades these publications informed their readers about art in words and images, using countless reproductions. Thus the illustrated periodical made an important contribution to the production and distribution of art reproductions in the nineteenth century, a contribution supplemented by the many illustrations in almanacs, exhibition catalogues, auction catalogues, museum catalogues and other deluxe albums. The Penny Magazine

The Penny Magazine was founded in 1832 at the behest of the Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge (founded in 1826), in collaboration with the wellknown publisher Charles Knight (1791-1873). The publisher set out the purpose of the magazine in an explanatory preface: c

‘The subjects which have uniformly been treated have been of the broadest and simplest character. Striking points of Natural History – Accounts of the great Works of Art in Sculpture and Painting – Descriptions of such Antiquities as possess historical interest – Personal Narratives of Travellers – Biographies of Men who have had a permanent influence on the condition of the world – Elementary Principles of Language and Numbers – established facts in Statistics and Political Economy – these have supplied the materials for exciting the curiosity of a million readers. This consideration furnishes the most convincing answer to the few (if any there now remain) who assert that General Education is an evil. The people will not abuse the power they have acquired to read, and therefore to think.’47

The objective of The Penny Magazine, in a nutshell, was to provide ‘useful knowledge for everyone’, and thereby contribute to the civilising offensive of the peri-

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od. It was internationally oriented, encyclopaedic in character and appeared every Saturday with articles on every possible subject. The text was enlivened with a rich range of illustrations: ‘It must not, however, be forgotten that some of the unexampled success of this little work is to be ascribed to the liberal employment of illustrations, by means of Wood-cuts,’ the publisher proclaimed.48 Although The Penny Magazine initially used illustrations previously published in other periodicals issued by the Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge, its success increased the publication’s need to generate its own images: c

‘But as the public encouragement enabled the conductors to make greater exertions to give permanency to the success which the ‘Penny Magazine’ had attained, it became necessary to engage artists of eminence, both as draughtsmen and wood-engravers, to gratify a proper curiosity, and cul­tivate an increasing taste, by giving representations of the finest fig. 28 Front page from The Penny

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Magazine (17 January 1835).

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Works of Art, of Monuments of Antiquity, and of subjects of Natural History, in a style that had been previously considered to belong only to expensive books.’49 The Penny Magazine used wood engravings for its reproductions and illustrations, the chief advantage of this technique being that the images could be printed together with the text and even inserted between blocks of text, removing the need for an additional print run and thereby saving time and money.50 It is partly thanks to The Penny Magazine that wood engraving enjoyed a heyday in England. In 1833, for example, there were more than a hundred wood engravers working in London alone, compared with twelve just twenty years previously.51 [fig. 28]

A wood engraving of Raphael’s famous painting Madonna della Sedia in The Penny Magazine of 1833 is an interesting example of nineteenth-century reproduction practice. Although modern art lovers instantly recognise Raphael’s masterpiece, closer inspection reveals that the print is not a reproduction of Raphael’s original painting but of an existing engraved reproduction of the picture by the renowned engraver Rafael Morghen. As previously observed, it was regular practice for an existing reproduction to be used as the basis for a new print instead of the original work. The explanatory text that accompanies this print stresses that the wood engraving is a reproduction of Morghen’s engraving, not of Raphael’s painting: ‘This wood-cut is copied from one of the finest line-engravings of Raphael Morghen, and furnishes a true notion of the bold style of cross-hatching which that great artist adopted.’52 So it was not Raphael’s original painting but Morghen’s interpretation of this which furnished the original for this wood engraving, which reproduced the printmaker’s copper engraving after Madonna della Sedia on a large scale.53 The Penny Magazine regularly published wood engravings of artworks, particularly paintings by old Italian masters from the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, supplemented by works by Hogarth or more recent pictures such as The Death of General Wolfe by Benjamin West.54 However, work by contemporary masters rarely appeared in the magazine. Rich English collections owned by private individuals and museums formed an important source of reproductions. In 1841 The Penny Magazine promised readers works from the National Gallery, Hampton Court Palace and Dulwich College: ‘It is our intention, from time to time, to present our readers with copies of some of the masterpieces of these collections,

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carefully drawn on the spot by competent artists and engraved with every possible excellence attainable by wood-engraving.’55 The illustrations were generally accompanied by an explanatory text with information about the painter and the subject. However, these were sometimes omitted and readers were required to use their own eyes. For example, Hogarth’s lively work The Election Feast was simply accompanied by the remark: ‘We cannot attempt any minute description of the print: it will bear a carefull study.’56 New technology allowed The Penny Magazine to increasingly realise its objective, that of publishing useful knowledge for ‘everyone’. The use of cylinder printing presses made it possible to turn out 16,000 copies a day, as opposed to the approximately 100 copies produced by traditional, manually operated presses. A circulation of 60,000 to 70,000 copies was required to cover costs.57 However, The Penny Magazine’s circulation quickly rose from 160,000 to an average of 200,000 copies sold a week.58 In conformance with liberal commercial philosophy, the publisher endeavoured to reach the greatest possible public while keeping the price as low as possible.59 Naturally developing the ideas formulated by Adam Smith and David Ricardo, The Penny Magazine confidently entered into the free market competition of the book and journal sector: c ‘Some people have foolishly said the “Penny Magazine” is a monopoly. There were formerly a great many monopolies of literature in this country; – that is, certain priviliges were granted by the government to particular individuals, with the intent of diminishing the circulation of books by keeping up the price. Then the government was afraid that the people would learn to think. The object of those concerned in the “Penny Magazine” is, contrary to the spirit of a monopoly, to circulate as many copies as they can, as cheaply as they can. This Work has no exclusive privileges, and can have no exclusive privileges. It stands upon the commercial principle alone; and if its sale did not pay its expences, with a profit to all concerned in it (except to the individual members of the Society who give it the benefit of their superintendence), it would not stand at all.’60 Although the periodical was called The ‘Penny’ Magazine, a contemporary allusion to the traditional penny print, it was relatively expensive and probably not within everyone’s budget.61 For a complete year’s worth of issues, comprising twelve monthly volumes, the reader paid six shillings, and seven shillings six-

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pence for the bound version. Charles Knight, publisher of the magazine, estimated that the readership was around a million a week, although this figure is probably too optimistic, given the total reading public.62 Nevertheless, the readership must rapidly have become a multiple of 200,000 (the number of copies sold). The publisher stressed that The Penny Magazine only existed thanks to its readers, for it had no other sources of income (not even from advertisements): ‘The public, who buy the “Penny Magazine” to the extent of two hundred thousand, are its only pecuniary supporters.’63 c

‘No one who wishes for a copy of this Magazine, whether in England, Scotland, or Ireland, can have any difficulty in getting it, if he can find a bookseller. The communication between the capital and the country, between large towns in the country and villages, is so perfect, that wherever there is a sufficient demand of any commodity there will be a supply. But the ‘Penny Magazine’ is still a Penny Magazine all over the country. No one charges three-halfpence or two-pence for it. The wholesale dealer and the retailer derive their profit from the publisher; and the carriage is covered by that profit. But that could not be if there were not cheap as well as ready communication through all parts of the United Kingdom. The steam-boat upon the seas- the canal-the railway-the quick van- these as well as the stage-coach and mail- place the “Penny Magazine” within every one’s reach in the farest part of the kingdom, as certainly as if he lived in London, and without any additional cost.’64

According to the publisher The Penny Magazine was readily available to anyone, thanks to steamships, canals and railways. Even if we somewhat qualify this remark, it still offers us an impression of how efficient and successful the distribution of printed matter was in England, as early as circa 1832. It is important to bear this in mind when considering the distribution of reproductions. The Penny Magazine was widely imitated abroad. In Ireland people reacted to the ‘English’ character of the magazine by starting their own, more Irish version, the Dublin Penny Journal. By 1832 The Saturday Magazine of the Society for the Propagation of Christian Knowledge and The Irish Penny Journal were also being published, both comparable to The Penny Magazine in terms of nature and content, although with wood engravings of lesser quality.65 These Irish magazines are typical of

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the publications that copied The Penny Magazine’s format. Moreover the journal was published almost simultaneously in the United States, epigones appeared in France, Belgium and Germany, and there were plans as early as 1833 for similar publications in Italy, the Netherlands, Poland and Brazil.66 The magazine’s German counterpart was entitled the Pfennig-Magasin (1833), the Dutch version the Nederlandsche Magazijn (1834). All these publications bore a strong resemblance to the original magazine, as regards objective, nature and content: sometimes their content was adapted to suit the national context, sometimes they were, quite literally, translations of The Penny Magazine (including the title). The international success enjoyed by The Penny Magazine can be largely attributed to its use of high-quality visual material. As previously observed, the magazine made a substantial contribution to the revival of wood engraving, and English engravers led the field in Europe. This generated an extensive international trade in wood engravings (particularly in the form of stereoclichés), with England as the principal supplier. The publisher of The Penny Magazine also sold many images to colleagues, as he himself remarked as early as 1833: c

‘The impulse which the extension of the demand for reading has communicated to the business of wood-cutting in England has not yet been pro­­portionately felt on the Continent. We ourselves supply metal casts to France, Germany, and Russia, not only to assist those countries in producing works similar to the Penny Magazine at a cheap rate, but because, how­ever excellent France and Germany may be in other branches of engraving, they have not at present scarcely any woodcutters amongst them.’67

Thus The Penny Magazine made a major contribution to the international trade in secondhand images, including art reproductions. Although The Penny Magazine may have set the tone, it soon became part of a broad spectrum of illustrated periodicals at home and abroad.68 In 1837, in London alone, there were some fifty weekly magazines and journals of various sorts, devoted to religion, literature, music, medicine, sport, humour and science.69 The more general periodicals in particular enjoyed great popularity, although the range on sale was in a constant state of flux, as The Penny Magazine remarked: ‘New ones are constantly added, and perish in a few weeks.’70 Other successful illustrated periodicals include a later publication much admired by Vincent van Gogh, The Illustrated London News (1842), and The Graphic.71 During

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the second half of the nineteenth century the number of illustrated periodicals increased rapidly: by the turn of the century 2,328 periodicals were being published in England and Wales.72 In other countries, too, foreign versions of The Penny Magazine soon became part of a broader range of periodicals. In France, for example, there were popular publications such as Le Charivari (1832), Magasin Pittoresque (1833) and L’Illustration (1843).73 In the Netherlands the range of magazines and journals on offer may have been more limited, but even in this much smaller language region a lively periodical culture arose, for which the requisite images were mostly imported from abroad.74 In 1845 The Penny Magazine published its final issue. Prior to this a total of 106 issues of the magazine had appeared, and millions of copies must have been sold.75 The production and distribution of professional journals became increasingly professionalised. The images alone demanded an efficient organisation. The popular periodical The Illustrated London News, for example, relied on complex interaction between its staff and various kinds of draughtsmen: special artists acted as correspondents, reporting on major events at home and abroad;76 the sketches they made on location were then worked up into final drawings by copyist draughtsmen; a third and separate group comprised artists who specialised in images largely unconnected with the hectic pace of news, such as art reproductions. Although these artists sometimes drew their images directly onto wooden blocks, it became possible, circa 1860, to transfer the image to the wood block using photography; this image was then engraved into the wood to create the printing matrix.77 A sketch was often engraved over the entire block, which was then divided into smaller blocks, for further engraving by several artists simultaneously, thereby gaining valuable time. The separate blocks were then reassembled under the watchful eye of an artistical manager who communicated any corrections required to the graveur retoucheur. Once the printing matrix was finished, it was copied and multiplied through the galvano process, creating a number of identical matrices that could be printed from simultaneously, generating enormous print runs. In the wake of The Penny Magazine the illustrated periodical evolved into an important cultural phenomenon during the nineteenth century. New technology had made it possible to supply a huge international public with a range of illustrated periodicals on widely divergent subjects. Whether the subject was a battle in Central Africa, the discovery of a hitherto unknown species of bird, the development of a new steam locomotive or a visit by a friendly head of state,

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a written report would no longer suffice: readers wanted pictures, as many as possible. Illustrated periodicals thus played an essential role in nineteenth-century visual culture, a development which The Art Journal pithily described as: ‘men’s eyes are drawn from the contemplation of types to pictures.’78 In 1875 De Kunstkronijk, itself an illustrated periodical, drew attention to the success enjoyed by illustrated publications: c

‘No civilising device works more rapidly and effectively, and as the illustrated periodical nowadays is conceived in France, England and Germany, it is a source of civilisation for all classes of society.’79

Illustrated art journals: L’Artiste, The Art Journal and De Kunstkronijk

In 1832, the year in which The Penny Magazine was founded, the editors of the French art journal L’Artiste were reflecting on the first year of their publication’s existence: c

‘Le moment était mauvais pour notre journal, c’est justement pour cela que nous l’avons choisi. Nous avons voulu prouver à nos risques et périls que nous ne désespérions pas de l’art en France! L’art cependant désespérait de lui-même; quand notre parût, tout ce qui soutenait le monde artiste était perdu. Plus de cour, plus d’église, plus de toute puissance de préfecture, plus de dauphin, plus de bals au Pavillon Marsan, plus de clergé, plus de noblesse, plus aucune de ces riches et élégantes variétés qui ont besoin pour s’embellir de s’occuper des travaux de l’artiste.’80

In those revolutionary times L’Artiste regarded its task as that of stimulating a wide range of (French) art: the visual arts, literature, theatre and music:81 the publication’s objective was to inform a broad public about art: ‘Chaque numéro sera fait de manière à pouvoir intéresser les savans, les artistes, les hommes du monde et les femmes.’82 The editors were thus following an independent but essentially liberally tinted vision of art, popular amongst artists and intellectuals in the wake of the July Revolution.83 L’Artiste set the tone for journals dedicated to (visual) art. In 1839, following the example of this French publication, the publisher Samuel Carter Hall founded an English art journal called The Art Union. Renamed The Art Journal in 1849, this publication rapidly became one of the most authoritative art journals in

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the nineteenth century. In 1840 an illustrated art journal, De Kunstkronijk, had also been launched in the Netherlands by the Maatschappij ter bevordering van de Beeldende Kunsten (Society for the Promotion of the Visual Arts).84 The objective of these publications largely corresponded with the vision already formulated by L’Artiste: that of informing a broad public about artists and their work, major museums and exhibitions, and other news in the field of the (visual) arts, or, as The Art Journal put it: ‘to advance the interests of the Artist, the Manufacturer, and the Artisan’, and to function ‘as a medium of communication between Artproducers and the public’.85 These journals mainly addressed their respective country’s national art, without, however, losing sight of important events abroad, such as exhibitions. The visual material was a vital element in art journals. Both L’Artiste and De Kunst­kronijk used wood engravings for vignettes and lithographs for the reproduction of art works.86 [fig. 29, 30] The editorial staff carefully supervised the production of this material. The editors of L’Artiste stressed that: ‘les lithographies et gravures seront desinées et gravées par les meilleurs artistes de la France et de l’étranger.’87 In the Dutch journal De Kunstkronijk many of the wood engravings were supplied by pupils of the wood engraving academy (founded in 1840), whose director was the English wood engraver Henry Brown (1816-1870). However, the Dutch engraving academy struggled to survive from its inception.88 Despite the efforts of several talented wood engravers, such as Van Arum, J.F. Stam and J. Weissenbruch, the production of wood engravings in the Netherlands remained limited and many prints in Dutch publications came from for-

fig. 29 E. Tudot, Lithographie en maniere noire from L’Artiste (1831), lithograph 14.6 x 19.3 cm.

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fig. 30 Jan Mesker after Jacob Maris, Italian Girl, from De Kunstkronijk (1868).

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eign studios.89 In addition to woodcuts De Kunstkronijk also published lithographs by productive lithographers such as C.A. Last (1808-1876), A.C. Nunnink (1813-1894) and J.J. Mesker (1843-1890).90 The Art Journal mainly chose steel engravings for the reproduction of art works, a choice that should be viewed in the context of the ‘hierarchy of techniques’, outlined in the previous chapter, as it was precisely the decline of the traditional technique of line engraving that made the journal’s editors determined to use this fine but fragile medium: c

‘The plates of this journal might be produced with greater ease and at less expense by the process of mezzotinto – but would they have the same effect? Would they be equally true to the picture? Assuredly not.’91

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Like a true patron of the arts The Art Journal endeavoured to do its bit to preserve the English engraving tradition by commissioning 24 engravings a year, thereby keeping some 24 engravers employed for the best part of twelve months. Over many years the publication worked with a regular team of artists, which included Edward Goodall (1795-1870), Charles W. Sharpe (1818-1899) and Peter Lightfoot (1805-1885).92 In 1868, however, the journal disappointedly observed: ‘except in our own Journal the line-engravers of England are “nowhere.”’93 Although there was an extensive trade in visual matter, many art reproductions were specially commissioned by the art journals.94 The Art Journal gave commissions to engravers, while L’Artiste and De Kunstkronijk deployed lithographers to produce their reproductions. The first task was to select original works for reproduction. There was plenty of material to choose from. A wide range of exhibitions offered a wealth of paintings by various masters. L’Artiste regularly drew its reproductions from works on display at the periodical Salon exhibitions, thereby granting its readers a visual impression of selected pieces, to supplement the countless written reviews. The art journals were also in close contact with private collectors and museums. During the first sixteen years of its existence, for example, The Art Journal chose its reproductions from the collection assembled by Robert Vernon, who made his works available for reproduction and checked the engravings in person.95 In 1854 the British Royal Family even made its private collection available for publication in the journal.96 Among the works subsequently reproduced by The Art Journal were many pieces from the William Turner collection in the National Gallery.97 The editors of De Kunstkronijk sent their lithographers to the Mauritshuis in search of works for reproduction.98 Unlike the reproductions published in The Penny Magazine the old masters were entirely overshadowed in L’Artiste, The Art Journal and De Kunst­ kronijk by contemporary masters. In their quest for art to reproduce, the editors of these publications were often in contact with individual artists. During its second year of publication De Kunstkronijk proudly reported: ‘None of our readers will but learn with pleasure, that most painters have promised us, to make drawings for the ornamentation of the Kunstkronijk, and with the text one thus imperceptibly acquires an album of drawings after the most able masters […]’99

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Over the years L’Artiste, The Art Journal and De Kunstkronijk published many lithographs and engravings after modern art in their respective countries. The French journal published lithographs after contemporary romantic genre painters from the juste milieu, such as Horace Vernet (1789-1863), Leopold Robert (17941835) and Théodore Gudin (1802-1880); De Kunstkronijk mainly opted for romantic and realistic genre and landscape painters, such as David Bles, Johannes Bosboom and Andreas Schelfhout, whom the publication later supplemented with work by Alexander Bakker Korff (1824-1882), Jozef Israëls (1824-1911) and Hendrik Valkenburg (1826-1896); the English Art Journal mainly presented works after William Turner, James Ward (1769-1859) and Clarkson Stanfield (17931867).100 If we survey the masters whose work these publications reproduced, it is immediately evident that they mainly focused on work by established, popular painters, with a proven reputation at exhibitions; they rarely make a daring or unusual choice of image. So painters whose work had been refused at an exhibition were not reproduced, for the illustrated art journals were not ‘Salons des Refusés’ on paper. Published reproductions were generally accompanied by a concise description of the artist, the subject and the provenance of the original artwork, plus an opinion, albeit a summary one, on the quality of the reproduction.101 Art reproduction was not without its problems. In 1831 L’Artiste received verbal permission from the painter Léopold Robert to reproduce his picture Les moissonneurs. However, when the engraver Paul Mercuri set to work on the reproduction in the Louvre, Robert immediately protested. In a letter to the journal’s editors he wrote: ‘Je n’ai pas besoin de vous parles, monsieur, des droits que les peintres ont et des arrangements qui doivent être pris avec eux pour graver leurs ouvrages: vous les connaissez.’102 Although the painter had given permission for a reproduction, he had assumed that this would be a lithograph, not an engraving, and asserted that permission for a lithograph did not automatically imply consent for an engraving as well.103 In addition to legal complications, more technical problems also cropped up. In 1859, for example, the experienced lithographer F.H. Weissenbruch and the well-known printer J.D. Steuerwald apologised to the readers of De Kunstkronijk for the failure of their lithograph:

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‘The undersigned hereby declare that the lithograph after the painting by H.A. van Trigt, representing: Moses abandoned, and intended as the presentation plate for the nineteenth volume of the Kunstkronijk , through circumstances independent of their will and despite the efforts of publisher and editor of the aforesaid monthly, after it had been completed on the stone, during printing became unfit for the specified purpose.’

De Kunstkronijk regretted the affair but was fortunately soon able to promise its disappointed readers an alternative print.104 Sometimes artists threw their own spanner in the works with artistic objections. When the American painter James McNeill Whistler gave permission to the Gazette des Beaux-Arts (a rival to L’Artiste, founded in 1859) to reproduce one of his works, the resulting print was so poor that he immediately decided to make his own reproduction. However, this was no easy task, as Whistler himself wrote to David Croal Thompson: c

‘They had asked me to let them reproduce the Count, and he also had been asked – I had agreed – The end of it was such an infamous etching by a man of distinction here that I went down in a fury and made them put aside on the promise that I would myself do them an etching or lithograph- This I did my very impossible to execute – But I was so bored to death with it that I had to give it up after keeping them waiting – One cannot produce the same masterpiece twice over!! – I had no inspiration – and not working at a new thing from nature, I found it impossible to copy myself! I wish Mr Hole joy when he begins – (by the way you know he came here and was charming and has engaged to do the etching) In despair therefore I sent the Gazette word that I would give them a cliché from London.’105

In addition to problems with the French Gazette des Beaux-Arts, the eccentric Whistler also faced difficulties when the English publication The Art Journal decided to publish one of his lithographs but refused to use the painter’s favourite printer Thomas Way, much to Whistler’s annoyance: c

‘You really are grieving me greatly about this unhappy business of the lithograph for the Art Journal. I have done every possible thing to please you – and we are no nearer to the result. You of course must know yourself

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that I would not possibly allow my work to be treated by any one else but Mr Way – These things are of great delicacy – and I could not dream of running risks in other hands.’106 Although Whistler was an exceptional artist in many respects, he was certainly not the only artist who kept a critical eye on the illustrated art journals. Colleagues who were similarly wary included the painter Leopold Robert, cited above, Matthijs Maris and Lawrence Alma-Tadema, who will be discussed in detail below.107 Adorned with countless reproductions, journals such as L’Artiste, The Art Journal and De Kunstkronijk enjoyed wide distribution, although it is often hard to establish the actual extent of this, as circulation figures have rarely survived. In 1880 some 600,000 copies seem to have been sold of the colour reproduction of John Everett Millais’ painting Cherry Ripe in The Graphic; technical drawbacks during production prevented the print run from extending to one million copies.108 The Penny Magazine achieved circulations of more than 100,000, The Illustrated London New reached 70,000 copies a week in 1870 and Punch 40,000.109 The more specialised art journals probably did not achieve such figures. In the case of both L’Artiste and De Kunstkronijk, we should think in terms of several thousand copies.110 The English publication The Art Journal probably enjoyed wider distribution and had 15,000 subscribers in 1860.111 The actual number of readers is more interesting than the circulation figures, however, for we can be sure that readership would have been several times the number of copies actually printed and distributed. Illustrated periodicals published at home and abroad formed part of the permanent collections in libraries and reading rooms runs by various ­associations.112 When Vincent van Gogh wished to arrange a review of illustrations and reproductions from illustrated journals at the Pulchri society of artists in Amsterdam, the society’s board rejected this plan, for they had no in­ terest in ‘those things that sometimes lie in in the Zuidhollands Koffiehuis’, Van Gogh informed his brother: this type of publication was essentially deemed too ordinary to be the subject of an elitist art review.113 Van Gogh was deeply disappointed, but the affair reveals the wide distribution enjoyed by this kind of periodical. It was probably relatively easy for art lovers to obtain such publications for their own private libraries. The publisher of The Penny Magazine even declared that finding the magazine was as easy as finding the nearest bookshop,

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while the editorial staff of De Kunstkronijk promised art lovers that they could subscribe to the publication at ‘all reputable Book and Art dealers’; the journal was also distributed through agents.114 The Art Journal even enjoyed wide international distribution: in 1860 it had subscribers in the Netherlands, France, Spain, Portugal, the United States, Canada, Venezuela, Bermuda, China, Australia and New Zealand, as well as in Britain.115 The publication’s success was so great that some people tried to abuse this: a message printed in The Art Journal warned against swindlers who were falsely acting as the journal’s representatives.116 Some illustrated art journals proved successful for decades, making effective use of new technologies and keeping up with cultural trends in the art world.117 As early as 1848 The Art Union (predecessor to The Art Journal) published a Talbotype, one of the first photographs to be incorporated in an illustrated periodical. Several copies of this issue (with corresponding volume, issue and page number) feature different photographs, however, probably as a result of the practicalities of printing such an image.118 L’Artiste was also quick off the mark in the 1850s, taking advantage of the new opportunities offered by photography in the production of visual material through increasing use of photographs, instead of original works, as the basis for its reproductions.119 However, there were limitations to the latest medium for reproduction, as delineated in the preceding chapter. Photographic images may have been very sharp, but for many years they were not suited to large-scale multiplication or easy to accommodate in a periodical’s printing process. Lithographs and engravings remained superior in these respects.120 During the 1870s, however, etched reproductions began to supplement more traditional forms of illustration. Fine examples of such etchings are provided by the prints in De Kunstkronijk by William Unger after old masters in museums in Kassel and the Stedelijk Museum in Haarlem (now the the Frans Hals Museum).121 It was thanks to the efforts of De Kunstkronijk’s editor Carel Vosmaer that the journal was embellished with the work of this master etcher who enjoyed international standing; the inclusion of these etchings in De Kunstkronijk was even a first in Europe, subsequently followed by various etchings after work by contemporary artists such as Jozef Israëls, Willem Roelofs and August Allebé, plus several original etchings by these artists. By publishing original etchings and etched reproductions the Dutch art journal was taking advantage of the enormous popularity enjoyed by the etching technique during this period. Attention should also be drawn in this connection to the chic French journal L’Art, which published many etched reproductions following its founding in

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1875. However, The Art Journal continued to use mainly steel engravings, a choice that was not reconsidered until 1881, from which point the publication also began to feature etchings, both original works and etched reproductions. A major benefit of this technique, of course, was that etchings could be made much more quickly than traditional engravings, a definite advantage when ‘pictures have to be borrowed, and leave blank spaces on the owner’s wall for the purpose of reproduction’.122 Not long after this, photographic reproductions also began to appear on a wider scale in illustrated art journals. Thanks to the development of the photogravure technique, and especially the collotype, journals were able to publish photographs of artworks with increasing frequency during the 1880s and 1890s.123 L’Artiste, The Art Journal and De Kunstkronijk formed part of an extremely wide range of art journals. In the field of the visual arts there were various alternatives, such as the Gazette des Beaux-Arts and the English publications The Atheneum and The Magazine of Art, all journals with an international outlook and an eye for the most important developments in the (visual) arts, which should also be considered in an international context.124 As previously observed, there had been an extensive trade in visual material since the 1830s, while editors regularly reproduced articles from other journals, sometimes adapting these for their own readership. This international interaction between journals was reinforced by their discussion of each other’s material: the English journals, for example, regularly reviewed the latest issues published by their French counterparts, and vice-versa; De Kunstkronijk also kept Dutch readers informed of the most important news from international journals,125 while regular reference was also made to reproductions in foreign publications.126 These international relations are illustrated by Whistler’s simultaneous involvement in reproductions after his work in The Art Journal and the Gazette des Beaux Arts. Illustrated (art) journals thus formed part of an international network that was closely associated with the print trade and publishing industry, and made a major contribution to the distribution of art reproductions. The publications cited should be considered the most successful of these, as they survived for years, and sometimes decades, unlike many other journals which vanished from the scene after only a few issues. In a letter of 8 April 1894, the painter John Everett Millais remarked to George du Maurier, a well-known printmaker for various publications: ‘[…] it seems that there are already too many illustrated publications. Every novelty has a success; but it is the staying power which is wanted in everything.’127

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To summarise: the illustrated art journal provided an important stimulus to the production and distribution of reproductions.128 Reproductions in these publications underwent the same lifecycle as loose prints and photographs. The initiative to make a reproduction often came from a journal’s editorial staff. Agreement then had to be reached with other parties concerning authorship rights, the availability of the original, the choice of reproduction technique, and so on. As with independent reproductions, artists were frequently involved in the production of images for journals. Once a reproduction had been completed, it enjoyed wide circulation, in relatively high print runs, to an international public. The illustrated (art) journal gave a new dimension to nineteenthcentury art reproduction in general. Nevertheless the two forms of publication – traditional independent reproductions on the one hand, reproductions in illustrated periodicals on the other – existed in the same context and were often closely associated with each other. The English publication The Art Journal championed the endangered technique of engraving by commissioning engravers, while De Kunstkronijk opted to publish various etched reproductions during a period in which etching had become extremely popular. Although the illustrated periodical was a nineteenth-century invention, it often proved more than equal to the changes which occurred in the art world over time: publishers, editors, engraver and photographers came and went; the (technical) facilities for production and distribution changed rapidly and radically, whilst the subject of these – the world of visual art – experienced a boom in various respects. Many publications could not cope with all these changes and foundered after a time. However, other periodicals managed to adapt to the new challenges and opportunities in the constantly changing context of the visual arts.129

The reception of a reproduction For anyone interested in art reproductions, there was choice enough in Kalverstraat, a popular street in Amsterdam. A wide range of shops selling prints had been based here for many years, including the well-known firm of Buffa. Their window displays attracted a great deal of interest, described by De Gids in 1870: c

‘[…] just look upon that incessantly replenishing crowd, which besets the shop-windows of printsellers in Kalverstraat the whole day long, gentle-

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men, commoners, tradesmen¸ pausing for a moment on the way home, butcher’s men and baker’s men, shop boys and urchins […]’130 The crammed windows of printshops such as Graves, Buffa and Goupil were a familiar element in the nineteenth-century street scene.131 [plate 7, fig. 31, 32] Behind the glass they displayed the latest engravings, lithographs and etchings, often pegged on a washing line. These shop windows, sometimes appropriately described as ‘poor men’s art galleries’, were objects of interest for many people.132 In 1889 the chronicler Johan Gram described the window of Goupil’s premises in The Hague: c

‘Every week The Hague is treated to a new display of plates, etchings, engravings and phototypes, that fit the time and events of the year. The middle window is reserved for an oil painting. Everyone that passes by, be they an important magistrate or a mason with his lime, a fashionable lady or a blushing maid-servant with her basket, stops here to look at all the news, and it is very amusing to slip between them and to listen to the sober or witty comments.’133

Having considered the distribution of reproductions, we have now arrived at the fifth and final phase in the ‘life of a reproduction’, its reception. Where were prints and photographs of artworks to be found? Who was interested in them, and how were they viewed? Exhibiting reproductions

In 1836 the engraver John Burnet had already stressed the importance of exhibitions to the printed arts, for they offered the public an excellent opportunity to become acquainted with all kinds of graphic work.134 The rich exhibition culture of the nineteenth century is a fascinating element in this period’s visual culture as a whole, and is increasingly forming the subject of recent research in the field of art history and cultural history.135 The results of this reseach emphasise how rich and diverse the array of exhibitions must have been, ranging from local shows to events with an international profile. In addition to paintings and drawings, art lovers had ample opportunity to view a wealth of prints and photographs; in other words originals and reproductions. One of the places the public could see reproductions was at large general ex-

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fig. 31 A. Lutz after A. Toselli, Vues choisies d’Am­sterdam et ses environs (chez Fr. Buffa & Fils) (1829), engraving (Kalverstraat 39 / corner Gapersteeg Amsterdam), Rijks­ prentenkabinet, Amster­

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hibitions. The various world’s fairs and international exhibitions organised during the second half of the nineteenth century regularly allowed space for prints and photographs of artworks, starting with the first of these events, the Great Exhibition of 1851, held in the Crystal Palace in London.136 No original artworks were displayed at the Great Exhibition, however. During the course of the 1860s the number of photographic reproductions increased considerably.137 In 1889 visitors to the Exposition Universelle in Paris, held in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, could even find a display which offered an overview of nineteenth-century print-based art.138 Prints were also regularly displayed at large exhibitions of art. The famous Paris Salons presented a wide range of reproductions, mainly after works of contemporary art, with engravings by members of the Henriquel-Dupont school, lithographs by Celestin Nanteuil and Adolphe Mouilleron, etchings by Charles Albert Waltner and Paul Rajon, and many photo-

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graphs by diverse photographers.139 One of the highlights of the 1853 Salon was Louis Henriquel-Dupont’s reproduction after L’Hemicycle by Paul Délaroche, described by The Art Journal as ‘a splendid monument of Art’.140 From 1859 there was a separate section for photography at the Salons.141 However, reproductions enjoyed a less prominent position than paintings at the Salon for they were displayed in the corridors, so printmakers suffered even more than painters from poor presentation of their work at these events. Philippe Burty wrote of the appalling arrangements at the 1861 Salon: c

‘De tous les artistes lésés dans leurs droits et dans dignité par l’ap­pro­p­ria­ tion provisoire et mal étudiée du palais de l’Industrie, il n’en est pas qui aient eu plus justement à se plaindre que les graveurs et les lithographes. Les burins, les eaux-fortes, les bois sont disposés banalement le long de corridors de dégagement; les cadres sont accrochérs perpendiculairement; la lumière, en les frappant directement, miroite sur la glace qui protége les épreuves, ou, en pénétrant abondamment chaque taille, détruit, dévore toute l’harmonie de la demi-teinte.’142

Like paintings, reproductions were regularly rejected by obstreperous juries. For example Felix Bracquemond’s etching after Hans Holbein’s portrait of Erasmus was not admitted to the official Salon, but instead displayed at the infamous Salon des Refusés in 1863.143 Unlike painters, printmakers were less defig. 32 Petrus Johannes Arendzen, Shop­window of Scheltema & Holkema (1882), etching 10.5 x 14 cm, private collection.

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pendent for the sale of their work on the Salon jury’s capricious, unpredictable attitude: prints traditionally enjoyed a close association with the print and publishing trade, which allowed printmakers access to major alternative circuits for the distribution of their work. It is significant that the explosive increase in print production is not reflected at the Salon, where the number of reproductions decreased during the nineteenth century.144 In the Netherlands reproductions could also be viewed at various exhibitions of living masters, as was the practice at French Salons. Alongside these substantial general exhibitions, the public could also see reproductions at special exhibitions of graphic work. During the 1870s ‘Black-andWhite’ exhibitions were organised in England, featuring works such as prints and drawings in black-and-white media. No distinction was made between original prints, reproduction prints and applied graphics in the form of book or journal illustrations. The first ‘Black-and-White’ exhibition, held at the Dudley Gallery in London in 1872, displayed more than five hundred prints, ranging from original graphic works by James McNeill Whistler, Jules Jacquemart and Felix Braquemond to etched reproductions by Paul Rajon and drawings commissioned by illustrated journals such as The Illustrated London News, Punch and The Graphic.145 From 1876 the well-known French firm of art dealers Durand-Ruel organised similar exhibitions along English lines.146 In 1887 the gallery run by Georges Petit even presented a survey of nineteenth-century printed art, with engravings by Louis Henriquel-Dupont after Paul Délaroche, lithographs by Léon Noël and original etchings by Felix Bracquemond and Jean-François Millet.147 On occasion reproductions were refused admission to such events, as was the case with the peintres-graveurs exhibition of graphic work held in 1889 at the Durand-Ruel gallery.148 The public could also visit exhibitions devoted to a specific graphic technique, which featured diverse prints that had all been produced using the same method.149 Various societies of etchers, for example, organised exhibitions of original etchings and etched reproductions, while the Société de Gravure Francaise arranged special presentations of the (‘endangered’) art of engraving.150 The centenary of Alois Senefelder’s lithographic technique was celebrated at the end of the nineteenth century with a large-scale exhibition of lithographs in Paris; this presented an enormous selection of works, ranging from the earliest lithographs produced by Senefelder himself to the latest examples of this technique, and featured both original pictures and reproductions, in colour and black-and-

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white, from all over Europe.151 These exhibitions of works produced in a specific technique also included exhibitions devoted to photography. Exhibitions largely dominated by this new medium were organised from the 1840s onwards, particularly in France; and generally featured art reproductions, amidst the many daguerreotypes and other photographic images.152 The various photographic associations established during the 1840s provided an especially important stimulus for such exhibitions.153 On occasion exhibitions focused on the work of a single master. As early as 1800 artists such as Thomas Gainsborough, John Singleton Copley and Benjamin West were organising one-man shows.154 Among the artists to copy this idea was David Wilkie who held a show of 29 well-known works in 1812.155 There was a particularly rich tradition of such individual exhibitions in England, where these were held in well-known galleries such as the Egyptian Hall, the Grosvenor Gallery and the French Gallery; some of these were organised in collaboration with art dealers. When Courbet arranged a similar show, the critic Champfleury described this as an exhibition in the ‘English manner’.156 Private initiatives of this kind were often financed by the proceeds from admission charges and the sale of paintings and reproductions on display.157 A survey of Délaroche’s work held in London in 1857 exhibited both original paintings and reproductions.158 Other examples of one-man shows held by printmakers are an 1880 exhibition of prints by Thomas Landseer after paintings by his famous brother Edwin Landseer and an 1878 exhibition of the complete works of the renowned mezzotint engraver Samuel Cousins.159 A curious type of show was the ‘single-picture exhibition’. As early as 1806 Benjamin West presented his painting The Death of Nelson in his own studio, prompting Théodore Géricault to make his painting The Raft of the Medusa available for exhibition at the Egyptian Hall in London, together with a lithographic reproduction of the work.160 Over a six-month period the painting attracted 30,000 visitors.161 Once curious art lovers had purchased a ticket and admired an original work at a single-picture exhibition, they were generally able to buy a range of reproductions to take home. In 1862 as many as 60,000 people visited the exhibition of William Powell Frith’s painting The Railway Station, where they could subscribe to the forthcoming engraving.162 A frequent motive for organising such commercial exhibitions, discussed above, was to obtain publicity for a new reproduction. The public came to view paintings in crowds, and paintings

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were sometimes brought to crowds of people: from the 1860s in particular, ‘exhibition tours’ were organised on a wide scale, taking paintings to towns and villages at home and abroad, accompanied by their reproductions.163 World tours of popular works such as The Light of the World still stir the imagination today. They appear to have been a fairly common aspect of nineteenth-century visual culture.164 Such exhibitions brought visitors into contact with an orginal work and its adaptation, as The Art Journal explained in 1858: c

‘This practice of introducing an engraving by exhibiting the picture of which it is the popular translation is becoming general, as well in our provincial cities and towns as in the metropolis; and we readily understand upon what principles such a practice should secure the public favour. People like to see the pictures which live again in engravings; they like to compare the engraving with the original, and thus the engraving attains to a peculiar interest through the power of association. Besides, in London, it is always a boon to be able to study a good picture without the glare, and crowding, and excitement of a regular exhibition; and in the provinces good pictures, which have achieved a metropolitan reputation, are sure to command the welcome that is ever afforded to strangers of distinction.’165

The journal’s remarks were prompted by an exhibition organised by the firm of Colnaghi, which displayed a painting by Franz Xavier Winterhalter (1805?-1873), a group portrait with the French Empress, in combination with lithographic reproductions by Léon Noël in colour and black-and-white.166 At some exhibitions, various states of a print were also hung alongside the original work, while instances of an original work and its reproduction being displayed side by side are also known from France.167 Finally, in 1883, a unique international exhibition of reproductions was organised in Vienna by the Society for the Reproduction of Works of Art. This exhibition displayed works which ranged from prints in traditional techniques to products of the very latest photographic processes. After a visit to the exhibition, The Art Journal stressed the supremacy of the French in the field of art reproduction, which it attributed to leading etchers such as Leopold Flameng and Charles Albert Waltner, and the engravers A.T.M. Blanchard, G.N. Bertinot and Louis Pierre Henriquel-Dupont: ‘There are individuals, of course, such as Jacoby,

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who rival them; but, as a school, France in these arts has no compeer.’168 Only the English wood engraver Hubert Herkomer received a medal at the event. Alongside awards for individual printmakers there were also prizes for firms and organisations: the publishers Cassle & Co and The Fine Art Society, the art dealers and publishers Goupil & Co and L.H. Léfèvre (successor to Ernest Gambart), and the illustrated journal The Graphic all received awards as if they were the authors of the reproductions. This recognition underlined the fact that a firm or organisation’s authorship was more than simply a theoretical construction. Given the range and quality of the works displayed at the Vienna exhibition, this event was probably the finest exhibition of reproductions to be held in the nineteenth century, although it was certainly not the only exhibition of prints and photographs after artworks. Two points should be borne in mind here. Firstly, this vibrant exhibition culture of prints largely existed outside the confines of museums. Public collections may have become increasingly accessible to the general public during the nineteenth century, but inside their doors visitors mainly saw paintings. Although many museums owned rich collections of prints in their print rooms, exhibitions of graphic works were a rarity. Reproductions in printrooms tended to be treated in the same way as they were in art academies and libraries, as works of reference. Such institutions were a place for the serious study of prints, rather than a venue where the general public could view reproductions as a cultural activity. Secondly, reproductions could also be seen outside the framework of exhibtions. As previously observed, reproductions were traditionally associated with the world of publishing and bookselling, a world that often merged seamlessly with the structures of the art trade. Many booksellers often kept prints, either loose or bound, in their stock and in their windows. Art dealers were often publishers; publishers were often art dealers. However, this does not mean that these networks corresponded completely. Reproductions could also be seen at other traditional locations for print and booksellers: along the river Seine by the Pont Neuf in Paris, in front of St Paul’s Cathedral in London, down Kalverstraat in Amsterdam, or at the bookstall run by Blok on the Grote Markt in The Hague, where printed matter, including prints after artworks, appears to have been sold at rockbottom prices. Vincent van Gogh wrote enthusiastically to his brother Theo:

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‘And what’s more I’ve acquired another ornament for my studio, I’ve had an amazing bargain in splendid woodcuts from the Graphic, partial prints not from the cliches but from the blocks themselves. Precisely the things I’ve been longing for for years. The drawings by Herkomer, Frank Holl, Walker and others. I bought them from Blok the book Jew and took the pick of what was best from an enormous pile of Graphics and London News for five guilders.’169

Of course these permanent venues for book and printsellers were also supplemented by various temporary markets with a wealth of books and prints, plus itinerant salesmen with prints displayed on their umbrella.170 Thanks to exhibitions, publishers, art dealers’ galleries and booksellers’ shops and stalls, it was easy for many people to see reproductions. These structures mainly functioned within urban culture. At an international level the tone was set by metropolises such as London and Paris, followed at a respectable distance by The Hague and Amsterdam. Exhibitions were also organised in the provinces, albeit on a more modest scale. In the second quarter of the nineteenth century alone, exhibitions were held in the Dutch provincial towns of ‘s-Hertogenbosch, Groningen and Zwolle.171 In her study Industrial Madness E.A. McCauley has drawn attention to the organisation of regional and local photographic exhibitions, mainly in England.172 Such events must have meant that reproductions were also regularly seen in the provinces, especially certain works, as Emile Zola noted with regard to Jean-Leon Gérôme: ‘Il n’y a pas de salon de province où ne soit pendue une gravure représentant le Duel au sortir d’un bal masqué ou Louis xiv et Molière[...]’173 When art lovers were unable to visit an exhibition in person, they still had recourse to photographs of the event, for photography was used as early as the 1850s to record and promote exhibitions.174 ­Extensive photographic records were made of large arrays of work at major ex­ hibitions and their highlights. From the early 1850s onward many photographs of international exhibitions and Salons began to appear.175 The situation must have been very different in the countryside where it was undoubtedly much harder to see reproductions. We can only guess what a simple farmer might have seen in the way of prints and photographs as he returned home from his fields. Prints were not entirely absent from the rural scene, however, as itinerant salesmen extended the book trade’s network well beyond urban areas. Given the book trade’s close association with the print world it seems

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likely that such systems would also have distributed reproductions outside towns and cities. Improved infrastructures and new means of transport made it progressively simpler to traverse the distance between town and country. So it would have been increasingly easier for the rural population to come into contact with the visual culture of towns and villages. In 1850 the art critic ÉtienneJean Delecluze declared that for 25 years it had been impossible to remain completely ignorant of art: everyone was now informed of everything, thanks to lectures, books, museums and, not in the least place, prints.176 Reproductions could not only be seen, they could generally be bought as well. Who bought prints in the nineteenth century, who collected them and why? In offering an impression of this nineteenth-century public, I shall distinguish between private collectors – ranging from connoisseurs to simple amateurs – and institutional collectors, such as libraries, academies and museums. Collecting reproductions

In his introduction to The Print-Collector’s Handbook (1903), the author Alfred Whitman wrote: c

‘we shall suppose the reader to desire to become a printcollector; but, be­ing a beginner, and his knowledge of the subject being limited to the printsellers’ window, he will be in need of advice as to how he shall proceed’177

You could see prints everywhere but what should you buy? Whitman wrote his handbook for the inexperienced collector who wished to acquire prints. He maintained that it was essential for a print collector to have an elementary knowledge of reproduction techniques, in order to be able to distinguish between the various methods and know the most important engravers. But that was not enough, Whitman contended, for he believed that aspiring collectors should have a specific aim in mind, instead of simply buying prints at random: ‘Shall he take a school or a period; a class of prints, such as portraits; a method of engraving, as stipple [...] shall he take a painter and collect engravings after his pictures?’178 Armed with their knowledge, a clear view of what they wished to achieve with their collection and – of course – a magnifying glass, amateurs could then set out in search of a suitable print. Before buying a work, Whitman advised them to consider the quality of the plate, the impression, the paper, the margin and the state.179 for connoisseurs a nd a m ateurs

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The Print-Collector’s Handbook offers an impression of the considerations that could play a role when collecting prints. Whitman believed that collecting prints was more than simply the purchase of such works, it was a systematic, rational activity based on a thorough knowledge of technique and art history. He was not the only author to hold such a view. In fact, his Print-Collector’s Handbook is only one of a wide range of collector’s handbooks, published on a large scale during the nineteenth century. According to the print expert W.G. Rawlinson collecting prints was a popular activity in the nineteenth century, particularly for people in the city, where it was much more difficult to enjoy sport or nature.180 Who were the collectors? Before considering this question, it is useful to describe what is meant by the term ‘collecting’. In her study On Collecting (1995) ­Susan Pearce discusses the complexity of collecting as an activity, and the collections which results from this activity; she maintains that planning in advance is not necessary, as even casually assembled works can grow into a collection, for there is always some kind of reasoning behind the selection: c

‘We take collecting to be the selective, active, and longitudinal acquisition, possession and disposition of an interrelated set of differentiated objects (material things, ideas, beings, or experiences) that contribute to and derive extraordinary meaning from the entity (the collection) that this set is perceived to constitute.’181

The selection gives structure to the collection of objects, freely described as an ‘interrelated set of diffentiated objects’. Pearce’s definition can also be applied to the divergent approaches to collecting prints employed in the nineteenth century, as it encompasses both the individuals who collected ‘as a collector’ and those who bought prints ‘purely for decorative purposes’.182 Amateurs of prints should be sought first and foremost in the social middle class, which had grown substantially since the eighteenth century and was increasingly interested in (visual) art, including the collection of this. In her article on collecting prints in the eighteenth century A.M. Link wrote: ‘Collecting is now to include the middle ranks of society, that is the Buergertum, a group also often referred to in the eighteenth century as the “reading public”.’183 Roughly speaking this term covers everyone from the man-on-the-street to aris-

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tocrats, and includes civil servants, tradesmen, commercial representatives and related professional groups. Peter Gay also points to an important social denominator: ‘The burgeoning new middle class desperately insisted on its identity: it was not part of the proletariat.’184 The middle class felt superior to the proletariat, yet was aware of its exclusion from the elite. Yet is was precisely this social middle class which enjoyed increasing financial opportunities in the nineteenth century to afford cultural activities, thanks to its increasing prosperity. New theatres, concert halls, exhibitions and museums offered every stimulus to go out, while the plethora of societies in the field of literature, music and visual art provided a wide range of cultural entertainment. In domestic circles, too, almanacs, illustrated periodicals, works of prose and poetry, and possibly a piano, were instruments of relaxation and cultural improvement. Art reproductions also lay within reach of this class, as Gay explained: ‘In the Victorian century, art, literature and music were inching their way toward a consumer culture that provided for everyone with money to spare, no matter how little, a culture of book clubs, massive supplies of reproductions, reduced admission fees catering to students or impecunious families.’185 c

A characteristic of this new print-loving public was that their interests, ambitions and financial resources were not matched by any experience and expertise. It was for this public that special collector’s handbooks were published, to introduce new amateurs into the world of print-based art and provide a ‘rational’ basis for their collection. An early specimen, Erste Grundlage zu einer ausgesuchten Sammlung neuer Kupferstiche (1776), was written by Carl Ludwig Junker, who listed print collectors’ various motives for collecting: one hoped to gain a reputation as a true connoisseur, another collected purely for pleasure while a third wanted to develop his taste.186 Junker chiefly concentrated on reproductions of work by living masters, his main reason being that he thought prints by or after old masters would be beyond the reach of the aspiring collector, as these had either fallen prey to real connoisseurs or were simply too expensive.187 We also encounter this preference for contemporary artists over old masters in the print trade. It seems more than fortuitous that in the late eighteenth century the major print publisher and dealer John Boydell began increasingly to specialise in prints after contemporary artists. Although old masters such as Raphael and Rembrandt remained popular, the end of the eighteenth century

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marked the beginning of a period that is sometimes described as the golden age of the living artist.188 Publications like Junker’s handbook familiarised the reader with the subjects, composition, technique and aesthetics of contemporary art. These collector’s books made their own contribution to this age, described by A. M. Link: c

‘collectors’ handbook [...] and the periodical press and the reproductive print itself all aided in the spread of ‘Kunst-’ related ideas, responding to, but also creating the needs of a new art consumer. The reproductive print provided this new consumer with the opportunity to experience ‘knowledge and collecting’ that is, to partake of the aesthetic sensibility and the connoisseurial judgement of commonly acclaimed works of art as well to undertake the culturally significant role of the collector itself. As part of an eighteenth century “print culture” the reproductive engraving thus takes its place in the forging of a new audience for “high” art.’189

During the course of the nineteenth century countless publications upheld the tradition of Junker’s handbook for collectors, with instructions for interested laymen on how to create their own print collection. Several examples are Joubert, Manuel de l’amateur d’estampes faisant suite au manuel du libraire (Paris 1820), Maberly, The Printcollector. An Introduction to the Knowledge Necessary for Forming a Collection of Ancient Prints (London 1844) and Whitman’s 1903 handbook, cited above. Amateurs could also consult the many (art) journals for tips and instructions on how to establish a print collection. Reviews informed them about the latest prints and their subject, technique, composition and use of colour. Moreover such journals regularly published articles on collecting prints, auctions, exhibitions, museums, artists and printmakers.190 A unique journal was The Print Collector’s Quarterly which had been specifically founded to cover the collection of prints.191 Finally, the stock lists published by print dealers and publishers offered various tips to potential print buyers, discussed above in relation to Goupil’s stock list. Operating alongside the numerous amateurs from the social middle class were elite art collectors with a special interest in prints. As a result of their social background such collectors were generally ‘at home’ in the world of art and print-based art. They did not need the advice of handbooks and bought the

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prints they wanted for their valuable collections with an expert eye. Two types of elite print collector can be distinguished: the atlas collector and the connoisseur. The former still employed the traditional structure of the atlas collection or historical atlas, defined by Frederik Muller in 1858 as: ‘a chronologically arranged collection of prints, charts and portraits, which represent the events of a single country, and depict the places and persons, which bear upon these incidents.’192 Use of this structure derives from the seventeenth century when wealthy art lovers began to assemble substantial print collections.193 Atlas collections were encyclopaedic in character, comprising geographical charts, historical prints, portraits and other printed matter, carefully sorted into categories such as geography, history and mythology. Thematic classification was often combined with chronological structures, which illustrated developments in the history of the world, and of art, sculpture and printmaking.194 The universal nature of an atlas collection made it a powerful tool in the formation of the individual intellect. The scope of atlas collections ensured that they always contained art reproductions, although these were often divided over various categories. Atlas collections persisted into the nineteenth century, as evidenced by the collections assembled by Frederik Muller, Bodel Nijenhuis and Abraham van Stolk, which incorporated many reproductions.195 While the atlas collector was interested in a comprehensive approach, the connoisseur had an eye for detail. Connoisseurs assembled specialist collections centred around a specific subject or artist, and always sought the finest state on the finest paper. W.W. Robinson dates the origin for this style of collection to circa 1700.196 During the course of the eighteenth century there was a boom in the connoisseurship of prints. With the advent of a connoisseur tradition appreciation grew for the specific qualities of individual printmakers and individual prints. The quest for rare states intensified the problem of authenticity. Was a print an original, or a reproduction by another hand? Had a print been made by the artist himself, by another artist, or was it actually a later impression from a reworked plate? During the nineteenth century it was these print experts who were interested in exceptional, exclusive prints, such as the rare states of Louis Henriquel-Dupont’s engraving after L’Hemicycle by Paul Delaroche, for which no less than 1,000 francs had to be paid, or for Goupil’s expensive albums of prints. These publications lay beyond the reach of the ordinary print amateur and were intended for the genuine connoisseur, who recognised the value of such reproductions and were able to afford them.

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Although the specialist approach of the connoisseur differed from the documentary mentality of the atlas collector, there was an overlap between the two. Assembling an atlas collection was a demanding activity, both financially and intellectually, and had thus been the traditional preserve of the cultural elite; assessing the suitability of prints for inclusion in such a collection presupposed ‘knowledge of the world and its history’. Connoisseurship required a similar ‘knowledge of all prints, techniques and printmakers’, in order for the collector to be able to recognise an exceptional piece. Both styles of collection required insight, experience and the financial wherewithal to purchase prints. Unlike the extensive band of middle class amateurs, elite collectors were a select company, with fanciful personal preferences and ancient collecting traditions. There was also another group of collectors with a special interest in reproductions of artworks, the artists themselves. Prints traditionally formed part of an artist’s basic material, being essential to his own visual education and that of of his pupils.On occasion a print collection could serve as a kind of visual inventory of an artist’s own oeuvre: Sir Joshua Reynolds, for example, owned an extensive collection of reproductions after his own works, which allowed him to offer potential patrons an impression of those paintings that had already quit his studio.197 Photography would later prove highly suitable for this purpose, too, as De Gids wrote in 1856: c

‘[…] the painter, who is sorry to part with the work of art, on which he has expended so much care, so much time, and all this to see it pass into strange hands, he will be able to purchase faithful prints of his work and thus to make a keepsake in a shorter time than he required to develop the idea for one of his masterpieces.’198

Thus various nineteenth-century artists assembled (substantial) collections of prints and photographs after (their own) artworks and other visual material to aid their work. Several examples of such artist collectors are Lawrence Alma-Tadema, William Holman Hunt, Anton Mauve and the Maris brothers.199 Vincent van Gogh, another enthusiastic collector, buying many different art reproductions, which eventually formed a substantial collection of some 1500 works, ranging from woodcuts from illustrated journals, to individual lithographs, etchings and engravings.200 Printmakers also collected reproductions. Surviving catalogues from the sale of their collections show that they possessed work

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by printmaking colleague, alongside their own output: the renowned engraver Abraham Raimbach owned work by his French colleague Louis Henriquel-Dupont, C.Ed. Taurel had prints by Luigi Calamatta and Philip Zilcken owned etchings by Jules Jacquemart.201 Amateurs, connoisseurs and artists were all interested in prints and photographs of artworks for different reasons. So were there any people in the nineteenth century who were not interested in reproductions? Despite all the radical social changes and the spread of visual culture, it remains possible that some people barely participated in cultural life. However, this does not negate the fact that prints traditionally enjoyed wide distribution; simple, popular prints, such as Images d’Epinal, featuring accessible religious or genre scenes and published for education and entertainment, had existed since printmaking’s inception.202 Although this print culture of stampe ordinarie can also be observed in the nineteenth century, further study is required in order to gain a deeper insight into this field.203 Prints may have been within the financial reach of virtually everyone, but this does not mean they were actually bought by everyone. Research into the collection of prints in eighteenth-century France has demonstrated that, despite the relatively low prices, the lowest social classes hardly collected prints.204 Such inventory-based research has yet to be applied to the nineteenth century, but it seem probable that even in this period there were still people who hardly bought prints. In 1834, for example, L’Artiste wrote in a disappointed vein that lithographs made for ‘the masses’ were actually being purchased mainly by a smaller group of amateurs.205 There was thus a varied public who collected prints. What was the relationship between this public for reproductions and the public for original artworks? In his study The Use of Images E.H. Gombrich wrote: ‘Those who could afford it had a full-sized copy of an admired masterpiece; those who could not afford a painted copy bought a reproduction.’206 Undoubtedly, for many amateurs a graphic reproduction was the only affordable alternative to an expensive and thus unattainable oil original. In 1751 an anonymous art lover wrote: ‘where I have not pictures, I must have prints.’207 In her 1900 handbook for discerning members of the middle class Costanze von Franken also advised: c

‘If you can afford good oil paintings, they will become the loveliest ornament in your home, a refreshment for your and other’s eyes. If good

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paintings are too expensive for you, then prefer beautiful photographs, steel engravings, and similar reproductions of famous paintings that you can nowadays aquire in rare perfection and at small expense to poor paintings or worthless chromolithographs.’208 Nevertheless, the question arises of whether reproductions were regarded merely as surrogates for paintings. The Victorian writer William Hazlitt (17781830) plainly declared: ‘Good prints are no doubt better than bad paintings.’209 This brings us to the relationship between the demand for paintings on the one hand and reproductions on the other. The German statistician Friederich Engels (1820-1895) laid the foundation for research into this kind of consumption pattern, observing that when income rises, people spend relatively less money on food and relatively more money on luxury goods. It is important to briefly consider this phenomenon, also known as Engel’s Law. Roughly speaking, during the nineteenth century the consumption of luxury goods simply increased.210 Did people buy more prints because they had more money to spend? Or did they buy fewer prints, because they could now afford paintings in a higher price class? Or did the ratio between the acquisition of paintings and prints remain stable? In other words, were reproductions a substitute for paintings or were they complementary to the original works? Extensive research into nineteenth-century patterns of consumption is required in order to be able to provide a clear answer to these questions. As observed above, collecting prints was not only limited to people with a restricted budget, for wealthy elite collectors also purchased reproductions for their exclusive collections; they did not hesitate to buy prints, despite being able to afford original paintings.211 So apparently reproductions were not regarded merely exclusively as cheap substitutes for paintings. Thus there was a wide public for reproductions, wider than the public for paintings, which extended downwards from the cultural elite, through the social middle classes to the lower sections of society where oil paintings were scarcely to be found. As the Pre-Raphaelite artist F.G. Stephens remarked: ‘Where the picture cannot go, the engravings penetrate.’212 Libraries, academies and museums

When a substantial collection of reproductions after work by the renowned animal painter Edwin Landseer was auctioned in 1856, The Art Journal lamented: ‘It is a great pity such a history of this painter’s art should be dispersed. What an

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acquisition would the collection have been to some public gallery or museum.’213 The auction split the collection between various collectors, a situation which an institutional collector, such as a museum, could have prevented by purchasing the collection of reproductions in its entirety. This brings us to the role of institutional collectors – libraries, (art) academies and museums – and their activities in the field of printed art during the nineteenth century. Libraries were the first public institutions to take an interest in prints. In 1667 Louis xiv acquired the substantial collection assembled by Abbé de Marolles, which contained many reproductions after Raphael, Michelangelo, Titiaan, De Carraci and Rubens, plus original graphic works by artists such as Albrecht Dürer and Jacques Callot; the collection of 234 albums was subsequently accommodated in the Bibliothèque Nationale.214 From this point onwards this library would remain a dominant institution in the field of printed art, including reproductions. The Bibliothèque Nationale’s position was further reinforced in 1852 when it became a legal requirement for all new publications to be registered with the Depot Légal in the library. Louis Napoleon was largely responsible for the creation of the Dutch version of the Bibliothèque Nationale, the Nationale Bibliotheek, developing the Dutch national library founded in 1798 under William v, and opening this to the public. In the tradition of the renowned Bibliothèque National in France, the Koninklijke Bibliotheek, then housed in the Mauritshuis, also collected prints.215 In addition to these large, ‘national’ institutions there were also many local reading libraries and libraries attached to societies of artists, with collections of prints and illustrated (art) journals from home and abroad.216 (Art) academies also assembled print collections which were used as study material for young artists. For centuries academic training had been based around the imitation of famous masters, with reproductions (and plaster casts) forming the core study material.217 The need for this sometimes costly visual material soon prompted the Koninklijke Academie voor Beeldende Kunsten in Amsterdam to acquire a lithographic press, in order to create its own images for students to copy.218 Nevertheless, the institution continued to seek out reproductions, with its director Auguste Allebé playing an active role in the collection of such prints for his pupils at what had by now become the Rijksacademie. He was particularly interested in the high-quality photographs produced by the German firm of Braun, commissioning the painter Jacobus van Looy, on his travels through Italy and Spain as winner of the Prix de Rome, to keep an eye

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out for suitable reproductions for the Rijksacademie.219 On 6 June 1886 Allebé sent a postcard to Van Looy, listing the Braun numbers after works by Velazquez already in the academy’s collection; he also expressed the hope that Van Looy would encounter a Braun depot where he would be able to order other photographs after Velasquez.220 Unfortunately Van Looy came across no such depot, but he did find a fine collection of reproductions after Spanish masters, including the photographs after Velazquez and Murillo so coveted by Allebé; he informed the Rijksacademie director of this, receiving a speedy reply to his missive, on 22 June 1886: c

‘Amice, thanks for your notice regarding numbers to be purchased. That a photograph be a good rendering of the original, is desirable, but is of secondary importance: in this respect ordering such photographs always remains a lottery. The main issue is to be well informed as to the artistic value of these things; so I rely on your specifications. But now four or five Murillos (catalogue number and brief description), once again please in order of fineness. To avoid seeming partial the Academy must also have, and be able to show, several Murillos, on which the preference for V. [Velazquez] rests. So another four or five of the best Ms et merci d’avance!! 2 naturalistic and 2 “heavenly”.’221

Allebé’s interest in reproductions in his capacity as director of the Rijksacademie illustrates the importance and function of reproductions within academic art education in general.222 Museums also collected reproductions for their print rooms. The first print rooms date from the late eighteenth century, and include the Museum Fridericianum in Kassel, founded in 1779, and the Uffizi in Florence. Even the Alte Museum was, according to Von Humbolt, not complete until it had incorporated a special print room for prints and drawings.223 In the meantime the print expert Adam Bartsch restructured the printroom of the Keizerlijke Hofbibliotheek in Vienna as the printroom of the Albertina Museum.224 In England the British Museum opened a printroom in 1808, while in the Netherlands the printroom at the Teylers Museum made this institution one of the first museums with such a facility.225 In 1825 this was followed by the Kabinet van Prenten en Pleisterbeelden (Cabinet of Prints and Plaster Sculptures) at the Rijksuniversiteit in Leiden; this is still the university’s printroom today.226 Nevertheless, it should be noted

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that such institutions were not always active collectors, and often received their works as gifts and legacies from private print collections. The basis for the Leidse Prentenkabinet, for example, was established when ownership of the collection assembled by J.T. Royer was transferred to the institution.227 The British Museum’s initial policy was expressly not to acquire reproductions after modern masters, in the hope that the artists or owners of these would leave their collections to the museum; an expectation fulfilled in 1872 when the mezzo­ tinter Samuel Cousins signed over a virtually complete series of his mezzotint reproductions to the museum.228 A year later, in 1873, the Teylers Museum in Haarlem was presented with the collection assembled by Voorhelm Schnee­ voogt, which included a considerable number of reproductions after works by Rubens. The Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam initially pursued an active policy of collection in the field of prints, under its director Cornelis Apostool: the institution regularly purchased reproductions after old Italian and French masters, as well as English art, in order to expand the printroom’s collection of mainly Dutch art.229 However this active policy of collection was an exception rather than a rule, for museums tended to pin their hopes on the generosity of private collectors. The ‘predominantly wait and see’ policy pursued by institutional collectors also explains why they did not feel compelled to buy the collection of Landseer reproductions, cited above, when these were sold at auction. Like the print collections owned by libraries and academies, the printrooms at museums were intended for research and education: their print collections served as art historical references to complement the painting collection, and were consulted by amateurs, collectors, artists, printmakers and dealers. The South Kensington Museum, founded in 1857 and renamed the Victoria & Albert Museum in 1899, also possessed a substantial print collection, with, in the words of The Art Journal many ‘treasuries for instruction’.230 In the British Museum prints and drawings were carefully sorted according to national schools and subdivided into original graphic works and reproductions.231 In 1823 Humbert de Superville advocated the use of a similar system of classification at the Leidse Prentenkabinet, an institution that had yet to be established; he believed that a historical print collection, with images of people and events of historical interest, should be complemented by a department with ‘an exclusively art-based collection, which should comprise engravings after paintings by the first masters of the various Italian, old German, Hollandish, Flemish and French schools, separately school by school’.232 After some time, however, a debate arose con-

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cerning the function of the Leidse Prentenkabinet, which became known as the ‘Leiden question’. At issue was the question of whether Leiden University’s (print) collections should remain where they were or be transferred to a museum whose collections also included paintings. The influential civil servant Victor de Stuers contended that the Leiden University printroom was undesirably isolated when divorced from a prominent painting collection; the Mauritshuis had an important collection of paintings but no printroom, which is why De Steurs proposed, in his well-known article Holland op zijn Smalst (1873), that : c

‘the virtually unvisited Leiden printroom should be moved, preferably to The Hague, where nothing of that nature is found, and where the Maurits­ huis has urgent need of a collection of engravings and etchings. For a print collection is to a collection of paintings what a dictionary is to a library.’233

The ‘Leiden question’ soon developed into a complex struggle for supremacy between Leiden University on the one hand and the department of education, arts and sciences on the other. The Mauritshuis undoubtedly hoped to acquire a printroom to complement and support its collection of paintings. Nevertheless, De Stuers’ proposal did not receive sufficent backing, and the printroom remained in the possession of Leiden University. On the death of its director J.L. Cornet, in 1882, no successor was appointed, however, and large portions of the collection were transferred to the management of a museum after all, not the Mauritshuis in The Hague, but the Rijksprentenkabinet at the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam.234 The Leiden question underlined the educational function of reprofig. 33 Nicolaas Pieneman, Familie Rijnbende (ca.1850), oil on canvas 120 x 150, private collection.

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ductions in the service of (painting) collections within institutions, a function attested by the fact that exhibitions of these prints were rarely organised.235 To summarise: libraries, art academies and museums were important institutional collectors who were prompted by their own background and objectives to assemble collections with reproductions. Engravings, mezzotints, etchings, lithographs and later photographs constituted an important reservoir of visual knowledge. Reproductions were principally regarded as visual references in the field of nature, history and painting. In this sense they were made available to the general public including the private print collector. It is not without reason that Whitman devoted the final chapter of his Print-Collector’s Handbook to the British Museum printroom. He was then director and advised the aspiring collector to make regular use of the collection, which he had helped to assemble and still managed.236 In albums and on walls

Traditionally there were two ways to keep a print: in an album or on a wall. How prints were actually kept during the nineteenth century is an interesting facet to the everyday use of reproductions, and thus to the way in which reproductions were viewed, a subject to which I shall return below. From its inception print-based art was closely associated with the printed book, an association that continued down the centuries. Prints were traditionally kept in book form, in special albums or portfolios. Successful collectors assembled enormous collections in many albums. The renowed eighteenth-century collector Pierre-Jean Mariette, for example, left 470 portfolios with around 250 prints in each. Since the earliest atlas collections were established, prints had been stored in special portfolios, which were sometimes kept in atlas cabinets or ‘art cabinets’.237 Portfolios continued to be used in the nineteenth century, as can be seen from various paintings of interiors.238 One such painting, by Nicolaas Pieneman, De familie Rijnbende (The Rijnbende Family), depicts children taking prints from an album to show to their parents. [fig. 33] Vincent van Gogh also kept many of his prints in eighteen portfolios, classified according to subject (Irish character types, landscapes, miners, factories, fishermen), artist (Doré, Barnard, Lancon, Fildes and Green) or size (large pages from The Graphic, The Illustrated London News, Harper’s Weekly, L’Illustration, etc.).239 His brother Theo also collected prints in an album. [plate 8]

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The custom of keeping prints in portfolios prompted many publishers to produce special collector’s albums: Goupil, for example, sold albums for small photographs in Cartes-de-Visite and Cartes Albums format, at varying prices, while the Dutch publisher J.M. Schalekamp produced unusual harmonica albums to store reproductions.240 Publishers regularly issued albums complete with reproductions, too: the firm of Binger, for example, published albums containing photographs of drawings by living masters, one of which was praised by De Kunstkronijk: ‘Binger’s deluxe album belongs in the salon of every civilised Dutch citizen.’241 Also relevant here are the binders produced by periodical publishers for readers to store their copies in, although many people tended to remove the reproductions and illustrations from these, to keep in their own portfolios. Nevertheless, cutting illustrations out of periodicals could present problems, as Van Gogh well knew: although it allowed him to arrange these illustrations in order of artist, it also deprived him of much interesting information in the reviews that accompanied these prints.242 Removing reproductions from illustrated journals appears to have been fairly common practice, given the many ‘ransacked’ journals now found in libraries. Keeping reproductions in portfolios allowed collectors to leaf through their own ‘paper museums’ at their leisure, then store these in a bookcases or set them aside on portfolio stands: practical, often custom-made pieces of furniture on which a heavy album could be examined or displayed.243 Luxury albums were sometimes given as gifts, too, a practice encouraged by De Gids in 1879: c

‘In our Amsterdam society it befits our good breeding to possess such etchings by Unger, and if one wishes to make a genteel gift to foreigners, the red portfolio, with Unger’s etchings of the Trippenhuis, will cross frontiers.’244

Naturally, reproductions were also hung on the wall as decorations; the nineteenth-century interior was not complete without a few prints on the wall.245 Displaying prints in this manner became so popular that many an album perished.246 In 1842, Théophile Gautier even complained that wealthy art lovers might furnish their apartments with expensive furniture and prints on the wall, but good paintings were hard to find amonst the French.247 Nevertheless, in the mid-nineteenth century there were still many people who preferred to own a second-rate painting rather than a first-rate print, as De Gids reported in 1857: 262

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‘The art of engraving, so long neglected in the Netherlands, seems to be held in particularly low esteem, so that many people, who think they love art, would rather decorate the walls of their home with the products of an extremely mediocre brush than the masterpieces of art, interpreted by the graver.’248

Engravings, mezzotints and etchings were eminently suitable for embellishing an interior, as were lithographs, including the colour prints by the well-known English firm of Rowney, described by The Art Journal: c

‘Generally they are of a cheerful and agreeable order; subjects selected being such as are pleasant to look upon, lighting up well, and giving an aspect of comfort to a dwelling, for few things are more gloomy and depressing than bare walls “at home”. We know many houses, every sitting-room of which is enlivened by the productions of this firm, and where perpetual enjoyment is obtained by the outlay of a few pounds.’249

During the final decades of the nineteenth century photographs were increasingly hung on the wall, especially large-format works in frames.250 Yet for many years this was not common practice. As late as 1884, for example, Carel Vosmaer advised his readers in De kunst in het daaglijksch leven not to hesitate to hang up fine photographs in their interior.251 Under the motto de gustibus EST disputandum – there is accounting for taste – Vosmaer described how modern people could tastefully furnish their homes, and also decorate their walls: c

‘For ordinary usage may one not be afraid to hang with several paintings also prints and even photographs, provided their spirit be consonant. […] It is an error of many, to have rather a mediocre or poor oil painting, rather an expensive banal engraving than a photograph. Photography is at such a height at present, that it surpasses many an engraving. Braun’s Mona Lisa and Sistine Madonna reflect the original better than any en­graving. No-one need now have insignificant prints; Braun’s carbon prints after drawings by the great masters or famous paintings allow everyone to surround themselve with a number of the most sublime creations of art at slight cost.’252

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fig. 34 Sleeping Room of the Teixeira de Mattos family in Amsterdam (ca. 1890), photograph 291 x 23.5 cm, Gemeente­

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archief, Amsterdam.

According to the print expert W.G. Rawlinson it was better to hang prints on the walls than keep them in portfolios, in which they were not always flat and free of dust.253 Special frames were also made for prints.254 In the final decades of the nineteenth century black frames with rounded profiles were often used for prints.255 Framed or unframed, engravings, etchings and lithographs were popular wall decorations.256 Many a famous masterpiece adorned an interior in reproduction, such as the engraving of The Huguenot by John Everett Millais, which hung in the bedroom of the Teixeira de Mattos family at 5 Sarphatistraat in Amsterdam.257 [fig. 34] Alongside independent prints, images from illustrated journals were also hung on the wall, a practice described by Van Gogh in a letter to his brother Theo: c

‘What an exceptionally fine wood-engraving there was recently in l’Il­lus­ tration, of ‘Un jeune citoyen de l’an V’ by Jules Goupil! Have you set eyes on it? Got hold of it and it’s hanging at present on the wall of the little room where I’m allowed to reside.’258

In 1881 Rawlinson advised hanging prints in horizontal and vertical rows, ‘completely clothing the walls’.259 This recalls eighteenth-century printrooms in which prints were hung on the wall from ceiling to skirting board. However, in

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1882 L.F. Day, another authority in the field of applied art and home furnishing, advised against hanging too many works on the wall: ’We must limit the number of [pictures] in our rooms. Does anyone really want his walls plastered with them like a patchwork of big postage stamps?’260 Nevertheless, profuse decoration with prints and photographs continued to be popular, as can be seen from surviving nineteenth-century interiors. At a much later date Anne Frank aimed for the same effect when she determined, under perilous circumstances, to decorate the walls of her room in the secret annex, including several art reproductions in the scheme. On 11 July 1942 she wrote in her diary: c

‘Up till now our bedroom, with its blank walls, was very bare. Thanks to Father – who brought my entire postcard and film-star collection here beforehand – and to a brush and a pot of glue, I was able to plaster the walls with pictures. It looks much more cheerful.’261

Looking at reproductions

Whether a collector kept his reproductions in albums or framed on the wall, the most important thing of course was to look at them, as De Gids wrote: ‘Nothing has a more powerful effect than daily contact with the masterpieces of art or with reproductions of these.’262 In his handbook for collectors, French Prints of the Eighteenth Century (1908), R. Nevill also advised the amateur not to pass up any opportunity for examining prints: c

‘The best method of training the eye is never to lose an opportunity of inspecting as many prints as possible. Looking through dealers’ portfolios, attendance at sales, and even casual glances in the windows of old print shops can do nothing but good, imparting as they do a familiarity with the whole subject which can only be obtained by some sort of personal experience. After a short time the best engravings become old friends, whilst those devoid of merit are regarded with the indifference which they deserve.’263

This raises the question of what people actually saw when they looked at reproductions in the nineteenth century. What went through their mind as they stood in front of a print, leafed through an album or, like Van Gogh, perused woodcuts when unable to sleep?264

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In his Inleiding tot het zien van beeldende kunst (1906) the art educator H.P. Bremmer wrote on the subject of looking at reproductions: c

‘That attentive looking is what is once again required. If one beholds a reproduction, as most people behold paintings and sculptors, that is thinking they have seen it when they know what it represents, of course this leads to nothing; it is a superficialness, for which the reproduction is not to blame but only he who beholds such a reproduction and does not draw from it what there is to be drawn. It is self-evident, that someone who looks well and lets his mind work as he does so, can observe a great deal more in a reproduction, and penetrate a great deal deeper into the essence of such a work of art, than many who lovelessly and superficially view the original.’265

As an art educator Bremmer enthusiastically used reproductions, both in his well-known reviews and his publications Moderne Kunst and Beeldende Kunst.266 So how did people in the nineteenth century regard reproductions? This instantly brings us to the lack of any sources recording such information, for patterns of observation are rarely described in historical sources. However, we can gain some idea of how reproductions were appreciated from the reviews regularly published in art journals, in which critics described the qualities to be looked for in a reproduction, sometimes at length, sometimes in passing. Naturally vigilance is required when using such sources, for a critic’s judgement was shaped by a range of factors, as in other fields of art criticism. Apart from a critic’s personal aesthetic preferences, the journal’s social context and the critic’s contact with publishers and artists should also to be borne in mind. Nevertheless, this does not detract from the fact that the judgements of art critics still contain interesting information on the reception of reproductions. Of more interest than the critics’ final judgement on whether a reproduction was good or bad, however, are the reasons they adduce in support of this view. How did art critics assess the adaptation of the composition, the translation of colour into black and white and the change in technique and format? Not every amateur blindly followed the critics’ judgements, of course, and even Bremmer’s students were no slavish disciples of his views on the visual arts. Neither is the exploration of how reproductions were appreciated in the nineteenth century an attempt to establish a general aesthetics of art reproduction: it is rather an en-

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deavour to reconstruct how reproductions were regarded in the nineteenth century, by considering several important aspects of a reproduction. Before further examining the reception of reproductions, I wish to recall the dual nature of reproductions, as discussed in the chapter ‘Pinxit et Sculpsit’. Every reproduction is shaped on the one hand by the original image on which it is based, and on the other by the adaptation of that image. The viewer looks at the ‘original’, as it were, ‘through the reproduction’, as if through a window with a view of the original painting. So the reproduction functions as an een aide-memoir, as Roger de Pilles aptly put it, to renew and refresh the impression made by the absent original. Goethe wrote in similar vein regarding his prints by Marcantonio Raimondi after works by Raphael.267 The role of the reproduction as a representation of the original has been repeatedly stressed from Vasari onwards, also in the nineteenth century.268 Vincent van Gogh, for example, wrote to his brother Theo regarding prints after Jean-François Millet: c

‘It always does me pleasure that the Millets continue to do well. But what I should really like is for there to be more good reproductions of Millet, so that he reaches the people. His oeuvre is particularly sublime when you view it in its entirety and it becomes increasingly difficult to form an idea of it as the paintings get scattered.’269

The reproduction was like a reflection of the original, or, as E.H. Gombrich put it, in The Use of Images: ‘It is intended to serve as a reminder, a souvenir and to rival the book as a source of knowledge.’270 Conversely reproductions were also appreciated as specific forms of adaptation with their own intrinsic qualities. Goethe, for example, once compared a sepia drawing by Rubens of The Four Fathers of the Church with Cornelius Galle’s engraving after the same; imagining that he had both the original and the reproduction before him, Goethe stressed their intrinsic qualities: comparing the original with the reproduction enabled him to identify the qualities peculiar to the original work and the adaptation of this work.271 This recalls nineteenthcentury exhibitions at which the original painting was displayed alongside its reproduction. Looking at such prints, people must have been aware of their specific qualities and the individuals who made them.272 In De Gids Jan Veth discussed the qualities of a good engraved reproduction, quoting Gautier’s view on this subject: for connoisseurs a nd a m ateurs

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‘[The engraving] is more than a copy; it is an interpretation; it is a work of patience, of love. The engraver must love, admire, understand his original; he must have absorbed the spirit of it in him and be penetrated by it in his innermost being; for it is not enough accurately to render the lines of the composition, the contours of the forms, to apply light and shadow in their correct place, to let the half tones melt away with talent; no, more is demanded of the engraver! With a few black tones he must render the entire colour of the master, must convey whether these are clear or hazy, warm or cool in tone; he must make the objects stand out in their relative value and render all the peculiarities of the brush with the engraving tool. No small task, indeed! And one cannot fulfil this in worthy fashion, than through tireless study, perserverance, talent, yes, even true genius!’273

Van Gogh also had an eye for the intrinsic qualities of a reproduction, as he wrote to this brother Theo: c

‘If the object represented and the manner of representation correspond with each other, then it has style and quality. Thus the servant girl in the large wallpainting by Leys, when etched by Bracquemont, becomes a new work of art – or the little reader by Meissonier, when Jacquemart makes an engraving of this, for the manner of engraving forms a whole with the subject that is being depicted.’274

Depending on the viewer’s perspective, a reproduction was a reflection of the original picture on the one hand and an independent work with its own qualities on the other. Both points of view can also be found in combination. In 1840 Henry Josi distinguished two groups of visitors to the print collections at the British Museum: the first of these came: c

‘merely to hunt out a subject, the continual reference and rapid turning of the leaves by them causes a great wear of the prints. These persons naturally care little about the beauty of impression, earliness of state or intrinsic value of the prints, beyond the subject it represents.’275

The other group came: ‘to compare the work of the engraver: […] With these it is an object of deep interest to place the plate from its beginning in the etching

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by various degrees of advancement, to its perfection. This class naturally examines the print with a critical eye, and are fully apprised of the value and necessity of careful handling.’276 In practice one approach did not necessarily exclude the other, as illustrated by Goethe who, leafing through his reproductions, saw Raphael’s original work in Raimondi’s engraving but focused on the specific qualities of the print when considering Galle’s reproduction after Rubens. Bearing these two approaches in mind, we shall now consider the question of what considerations played a role when people in the nineteenth century looked at reproductions. The power of association

Viewing reproductions was a complex process of looking at and comparing the original and its adaptation, or, as The Art Journal observed in 1858: ‘People like to see the pictures which live again in engravings; they like to compare the engraving with the original, and thus the engraving attains to a peculiar interest through the power of association [italics rv] .’277 A number of elements played a role in the visual comparison of the original and the reproduction, and vice versa: the translation of the original composition, the use of colour, the technique, the format and the image context. It was the task of the image adaptor (the printmaker or photographer) to interpret and represent the original in a convincing fashion. Any printmaker who did not sufficiently fulfil this brief could expect to meet with harsh criticism. In 1840, for example, an anonymous reviewer in De Gids was extremely critical about several new reproductions, although he did not know all the original paintings: c

‘We do not know the original painting, but we can scarcely believe that Mister Pieneman Junior could produce such a coarse drawing as the little image of Madzy Dekama makes one assume; moreover the engraving is as gray as those that disgust us in the German Annuals. We do not wish to criticise the perhaps in some respects censurable painting by J.A. Kruseman, Jochebet; but the fine Jewess’ head, which reconciled us to everything at the viewing, has been poorly represented in Lange’s engraving.’278

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In reviews of reproductions the original work could also encounter criticism. When a reviewer for The Art Journal, for example, pointed out the weak points of a print by the engraver S. Bellin, after the painting The Council of the League by John Rogers Herbert (1810-1890), he attributed these faults to the original painting, rather than its adaptation, and even deplored the fact that the engraver had devoted so much work to it; Thomas Agnew, the publisher, had also displayed courage, he declared and was equally blameless: ‘For the “mess” here engraved he is not to be held responsible; the artist ought never to have undertaken a task for which he is totally unfit.’279 On occasion reproductions were regarded as almost an improvement on the original; The Art Journal, for example, declared that the engraving by Samuel Cousins after Titiana even surpassed the original picture painted by Edwin Landseer: c

‘Perhaps in these engravings Sir Edwin Landseer appears more true to himself than even on his own eloquent canvas; at any rate, we know when he hesitated to touch the proof of the “Titiana”, the great painter declared that the engraving excelled the picture, and that he could not touch it without injuring, rather than improving it.’280

The examples cited emphasise the extent to which art critics drew their readers’ attention to the qualities of a printmaker’s adaption. The translation of a colour painting into a black-and-white print was another consideration.281 The loss of colour was regularly acknowledged and sometimes lamented.282 Nevertheless, the engraver’s palette of black, white and gray was not deemed essentially inferior to the painter’s colours; on the contrary, the limitations of this graphic palette actually compelled the printmaker to a greater degree of refinement which could expect to receive extra appreciation.283 Even in the eighteenth century, it was believed that a black-and-white print could be rated more highly in terms of tonal wealth than a colour painting.284 According to the painter Thomas Lawrence (1769-1830) it was even possible to suggest colour through a subtle graphic variation of gray tones: ‘An engraver can so meander his shadows as to convey (to the painter’s eye at least) the idea of blue, and (I believe) one or two other colours.’285 Appreciation of black-and-white art is illustrated by a discussion in De Kunstkronijk of Louis Henriquel-Dupont’s renowned engraving after L’Hemicycle by Paul Délaroche:

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‘When we see it again in the engraver’s copper, Paul Delaroche’s composition seems even more worthy and noble. The variety of clothing was one difficulty in the painting; it stood in the way of unity; it challenged and wearied the gaze at the same time through the infinite variety of colour, through countless nuances, not one of which was omitted, while, in the engraving, all those colours dissolved in a half-tone, brought to unity and differing only though black and white, are calmer, flowing together and melting into one in a way that retains the nobility of the painting but gives it more strength and makes the charm of the components surrender to the dignity of the whole.’286

The reviewer maintained that the great variety of colours in the original prevented the image from being balanced; in this respect its adaption as a blackand-white print was only an improvement. When the translation from painting to print was weak, reviewers sometimes gave the printmaker the benefit of the doubt. In its discussion of an engraving after William Powell Frith’s well-known work Life at the Sea-side, for example, The Art Journal drew attention to the uneven distribution of light and dark in the original, thereby blaming any objection to the print on the painted original rather than the engraver’s ability.287 Despite this appreciation for the monochrome tones of prints, many printmakers did endeavour to reproduce the colours employed in paintings. During the nineteenth century, colour lithography constituted the best graphic technique for the reproduction of works in colour. Turner’s colourful work presented the medium with an almost impossible challenge, described as follows by The Art Journal: c

‘The science and art of chromo-lithography has been put to a severe test in the production of the print that, with its masses of dazzling colours, al­most blinds the eye to look at,- an excess of power which, in the horizon especially, it would have been better to keep down, so painfully obtrusive it is.’288

Although the reviewer admired the printmakers’ efforts, he would have preferred to have seen Turner’s work reproduced in black-and-white, rather than peculiar bright colours. Other experiments in colour reproduction were more favourably received. In his journal the art dealer George Lucas recorded his pur-

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chase of several graphic imitations of watercolours, as examples of a fine reproductive technique: ‘Bought them more on account of their extraordinary imitation of watercolours than on account of any peculiar pleasure which they afforded me otherwise.’289 The question arises of whether nineteenth-century viewers experienced the problem of colour reproduction in the same way as today, for it is not inconceivable that they had a different view of colour and tone. While use of colour played a central role in the discussion of paintings, remarkably – and perhaps tellingly – reviews of prints rarely made mention of any disappointment resulting from an absence of this.290 The impossibility of reproducing colours was such a given that it is debatable whether the absence of colour was regarded as in any way disturbing when viewing individual prints: the visual world of the nineteenth-century public had been shaped to a large degree by a rich black-and-white print tradition, so this public probably possessed a greater sensitivity to tone in paintings and their reproductions than the modern viewer¸ whose perceptions have been shaped by colour images. Another interesting element in reproductions is the adaptation of the technique employed in the original, in other words the translation of a painting into a print. In 1854 The Art Journal was prompted by several colour lithographs to write admiringly regarding their imitation of the original work: c

‘Every part of the picture is imitated with wonderful fidelity; the manipulation of the artist is most carefully rendered, the colouring is brilliant as if laid on by the hand from the palette; while there is a “body” in the surface which might be mistaken for actual painting in oil. A few more such examples as this, and other of a similar nature that have recently passed under our notice, and we may decorate our walls with works of art scarcely inferiour to the originals, at fifty or a hundred per cent less than the cost of the latter.’291

The reference to the ‘body in the surface’ is an interesting one. Previous mention has been made of the debate amongst printmakers regarding the extent to which they should endeavour to render the paint texture of the original work. Precise imitation of this texture allowed a reproduction to suggest the hand of the original master, as Van Gogh noted in connection with etched reproduc-

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tions by William Unger and Felix Braquemond after old Dutch masters: ‘What Unger, Braquemond have done is etched well and one can see the manner of painting in their etchings.’292 Meticulous imitation of the original texture produced the illusion of the original medium, although naturally it was impossible to create a perfect illusion. No printmaker could divorce himself from the texture of his own graphic medium, from the scratches of the needle, the grooves in the paper and the characteristics of his own hand, although varnishing the surface could more or less erase these graphic elements, thereby producing a facsimile of the original. While the printmaker needed to take great pains to imitate brushstrokes precisely, the photographer’s light-sensitive plate made it possible to capture the image without any such manual ‘translation’, for he could produce, in the words of William Ivins, ‘exactly repeatable visual images made without any of the syntactical elements implicit in all hand made images.’293 Many saw this ‘absence’ of the photographer’s own hand as the major drawback to the photographic technique.294 A photographic reproduction appeared to have been made by an ‘invisible’ hand, for the photographer’s personal contribution mainly lay, as previously observed, in the preparations for capturing and multiplying the image. The photographer’s individual interpretation exerted considerable influence on the end result, as Théophile Gautier emphasised in his 1858 review of Robert Bingham’s photographs after works by Paul Délaroche.295 Although the texture of the original artwork could be photographed with increasing sharpness, the ratio between light and dark, and colour and tonal differences still varied considerably. Moreover, photographic reproductions were often retouched, a fact that Bremmer lamented: ‘they can’t leave it alone. It always has to be made smooth and attractive for people.’296 So the photographer also had leeway to correct the image, prompting a related debate in the field of photography between adherents of the ‘moderate’ and ‘orthodox’ standpoints. Bremmer wrote with repugnance: c

‘a mechanical reproduction is only very fine when it is just like an etching, photographers make collotypes that look Rembrandtesque, as it is called, and for a recent publication of the Meesterwerken der Kunst W. Bode wrote a foreword, in which he praised the reproductions because they were almost mezzotints, and they were mechanical reproductions! Shouldn’t the first requirement of a reproduction be that it faithfully represents a work?’297

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Bremmer resolutely declared : ‘Retouching is a cancer in mechanical reproduction, it should not be used at all, then one has the objective image that one can judge oneself.’298 Naturally he was well aware of the limitations to this ‘objective’ image, given the drastic change of colour that occurred in reproduction, but still preferred photographs that had not been retouched: ‘With the unretouched reproduction I know what’s what, with the retouched work it is extremely hard to identify the limit of retouching.’299 The different techniques employed in photographic reproduction meant that some people preferred the fine tone of Braun photographs while others opted for the individual ‘signature’ of a photogravure. A radical transformation which occurred during the reproduction of artworks was the change of format. Altering the dimensions of an original work was of course a substantial change, which considerably affected the ratios and balance of the composition. It is thus understandable that some original artists preferred to make such a drastic change to their work themselves, by producing their own reduction in the required format, for example. The size of the final print was in itself also significant.300 With handmade prints in particular, the format provided an indication of the amount of skilled work this represented; the knowledge that an engraver had spent some two years on a plate contributed to the handcrafted aura of an engraved reproduction.301 The use of less labour-intensive techniques, such as etching, lithography and photography slowly but surely drove the handcrafted aspect of reproductions into the background. However, in photographic reproduction large-format images enjoyed a higher status than modest carte-de-visite photographs, as for many years they remained technically demanding, expensive and therefore exclusive.302 Photography provided new opportunities for enlarging and reducing images. A small-format (photographic) reproduction offered a completely different, yet elegant impression of an original work. As Théophile Gautier wrote: ‘Douée d’une qualité de concentration et de réduction mathématiques, elle [photography, rv] donne à de grandes toiles un peu vides un intérêt et un charme singuliers, en rassemblant dans un petit espace des détails éparpillés.’303 Format was thus a significant element in the evaluation of reproductions.304 Although critics considered the individual contribution of the image adaptor (the printmaker or photographer) when assessing reproductions, this did not mean they forgot the role of the original artist. In reproductive practice the

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painter was often closely involved in the adaptation of his image, a fact of which critics were aware.305 Checking proofs allowed the original artist to keep an eye on the reproductive process and prevent the printmaker from becoming absorbed in his own interpretation. The artist’s involvement was regularly regarded as an advantage. As early as 1769 the renowned English publisher John Boydell emphasised in his Sculpture Britannica that the best reproductions were made by the painter’s contemporaries: ‘both able and willing to give the Engraver all the necessary Advice and Assistance he can require, to forward him in the Execution of his Work; an inestimable Advantage to an Engraver.’306 We also encounter this view in the nineteenth century. The critic P. Burty likewise declared that artworks could best be reproduced by the master’s contemporaries, for only the contemporary image adaptor was in a position to comprehend the original work and question the artist if necessary.307 The artist’s collaboration with his printmakers will be further discussed in the chapters on Ary Scheffer, Lawrence Alma-Tadema and Jozef Israëls. Here it is important to bear in mind that this collaboration also had a significant effect on assessment of the reproduction, for critics were well aware that a reproduction was not merely the work of a printmaker or photographer but a collaboration. During the reproductive process a painting was transformed into a convenient, lightweight print on paper. An important element in this transformation was the frame. The frame of the original work was generally not reproduced, inevitably giving the reproduction a different appearance from the original, although this did not mean that a framed print on a wall bore no resemblance to the painting from which it derived, particularly when the print was also varnished. In 1851 The Art Journal wrote of colour lithographs: c

‘These prints are accurately coloured after the originals, and are not only excellent examples of the perfection to which lithography itself has been brought, but show how well adapted it is for imitating paintings; indeed, if varnished and framed, these subjects would have all the strength and richness of oil-paintings.’308

A remarkable work in this connection is the reproduction of Holman Hunt’ painting The Finding of the Saviour in the Temple. Like other Pre-Raphaelites artists, Hunt also designed the frame for this picture, describing it as: ‘designed by my-

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self with ivory flat, in what I meant to be semi-barbaric splendour.’309 Various engravings of the popular painting were published, some with a cheap replica of the original frame. This offered collectors a unique treatment of the original work, to the displeasure of the artist who thoroughly disapproved of the replica frame.310 An associated element was the print margin. Every print amateur knew that inscriptions in the margin played a significant role in the importance of a print: they showed the various (proof) states of a print and generally supplied extra information, such as the name of the painter, printmaker and publisher, the title of the work and the date and place of publication. Any signature was also to be found in the margin, which likewise contained explanation of the image or a poetic reference. The rise of photographic techniques slowly but surely undermined the significance of the margin in reproductions. In collector’s handbooks the margin was universally identified as a major element in a print, in which respect a reproduction differed emphatically from its painted original. How people viewed reproductions was partly determined by the context in which they saw the print or photograph. Reproductions enabled them to acquire an impression of artworks which they would probably never see in their original form. It was not without reason that The Art Journal stressed its policy of mainly producing artworks from private collections which were not open to the general public.311 Reproduction ‘detached’ the original image from its context, a positive act that also concealed a major disadvantage: the apparent ‘dissolution’ of an artwork’s context. The reproduction of an altarpiece inevitably omits the church around the original work. A clear example of this loss of context is provided by Paul Délaroche’s semi-circular muralpainting Hemicycle in the Ecole des Beaux Arts, whose form and subject, a pantheon of famous artists, was inextricably associated with the nature and function of this institution. It goes without saying that the function and meaning of the original wall painting in its public context was very different from that of the reproduction viewed in the private surroundings of a print amateur’s home. Whether a print was hanging on a wall or kept in an album also made a difference to the viewing experience. A print displays the greatest resemblance to the original painting when it is hanging on a wall, either framed or unframed; viewers literally see a reproduction from a different perspective than the original when seated down and holding the print. There is also a difference in viewing distance between

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original and reproduction: an enormous fresco with lifesize figures requires greater viewing than a small and subtly painted still-life, yet in a portfolio of reproductions, paintings such as Raphael’s School of Athens and Fabritius’ Goldfinch deceptively appear to be of similar format. Viewers generally regarded a reproduction in a completely different context from that of the original work, with all the associated consequences. Nevertheless, some art lovers almost preferred to look at reproductions rather than original painting, for at many exhibitions poor lighting and crowds of fellow visitors often allowed only vague glimpses of original works; at home they could view the masterpieces of art history at leisure, pausing to glance at one of their prints on the wall or bringing out their albums at a suitable leisure moment. This gave art lovers ‘a real love of Art’, better than ‘any amount of wearing and tiring “doing” of Art galleries is like to accomplish’, as an anonymous author wrote in The Art Journal in 1880.312 On occasion, the original and its reproduction shared the same context, as was the case at exhibitions where painting and print were displayed together for comparison. Generally, however, original and reproduction were far removed from each other, and the viewer was required to conjure up the image of the original painting in his memory, that is if he had been fortunate enough to see it in person. Roger de Pilles’ description of reproductions as an aide-memoir, as a souvenir of the original, is interesting in this connection. Nevertheless, it is far from clear how experience and memory determined the perception of visual art, and its reproductions. Exposure to the original work quickly coloured perception of the reproduction; reproductions sometimes familiarised people with works they had yet to see.313 Of course reproductions could also considerably distort the image of original works. Some visitors were disappointed when they viewed an original painting, since they were so accustomed to reproductions of this, as De Kunstkronijk observed in connection with the 1854 exhibition of contemporary masters: c

‘At this exhibition too we once again encounter so many examples of painters, who have a great name and who belie our expectation of their work; if Hasenclever, Fourmois and Thuillier are there – to venture just these – that we should henceforth be much more cautious in assumption of the truth, that great names are representatives of great works, particularly if their work is only known to us from engraving or lithography.’314

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The nineteenth-century art lover did not view works with an innocent eye, not even their reproductions. This raises the question of the impressions and ex­ pectations people entertained when viewing works of visual art or reproductions of these.315 As yet it remains intriguingly unclear how art lovers furnished their personal musée imaginaire with visual experiences of original artworks and reproductions. The musée imaginaire is hard to capture, although the photo­ grapher H.S. Mendelssohn made a brave attempt at this, in his photograph In ­Remembrance of Sir Edwin Landseer, in which we recognise all kinds of details from Landseer’s work in the sleeping man’s dream. [fig. 35] Undoubtedly dif­ ferent people viewed reproductions in different ways. Both Goethe and Bremmer described the various ways in which they as individuals viewed repro­ ductions: sometimes when they looked at a print they saw the original work, other times they perceived the specific way in which this had been adapted. The reason for this differential viewing lies in the intrinsic ambiguity of reproductions, as representation of the original and presentation of themselves. Both ways of viewing occurred in the nineteenth century, although perceptional psychology has demonstrated that it is optically impossible to combine both ways of seeing simultaneously. In this respect reproductions resemble the wellknown example of a duck’s head that suddenly seems to be a hare, or vice versa.316 Thanks to our flexible powers of perception we can see the same image as either one or the other, but never both simultaneously: we can never see the

fig. 35 Hayman Seleg Mendelssohn, In Remembrance of Sir Edwin Landseer (1873), gelatine silverprint.

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hare and the duck. In similar fashion we can never see the adaption and the original in a reproduction, the adaptor and the painter. When the viewer favoured the original, the specific adaptation remained firmly out of the picture and vice versa. In short: if you viewed reproductions well, you could see more, as Bremmer had already proclaimed. Various reviews of reproductions consistently show how much critics were interested in the original work, and how aware they were of the qualities particular to a specific adaptation. Often this amounted to an invisible confrontation between the original work and its adaptation, in terms of composition, colour and black-and-white, technique, format and context. Bremmer also referred to these elements in his review of reproductions from 1906. He believed that, instead of viewing all reproductions in the same way, it was essential to pay attention to the intrinsic qualities of the individual print or photograph, and he acutely described how he himself viewed reproductions: c

‘The demand that one should therefore make of a reproduction is this, that a reproduction render, as directly as possible, without evasions, and without interference from someone’s individual nature, what the work of art itself is. Hereby it is immediately understood, of course, that all reproduction that is not mechanical, such as etching, engraving and woodcutting, is inferior as reproduction to all mechanical reproduction, in which this individual interference is not necessary. One should understand, that I do not wish to contend that an etching or woodcut or engraving after an artwork cannot be very fine, the better such a reproduction is, the more individual it will be, but it is always an insight into a particular artwork by an etcher, engraver of woodcutter, not the work itself. That it can be very fine is proved by the etching by M. Maris after the sower by Millet, which is, I think, finer than the original by Millet. If I want to talk about Millet’s sower, I cannot use that reproduction of course; but if I want to show someone how such a painting by Millet is seen by a fine mind such as M. Maris, then it is again in the condition of an original work. It is precisely because this etching is so exceptional that it has no value as a reproduction; we cannot gain an impression from it of how Millet’s work is, only of how it is viewed by M. Maris.’317

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With the viewing and reception of the reproduction we have reached the end of the ‘life of the reproduction’. In this final phase prints and photographs of artworks were displayed on the wall or carefully stored in albums, keeping the impression of the original work alive, long after the painter, the printmaker or the photographer had died and the original had vanished from sight, been lost or even destroyed.

The public for reproductions After the initiative, the organisation and the production of a reproduction, the ‘life of the reproduction’ was followed in this chapter with its distribution and reception. Advertising and publicity were intended to draw the public’s attention to new reproductions as they rolled from the press. Trains and steamships then made it increasingly feasible to distribute reproductions on an international scale. Large firms opened branches at home and abroad, allowing them to operate more effectively in the international print market, and helping to create a complex distribution network that connected villages, towns, countries and even continents with each other. Countless publishers, printmakers, photographers, painters, museums and societies of artists made their own contribution to the international distribution of art reproductions. During the nineteenth century the distribution network grew so rapidly that as early as 1832 the publisher Charles Knight could guarantee his English readership of The Penny Magazine the same distribution ‘as if everyone lived in London’. New forms of publication featuring reproductions developed in association with the new means for production and distribution. Print dealers and publishers continued to distribute independent prints on a large scale as they had for centuries. These were increasingly accompanied by reproductions in these forms of new publication, such as illustrated exhibition catalogues, exhibition catalogues and other luxury albums. An important role was played by the illustrated periodical in this rich range of prints. New techniques allowed periodicals with many illustrations to be produced in large numbers, at a price that a wide public could afford. In many respects the successful Penny Magazine set the tone for the illustrated periodical in the nineteenth century, quickly followed by thriving specialist art journals, such as L’Artiste, The Art Journal and De Kunstkronijk. The illustrated periodical was a new medium for the production and

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distribution of art reproductions, and an important addition to the existing range of independent reproductions. This enormous distribution network brought a varied range of reproductions to the public’s attention, thereby marking the beginning of the fifth, and final, phase in the ‘life of a reproduction’. Reproductions could be found in art dealers’ windows, in libraries and printrooms, at exhibitions, in art reviews or at bookstalls on the corner of the street. Prints and photographs after artworks thus formed an integral part of the nineteenth century’s rich visual culture. It was perhaps easier to find reproductions than to avoid them. Collectors kept a successful acquisition in an album or framed on the wall. Johan Gram found it was interesting to listen to the ‘sober or witty comments’ of people looking at reproductions.318 To a large extent nowadays we can only guess what an ‘important magistrate or a mason with his lime, a fashionable lady or blushing maidservant’ saw in a reproduction. One individual probably saw a rare state, another an exceptional treatment, yet another a famous painting or an attractive, sentimental image. Nevertheless, from the art cricitism of reproductions it is possible to distill various elements that were decisive in views on reproductions, such as the translation of the composition, the transposition of colour into blackand-white, the conversion of oil paint into a graphic medium, and the context. This chapter has endeavoured to examine the reception of art reproduction within the historical context of the nineteenth century. It goes without saying that the nineteenth-century amateur or connoisseur lived in a totally different visual world than ours, a gulf we can scarcely bridge. In all probability people looked at reproductions in another way than we do nowadays, paying attention to aspects of reproductions that seem alien to the modern viewer. In the first place, art lovers today are more familiar with art history in colour than at any other period, making it increasingly hard to comprehend how accustomed nineteenth-century viewers were to ‘paintings in black-and-white’, which may have given them a different perception of the translation of a coloured artwork into a black-and-white print. In the second place we are so familiar with photographic reproductions, that it is impossible to conceive of its absence when researching art reproduction in a period in which the medium was still new and experimental. The impact of this new medium on people who were accustomed to personal interpretations of artworks by individual printmakers is also hard to imagine. Even the simple fact that a handmade reproduction could require one or even two years of work, often much longer than the time taken to pro-

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duce the original image, seems curious in our modern context. Engravers such as Samuel Cousins or Louis Henriquel-Dupont became renowned for their individual adaptations of conemporary artworks and apparently introduced an element of performance art into the visual arts. The present dominance of (digital) photographic art reproductions has ensured that reproductions are now better and cheaper than ever before. At the same time our perception of reproductions seems to have been reduced to a purely ‘photographic view’ of art reproduction, thereby demoting reproductions to a more or less successful replication of the original. The instrinsic characteristics and qualities of a reproduction as an independent work in its own right no longer lie within the modern viewer’s frame of reference, making it harder than ever for us to form an idea of the diversity of graphic and photographic adaptations of artworks with which so many amateurs, connoisseurs and artists were familiar in the nineteenth century. The reception of reproductions brings an end to the ‘life of the reproduction’, as outlined in the previous two chapters. After the initiative had been taken to produce a reproduction, the relevant parties collaborated on the production process; the print or photograph was then distributed via the networks established by art dealers and publishers, before finally becoming available to a large and varied public. In the rest of the present study this broad view of art reproduction will be replaced by a more specific approach, focusing on three individual artists, Ary Scheffer, Jozef Israëls and Lawrence Alma-Tadema.

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chapter 5

The Most Framed Artist Ary Scheffer (1795-1858) and Reproductions after His Work

In a discussion of work submitted by Ary Scheffer to the Salon of 1846 the French art critic Théophile Thoré wrote: c

‘M. Ingres a une petite église de fanatiques et il laisse la foule indifférente; M. Délaroche est fort admiré par des bourgeois et contesté par les artistes; Delacroix soulève la passion ou l’animosité. Ary Scheffer seul a le privilège d’une admiration universelle, quoique les vrais artistes ne se dissimulent pas l’encertitude et la débilité de son exécution.’1

Ary Scheffer was born on 10 February 1795, in Dordrecht in the Netherlands. In 1811, when he was sixteen, he moved to Paris, together with his mother Cornelia Scheffer-Lamme (1769-1839) and his two brothers Arnold and Henri. There he trained as an artist in the studio run by Pierre-Narcisse Guérin and came into contact with neoclassicism and romanticism, whose chief exponents were Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres and Eugène Delacroix respectively. Scheffer drew his inspiration from the literary works of Goethe, Schiller, Byron and Scott. He repeatedly depicted sentimental scenes from Faust, Gretchen and Mignon, plus dramatic subjects from the Bible. He also painted many portraits of

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fig. 36 Charles de Lasteyrie, Le Vengeur (de Wreker) after Scheffer (1817), lithograph, Dordrechts Museum, Dordrecht.

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the French elite, particularly members of the House of Orléans, with whom he enjoyed intensive contact. When the Duke of Orléans was proclaimed king of France in the wake of the 1830 July Revolution, Scheffer, himself a confirmed liberal and republican, even became court painter to the ‘citizen-king’. From the 1830s onward the Franco-Dutch artist enjoyed unprecedented renown in France and far beyond its border.2 His work was reproduced on a large scale in many engravings, lithographs and photographs, as described in 1892 by Henri Beraldi in his summary of the nineteenth-century graphic arts, Les Graveurs du xixe siècle: c

‘Mais Ary Scheffer est, avec Paul Delaroche, le peintre qui a été le plus capitalement gravé, et celui qui a dû à la gravure le plus de popularité.

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Dans les premiers temps, sous la Restauration, lorsqu’il est voué aux sujets de genre, Ary Scheffer partage avec tous les autres peintres de genres les honneurs d’une reproduction telle quelle par burin, la manière noire ou la lithographie. Mais lorsqu’il passe ensuite aux poétiques figures de Francoise de Rimini, de Béatrice, de Mignon, de Marguerite, lorsqu’il se voue enfin aux subjets religieux, ce sont les premiers burin de son temps qui le traduisent, les Henriquel, Les Calamatta, les Francois, les Aristide Louis, les Beaugrand, les Blanchard; et le succès de ces gravures est considérable auprès de toutes les personnes qui veulent placer sous leurs yeux, dans leur salon, un sujet de sentiment ou de piété. Avec Paul Delaroche, Ary Scheffer est certainement le peintre qui a été le plus encadré.’ [italics rv] 3 The large volume of reproductions after Scheffer’s work made him one of the most framed artists of his age, according to Beraldi. In order to gain some idea of what Beraldi meant by this remark, we have to go to Scheffer’s home town, to the Dordrechts Museum, which was presented with a unique collection of reproductions in 1899 by Cornelia Marjolin-Scheffer, Scheffer’s only daughter. Leafing through this collection we quickly find a range of exceptional reproductions in varying techniques. These reveal that Scheffer was not only much reproduced, but also that his reproductions were made by the best printmakers of his time. The oldest reproduction in this collection is a lithograph after Scheffer’s Le Vengeur of 1817, by the French lithographer Charles de Lasteyrie, [fig. 36] which may also have been printed in his Paris studio, established by the printmaker in 1814. The lithograph is an early example of French lithography and possibly one of the earliest reproductions after a Scheffer work, by a pioneer in this technique.4 The collection in the Dordrechts Museum also contains interesting engravings, such as a print by the French master engraver Louis Henriquel-Dupont after Scheffer’s Christus Consolator of 1842.5 [fig. 37] As previously observed, Henriquel-Dupont made an important contribution to traditional engraving in France, particularly through successful pupils such as Aristide Louis en Alphons Francois, prints by whom we also encounter in the museum’s collection.6 Other renowned engravers in the collection include the Frenchman Zachée Prévost (1797-1861), with his print after Louis Philippe, lieutenant-général, rencontre le 1er régiment de hussards, the Italian Luigi Calamatta (1801-1869), with his engraving after the 1843 painting Francesca di Rimini, and the Englishman S.W. Reynolds, with an aquatint after Scheffer’s portrait of the poet Beranger.7 Re-

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fig. 37 Louis Henriquel-Dupont, Christus Consolator by Scheffer (1842), engraving 62.5 x 85.5 cm, Musée Goupil, Bordeaux.

markably, there are also a number of prints in the typically English mezzotint technique, such as the 1835 reproduction by the English mezzotinter T. Hodgetts, who was particularly influential in the Netherlands, after Scheffer’s 1828 portrait of C.M. Talleyrand-Perigord, plus a few rare French examples of this technique, by the engravers Louise and Francois Girard (1787-1870).8 Finally, we also encounter diverse photographic reproductions, dating from the pioneering years of this medium. Notable examples are a salt print by the well-known French photographic pioneer Gustave Le Gray of Le Coupeur de nappe, from around 1851, and a prestigious photo album with photographs by the renowned photographer Robert Bingham, published by Goupil in 1860 to commemorate Scheffer, who had died in 1858. [fig. 38]

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fig. 38 Gustave Le Gray after Scheffer, Le Coupeur de nappe (ca.1851), salt print, Dordrechts Museum, Dordrecht.

Reproductions after the work of Ary Scheffer are the main subject of this chapter. How were these reproductions made, distributed and received? Above all, what was the artist’s attitude to reproduction as regards his own work? What did he know about authorship rights, what was his relationship with printmakers and what kind of reproductions were produced after his work? Prints after Scheffer’s pictures were distributed to a public of connoisseurs and amateurs. One member of this public was Vincent van Gogh, who greatly admired Scheffer’s work and reproductions of this. The importance of reproductions to Scheffer and his work will be discussed at the end of this chapter, which I shall conclude with a closer comparision of Scheffer’s paintings and their reproductions, in order to consider the question of whether ‘reproduceability’ played a role

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when the artist was painting his original works. In referring to the various works and their reproductions, I shall use the titles employed in the nineteenth century wherever possible. The majority of these works had French titles which were translated into a Dutch or English equivalent, depending on the context. The varying titles of the works and their reproductions are interesting as regards distribution, and I have therefore endeavoured to preserve these as far as possible. In the interests of clarity, however, I have occasionally added another title used to denote the work, sometimes in another language.

Scheffer and the droit de reproduction Was Scheffer familiar with authorship rights? The issue is an interesting one, not only from an historical point of view. During Scheffer’s lifetime it was already of legal relevance. As previously observed, it was vital when artists sold their work that they explicitly claimed their droit de reproduction, otherwise this right would be automatically transferred to the new owner of a piece. In January 1845 Scheffer wrote an interesting letter to his brother-in-law A.J. Lamme: c

‘J’ai vendu mon tableau du Christ avec les Stes femmes 14000 comprix le droit de gravures à Goupil Ce tableau est presque terminé. Je me mettrai de suite aux tiens et promets un pour un peut etre les deux pour le mois de mai. J’ai vendu a Godecharle la jeune fille avec la vierge fr.12.000 sans le droit et promis de la livre pour le mois d’aout pour l’exposition a Bruxelles.’9

The letter shows that the artist had sold one painting to Goupil, together with the rights of reproduction, before it had been completed; he had also sold another work, without the rights of reproduction. This is the first direct evidence that Scheffer was aware of his legal position as regards his work. Where he had acquired this knowledge of the law is hard to say, but he had opportunities enough. As previously observed, during the 1830s and 1840s artists from his immediate circle were familiar with the concept of authorship rights. Ingres negotiated with Goupil concerning his rights, while in 1843 Horace Vernet even published an extensive treatise on the subject. Scheffer may also have come into contact with reproduction rights via the art trade.10 Moreover his friends includ-

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ed leading lawyers, such as counsellor Baron de Schonen, whose portrait he had painted in 1822, and with whom he may have discussed the droit de reproduction. Like many of his contemporaries Scheffer sold the rights to reproduce his works. Although it is often unclear in historical practice how much artists actually earned from such sales, some information is known regarding Scheffer’s situation. The price for both possession of a work and the right to reproduce this were not prescribed by legislation but determined by the market forces of supply and demand. The legal distinction between the two did not always translate into two separate sums. In 1846, for example, Scheffer sold his work L’Ense­velis­se­ ment du Christ with the droit de reproduction for 14,000 or 15,000 francs.11 In her essay on Scheffer’s income, Anne-Marie de Brem also quotes some figures relating to to reproduction rights.12 In 1848, for example, Scheffer received 14,000 francs for the sale of a replica with the rights to reproduce this; a year later he was paid 12,000 francs for a work including the droit de reproduction; in 1856 he again sold a replica with reproduction rights for the sum of 14,000 francs. Finally, in the last year of his life, he received a total of 42,000 franc for three replicas with reproduction rights. In all these instances Scheffer sold his works including the right of to reproduce these, making it difficult to determine the exact value of this right by itself. Moreover, no cases are known in which Scheffer sold reproduction rights independently of the original works. In order to gain some idea of the economic value of his reproduction rights, however, we can cautiously compare similar works sold without the right to reproduce these. According to De Brem, the painter was paid around 5,000 to 6,000 francs for re­ plicas without reproduction rights, which allows us to tentatively estimate that such rights were worth 7,000 to 9,000 francs per work. Although these are only cautious estimates, Scheffer does appear to have earned just as much, or sometimes slightly more, from selling the reproduction rights to such replicas as he did from selling actual ownership of the work.13 A similar ratio is found in the earning of successful English contemporaries, such as Landseer and Wilkie. Once a painter had transferred the right to reproduce a work, he had lost all claim to this. Since it was common practice for artworks to be reproduced more than once, curious situations could arise in which an artist no longer had exclusive rights over the multiplication of his work. This was certainly the case when Scheffer received a request from a lady, whose identity we do not know, to be allowed to make a lithograph after one of his paintings. Since the artist had already given an engraver permission to reproduce the work, he was obliged to

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apply to this individual before he could grant the lady’s request. The engraver agreed that Scheffer could allow the lady to copy the work, provided that certain conditions were met, which he stipulated to safeguard the commercial future of his own print. Scheffer detailed these conditions in his reply to the lady: c

‘J’ai obtenu de l’homme qui fait graver ce tableau l’autorisation de laisser faire la lithographe que vous me demandez, il stipule seulemant qu’on ne dessine que la figure de Marguerite celle de Faust et de Méphistophélès et point les figures accessoires afin que toute la composition ne soit pas reproduire. Je vous envoie un dessin sur lequel on pourra prendre ces trois figures a retoucher apres le tableau qui reste chez moi jusqu’a la fin du mois.’14

In order to protect his own print the engraver refused to allow reproduction of the entire image. Even Scheffer, the creator and painter of this image, had to respect the engraver’s wishes. To avoid any misunderstandings Scheffer even sent the lady a drawing of the composition she was allowed to reproduce. In addition to being legally permitted to reproduce a work, it was also important to be given access to this work by its owner. In museums, for example, the reproduction of artworks was often subject to the institutions’ own regulations. Scheffer’s letter to the Louvre, which owned his painting Marguerite au Jardin, should regarded in this light: ‘Je prie la Direction des Musees de laisser faire un croquis à la mine de plomb de mon tableau de Marguerite au Jardin.’15 All in all Scheffer appears to have been fully aware of the importance of reproduction rights. Nevertheless, the evidence for this is scanty, apart from various letters. Scheffer’s legal relationship with the firm of Goupil, for example, is veiled in mystery, owing to the loss of the firm’s accounts. Did the painter and Goupil formalise their relationship in contracts? This seems a distinct possibility, although it is equally feasible that such contracts never existed, given that informal oral agreements, never committed to paper but equally binding, were often the norm for art dealers and artists. Indeed, the informal association enjoyed by Scheffer and Goupil for many years makes the existence of detailed written contracts seem unlikely. A handwritten remark by Scheffer on a print by Louis Henriquel-Dupont after Christus Consolator is revealing in this regard. This print of an engraving published by Goupil was never sold and formed part of the firm’s estate, now housed in the Musée Goupil in Bordeaux. Scheffer wro-

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te in the margin of the print: ‘Je soussigné déclare que MM Goupil et cie sont seuls propriétaires de droit exclusif de reproduction de la présente composition que je leur ai vendu sans reservé, Paris 6 mai 1857.’16 Henriquel-Dupont’s engraving is possibly the most popular reproduction after Scheffer’s work to have been published. The fact that Goupil held the droit de reproduction for this work is hardly surprising; the fact that Scheffer wished to avoid any misunderstanding in this connection is also understandable, given the print’s importance. What is remarkable, however, is that this important information was casually noted in the margin of a print, instead of in a detailed contract; it is the form, rather than the substance of this agreement, that is interesting, and possibly revealing, with regard to the informal relationship between Scheffer and his art dealer and publisher Goupil. Scheffer undoubtedly derived revenue from reproduction rights, but the question remains of whether he also enjoyed extra income from the sale of prints after his work, in the form of royalties or other types of profit sharing. Nothing is known about such income, however, and perhaps he never received anything of this kind. It is probable that the financial benefits of a successful print mainly accrued to the publisher. During the 1870s the substantial income derived by Goupil from the publication of reproductions prompted a lawsuit against the firm by the relatives of several famous artists, whose work had been much reproduced by Goupil. The plaintiffs were the heirs of Paul Délaroche, Horace Vernet and Scheffer’s daughter, Cornelia Marjolin-Scheffer. The verdict was pronounced on 26 July 1878: c

‘Déclare Goupil et Cie bien et légitimement en possession du droit de reproduction les oeuvres dont ságit; les déclare mal fondés dans leurs demandes à fins de dommages-intérêts, les en déboute; Condamne les demandeurs en tous les dépens faits contre chacun, en ce qui les concerne, par Goupil et le ministre des beaux-arts, lesquels, pour les héritiers Delaroche, comprendront l’enregistrement des deux traités porduits, dont distraction.’17

Although the plaintiffs, including Scheffer’s daughter, did not win their suit, the case shows that 20 years after Scheffer’s death the reproduction rights to his work were still a matter of great importance.

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Independent reproductions An unfinished reproduction

On 16 December 1845 the young, talented engraver Henricus Wilhelmus Couwenberg (1814-1845) died, leaving unfinished his engraving after Scheffer’s Mignon et son Père. André Taurel’s most renowned pupil had been considered a major talent with a highly promising future.18 His death, at the age of 31, brought an untimely end to this talent and promise. Scheffer had derived the inspiration for his painting Mignon et son Père from Goethe’s novel Wilhelm Meisters Lehrjare. Several years previously he had painted another two pictures featuring the character of Mignon, Mignon: Mignon regrettant la patrie and Mignon aspirant au ciel. Both paintings had enjoyed success at the Salon of 1839, both had been engraved by Aristide Louis whose prints of these Scheffer pictures had also met with success at the Salon of 1844.19 [fig. 39] So it is hardly surprising that Scheffer chose to paint a third, related composition on the theme of Mignon, which he completed in the early months of 1844. The painting was displayed in Brussels in the spring, then exhibited in London in June, after which it was acquired by Queen Victoria for 708 pounds. Given the success of Scheffer’s earlier paintings of Mignon, and the two prints by Louis, it was only to be expected that the artist’s third interpretation of this theme would also be committed to print. In fact the engraver Couwenberg had already signed the contract for the reproduction while Scheffer was still working on the original. According to Taurel, his pupil Couwenberg was deeply impressed by Scheffers’ painting. It is not known who took the initiative to reproduce the work as an engraving. On 9 October 1843, while in Paris, the engraver entered into an agreement with the firm of Goupil to produce the engraving. Several weeks later he had returned from the French capital, and wrote a letter, dated 1 November, to his parents from Amsterdam: c

‘As you now see I am back. Well, it is not without result that I am once more here. From my letter to Bram and you all you will have learned some specifics. At present I shall tell you that I would not have ventured to leave Paris until I actually should have signed a contract with the publisher Goupil et Vibert, for the engraving of a painting by Scheffer of Paris. That contract I signed on Thursday the 9 th at eleven o’clock in the evening, and I have thereby taken on the engraving for twelve thousand francs to be

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fig. 39 Aristide Louis after Scheffer, Mignon regrettant la Patrie (1843), engraving, Dordrechts Museum, Dordrecht.

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delivered in two years. If God in His goodness grant me health and a clear insight in the matter, I hope that I shall finish it much more quickly. It is a good price and one that is equal to the prices of the best French engravers. I have thus been allowed to experience the satisfaction, [of knowing] that it is only through work I have already made and not through patrons that I have obtained this work, whereof I must augur myself well for the future in the further completion of the Douw and the Rembrandt which have

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encountered a great deal of approbation there. I have endeavoured to dispose the contract as commodiously as possible. In February or thereabouts I obtain the drawing and and will then receive 1000 francs every two months, whether I do the work here or in Paris, and concerning this I am not yet decided. There life is cheaper in many respects, and here is truly everything expensive, as you indeed well know. At our convenience, however, I shall give everything mature consideration, with all the information now gained in person and on the spot. At any event I shall have to be in Paris for more or less time at the end of the work and for the printing.’20 Couwenberg’s letter offers a unique insight into the conclusion of a contract for a reproduction. In the agreements concerning price, payment by instalment, deadline and method of working we recognise the organisation of the reproductive process. Although I have never seen this contract, it certainly seems to have existed. Couwenberg entered into this contract with the well-known firm of Goupil, who offered him a fairly attractive sum. It seems remarkable that the publishing house was willing to chance working with young Couwenberg, an artist still at the beginning of his career, although he had won various prizes at the art academy and quickly made a name for himself. In his letter Couwenberg himself suggests that he partly owed the commission to engrave Scheffer’s Mignon et son Père to his prints after a painting by Gerard Dou (Girl with Basket of Fruit by a Window, then in the Six collection) and The Syndics by Rembrandt. Although the young engraver had only been able to show the publisher these prints in an unfinished state, to demonstrate his skill, they were good enough to gain him the commission. Couwenberg never completed these two prints, nor his engraving after Scheffer’s painting, and they were finished after his death by the engravers J. de Mare and J.W. Kaiser respectively. In 1844 De Kunstkronijk reported on Couwenberg’s activities in Paris: c

‘It is our understanding that our excellent engraver, Mr Couwenberg, is on his last trip to Paris, where he has been invited, to engrave a large painting by the renowned Scheffer, the which painting will shortly be sent hither for this purpose. We rejoice at this favourable notice, from which we learn with joyful pride, that our deserving native artists are beginning to be valued for their true worth.’21

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In all probability the work in question was Couwenberg’s print after Scheffer’s Mignon and the engraver may have visited the painter in person. It is unclear whether he saw the original painting on this visit, although he may have seen the work at an exhibition in Brussels in 1844, after which it was transferred to Queen Victoria’s collection. When Couwenberg received a drawing of the work from Paris, as an alternative to the painting, he was highly disappointed. He expressed his misgivings in an lengthy letter to the painter, here quoted in full: c







‘Monsieur, Je saisis l’occasion favorable qui se présente par le départ de Mr. l’advocat De Bruine pour Paris, afin de vous avertir la recette du dessin de Mr. The­venin. En même tems Mr. de Bruine en profitera beaucoup en faisant votre connaissance honorable, Monsieur. Et alors certes il poura plus encore admirer vos beaux tableaux qui malheureusement nous parviennent si rarement. Mr. de Bruine est celui du petit nombre de nos véritables amateurs, qui favorise le plus par son influence ici, les beaux arts et qui est dans le paysage un peintre très distingué quoiqu’il ne se soit pas fait artiste. C’est donc avec plaisir qui ce dessin me soit parvenu. Comme j’ai en l’honneur de vous écrire Monsieur, de Bruxelles devant le tableau c’est ouvrage m’a beaucoup touché et tellement que je sentais quelque regret en recevant le dessin, de ne pas avoir pu moi même interprêter ces caractères. Malheureusement je n’avais pas reçu le dessin alors. Et je n’emportais du tableau que le calque exact des parties essentielles, et ca heureusement, parceque c’était votre désir Monsieur, comme je lisais plus tard dans vos observations, Monsieur, qui sont très justes. Permettez moi de vous sou­mettre les miennes lesquelles j’espère n’écarteront pas des votres. En général le dessin ne me parait pas avoir ce relief, quoiqu’étant tres vigoureux au tableau. La tête du vieillard, étant absolument du Rembrandt dans le tableau, quand aux tons, et ayant cette belle transparence de la nature dans les ombres, a en sus ce caractère incompréhensible, dans les yeux par exemple, que j’étais si curieux de retrouver dans le dessin. Est ce en vérité à raison que je me suis trouvé desapointé? Pour moi la tête du vieillard me parait plus grossiere, et par là même plus grande par raport

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à la tête de Mignon, que dans le tableau. Je crois qu’il y manque de la finesse dans le modelé et quelque chose de plus fin dans le fond, quelque chose de plus fuyant, pour qu’on y pense moins. Le caractère de la tête de Mignon et le dessin du bras gauche me paraissent plus fidèles. Mais ce sera avec plaisir que je recevrai la réduction promis que Messrs Goupil avaient oubliéde joigndre au dessin. Comme le sort du tableau n’est pas de venir par ici en Hollande, je me propose dans le cas ou cette pièce reste quelque part dans la Belgique ou en Engleterre, d’y aller revoir ce dessin avec le tableau et je ne doute pas que le propriétaire consentira à cela. Quoique mes obervations vous paraitront exagérés Monsieur, je ne condamne pas le dessin auquel Mr. Thevenin a employé tous ses soins, mais pardonnez la liberté avec laquelle je vous soumets ceci par l’exaltation avec lequel j’ai vu le tableau. En attendant quelque lettres par l’intermède de Mr. de Bruine, qui voudra s’en charger, et si vous le juger nécessaire, je pourai m’occuper des choses acessoires, ce qui sera toujours avec la plus haute considération Monsieur vôtre très humble serviteur, H.W. Couwenberg.’22

The reason the drawing was poor was that it could not be finished, because the original painting had already been sent to Queen Victoria. The suggested solution was for Couwenberg to use the drawing to start his engraving, then for him to return to Paris at a later stage, ‘in order to complete his engraving under the eyes of the painter, finding the means in the advice and improvements of the latter to remedy the errors to which the deficiencies of the drawing had been able to reduce him’, as the master engraver André Taurel later put it.23 Although the painter Scheffer believed that problems with the weak drawing could be overcome in this way, the engraver Couwenberg had his doubts. As Taurel explained: ‘he had too much experience not to know that in engraving it is always difficult, sometimes impossible, with regard to expression and forms, to improve mistakes made in the layout.’24 The drawing in question was not by Scheffer himself, but by the engraver J.C. Thévenin (1819-1869), who may have been a friend of the painter. While Scheffer had every faith that corrections could be made at a later stage, Couwenberg was aware that once a plate had been engraved, any faults in this would be hard to rectify. In the absence of the original painting, however, the drawing was

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now the most important guide in the reproductive process. Understandably, Couwenberg would have preferred to have made the drawing himself, as his fellow engraver Luigi Calamatta did preparatory to reproducing Scheffer’s Francesca di Rimini.25 The use of such drawings was fairly general and offered the advantage that it detached the reproductive process from the original work. At the same time, however, danger lurked, for a defective drawing could lead to irrevocable problems in the reproduction. In another instance Scheffer himself was responsible for the fact that a drawing no longer corresponded with an original work, his 1856 painting Jacob et Rachel. The engraving by Jules Levasseur of this work was probably based largely on the painter’s own chalk study for the picture. A year later, however, Scheffer modified several details in his painting. So when Levasseur’s print was published in 1859, this reproduced the now ‘superseded’ composition of 1856. Where engravers did not have the opportunity, or take the opportunity, to match their work to the painting, ‘original’ and reproduction could display curious differences. Using the deficient drawing Couwenberg would probably have made his own drawing to help him transfer the contours of the image to a plate. He would have placed the paper on the metal, then pricked holes through the lines on the paper with a burin to generate a pattern of stipple lines on the plate. He would then have incised various other components of the scene onto the plate, as can be seen from the earliest surviving state. [fig. 40] Couwenberg began with the exacting details in the heads of Mignon and her father, leaving the background blank, an unusual approach, for engravers usually laid out the general lines of the composition before working up the details. In the second known state of the plate, Couwenberg had drawn in the overall scene, entirely in the etching technique, with no trace of the burin, as Jan Jaap Heij has correctly observed. With only the inadequate drawing as his model, for a reduction promised by Goupil failed to materialise, Couwenberg anticipated many problems and therefore resolved: c

‘without caring for time nor expenses, nor looking to the difficulties which he could encounter, to obtain leave to be admitted to the apartments of the queen of England, and to acquire consent to position himself before the painting for a certain number of days, in order to improve the sketch that had to serve him as drawing. Thus it was only in order to make himself conversant with the enterprise entrusted to him, and justify

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fig. 40 Henricus Wilhelmus Couwenbergh after Scheffer, Mignon et son pere, etching first state 30.5 x 23.5 cm, Dordrechts Museum, Dordrecht.

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himself in this position, that he was willing to leave his family and undertake that journey.’26 Fortunately, the engraver received permission from Queen Victoria to study Scheffer’s painting at close quarters, so we can identify with certainty the painting to which his notes refer. In the case of other reproductions of Scheffer’s work, however, the identify of the ‘original’ is often less clear, as the artist’s oeuvre, like that of many of his contemporaries, contained a number of versions of the same subject, in the form of replicas, reductions and copies.27 Scheffer himself sometimes reprised his compositions, while replicas of his paintings were also produced by the many students and assistants in his studio. From the 1830s, for example, Scheffer employed the artist Auguste Legras (1818-1887), who spent his entire career painting many replicas of Scheffer’s work, which the master frequently signed. The result is a fairly confusing body of works,

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produced, to a greater or lesser degree, by Scheffer’s own hand.28 All these related versions of subjects, plus comparable drawings, often make it exceptionally hard to establish which ‘original’ served as the model for a specific reproduction. Although we know which painting Couwenberg studied for his reproduction of Mignon et son Père, we must also bear in mind that his impression of this work was also shaped by the drawing. Couwenberg’s friend P.L. Dubourcq later depicted him at work before the original painting, an image reproduced in De Kunstkronijk. We see the engraver working in silence in front of Scheffer’s large picture, which is naturally in full light. As J.J. Heij has observed, Couwenberg probably noted his impressions of the painting in a proof of the second state, recording his observations in the margin, to supplement the inadequate drawing. [fig. 41] The notes in the right margin read: c

‘[…] the head in the painting always has more expression than in the drawing, although the white of the eyes is darker than in my engraving. The head is not so baboon-like as in the drawing. When there is glass before the drawing it looks more like the painting than otherwise for everything is too shrill. Head of the man is somewhat duller in the light than the drawing, but the shadows particularly on the left cheekbone are also not as black as on the drawing […]’29

These remarks attest to the engraver’s powers of observation, and his critical eye for the details of the painting, the drawing and his own engraving. In addition to the engraver’s observations the lower magin is also inscribed with two couplets from the song sung by the old harpist in Goethe’s novel. The reason for this is not clear; Couwenberg may have noted the verses with a view to later engraving these in the plate as a poetic caption, a common practic. The engraver incorporated his own observations in a third state of the print, to which he made such modifications as reducing the sharp contrast in the old man’s face. Now satisfied with the composition, Couwenberg began work on the actual engraving. [fig. 42 a,b] However, his untimely death soon brought an end to his work on this reproduction after Scheffer’s painting Mignon et son Père. Although Couwenberg was unable to finish his print, his method of working is interesting. It is significant that the engraver rejected Scheffer’s offer of assistance, his self-confident attitude clearly attesting to his own role in the repro-

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fig. 41 Henricus Wilhelmus Couwenbergh after Scheffer, Mignon et son pere, etching with pencil second state 30.5 x 23.5 cm, Dordrechts Museum, Dordrecht.

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ductive process. Naturally this state of affairs also says something about Scheffer himself, for the painter was apparently willing to allow Couwenberg the space to implement his own plan. Scheffer’s attitude contrasts sharply with that of his contemporary J.M.W. Turner, who was notorious for the demands he made on his engravers. While Turner mainly chose young, inexperienced engravers, whom he attempted to bend to his own will, Scheffer tende to work with renowned printmakers. When Louis Pierre Henriquel-Dupont, Zachee Prevost, Luigi Calamatta, S.W. Reynolds and Léon Noël made prints after Scheffer’s work, they were all established engravers, some with an international reputation. Although Scheffer himself also had a considerable reputation, he seems to have treated his engravers as equals. In his immediate circle of friends there were a number of engravers, including Charles de Lasteyrie and the married couple Francois and Louise Girard; Scheffer also regularly encountered Henriquel-Dupont in the elitist salons of Baron Gerard. These engravers made prints after Scheffer’s work and the painter immortalised a few of them, such as S.W. Reynolds and De Lasteyrie, in portraits. Scheffer’s printmakers moved in the same cultural milieu as the painter himself, so the ‘socio-cultural distance’ between Scheffer and his printmakers does not appear to have been very great in early nineteenth-century France. The difference between the English and the French context is illustrated by the English engraver Abraham Raimbach’s amazement when he saw the social status enjoyed by painters and engravers in France. The printmaker visited Paris on diverse occasions and was friends with

42a

42b

fig. 42b Detail Henricus Wilhelmus Couwenbergh

fig. 42c Detail Henricus Wilhelmus Couwenbergh

after Scheffer, Mignon et son pere, detail second

after Scheffer, Mignon et son pere, detail third state,

state, Dordrechts Museum, Dordrecht.

Dordrechts, Museum Dordrecht.

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well-known French engravers such as Charles Bervic, Henriquel-Dupont and Auguste Desnoyez. In 1843 he wrote: c

‘whatever may be the worldly circumstances of an artist in France (and I believe that in pecuniary matters they are much alike in all places) it cannot escape observation, that in that country they are allowed to take a higher rank in public estimation, relatively to the other classes of society, than is permitted to them generally in England.’30

It should be emphasised, however, that the engravers cited thus far belonged to the ‘elite’ amongst nineteenth-century printmakers. Working in their shadow were probably many unknown engravers, using traditional methods to produce prints in the modest surroundings of their own studio. A letter from Paul Chenay to the master engraver Henriquel-Dupont offers an insight into the relationship between printers. When Chenay had completed an engraving after Scheffer’s Le Larmoyeur, published in L’Artiste in 1856, he did not have enough to do and applied to his more famous colleague for work. Henriquel-Dupont wrote in reply: c

‘J apprends avec tres vive pein que vous etez au ce moment sans aucun travail, et je suis surprise qui votre dernier ouvrage d’après M Scheffer ne vous tait amene une commande assez lucrative pour vous. Mettre a même de terminé votre planche du Theatre Francais.[…] Soyez assuré qui si je puis trouver une occasion de vous servir, je ne la laisser échapper.’31

When Henricus Wilhelmus Couwenberg died, among the works he left unfinished was the partially engraved plate after Scheffer’s painting Mignon et son Père. The firm of Goupil went in search of another engraver to complete the plate, eventually deciding upon the French printmaker Alphonse Francois (18141888), who was also young, the same age as Couwenberg, and equally talented. The brother of engraver Jules Francois, and one of the most promising of Henriquel-Dupont’s pupils, he enjoyed a successful debut at the Salon in 1842, later making a name with prints after works by Paul Délaroche.32 Couwenberg’s unfinished plate was in safe hands with Francois. He completed the task more than three years after Couwenberg’s death. Op 1 February 1849 Goupil launched the print in Paris, New York and London. It was inscribed: ‘peint par Scheffer –

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fig. 43 Henricus Wilhelmus Couwenbergh and Alphonse Francois after Scheffer, Mignon et son pere (1844), engraving and etching fourth (and last known) state 30.5 x 23.5 cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

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commencé par H.W. Couwenberg – terminé par Alphonse Francois’ [fig. 43] To publicise this print after Mignon et son Père the publisher simultaneously issued a brochure of the work, [fig. 44] which incorporated a small lithograph. The linear character of this lithograph indicates that it should be regarded as a reproduction after the engraving, not after the original painting.33 In the accompanying text the print after Mignon et son Père was lauded as an important addition to the two engravings previously published by Goupil, after Mignon regrettant la patrie and Mignon aspirant au ciel, which had enjoyed great success and sold thousands of copies, according to the publisher.34 The brochure then described the new print after Mignon et son Père from Goethe’s novel Wilhelm Meister, and concluded by explaining the circumstances of its production; the engraving had been commenced by the ‘célèbre graveur’ Couwenberg and completed by Francois, of whom the publisher declared: ‘Il en a fait un chef-d’oevure

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qui le classe dès aujourd’hui parmi les graveurs les plus renommés de l’epoque. Ce jugement que portent sur lui les artistes les plus distingués, sera ratifié par tous ceux qui verront la gravure de Mignon et son Père.’35 Five versions of the print, at varying prices, were published:

1 Épreuves ‘avant la lettre’,



2



on ordinary paper: “ “, on Chinese paper: 3 Épreuves ‘avec la lettre’, on ordinary paper: 4 “ “, on Chinese paper: 5 Épreuves d’artiste:

40 francs 50 francs 20 francs 25 francs 120 francs

So Couwenberg’s print had been finished after all, thanks to Francois’ efforts. But did his engraving do justice to Couwenberg’s original layout? This was the question that arose in Dutch cultural circles. In order to obtain a definitive verdict on this, the highest authority on art in the Dutch art world, the Vierde Klasse of the Koninklijk Instituut (Royal Advisery Counsil for Science, Literature and Fine Arts), initiated a further study of the matter, recently discussed by J.J. Heij and considered below.36 Several months after the print had been published, the Nederlandsche Staatscourant of 1 August 1849 issued the following report: c

‘The vierde klasse of the Koninklijk Nederlands Instituut van Wetenschappen, Letterkunde en Schoone Kunsten [Royal Dutch Institute of Science, Literature and Fine Art] deeming desirable an inquiry into the engraving in copper, published in Paris, representing “Mignon et son père” after the

fig. 44 Title page of brochure from Goupil, Vibert et Cie for Mignon et son pere, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

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painting by Ary Scheffer, in the possession of the Queen of England, which engraving was commenced by its meritorious fellow member, the late H.W. Couwenberg, and completed after his death by the French engraver Alphonse Francois, determining the extent to which this completed work meets what could have reasonably been expected from the design of Mister Couwenberg, – requested in the sitting of 4 June last its fellow member Mister A.B.B. Taurel to undertake such an inquiry and report on his findings.’37 So the Dutch state’s highest advisory body in the field of the arts entrusted the actual inquiry to the influential engraver André Taurel, who had considered Couwenberg to be one of his most talented pupils during his years as director of the school of engraving at the Koninklijke Academie van Beeldende Kunsten in Amsterdam.38 Taurel’s inquiry into the engraving Mignon et son Père offers a rare insight in the production of a reproduction, seen through the eyes of one of the most authoritative figures in the world of Dutch printmaking in the nineteenth century. During the session of 18 June 1849 Taurel reported on his findings to the members of the Vierde Klasse; these findings were officially published in the Staatscourant on 1 August 1849 and subsequently, in Dutch translation, in De Kunstkronijk and De Spectator.39 The report was sent to several foreign journals, including the Kunstblatt, which no longer existed, and the members of the Vier­ de Klasse also decided to submit it to the French journal L’Artiste, or else the Revue des Deux Mondes, ‘in the event that the editors of the former might not wish to place it’.40 Although the report is not to be found in either French publication, the intention to distribute it underlines the importance attached to this inquiry in the Netherlands. The passages I quote below come from the version of the report published in De Kunstkronijk. André Taurel recalled his former pupil with nostalgia, describing him as someone who had quickly surpassed his teacher: c

‘The accurate inquiry which this honourable task demanded, the comparison which I have had to make into the smallest particulars between the state to which Couwenberg had brought the plate, and that in which his fortunate successor has delivered it to us, has awakened sad memories in me. Couwenberg was my pupil, and in a short time also my rival; having become my counsellor and ofttimes my guide, he always remained my

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friend.’[...] ‘If he had been allowed to attain a moderate age, he would have carried the art of engraving to an unprecedented height both here and elsewhere; and he has left us the proofs, of that which I contend, in a large number of products by his hand, some of which, it is true, are of secondary importance on account of their type and size, although all incorporate the requirements of art in the highest degree, but especially in his three famous plates, of which only the layout has been entirely completed; the first after the Syndics by Rembrandt, the second, after the well-known Gerard Dou, which forms part of Mister Six’s art collection, and the third, after the painting by Ary Scheffer, belonging to the Queen of England, and which, [now] completed by Alphonse Francois, forms the subject of the present report.’41 Turning to Couwenberg’s unfinished plates, Taurel wondered: c

‘But should we in truth rejoice at seeing the works of our Couwenberg completed? Would it not have been better to leave his labour unfinished, and in the event that people had still wanted to own an image after the original works, to have had them engraved again by other masters? Speaking for myself I am of that opinion, particularly now I see that a foreign engraver has been charged with finishing Couwenberg’s en­ graving.’42

Taurel had his doubts as to whether it was appropriate to complete Couwenberg’s unfinished work, particularly as this task had been entrusted to a foreign – French – engraver. This seems a remarkable statement for Taurel to have made, given that he himself was French and had written his report in French: apparently he regarded his fellow countryman Francois as a foreigner. Nevertheless, he did express respect for Francois’ work: c

‘By this I do not mean to say that the plate, Mignon et son Père, has been denuded of merit. Far from it, gentlemen! On the contrary I consider the plate [to be] one of the good products of the present time. I find in it a high degree of zeal and dignity, the drawing is pure, and the means, which the original said engraving provides, accommodated with circumspection in such a manner, that attention is not diverted and justice not done to the

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expression and the idea, which should particularly occupy the viewer in subjects of such nature.’ In Taurel’s opinion the engraving surpassed the two earlier prints by Aristide Louis after Scheffer’ s Mignon regrettant la patrie en Mignon aspirant au ciel; he pointed out that great difficulties had to be overcome in the engraving after Mignon et son Père and that ‘with whatever care the plate may have been designed, he who was to finish this (if this were not the designer) would have to possess a more than usual talent in order to understand the ideas of the latter, to submit himself to these and to continue these’.43 Personally speaking, he would actually have preferred Couwenberg himself to have been able to finish the print. Taurel concluded his report with a detailed technical comparison of the state left by Couwenberg and Francois’ final result. He did not discuss the subject of the picture as this was a given. When considering the tones and lines, Taurel emphasised the differences between Couwenberg’s design and Francois’ finished state: c

‘[…] thus I have to declare that in the final print I do not descry the development of transitions, diversities, contrasts, be it from the dark to the light of colours, or variety in the workmanship, which the designer definitely had in mind, as can be inferred from his labour. One might say however that his successor has done his utmost to efface and even out all this. Couwenberg knew without a doubt that with serious subjects, and those in which the expression plays a primary role one should make circumspect use of the riches of engraving and the enchantment of its effect; but I know that he found this circumspection ofttimes taken too far by some and regarded it merely as a sign of weakness in their art. I was thus unpleasantly disappointed when, instead of the colour and enchanting expression, that Couwenberg would have given to his work, I saw before me a plate which had nothing other than a dark and monotone appearance.’44

The print’s dark appearance caused it to resemble a mezzotint, Taurel asserted: c

‘Surely it was not the issue here to treat the subject in a manner like the English are accustomed to follow in their engravings; this would be

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entirely not in keeping with the style of Scheffer, and still less with that in his three pictures, of which Göthe’s Mignon is the subject, and in which the painter’s intention seems rather to have been guided by the German style. But a middle way had to be chosen here, and I am confident that the head of the old man and also of Mignon would have gained a great deal from a more powerful and varied treatment.’ In addition to assessing the nuances of tone and colour in both prints, Taurel also addressed the subject of the lines employed by both engravers, in the working up of various details, such as the feet, the hands and the heads: c

‘[…] I must confess that I perceived with true pleasure that Alphonse Francois has finished the feet and hands and particularly the head with talent […] A completed head undoubtedly looks better than a laid-out head, but that head is well finished, well drawn and well modelled: the expression is excellent, winsome and arresting; Couwenberg would have come thus far and perhaps further [sic]; The head as it is, seem worthy of him to me, and with much pleasure I awards that praise to Alphonse Francois . The head of the old man, on the other hand I find hard in tone, hard in modelling: it does not express the decrepitude, it is as if [it were made] of wood or metal. What expression on the other hand in the head laid out by Couwenberg! What a drawing! What a transparency! In that state it is already a pearl! Couwenberg alone would have been able to complete it. The hands of the old man have become heavy and [are] of a thickness not commensurate with the physiognomy which Göthe’s old man should have. This is not the diminution, of old age and prolonged calamities; these are not the long and withered fingers that one imagines straying over the harp strings. Something entirely different could have been made of the head as it was laid out; Couwenberg did not conceive the hands thus, and he would not have completed them in this manner either.’45

Having examined the two prints, Taurel proclaimed his verdict in the matter of Francois’ completion of Couwenberg’s plate: c

‘Here you have it, gentlemen! The verdict which I, at your invitation, take the liberty of pronouncing with regard to the two states of the plate

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Mignon et son Père. I am convinced that Couwenberg would not have fallen short in any element, which one can and should admire completely in the second state, and that in all the rest he would have surpassed the completor. To conclude by summarising my view of this new art product in a few words, I will say: ‘It is a carefully completed but in general debilitated work.’46 Taurel’s verdict was adopted by the Fourth Class and subsequently published. Few prints were probably made from Couwenberg’s plates; in the case of Mignon et son Père, Francois’ completion of the engraving made this completely impossible.47 Taurel’s report underlines the degree to which reproductions were evaluated as personal interpretations and influenced by the engraver’s individual qualities. His friend Eugène Delacroix clearly described this view of reproductions in his Journal on 25 January 1857: c

‘La Gravure est une véritable traduction, c’est-à-dire l’art de transporter une idée d’un art dans un autre, comme le traducteur le fait à l’égard d’un livre écrit dans une langue et qu’il transporte dans la sienne. La langue étrangère du graveur, et c’est ici que se montre son génie, ne consiste pas seulement à imiter par le moyen de son art les effets de la peinture, qui est comme une autre langue. Il a, si l’on peut parler ainsi, sa langue à lui qui marque d’un cachet particulier ses ouvrages, et qui, dans une traduction fidèle de l’ouvrage qu’il imite, laisse éclater son sentiment particulier.’48

Taurel unquestionably preferred Couwenberg’s ‘translation’ of Scheffer’s painting. In many respects the making of this print reflects the production of reproductions after work by Scheffer’s contemporaries, such as Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres and Paul Délaroche.49 Nevertheless the print is also unique in one respect, for never before had such a prestigious inquiry been devoted to a reproduction. As such the engraving after Mignon et son Père is an exceptional reproduction after a work by Scheffer; its status was confirmed and even enhanced when the original painting was lost in 1927.50 Goupil: a publisher of Scheffer reproductions

The engraving after Mignon et son Père was published by the firm of Goupil. Ary Scheffer, Horace Vernet and Paul Délaroche were the most reproduced artists

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on the renowned firm’s stock list.51 Although prints after Scheffer were also issued by other publishers, by far the majority of reproductions after his work were published by Goupil. It is not clear how and when Scheffer first came into contact with the firm. An early stock list issued by Goupil & Rittner in 1835 includes several prints after Scheffer: an engraving by Alfred Johannot after Les Orphelins and a print by Alfred’s brother Tony after Les Enfants Egarés. However, these two prints by the Johannot brothers had already been published by other firms, in 1825 and 1826 respectively, and it is not known when the firm of Goupil & Rittner introduced both prints into its stock. In 1835 the firm also listed a reproduction by Francois Girards after Scheffer’ painting La Nourrice; this was available in black-and-white or colour, as was the lithograph by Adolphe Midy (1797-1874) after Le Jeune Grec Défendant son Père which appears in the same list. These prints were probably the earliest Scheffer reproductions published by Goupil, which was rapidly growing into a successful Paris publisher in this period.52 Although the origins of the Scheffer-Goupil collaboration are unclear, the alliance between the painter and the firm proved a successful one. For many years Scheffer worked almost exclusively with Goupil, unlike his contemporary Ingres, who worked with several firms.53 Thanks to Goupil’s stock lists we have a comprehensive view of the firm’s ‘total’ range of Scheffer reproductions, while the many dated supplements to these lists also allow us to ascertain with reasonable accuracy when a specific print appeared on the market, thereby offering an insight into which reproductions after Scheffer’s work were published during his life, and when these were published.54 In 1842 Louis Henriquel-Dupont’s engraving after Scheffer’s Christus Consolator was published. By this time Adolphe Goupil’s partner, Henry Rittner, had died, and Goupil had entered into a new partnership, with effect from 10 May 1841, with Théodore Vibert, son-in-law of the renowned engraver Jean-Pierre-Marie Jazet (1788-1871). The firm’s name had also been changed to ‘Goupil et Vibert’. It was Goupil et Vibert which published the print by the French master engraver Henriquel-Dupont after Christus Consolator, a work that would subsequently become one of the best-known reproductions after Scheffer’s pictures. As was common practice, the print was available in various states and versions. Goupil et Vibert’s general catalogue for 1848 lists the print in ‘before the letter’ and ‘with the letter’ states, printed on ordinary paper, for 60 and 30 francs respectively; both states were also available on Chinese paper, and cost 80 francs for

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‘before the letter’ prints and 40 francs for ‘with the letter’ prints; the most exclusive state, the epreuve d’artiste, could be bought for 160 francs. Henriquel-Dupont’s Christus Consolator was thus one of the most expensive Scheffer reproductions in the firm’s stock. During the 1840s this reproduction was followed by several new prints after Scheffer’s work. In 1843, for example, Goupil et Vibert published the two Louis prints after the painter’s Mignon pictures, cited above. [fig. xx] These were followed in 1847 by a Girard engraving after Scheffer’s wellknown work Les Femmes Souliotes.55 The stock list for 1848 also includes an engraving by Thevenin after Scheffer’ portrait of Rossini. Amongst the engravings there was also an etching by Louise Girard after Lenore; available in just two states, this print was one of the first and rarest of etchings after Scheffer’s work in Goupil’s stock.56 At the end of this decade, in 1849, the firm published its engraving print of Mignon et son Père.57 As a pendant to Christus Consolator, which had been engraved by Heriquel-Dupont, Scheffer now painted Christus Remunerator (after 1847); the engraving of this, by one of Henriquel-Dupont’s pupils, Auguste Blanchard, was published in May 1851.58 This print of the pendant Christus Remunerator was available in the same states, sold at the same prices, as Christus Consolator.59 By this time Goupil, Vibert & Co. had been reformed as Goupil & Co., following the death of Vibert, and the firm was continually bringing new Scheffer reproductions onto the market. In May 1853 Goupil & Co. published an aquatint by Francois Girard, after Les saintes Femmes sortant du tombeau du Christ.60 In June 1854 the firm again published an engraving by Blanchard, this time after Faust et Marguerite (Seduction).61 More than a year later it also issued two new prints after Scheffer’s work, Les saintes Femmes au tombeau du Christ, engraved by the German printmaker Joseph Keller, and the painter’s full-length portrait of General Lafayette, engraved by Marie Leroux;62 six months later, in January 1856, Goupil published the engraving by N. Lecomte after Scheffer’s Dante et Beatrice;63 eighteen months later, in July 1857, E. Girardet’s engraving after Scheffer’s portrait of Benjamin Franklin was also being sold by the firm.64 Ary Scheffer died on 15 June 1858. Up to his death, the firm of Goupil had regularly published new reproductions after his work, during the 1830s, 1840s and 1850s. The majority of these had been engravings by printmakers of the Henriquel-Dupont ‘school’; in the final years of the painter’s life, the firm had had sometimes published several engravings a year after his work. Goupil’s stock al-

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so included aquatints, lithographs and an occasional etching after Scheffer’s pictures, although there is no mention of photographic reproductions of his work, for the latest reproductive medium was still in an experimental phase during Scheffer’s life. An early salt print from 1851 by Gustave Le Gray after Le Coupeur de nappe nevertheless shows that a least one photograph of Scheffer’s work was taken in this period. An interesting feature of this photograph is the painter’s signature in the margin, [fig. xx] for this seems to indicate that Scheffer recognised the new medium’s potential at an early stage. The fact that Goupil published no photographs of Scheffer’s work during his life may have had less to do with the painter, however, than with the publisher, who barely published and sold any photographs before 1858.65 Scheffer’s death certainly did not bring an end to reproduction of his work. In January 1859, for example, Goupil published a print by Paul Leprix after Medora; the print on ordinary paper ‘with the letter’ sold for 10 francs, the print on Chinese paper ‘before the letter’ for 20 francs and the épreuve d’artiste for 30 francs. [fig. 45] At the same time Goupil also published a tribute to the painter, in the form of a Henriquel-Dupont engraving after Scheffer’s portrait, which had been painted by his pupil F.L. Benouville.66 A year after Scheffer’s death, the firm issued several more new prints, started during his lifetime, including two engravings by Jules Gabriel Levasseur after Jacob et Rachel and its pendant Ruth et Noémi; [fig. 46] in July 1859 both these prints were available in similar states, for similar prices: on ordinary paper for 12 and 24 francs, on Chinese paper for 15 and 30 francs, and as the épreuve d’artiste for 60 francs.67 Goupil also reissued the popular Henriquel-Dupont engraving after Christus Consolator, whose plate had suffered so badly from the print’s success, that it had to be reworked, by one of the master engraver’s pupils, J. Fleischmann (1816/15-1866); the famous image was republished in January 1860, with prints ‘with the letter’ on ordinary and Chinese paper still costing 30 and 40 francs respectively, although ‘before the letter’ prints and epreuves d’artiste had dropped in price: prints on ordinary paper now cost 50 francs (a 50 franc reduction), prints on Chinese paper 60 francs (a 20 franc reduction) and the épreuve d’artiste 100 francs (a 60 francs reduction). These reductions notwithstanding, Goupil’s special prints after Christus Consolator remained some of the most expensive prints after Scheffer’s work.68 In the early years following Scheffer’s death, Goupil continually launched new prints after his work. In January 1861, for example, the publisher issued two engravings by the brothers Jules and Alphonse Francois after Hébé and La

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fig. 45 Paul Leprix after Scheffer, Medora (1833), engraving, Dordrechts Museum, Dordrecht.

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Tentation du Christ respectively.69 The firm also published new lithographs and aquatints, including a lithograph by M. Fanoli after Le Dante et Beatrice and an aquatint by Edouard Eichens after Faust (Faust dans son cabinet) and Marguérite (Marguérite au rouet), available in colour and black and white. Nevertheless, progressively fewer reproductions were made of Scheffer’s pictures. In 1864 the last prints after the painter’s work were added to the Goupil stock list: Jules Francois’ engraving after Marguerite a l’église was published in the summer of 1864, followed by an Abel Lurat aquatint after Foi et Espérance.70 However, Goupil continued to stock its existing range of prints after Scheffer’s paintings for many decades, thereby remaining the chief source of reproductions after the painter’s work. By the early 1860s Goupil had become successfully involved in photographic art reproduction. The firm has started in January 1859 with the publication of photographic reproductions in the series Galérie Photographique. The first batch of these, comprising ten photographs, ‘montées sur Chine et Bristol, avec titres

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fig. 46 Jules Levasseur after Scheffer, Ruth et Noémi (1859), engraving 69.3 x 48.3 cm, Musée Goupil, Bordeaux.

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en tailles-douce’, included two images after works by Scheffer, Dante et Beatrice and Faust et Marguerite, which were sold for eight francs apiece, a comparatively high sum for photographs but relatively inexpensive when compared with engravings of the same works. In 1860 these were supplemented by photographs after Faust et Marguerite (Le Sabbat) and, in a larger format, Le Roi de Thulé, at eight and twelve francs respectively.71 The images had been taken by the well-known photographer Robert Bingham and were published in various formats. In October 1860 Goupil embarked on a new photographic series, entitled Musée Goupil, produced by the photographer H. Voland and comprising photographs of a smaller format, 9 by 13 centimetres, for the low price of 1.5 francs. The first photographs after Scheffer’s work in this series were reproductions of La Tentation du Christ and Hébé.72 During the same period Goupil also started another popular series of photographs, entitled Cartes de Visite, which sold for just one franc apiece. A Goupil catalogue from 1864 lists a wide selection of photographs after Scheffer’s best-known works: Les Saintes Femmes revenant du tombeau, La tentation du Christ, Mater dolorosa, Jesus Christ, Mignon et son Père, Faust et Marguérite (la Seduction), Le Christ Remunerateur, Le Christ Consolateur, Hébé, Marguérite au Vouet, Faust dans son cabinet, Les Saintes Femmes au tombeau du Christ, Faust et Marguérite (Le Sabbat), Médora, Les Femmes Souliotes, Lénore, Le Baiser de Judas, Le Christ et Saint Jean, Le Roi de Thulé, Bataille de Tolbiac and Marguérite a l’église.73 New photographic reproductions constantly continued to appear in the series Musée Goupil, Cartes des Visite and Galérie Photographique.74 Goupil’s diverse photographic series were a great success and were typical products of the new technology which had, by now, been transformed into an effective mass medium.75 These successful series were responsible for Goupil’s emergence as the most important supplier of photographic art reproductions.76 From this point onwards new Scheffer reproductions were only published in the various photographic series. During the 1870s, 1880s and 1890s Goupil repeatedly published new photographic series featuring reproductions of Scheffer’s work, albeit in diminishing numbers.77 The stock list for January 1874 includes Carte-Albums, in the format 16 by 11 centimetres, for one franc apiece, with twelve well-known images by Scheffer: Le Christ et Saint Jean, Le Baiser de Judas, Christ Consolator, Christ Remunerator, Dante et Beatrice, Faust et Marguérite (La Seduction), J. Christ, Maria Magdalena, Foi et Esperance, Les Saintes Femmes au tombeau, Mignon et son Père, and Les Saintes Femmes sortant au tombeau. By this time, the series Galerie Photographique contained 30 reproductions after Scheffer, the series Musée Goupil 27 images, and

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the Carte de visite format 26 images. As previously observed, the firm of Goupil continued to supply traditional prints after Scheffer’s work, although not every state and version of these was still available. Lecomte’s engraving after Dante et Beatrice, for example, could only be bought ‘with the letter’ on ordinary or Chinese paper, while Eduard Eichens’ aquatint after Jesus Christus was only available ‘with the letter’ on ordinary paper and in colour.78 The oldest photographic series, Galérie Photographique, now 35 years old, was lowered in price and put on special offer: as of 1 October 1894 the previous standard price of six francs apiece was reduced to five francs.79 Although the existing photographs in the series remained available, from the mid-1890s onwards they were no longer supplemented by new images. The Galérie Photographique series ultimately comprised a total of 1,779 different photographs, the Musée Goupil series a total of 1,173 images, the Carte-Album series 1,438 photographs and the Cartes de visite 1,280.80 Goupil’s successful photographic series from the 1860s had now been ‘completed’; henceforth the firm would only publish new photographic reproductions in the series Estampes Miniatures (from 1885) and Estampes Albums. Goupil’s stock list from 1904 includes dozens of photographic reproductions after Scheffer’s pictures, in various formats and prices, plus more than twenty engravings, aquatints and lithographs after the painter’s work, showing that the firm continued to sell an extensive selection of Scheffer reproductions into the early twentieth century.81 Examination of the Goupil stock lists reveals that the firm sold a wide range of Scheffer reproductions in all kinds of techniques and sizes, at all kinds of prices. Prestigious engravings by the best-known engravers of the time dominate these lists, for other techniques, such as lithography, etching, aquatint or mezzotint were less frequently used by Goupil for the production of large-format prints. During the first half of the 1860s two important changes occurred in the reproduction of Scheffer’s work: on the one hand, Goupil added the last traditional engravings to its stock, on the other the firm brought new photographic series into circulation. These developments reflected a general trend in the 1860s, outlined in chapter two: traditional engravings became increasingly rare and even ‘endangered’, while photography evolved into a mass medium for art reproduction. Price differences also highlight the diversity of reproductions after Scheffer’s work. These differences are illustrated by the reproductions after Scheffer’s

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painting La Tentation du Christ. In October 1860 Goupil published a photograph of the picture in the Musée Goupil series, for the price of 1.5 francs. This was followed in January 1861 by the Alphonse Francois engraving of the work, with prints on ordinary paper ‘with the letter’ selling for 30 francs and ‘without the letter’ for 60 francs, prints on Chinese paper ‘with the letter’ and ‘without the letter’ selling for 40 francs and 80 francs respectively, and épreuves d’artiste’ for 160 francs.82 In 1864 the firm also sold reproductions of the painting in carte de visite format for one franc. Thus, reproductions of Scheffer’s work La Tentation du Christ were available from Goupil at prices ranging from one to 160 francs. Although Goupil added progressively fewer new engravings to its stock lists during the final decades of the nineteenth century, the continued presence of this kind of reproduction in the firm’s range of prints is significant. The engravings were not ‘sold off’ in the face of competition from much cheaper, photographic reproductions, but continued to retail for relatively high prices. In the meantime the financial ‘foundations’ of Goupil’s stock were further expanded with much cheaper photographs. The variety in techniques and prizes was naturally associated with the difference in production costs. If Goupil had ‘dumped’ its existing engravings on the market, this would have amounted to a considerable destruction of its capital. Instead, the firm chose to carefully preserve its stock spectrum and reissue successful reproductions, such as the engraving after Christus Consolator, whilst maintaining its high prices. These actions reflect the publisher’s determination to uphold its range of Scheffer reproductions in various market segments, responding to a differentiated demand for prints and photographs with an equally differentiated supply. Thus Goupil could meet the demand both of an art lover for a simple photograph of his or her favourite painting and of a connoisseur in search of an expensive traditional engraving, made by a leading engraving, in an exclusive state. Goupil also endeavoured to respond to public wishes through its publishing policies. Like the painted originals from which they derived, reproductions were also combined as pendants;83 related reproductions, such as Jules Levasseur’s prints after Ruth et Noémi and Jacob et Rachel, were sometimes published simultaneously. In other instances some time elapsed between the publication of two related prints, for example ten years elapsed between publication of the prints after Faust et Marguérite and Marguérite à l’église by Auguste Blanchard and Jules Francois respectively.84 The combining of works as pendants was often determined by the subject of a print, and related works by different masters were

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sometimes associated: for example, Goupil coupled prints after Scheffer’s Dante et Beatrice and Hébé with its engraving of Ingres’ Venus Anadyomène. This subjectbased approach sometimes created interesting combinations, which could throw a completely different light on a specific composition. Although Scheffer’s Mignon et son Père initially formed part of a series with the earlier prints after his Mignon regrettant la Patrie and Mignon aspirant au ciel, it was later combined with Roméo et Juliette by the popular painter Charles Jalabert: Goethe’s creation thus became a pendant to Shakespeare’s. While many combinations of prints simply reflected the status of their painted orginals, in other instances these seem to have been specifically chosen by the publisher, who subtly played upon the collector’s urge to complete a collection, by offering a ‘related’ print to accompany a specific independent reproduction. Scheffer reproductions in England

The firm of Goupil achieved international distribution for its prints after Scheffer. In 1840 the Belgian dealer Ernest Gambart moved to England to work there as Goupil’s representative.85 He reconnoitred the English market and endeavoured to carve out a position amongst well-known English publishers such as Ackerman, Moon, Colnaghi and McLean. By the end of 1842 he had gained a foothold in the English printworld, using his continental contacts with Goupil and his own local English network to consolidate his trade in reproductions and become an important link between the English and French art markets. Like Goupil, Gambart initially specialised in selling prints before branching out into paintings and drawings. He also opened his own exhibition space, The French Gallery, which became the best-known place to view French modern art in London during the mid-nineteenth century. Gambart exhibited work by Scheffer, which he later supplemented with other continental masters, such as Rosa Bonheur, Henry Leys and Jozef Israëls.86 He also became actively engaged in publishing reproductions of their work. The registration system employed by the Printseller’s Association offers us an insight into the distribution of reproductions in the English market, including prints after Scheffer, in the period following the organisation’s foundation in 1847.87 The first print after Scheffer encountered in the registers is the wellknown engraving after Mignon et son Père by Couwenberg and Francois, published on 9 February 1849 and registered to Gambart. Six states and versions of

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the engraving were available, in a total edition of 275 prints, a figure which represent the number of prints registered, not the volume actually sold. In the psa register the print is listed as Mignon and her father, and described as: ‘forming a centre to the pair of Mignons’, a reference to the two Aristide Louis engravings after Scheffer’s Mignons paintings, published by Goupil.88 This illustrates Gambert’s business connection with the French publisher, which he continued to maintain even after he had established his own, independent firm. The firm of Goupil also collaborated with other enterprises in the publication of prints after Scheffer’s work. On 7 April 1851, for example, Goupil published Auguste Blanchard’s engraving after Christus Remunerator in collaboration with the well-known firm of Colnaghi.89 During the first half of the nineteenth century this renowned English company enterprise was already one of the leading art dealers in the English market. Colnaghi’s stock largely comprised prints after Victorian masters, so collaboration with Goupil brought the firm new opportunities for dealing in continental art. Goupil and Colnaghi also collaborated on Blanchard’s engraving after Faust et Marguérite, which was published on 5 February 1855.90 According to the registers of the psa, the collaboration between these two renowned firms produced no other prints. However, they remained independently active in the print trading world, partly operating in the same market. After Scheffer’s death in 1858 Goupil continued to introduce reproductions after his work in England. On 31 March 1859, for example, the firm published the Levasseur engraving after Ruth and Naomi and, a week later, on 6 April, the pendant after Jacob and Rachel.91 Several months after this, on 17 September 1859, the firm also published the reworked print after Scheffer’s Christus Consolator in England. The engraving was registered to the name of J. Fleischmann, who had worked up the worn, original plate.92 There is no mention in the psa register of Henriquel-Dupont’s original version of this engraving, which highlights the limitations of the psa system. Henriquel-Dupont’s print had been published by Goupil in 1842 and had probably been circulated in England before the association was founded. A remark in The Art Journal, however, shows that Henriquel-Dupont’s print was widely known in England in 1856, before the reworked version became available.93 The new reworked version of the engraving was launched on the market in various states with a minimum edition of 250 prints. The psa register also records that, after printing of the proofs, electrotype was to be employed to allow the plate to support even larger editions, ne-

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cessitated by the huge popularity of the work.94 So the edition of 250 prints was merely an initial one. The number of prints in the final edition is not known, although a few thousand copies seems a probable estimate. Finally, on 27 October 1862, Goupil published another two engravings by Scheffer in England: the Chevron print after The Kiss of Judas (Le Baiser de Judas) and the Rousseau engraving after Christ and St John (Le Christ et Saint Jean). The entry for the latter also includes the promise that, after the proofs had been printed, the plate would be steeled to support a larger edition.95 In the world of the nineteenth-century trade the English and French print markets were closely related. Two prints by the Francois brothers are interesting in this connection. On 18 June 1860 Goupil published in England the engraving by Alphonse Francois after Temptation.96 Several months later, on 8 September, the firm also published the associated print by Jules Francois after Hébé.97 In Goupil’s own stock supplements, however, both prints only appear later, in January 1861. Does this mean that Goupil published these prints in England at an earlier date than in France? That does not seem very likely, and the difference in publishing dates is probably the result of the way in which Goupil issued its supplements: while the psa registered a print to the day on which it was published, Goupil only issued its supplements twice a year, so the psa dates may well be closer to the prints’ actual date of completion. The important factor here is that Goupil appears to have registered these new engravings after Scheffer with the psa in England immediately after their completion, which shows the extent to which the firm was operating on an international scale from Paris during the 1850s, supplying the English market with engravings after Scheffer’s work at the same time as the French market.98 Although Goupil was the leading firm in England for reproductions after Scheffer’s work, it did not have a monopoly on these. On 30 March 1854, for example, the firm of Graves & Co., in collaboration with the publisher J.C. Grundy, published a singular engraving by E. Mandel, after a painting by Scheffer with the lengthy title “Oh Jerusalem! Jerusalem!”And as he approached the City He wept over it, in at least eight states and versions, with a total of 750 copies.99 The wellknown English firm of Agnew also dealt in Scheffer reproductions, publishing the engraving by Adolph Salmon after Christ Teaching Humility, of which 844 copies were printed. This was the last engraving after Scheffer to be registered with the psa and was published on 13 April 1870, some six years after Goupil’s final Scheffer engraving. 320

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In addition to France and England, Goupil was also active in Belgium, the Netherlands and Germany. The firm also made its first major attempt to conquer the large American market as early as 1846. Just as Gambart had once crossed the English Channel on Goupil’s behalf, so the young German dealer Michael Knoedler traversed the Atlantic Ocean to scout out the American market in New York, where he opened a branch of the firm in 1848.100 This gave Goupil a base of operations from which to introduce French art into the American market, including work by Scheffer that was already on display within a few months.101 Like Gambart the young German Knoedler would later make a career for himself in the international art world under his own name, while maintaining his connections with the French firm. In 1859, for example Levasseur’s print after Jacob et Rachel was published by Goupil in Paris, London and Berlin, and by Knoedler in New York. As yet little is known regarding Goupil’s international commercial strategies. In some instances representatives of the firm developed into independent entrepreneurs, like Knoedler and Gambart, who later did business with the parent company under their own name; in other instances, the firm absorbed local dealers, such as Van Gogh, whose family firm became Goupil’s branch in The Hague. Goupil’s collaboration with Gambart, Knoedler and Colnaghi suggests there was a complex web of competition and cartel formation in the international print trade. Nevertheless, however international Goupil’s operations may have been, this was still a relatively ‘small world’, in which activities in the English and American markets were generally conducted via familiar contacts such as Gambart en Knoedler. In the international publishing circuit for Scheffer reproductions there were, however, national differences. A curious example of the difference between the American and English markets is provided by the distribution of the print after Christus Consolator, the painting of which was intended for the Dauphin, the Duke of Orléans, to decorate his Duchess’ chapel.102 Scheffer explained this work in a letter to his uncle A.J. Lamme in Rotterdam.103 The painting was based on a passage from the Gospel of Luke: ‘he hath sent me to heal the brokenhearted, to preach deliverance to the captives, and recovering of sight to the blind, to set at liberty them that are bruised’ (Luke 4, 18-19) In the picture the central figure of Christ is depicted breaking the fetters of a dying Pole, whose national flag serves as his shroud; behind him stand a slave from antiquity, a modern Greek and a coloured man in chains. Scheffer’s painting thus condemned slavery and repression both in the past and the present; the Greek slave, for example, should

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be viewed in the context of the contemporary Greek struggle for liberation from Turkish domination, the coloured man in chains as a symbol of modern slavery.104 However, this figure of a coloured slave was regarded as unacceptably provocative in a time of American civil conflict, as Carel Vosmaer wrote in his translation of the Scheffer biography by Grote: ‘The feelings, which people in America bear towards negroes, are tellingly exposed by this fact. They surely deem it an insult, to put the slave in the presence of the Redeemer.’105 A modified version of the print, without the coloured man, was therefore published in the United States.106 It is not known whether Scheffer had a hand in this, although it seems unlikely, given the value he attached to this painting, which reflected his liberal political convictions. We can only assume that such a major change to his work, the omission of the dark-skinned slave in the United States, must have been against his will.

Reproductions in illustrated publications Catalogues, periodicals and almanacs

At the Salon of 1817 the still-youthful Scheffer exhibited his work La Mort de Saint Louis, which won him a medal in the category of history painting. This distinction may have prompted C.P. Landon to include an engraving of this work in his illustrated catalogue of the Salon for that year.107 The engraving, by Normand fils, was one of the earliest prints after Scheffer painting. After this his work regularly appeared in all kinds of illustrated Salon catalogues, periodicals, almanacs and special albums. Two years later, in 1819, Scheffer’s Dévouement patriotique de six bourgeois Calais was published in Landon’s Salon catalogue; during the 1820s several more works by Scheffer were also reproduced in these publications.108 After 1824 Landon’s series of illustrated Salon catalogues was continued by A. Beraud, who also included reproductions of Scheffer’s work, such as an engraving after the Souliotic women, exhibited at the Salon of 1827 and published a year later in Annales de l’école francaise des beaux-arts. Pour servir de suite et de complément aux Salons de 1808 à 1824, publié par feu C.P. Landon Salon de 1827.109 The French salon albums were well-known publications, which continued to appear in all kinds of forms throughout the nineteenth century.110 During the 1870s Goupil also published prestigious albums, which were available in a range of finishes at varying pric-

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es. Although the firm was prompted by specific exhibitions to publish such albums, they often remained in its stock for many years. In the final decades of the nineteenth century in particular, Goupil stocked a rich selection of these albums. Long after the exhibitions had been dismantled, these ‘bound museums on paper’ kept the memory of their highlights alive for many years.111 Scheffer’s work regularly appeared in illustrated periodicals, too. On 20 June 1829 the cultural magazine Le Globe published an engraving after Scheffer’s portrait of the poet Beranger. Although we do not know whether Scheffer played any role in this reproduction, he did move in the same liberal republican circles as Le Globe.112 However, it was the leading French art journal L’Artiste which regularly published reproductions after Scheffer’s work. The first of these was an 1833 lithograph by Marie Alexandre Alophe after Le Giaour, a work that had been exhibited at the salon that year.113 A wood engraving of Scheffer’s 1839 portrait of Léon de Laborde also featured in L’Artiste in 1833. Moreover the journal published various engravings after Scheffer’s work, including an engraving after Mignon regrettant sa partie in 1844.114 Several years later the journal published an engraving by Narcisse Lecomte after Scheffer’s 1845 portrait of Lamennais.115 More than ten years later, in 1857, L’Artiste also published the engraving by Paul Chenay, previously cited, after Ebenhart, comte de Wurtenberg (Le Larmoyeur) (1831), from Schiller’s Graf Ebenhard der Greiner von Würtemberg van Schiller.116 Finally, in 1857, the journal reproduced a print after Scheffer’s portrait of the American statesman Benjamin Franklin.117 Reproductions after Scheffer’s works also appeared in other well-known periodicals, such as Le Charivari, L’Illustration and Le Magasin Pittoresque.118 When Charles Blanc launched his new journal Gazette des Beaux Arts in 1858, he similarly intended this to include a reproduction after Scheffer’s La Vièrge consolatrice des affliges; as a result of Scheffer’s sudden death, however, the wood engraving was not published in the the periodical until a year later, when it was accompanied an article by Philippe Burty about the painter.119 All in all, Scheffer’s work regularly featured in French art journals, generally as a result of the original painting being displayed at salon exhibitions. Nevertheless, the number of reproductions after his work published in such journals should not be overestimated, and we should probably think in terms of dozens, rather than hundreds, of prints, although naturally it is impossible to gain a complete picture. Neither should we forget these journals’ apparently limited

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circulations, of several thousand copies, although the reading habits of the period meant that journals were often lent out by libraries, making the total number of readers a multiple of these circulation figures. Work by Scheffer also found its way into English publications. Between 1828 and 1831 the English publisher Alaric Watts regularly travelled to France in search of visual material for his literary publications, visiting the studios of wellknown painters such as Paul Délaroche, Achille Deveria, Alexandre Decamps and Ary Scheffer. He subsequently published a range of French romantic drawings and watercolours in his Literary Souvenir (1832) and The New Years Gift and Juvenile Souvenir, including, in the latter, an engraving after Scheffer’s La famille du Marin from 1822 and an engraving by W. Chevalier after Les Orphelins.120 These early examples were followed by Scheffer reproductions in English illustrated art journals. The Art Journal, for example, reproduced various prints of Scheffer’s work, albeit after his death, including, in 1869 an engraving after Christ and St John, by E. Rousseau, and an engraving after The Kiss of Judas, by Chevron, both of which had been previously published as independent prints by Goupil in England in 1862.121 Reproduction of both prints by The Art Journal gave its readers possession of these pendant works; the publication also stressed, in its review of The Kiss of Judas, that both prints should viewed together: c

‘No two subjects could by any possibility more dissimilar; yet the painter has treated each of them with perfect proprierty. Fully to appreciate the contrast, the two prints should be looked at side by side, and it will be seen how carefully Scheffer studied the characters and the circumstances of the figures – that of Christ especially – here he placed them on the canvas.’122

Another work was J. Levasseur’s engraving after Ruth et Naomi, published by Goupil in England as an independent print on 31 March 1859, and reproduced in The Art Journal in 1878.123 Such reproductions in art journals brought prints published by Goupil back into the public eye in another guise. It should be emphasised here that these were the same reproductions, produced by the same engraver and possibly printed from the same plate. Was their publication in art journals supposed to give a new impulse to the sale of traditional engravings, or were the prints such a success that they could also be published in this way? At

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any rate, this practice points to the close connection between illustrated art journals and the print trade in the field of art reproduction.124 Scheffer’s work also found its way into illustrated periodicals in the Netherlands, the country of his birth. In 1838, for example, De Gids published a lithograph by H.J. Backer after La Ferme incendiée ou La Fin d’un incendie de ferme (1824) and, two years later, a print by the same lithographer after Le Roi de Thulé.125 However, the majority of prints after Scheffer’s work were published during the the 1840s and 1850s, in illustrated art journals such as De Kunstkronijk and in various (literary) almanacs. With a view to reproducing Scheffer’s painting De drie koningen (Les Rois Mages) the publisher of De Kunstkronijk contacted Scheffer in 1845, to request a drawing of the picture. This drawing subsequently formed the basis for a lithograph by C. Curtenius Bentinck, published in the sixth volume of De Kunstkronijk and described as follows: c

‘Seldom, we say this with satisfaction, does such a precious contribution fall to the share of a periodical, which for many an amateur and collector, surely possesses an untold value; but more seldom still is the opportunity through an extremely moderate subscription, as a bonus, to secure participation in a lottery, in which one of the prizes is a drawing made expressly for this purpose by an artist such as Ary Scheffer.’126

So readers of De Kunstkronijk not only acquired a reproduction: a subscription to the journal also enabled them to compete for the original drawing by Scheffer himself. In the same year the journal also published a lithograph by the lithographer F.B. Waanders after Marguérite à l’Eglise.127 Circa 1850 the publication also included two exceptional lithographs, produced by Scheffer himself, Een ziekbed (A sickbed) , and, a year later, a work after his well-known picture Mignon et son père.128 [fig. 47] Curiously, however, after this the art journal published no more reproductions of work by the famous painter. While the name of Scheffer was nearly always pronounced with respect, the painter’s status and renown was only translated to a limited degree into reproductions in his native country’s best-known illustrated art journal. Scheffer’s work was reproduced more widely in various almanacs in the Netherlands. In 1849, for example, an engraving by Tetar van Elven after Charité was

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fig. 47 Anonymous after Ary Scheffer, Een ziekbed, from: De Kunstkronijk (1850), p.58, lithograph, 24.1 x 16.9 cm.

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published in Vergeet mij niet, Muzenalmanak voor 1849.129 During the early 1850s in particular reproductions of Scheffer’s work were regularly published, including a lithograph after Scheffer’s self-portrait from 1838 in the Nederlandsche Volks-Almanak voor 1853, and, in the Almanak voor het Schoone en het Goede, an engraving by Tetar van Elven after Le Christ Remunerateur (1848) and an engraving by D.J. Sluyter after Saint Augustin et Sainte Monique.130 D.J. Sluyter also produced two engravings for the fine literary yearbook the Aurora-Almanak. The reproductions in these almanacs were often accompanied by poetic captions: D.J. Sluyter’s engraving after Les simples de coeur, for example, was accompanied by a poem composed by the well-known poet Nicolaas Beets, who had been inspired by the sight of the painting in the collection of the Amsterdam collector Pieter van

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Eeghen.131 In 1854 the Aurora-Almanak published an engraving by Sluyter after Les Rois mages, previously reproduced as a lithograph in De Kunstkronijk.132 Finally various reproductions after Scheffer’s work also appeared in the evangelical almanac Magdalena, one of the oldest of the almanacs, which continued to exist and publish reproductions after Scheffer’s religious works well into the 1880s, long after the majority of its counterparts had increasingly succumbed to the competition of modern illustrated journals during the 1850s and 1860s.133 Almanacs were particularly popular publications in the Netherlands. I shall discuss these more extensively in relation to Jozef Israëls. Scheffer albums

Scheffer’s death in 1858 inspired a plan for a specially illustrated album, dedicated to the life and work of the renowned painter. This was reported by De Kunstkronijk in 1858: c

‘At the same time we are permitted to draw attention to another effort to help preserve the memory of Ary Scheffer amongst our people, in the Scheffer Album, whose prospectus was recently sent in by the bookseller A.C. Kruseman, and in which some ten reproductions of Scheffer’s works will be united, with captions, under the chief editorship of Mister T van Westhreene Wz […]’134

The plan had been devised by the well-known Haarlem publisher A.C. Kruseman, who had asked the critic T. van Westhreene to take charge of the project for 700 guilders. The first task was to commission ten lithographic reproductions. As few of the original works were in the Netherlands, it was decided to make the lithographs after existing reproductions, which quickly gave rise to the question of whether the Treaty on Literary Works, concluded by France and the Netherlands in 1855, actually permitted the making of lithographs after engravings previously published in France. After some legal consultation, it was found that this treaty did not apply to visual art and work could begin on the lithographs with a clear conscience.135 As the models for their reproductions the printmakers intended to use existing engravings of famous Scheffer works, mostly published by Goupil; to supplement these they also went in search of several original works. Doubts soon arose as to the quality of the printmakers.136 It was even suggest-

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ed that Belgian draughtsmen should be called in, but this proved financially impossible. In a letter to Kruseman of 22 January 1859 Van Westhreene wrote: ‘Oh! How I should fervently wish to help you find the means to compose it without the deficient and uncertain expedients of our lithography.’137 Despite these misgivings, Krusemann and Van Westthreene pursued the project and eventually published ten lithographs after works by Scheffer. The lithographer I.C. d’Arnaud Gerkens produced lithographs after De vriendinnen van Christus in het graf (The holy women at the tomb), Augustinus et Dante, Le roi de Thulé and Faust, while the renowned printmaker C.C.A. Last was responsible for a lithograph after Christus Remunerator, F.H. Weissenbruch made lithographs after Dante et Beatrice, Francesca da Rimini and Scheffer’s portrait of Calvin, A.C. Nunnink produced a print after Comte Ebenhard (Le Larmoyeur), and A. Allebé made a lithograph after Mignon regrettant la Patrie. The lithographers had been assisted by several collectors who owned works by Scheffer. In the final issue of the Scheffer-Album Van Westhreene gave thanks for ‘the outstanding kindness with which Messrs. J.A. Nottebohm of Rotterdam, S. van Walchren van Wadenoijen of Amersfoort and J. Wittering of Amsterdam have been willing to help foster the reproduction of some of Scheffer’s works for the Album’.138 Nottebohm had been willing to allow the lithographer d’Arnaud Gerkens to make drawings ‘after the originals of masterpieces by Ary Scheffer not already in engraving: Le roi de Thulé and Faust’, while the two other collectors were thanked for their hospitality, which had permitted the printmakers to compare their lithographs with Scheffer’s painting Dante et Beatrice and his drawing St Augustinus et St Monica, and complete these accordingly.139 Van Westhreene had also found suitable authors to write explanatory texts to accompany the reproductions. The Scheffer-Album was published in separate issues, each of which comprised a single print and an essay. This was not without its problems, as Jan Willem Enschede later described: c

‘Naturally […] some authors, who had pledged texts to accompany the plates, only partially kept their word, or failed to do so entirely and such a thing considerably delayed regular publication of the issues.’[…] ‘De Génestet, who had undertaken to supply a text to accompany Le roi de Thulé, was replaced by Allard Pierson, and Hofdijk, who was supposed to discuss Clovis in den slag bij Tolbiac [Clovis at the Battle of Tolbiac), wrote an essay on Calvin.’140

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On the subject of Augustinus and Dante, Prof.W. Moll observed: c

‘When the last queen of France, the recently deceased consort of Louis Philippe, saw the work of art completed in the painter’s studio, she exclaimed to him:“I thank you, I thank you for this painting; it belongs to me and shall never be allowed to leave me!” How ofttimes, since the engraving appeared, were such words of grateful and respectful admiration repeated by others who like the noble queen were stirred to the depths of their soul by the meaningful scene and felt moved in the most beneficent manner.’141

Each new issue of the album presented art lovers with a new lithograph after a well-known work. Regarding the lithograph after Scheffer’s portrait of Calvin, Hofdijk wrote: ‘Must I still talk of the drawing? You have the figure before you, and it speaks to you itself, of how the great simplicity, yea even the severity of the lines are in impeccable harmony with the simplicity and severity of the subject’.142 In her essay the well-known writer Anna Bosboom-Toussaint also stressed her admiration for Scheffer, recalling in passing that she had been one of the first people in the Netherlands to draw attention to the painter’s work.143 Once the album had been completed in 1859, De Kunstkronijk wrote: c

‘Many will lovingly leaf through an album in which many of Scheffer’s works of art (including those more widely popularised through an engraving) have been translated and elucidated, thereby enabling us repeatedly to present the works of that sensitive artist.’144

Financially speaking the Scheffer-Album was not a great success. A year later an attempt seems to have been made to relaunch the publication, in a modified form, but this was abandoned after the first issue.145 The publisher A.C. Kruseman provided two Scheffer albums as prizes for a lottery to finance the erection of a statue of Ary Scheffer in Dordrecht; a lottery in which several reproductions were also raffled.146 While efforts were being made in Scheffer’s native country to produce a ‘bound’ souvenir of the painter and his work, his trusty publisher Goupil was similarly engaged in the production of a prestigious album in the artist’s second home-

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land. This was intended to be a deluxe publication, not with lithographs, as in the Dutch album, but with exclusive photographs. We find the first announcement of this in Goupil’s stock list from January 1860: ‘Pour être publié prochainement. Oeuvre de Ary Scheffer. reproduit en photographie par Bingham, d’après les tableaux et dessins originaux. Un volume format grand in-folio.’147 Although the concept of a monographic album of photographs was relatively new in this period, Goupil’s Scheffer album was not the first example: the firm had already published such an album in 1858 to commemorate Scheffer’s contemporary Paul Délaroche, who had died two years previously.148 The Délaroche album comprised a total of 88 photographs, taken by the photographer Robert Bingham, who was an acknowledged specialist in the field of photographic art reproductions; Henri Delaborde, then director of the printroom at the Bibliothèque Nationale, supplied an essay on the painter’s work and life. The album also contained a catalogue raisonné of Délaroche’s works. The price, 550 francs, reflected the album’s contents and high quality. Scheffer was thus the second artist to be honoured with a prestigious album of photographs after his death. The Scheffer album comprised 60 photographic reproductions, for which the well-known photographer Bingham was once again responsible. The writer Ludovic Vitet, a personal friend of Scheffer, provided a biographical sketch of the painter and his work.149 While the advertisement in Goupil’s stock list had promised photographs of Scheffer’s paintings and drawings, closer inspection of the images revealed the presence of engraving patterns in some of these.150 These show that, in accordance with accepted practice in this period, Bingham had made use of engravings after Scheffer’s work for his photographic reproductions, rather than the original paintings (the lithographs in the Dutch Scheffer-Album were similarly based on engravings). At 300 francs the completed publication was far from cheap, and could still be obtained well into the 1870s.151 Although Goupil’s Scheffer-Album was more modest in nature, size and price than the album for Délaroche, it was also an exceptional publication, exclusively reserved for the most famous artists of the period. To summarise: during the early decades of the nineteenth century an increasingly broad range of illustrated publications began to emerge. Illustrated catalogues, almanacs, periodicals and monographic albums formed a major new outlet for reproductions, alongside the traditional market for independent prints. Reproductions of Scheffer’s work were swept up in the stream of new

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publications, appearing in diverse publications, in France, England and the Netherlands, from the 1820s onward. Yet while the range and volume of illustrated publications expanded considerably over the course of the nineteenth century, after the painter’s death the number of Scheffer reproductions decreased rapidly in all three countries. How these illustrated publications were produced often remains a mystery, and relations between publisher, editor, printmakers, collector and artist are generally hard to reconstruct. The type of reproduction used was partly determined by the character of the publication. Lithography was the technique of choice when reporting on recent salon exhibitions, as wood engravings or steel engravings required too much time to produce images with news value. When publications such as The Art Journal did opt for steel engravings, other factors played a role: for example, the quality of a fine engraving on steel was deemed preferable to the potential to rapidly reproduce the latest works of art. The fact that one-off publications, or publications less preoccupied with news value, often chose to use traditional engravings is thus understandable. It was with good reason that prestigious engraved salon catalogues were not published until some time after an exhibition had closed, for their purpose was to serve, not as a guide to the event, but as a fine souvenir. For an exclusive monograph the firm of Goupil was even prepared to experiment with the expensive technique of photographic art reproduction. It is worth noting the links between illustrated publications and the publishers of traditional, independent prints. As previously observed, some of Goupil’s independent prints were later republished in The Art Journal and used as ‘originals’ in the creation of two monographic Scheffer albums. This shows the extent to which Goupil’s publications could ‘influence’ images in other publications, and suggests that in the nineteenth century the boundaries between traditional independent reproductions and prints in modern illustrated publications were often fluid ones. Goupil’s monographic Scheffer-Album, for example, was published in separate instalments, while the firm regularly distributed independent prints in series or albums. With this in mind it is therefore essential to consider contemporary illustrated publications alongside traditional, independent prints when examining the total range of nineteenth-century art reproductions. While one collector might be content with an exclusive state, another might opt for a series of prints or even a special album devoted to Scheffer. Illustrated (art) journals provided the solution for art lovers who required some

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explanatory text. Popular works, such as Le Larmoyeur, were repeatedly reproduced in a range of forms and techniques, and sold for varying prices, thereby providing something for everyone. This brings us to the public for prints after Scheffer’s work, and what this public did with their Scheffer reproductions.

The public for Scheffer reproductions Scheffer himself

When Ary Scheffer came to Amsterdam in 1854, he visited Buffa, the city’s leading publisher of prints. At the firm’s premises in Kalverstraat he put his name down for an engraving after the De Schuttersmaaltijd (The Celebration of the Peace of Munster) by Bartholomeus van der Helst. The engraving of this plate had been started by Henricius Couwenberg, but left unfinished on his death, like his engraving after Scheffer’s Mignon et son Père, and subsequently completed by the Dutch engraver J.W. Kaiser (1813-1900), another former pupil of André Taurel.152 It was just one of many prints owned by Scheffer, whose entire print collection was sold at auction after his death, together with his drawings and paintings, on 15 and 16 March 1859.153 The sale catalogue suggests that he had been interested in reproductions after both old and contemporary masters. The painter had owned original prints by Dürer, Lucas van Leyden and Rembrandt, plus early reproductions by Marcantonio Raimondi and seventeenth-century engravings by Schelte à Bolswert after Rubens. His fine collection of interesting nineteenth-century reproductions comprised more than 80 prints by the best-known engravers of his age – Raphael Morghen, Louis Pierre Henriquel-Dupont, Zachee Prevost, Paul Mercuri, John Burnet, Abraham Raimbach and Thomas Landseer – after works by Raphael, Leonardo da Vinci, Poussin, Greuze and renowned contemporaries such as Edward Landseer, David Wilkie, Paul Délaroche, Ingres and Leopold Robert. While some of the collection was framed behind glass, Scheffer had kept most of the prints in portfolios.154 The painter had also possessed various prints after his own work. Amongst the lots in the auction catalogue were a framed engraving by Jean Marie Leroux after his portrait of General Lafayette, plus an exclusive etching after L’Ange pleurant, by Scheffer’s friend, the printmaker Girard, never before offered for sale. The catalogue also lists other familiar reproductions, such as Beaugrand’s engraving after Sainte Augustin et Sainte Monique, of which Scheffer owned vari-

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ous states: an épreuve d’artiste on Chinese paper and two prints ‘before’ and ‘after’ the letter, both on Chinese paper papier. The painter had also owned Luigi Calamatta’s engraving of his Francoise de Rimini, ‘with the letter’ printed on Chinese paper, and a ‘with the letter’ state on Chinese paper of Lecomte’s print Béatrice et le Dante. Finally, the auction catalogue lists a singular print after Scheffer’s portrait of Chopin (1847), a work never previously offered for safe.155 Altogether the catalogue lists an interesting, but relatively modest number of reproductions. In all probability the major portion of Scheffer’s print collection did not go under the hammer but remained in the possession of his daughter, Cornelia Marjolin-Scheffer, who bequeathed these items to the Dordrechts Museum in 1899. Scheffer himself seems to be the first person with an interest in prints after his work. Undoubtedly he used some of these as visual material for drawings and paintings, as many artists did. However, the framed prints indicate that he also hung some reproductions on the wall, so these were more than simply visual material. The significance of this increases when we remember that Scheffer was more than capable of painting enough pictures to hang on his walls. So these reproductions were no substitute for paintings he could not afford; Scheffer had more drawings and paintings at his disposal than anyone else, yet apparently did not hesitate to decorate his interior with engravings after his own work. This means that he, at any rate, did not regard such reproductions as inferior ‘surrogate paintings’. The role played by reproductions in the interior of Scheffer’s house can still be seen in his former Paris home, now the Musée de la Vie Romantique. Although not entirely authentic, the interior does offer an impression of how reproductions featured in Scheffer’s everyday environment. He was not the only artist who decorated his interior with prints and photographs of his own work: Lawrence Alma-Tadema, is discussed below, and his contemporaries Gustave Moreau, Rosa Bonheur and Frederic Leighton all hung prints in their homes.156 Friends and acquaintances

Scheffer regularly gave reproductions of his work to friends and acquaintances. In 1824 he wrote to his friend, the French Privy Councillor Baron de Schonen: ‘I shall not reiterate that the goodness and friendship with which you have honoured me for years are dearer to me than everything in the world, and that I would wish that I could consider myself worthy of these.’157 As a token of his es-

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teem the painter sent the baron a proof of Leroux’s engraving after his portrait of General Lafayette. On 10 May Scheffer wrote to the protestant writer Anthanase Laurent Charles Coquerel, after the latter had done him a friendly turn: c

‘Me permettez-vous de vous offrir une épreuve de la gravure de mon tableau de Christ pour laquelle vous avez bien voulu me donner le texte de l’inscription. J’hésite beaucoup à mettre sous vos yeux cette composition. Si les sujets de l’Evangile sont les plus beaux et les plus élevé que la peinture puis de aborder, devant eux aussi on sent bien mieux l’imiussnace de mon talent; vous Monsieur, plus qu’un autre devez être frappé de l’Evangile dont la parole convaincante en fait si bien comprendre la grandeur et la divine beauté.’158

In another instance Scheffer sent two prints, the renowned engravings of Christus Consolator and Christus Remunerator, to the violinist Alard Delphin, possibly to express his admiration following a concert by Delphin. In an accompanying letter the painter wrote: ‘Me permettez vous de vous offrir mes bien failbles temoignages en sentiments, les deux gravures ci jointes, après mes tableaux du Christ Consolateur et du Christ Remunerateur.’159 Scheffer not only sent reproductions of his work to friends and acquaintances, he also took prints with him on his travels. On his 1854 trip to the Netherlands, for example, the country of his birth, he left behind a print for Professor Vrolijk; he had been unable to meet the professor in person and wrote: c

‘N’Ayant en l’honneur de vous rencontrer à Amsterdam ou je me suis permis de deposer chez vous une épreuve d’artiste de la gravure quón vient de terminer après mon tableau de la scene du jardin de Faust de Goethe, (je prends la liberté de vous ecrire)[…]’160

Scheffer’s gift of reproductions after his work is noteworthy, as various instances of this show that he regularly used such prints to maintain and expand his social network. So in addition to serving as wall decorations, these reproductions had a social function as well. Apparently the painter regarded these prints as representative of his work: he may not have made them with his own hands, but it was still ‘his work’ that they depicted. I shall return to the subject of the relationship between Scheffer’s own work and reproductions of these below.

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The important factors here are that Scheffer himself can be considered one of the primary amateurs of prints after his paintings, and that he also ensured other people in his circle acquired these. Through Scheffer’s agency and other means, reproductions of his work were distributed amongst the cultural elite in his own circle. In 1854, Geraldine Jewsbury, a regular guest at La Grange, General Lafayette’s country house where Scheffer often stayed, wrote to Jane Welsh Carlyle concerning Henriquel-Dupont’s engraving after Christus Consolator [45]: c

‘it moved me to tears. I wish I could transfuse it to you… There is the figure of a mother over her dead child – that is wonderful. The face is swollen with grief and yet there is an ineffable beauty and rest about it which almost consoles one.’161

Harriet Martineau moved in the same circles and also owned a copy of the print: c

‘including the consolations of eighteen centuries!- that mysterious assemblage of the redeemed Captives and tranquillized Mourners of a whole Christendom!- that inspired epitome of suffering and solace!- it may well be a cause of wonder, almost amounting to alarm to those who, not having needed, have felt its power.’162

The well-known liberal historian Augustin Thierry, a good friend of Scheffer, also owned prints after the painter’s work: the Calamatta engraving after Francoise de Rimini and the print after Faust et Marguérite both hung in his salon.163 Moreover, while Frans Liszt was staying in the Netherlands, in 1854, he searched for a lithograph after Scheffer’s Les rois mages, possibly the print previously published in De Kunstkronijk; the renowned pianist and composer had modelled for the figure of the youngest king in the original painting.164 The fact that engravings after Scheffer’s work found their way into the hands of the cultural elite is significant, particularly as this social group had both the means and the opportunity to acquire paintings, by Scheffer and other artists. Their readiness to hang reproductions on the wall indicates that they did not

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automatically consider such prints inferior works of art; Scheffer’s gifts of such prints also points in this direction. This is not to say that graphic adaptations enjoyed the same status as their painted originals and were thus interchangeable. Nevertheless, it appears that within the social group that could afford both original works and reproductions, there were not such great differences between the use and value of originals and reproductions: fine engravings were also accorded a place on the painting-clad walls of elite salons. The general public

The art trade and illustrated journals brought reproductions of Scheffer’s work to the attention of the general public. In 1840 the art journal L’Artiste even reported on Louis Henriquel-Dupont’s print after Scheffer’s Christus Consolator before this had been completed; during a visit to the master engraver’s studio one of the journal’s editors had seen an early state in which only a few of the main figures had been engraved: c

‘M. Henriquel-Dupont achève en ce moment un tableau de M. Ary Scheffer, Le Christ appelant à lui les malheureux. C’est une touchante personnification des douleurs humaines. Cette planche de M. Dupont est déja avancée, et sera terminée cet hiver. La composition, simple et bien disposée dans le tableau, est bien rendue dans la gravure. Certaines parties du tableau, quelques figures importantes, sont terminées. Le premier travail nous a semblé très-brillant; il reproduit la manière de Scheffer, style et couleur, avec un sentiment très-fin et très-juste. Ce travail, clair et facile, est semé cà et là de ces tons fermes qui décèlent la main d’un maître.’165

Thus, readers of the French art journal were told of the forthcoming reproduction at an early stage in its production. Once a print had been published, reviews of the work regularly appeared to inform interested readers who were also potential buyers. In 1856, for example, the influential English publication The Art Journal wrote of Goupil’s prints after Scheffer: c

‘His “Christus Consolator,” engraved by Henriquel-Dupont, is the cherished guest of many English homes; its companion, the “Christus Remunerator,” (engraved by Blanchard) is only its second in public favour; while such works as “The Holy Women at the Tomb,” convey the lessons of Art as pure

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and holy missionaries of Christianity. For giving these admirable and very beautiful productions to the world, the public incurs a debt to the publisher scarcely less than they owe to the artist.’166 It was largely thanks to Goupil’s prints that Scheffer’s work was possibly more famous in England, during the mid-1850s, than in France.167 Few English engravers in this period ventured to distribute such prestigious engravings after famous works of art: ‘The circulation of such publications cannot be too wide,’ The Art Journal wrote in 1856.168 When several new reproductions were published by Goupil, including the engraving by A. Francois after Marguérite at the Church, the journal drew attention to the wide distribution of such prints in England: c

‘The English public has of late years enjoyed so many opportunities of studying the works of foreign painters in the various exhibitions which have been opened both in the metropolis and elsewhere, that the style and character of the pictures of many of these artists have become almost as familiar to us as those of our fellow-countrymen. Still we are glad to have this acquaintance renewed and extended by the engraver’ s burin, which brings such productions into our own homes, to confirm and enlarge our knowledge of them. And both artists and lovers of Art cannot fail to derive benefit from the best works of foreigners, not only by comparing them with those which are sent forth from our own studios, but from the new ideas they often convey.’169

The English artist Holman Hunt also described how reproductions had helped to popularise Scheffer’s work: c

‘It was the mode in England, as on the Continent, to rate Ary Scheffer among the greatest of painters. He had doubtless earlier exhibited some superior works, at that time then in private collections. Of these we knew by engravings “Mignon regrettant sa Patrie” and “Le Christ Consolateur.” The first undoubtedly possessed grace, the second took the young admirer captive for a whole week like a populair air[…]’170

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The well-known art historian Hofstede de Groot, a fervent admirer of Scheffer’s work, declared that he mainly knew his paintings from reproductions.171 As previously observed, a range of exhibitions regularly presented the public with reproductions. At the Salon of 1843, held in the Louvre, Luigi Calamatta’s engraving after Scheffer’s Francoise de Rimini was displayed in the print section. De Kunstkronijk described this work as one of the few prints at the exhibition worth mentioning: c

‘With engraving things are less well: once I have enumerated the Leo x, by the Florentine engraver Jesi, and the Francoise de Rimini, by Ary Scheffer, by Calamatta, I can further direct you to the windows of the printsellers, which are decorated with furniture prints by Saset and others.’172

A year later the Salon exhibited the two engravings by Aristide Louis after Mignon regrettant sa Patrie and Mignon aspirant au Ciel. In 1849 the Dutch public were able to admire a proof by Couwenberg after Scheffer’s Mignon et son Père, which was displayed at an exhibition of foreign contemporary masters at the Odéon in Amsterdam.173 The 1855 Exposition Universelle held in Paris, unlike the English Great Exhibition of 1851, included art and reproductions in its exhibits. Amongst the work on display was a print by the German engraver Joseph Keller after Scheffer’s Christ au tombeau , which received a medal.174 An exceptional engraving by C.E. Taurel, after an Eichens aquatint of Scheffer’s Le Christ portant sa croix was displayed in 1859 at an exhibition in The Hague. Art dealers also organised single-picture exhibitions, at which one painting was displayed, often with its reproductions. The art dealer and publisher Goupil sent the Scheffer painting Le Christ sur la montagne ou la Tentation de Christ (1856) on a tour of England, the primary objective being to promote Alphonse Francois’s engraving of the work.175 A noteworthy use of Scheffer reproductions is provided by the homily delivered by the theologian Walraven Francken Az (1822-1894), who took Scheffer’s Christus Remunerator as the starting point for his discourse and hung several engravings on the wall to illustrate this.176 Interaction between the art trade, exhibitions and illustrated journals made Scheffer’s work so well known that his friend L. Vitet claimed that simply mentioning a title was enough for people to conjure up the work in their mind:

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c

‘Dire seulement les titres de ces nombreux tableaux, c’est réveiller des souvenirs, rappeler des images que tout le monde a dans la pensée. Qui n’a pas vu, grâce au burin ou à la lithographie, la Veuve du Soldat, le Retour du Conscit, les Orphelins sur la tombe de leur mère, la Soeur de charité, les Pêcheurs pendant la tempête, l’incendie de la ferme, et ce vivant portrait de nos désastre, cette page toute frémissante de colère patriotique, la scene d’invasion en 1814?’177

The same was true of the Dutch public, if we are to believe the writer T. van Westrheene: c

‘See, we only have to name them to our readers, the titles of the principal paintings, which represent this new trend of the masters, to bring back to mind not only their works – insofar these have not been seen in the Netherlands, yet are nearly only known here through engraving, – but also to recollect the character of that trend.’178

Many people in the Netherlands knew Scheffer’s work, even though they had never seen his paintings in person. Prints of the painter’s Mignon pictures and religious images must have hung on the walls of a multitude of art lovers and connoisseurs, as we can still see today in the bedroom of the Museum WilletHolthuysen, devoted to the history of this Amsterdam patrician family of the 19th century. Vincent van Gogh: a fan of Scheffer reproductions

When Vincent van Gogh listed his favourite painters to his brother Theo in a letter of 17 January 1874, the first name he mentioned was Ary Scheffer.179 For many years Scheffer would remain an important figure amongst the artists whom Van Gogh admired. His general interest in Scheffer has already been the subject of research. I shall confine myself in the present study to Van Gogh’s interest in reproductions of Scheffer’s work.180 Van Gogh was familiar with Scheffer’s work from an early stage in his life. His father was a clergyman who admired the famous painter’s religious pictures and even owned a drawing by the master. Scheffer’s religious work was highly esteemed in Protestant circles. If Van Gogh had not been introduced to Schef-

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fer’s work by his father, he would certainly have been exposed to it through his three uncles, who worked in the art trade. The most influential of the three was his namesake Vincent van Gogh, also known as Uncle ‘Cent’, who had run his own art dealing business in The Hague since 1842. Oom Cent had eventually joined forces with the French firm of Goupil, with whom he became officially associated in 1858. Through his uncles, the younger Vincent van Gogh came into contact with the art trade, including the world of print publishing. So it is certainly conceivable that they introduced him to prints after the work of Scheffer, which may have been published by Goupil. At high school in Tilburg the young Van Gogh had also received drawing lessons from C.C. Huysmans, who knew Scheffer personally. Although it is not known when Van Gogh first heard of Scheffer, there are enough indications that he was familiar with the master’s name and work from a young age. Van Gogh had closer and more frequent contact with prints after Scheffer’s work once he had started to work for Goupil, on 30 July 1869, at the age of sixteen.181 The firm’s branch in The Hague, which was run by H.G. Tersteeg, grew into a leading player in the field of art dealing and print publication; even the window of the firm must have been a sight worth seeing. During his time at Goupil the young Van Gogh must have seen countless reproductions after art works by old and living masters.182 In 1873 Van Gogh was transferred to Goupil’s London branch where he worked from 13 June 1873 until 15 May 1875. In London the trainee art dealer found himself at a branch of Goupil that was very different in character from its counterpart in The Hague: instead of the ‘shop’ run by Tersteeg, it resembled a wholesale outlet and supplied other printsellers, with the accent lying on the sale of engraved, etched and photographic reproductions rather than on paintings.183 From London Vincent wrote to his brother Theo, who had also entered employment with Goupil, in a letter previously cited: c

‘How go the nouveautés [photogravures, rv] in Holland? Here there is literally nothing to be done with the ordinary engravings after Brochart &c. The good burin engravings we are selling quite well, amongst other things we’ve already sold +/- 20 epr. d’artiste of the Venus Anadryomene after Ingres. But it’s a pleasure to see how the photogravures are selling, especially the coloured ones, and there’s a fine profit on them.’184

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The engraving after Ingres was one of a trio of prints that also comprised Scheffer’s works Dante et Beatrice and Hébé. Van Gogh’s remarks show that traditional line engravings were still selling well in the early 1870s. At this point Goupil’s management was endeavouring to expand the London branch’s stock with paintings by old and living masters. This measure formed part of a broader development in the nineteenth-century art trade, and was also implemented at major firms such as Gambart and Agnew.185 Van Gogh experienced this sweeping change in person, as he admiringly handled prints after Scheffer’s work. On one occasion he wrote to his brother Theo: ‘Virginité de l’âme et impurité du corps can go together. You know Marguerite à la fontaine by Ary Scheffer, is there a purer being than that girl who has loved so much.’186 Van Gogh had probably seen the painting, bought in 1872 by the wealthy collector Richard Wallace, at the Bethnal Green Museum in London, and he must have known the reproductions of this circulated by Goupil. Moreover the work had also been reproduced in The Illustrated London News of 21 December 1872. [plate 9, fig. 48, 49]187 After Van Gogh had spent some time working at Goupil’s Paris establishment in late 1874, he was transferred to the French capital on a permanent basis in May 1875. The walls of his room in Montmartre were covered with reproductions: prints after Ruisdael, Rembrandt, Troyon, Bonington and Jacob Maris.188 To foster Theo’s knowledge of art Van Gogh regularly sent reproductions to his brother: ‘Herewith the book about Michel that I promised you, also an etching after the Marguerite by Scheffer & a lithograph after Corot, & a packet of chocolate.’189 With his reference to the etching of Scheffer’s Marguérite Van Gogh probably meant the print by the etcher Paul Rajon after Marguérite a l’Eglise, published in an illustrated auction catalogue when the renowned Paturle collection was put up for sale. During his time in Paris Van Gogh felt less and less affinity for the art trade, and the foundations were laid for his great distrust of this ‘speculation’.190 His diminishing lack of concern for Goupil’s interests eventually resulted in his dismissal from the firm, on 1 April 1876.191 After his time in the art trade, the clergyman’s son now opted for a religious career, moving to Isleworth in southern England, to work as a curate there. He informed his brother Theo of his desire for reproductions after Scheffer: ‘Am I getting those little engravings, like Pa and Ma have, Christus consolator and Remunerator, which you promised?192 On receipt of these works Van Gogh wrote a letter of thanks to his brother:

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fig. 48 Robert Bingham after Scheffer, Marguérite a la fontaine, photography 20 x 13 cm, Goupil Galerie Photographique, Musée Goupil, Bordeaux.

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c

‘Your letter and the prints came as a delightful surprise when I busy weeding the potatoes in the garden this morning. Thank you for them; both engravings Christus consolator and Remunerator are already hanging above my reading table in my little room. God is truth, so through conviction He will bring those who err back to the true path’ – that’s what you thought when you wrote, may that be so; I am erring in many a sense, but there is still hope. Do not be uneasy about your opulent life, as you call it, but go quietly on your way; you are simpler than I and will probably arrive there sooner and in a better way. Do not have any great illusions as to the freedom that I have; I have my bonds of every kind, humiliating

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fig. 49 C. Anonymous after Scheffer Marguérite a la fontaine, from: The Illustrated London News (21 December 1872) wood engraving.

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bonds too, and there will be still more of them in time. But the words that are above Christus consolator: ‘He has come to preach deliverance to the captives,’ are also true today.’193 Van Gogh hung the two prints after Christus Consolator and Christus Remunerator, which he remembered from his parents’ house, on the wall of his room. Scheffer’s religious images provided an important source of inspiration for the young curate. He also liked to share his admiration for Scheffer’s work with others. With his mother’s forthcoming birthday in mind he asked his brother: ‘If you can, send Ma on her birthday a carte de visite no.669 L’enfant prodigue by Schef-

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fig. 50 Anonymous after Scheffer, l’Enfant prodigue, photograph 19 x 15 cm, Goupil Galerie Photographique, Musée Goupil,

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Bordeaux.

fer.’194 [fig. 50] He may also have seen this work at Bethnal Green Museum in London, and certainly knew the photographs which Goupil had published of it.195 Reproductions after Scheffer’s work played an important role in this religious phase of Van Gogh’s life, which he penetratingly described in a letter to his parents from England: c

‘While I am sitting writing to you thus in my little room and it is so very, very quiet and I look around at your portraits and the prints on the wall, Christus consolator and Le vendredi saint and the Women going to the tomb and Le vieux Huguenot and l’Enfant prodigue by Ary Scheffer and the little ship on the stormy sea and an etching of an autumn landscape, a view of the heath, which I got from Harry Gladwell on my birthday, and when I think of you all and then of everyone here and of Turnham

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Green and Richmond and Petersham etc., then I feel: ‘Continue Lord, to hear my Mother’s prayer, which she prayed for me when I left my parents’ house: Father, I beseech Thee not, to take them out of the world, but to spare them from evil,’ and Lord, oh, if Thou wouldst yet make me, not merely almost but entirely as it were my Father’s brother, a Christian and a christian labourer. Accomplish Thy work in me that Thou hast begun. Yea, may Thou makest me, slowly but surely, step by step, both almost and entirely my Father’s brother. And may Thou bind us, Oh Lord, sincerely to each other and let love for Thee strengthen that bond more and more.’196 Van Gogh’s reproductions after Scheffer provided him with a major source of religious comfort in an unfamiliar environment. Several months after writing the above letter to his parents he left England and returned to the Netherlands. Van Gogh’s Uncle ‘Cent’ then arranged a job for him with Blusse & van Braam booksellers in Dordrecht. This took him to the city of Scheffer’s birth, where he lived and worked from January to April 1877. Here too, Van Gogh soon hung his prints on the wall of his room: c

‘The two prints which I got from you, are hanging in my little room – saw the paintings in the museum and also by Scheffer, ‘Christus in Ghetsemane’, something never to forget, long ago that painting also affected Pa so. There’s a sketch of Les douleurs de la terre as well and various drawings and also the portrait of his studio and so as you know the portrait of his mother.’197

Living in Dordrecht allowed Van Gogh to see original works by Scheffer, in the Dordrechts Museum. He went to the museum regularly, accompanied on one such visit, in February 1877, by his brother Theo, who had come to Dordrecht to see him. He subsequently wrote to this brother: ‘Glad that we have seen the Scheffer paintings together.’198 A few weeks later Van Gogh visited the museum again, this time in the company of his father. He wrote to his uncle: ‘It was a delightful day recently when Pa was here we walked together and have also been in the museum to see the paintings by Scheffer.’199 Van Gogh had already been familiar with reproductions after Scheffer; his time in Dordrecht extended this familiarity to Scheffer’s original paintings. The fact that Van Gogh lived at

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walking distance from Scheffers ‘original’ works did not, remarkably enough, reduce his admiration for prints of these, although exposure to the actual paintings could have conceivably lessened his interest in their graphic reproduction. His letters, however, contain no sign of this; on the contrary, his interest in reproductions did not diminish. Apart from the prints hanging on his own wall, Van Gogh was curious about what other people displayed in their homes. After a visit to his Uncle Jan he wrote to his brother that he had missed seeing any prints after Scheffer there: c

‘And yet I think it such a pity, that there is nothing like Christus Con­ solator or Ecce Homo hanging there in Uncle Jan’s fine rooms. The latter hangs in your little room though, at any rate I believe I noticed it there. Be accustomed to hanging it up wherever you have a room, for that is proper and due to you.’200

At Uncle Stricker’s house he would also have liked to have seen more prints on the wall: ‘This morning I was in Uncle Stricker’s study, it’s a fine room and there’s a portrait of Calvin after Scheffer hanging there, and yet I would have liked to have seen a few more prints on the wall.’201 These remarks show the extent to which prints after Scheffer’s work were present in Van Gogh’s mind, even when he did not see any. After several months Van Gogh moved to Amsterdam to prepare for training as a clergyman. Once again he received several Scheffer reproductions from Theo: ‘Another thing: you sent me 2 pairs of Christus consolator and pend[ant]. I was extremely pleased with these.’202 This begs the question of why Van Gogh did not buy these prints himself. Could he not obtain them in Amsterdam, were they too expensive for him and why would he want two pairs? It is unlikely that he would have been unable to acquire these engravings in Amsterdam, for they must have been stocked by his Uncle Cor, Buffa or Frederik Muller. The fact that he was given these works by Theo possibly had more to do with his always precarious financial situation. One of the prints he owned was an engraving by the German engraver Joseph Keller, published by Goupil: c

‘Is it not beautiful, the engraving after Ary Scheffer, Les saintes femmes au tombeau du Christ, I am so happy that I have it; especially the old woman, that is it. Did you perhaps come by anything else for your

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s­ crapbook on the way? Do carry on with this, for it is something ex­ tremely good.’203 Van Gogh repeatedly encouraged his brother to collect reproductions, for example, in a letter of 27 July 1877: ‘but do go on collecting such prints.’204 He regarded the collecting of reproductions as ‘something extremely good’, although in the spring of 1877 he did not yet intend to embark on such a collection himself: he simply bought prints to decorate his room and divert his thoughts.205 Given Van Gogh’s religious preoccupations it is not surprising that he was mainly interested in well-known religious works by Scheffer. He felt a particularly special affinity for engravings after Christus Consolator and Christus Remunerator, as inspiring images and, moreover, as a reminder of his beloved brother.206 At the end of his religious career Van Gogh converted to his artistic calling. Attracted by Anton Mauve and other masters of the Hague School, he moved to The Hague where he rented a studio on the Schenkweg and received drawing lessons from Mauve. He also paid regular visits to Goupil, his former place of work, in search of modern art. In his studio he again hung prints of Scheffer on the wall, amongst reproductions after his other favourite masters Jean-François Millet and Hubert Herkomer: c

‘I have still other prints hanging there, but all exceptionally fine, the Scheffer Christus Consolator, a photo after Boughton, Le semeur and Les Bêcheurs by Millet, Le Buisson by Ruysdael and magnificent, large woodcuts by Herkomer & Frank holl, Le banc des pauvres by De Groux.’207

Throughout his artistic career Van Gogh retained his admiration for Scheffer’s work. Nevertheless his preference for religious engravings was somewhat displaced by a liking for realistic wood engravings from illustrated (art) journals, such as The Illustrated London News and The Graphic, which he sometimes bought by the pile. However, when he moved to France, firstly to Paris and then to sunny Arles, he left the somber, realistic world of wood engravings largely behind him and shifted his interest to colourful Japanese prints. By this point blackand-white reproductions after Scheffer’s work no longer held his attention either.

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Scheffer’s work versus reproductions In 1853 the well-known illustrator Alexander Verheull reported on his visit to Ary Scheffer’s studio: ‘The Francesca di Rimini, of which you, my dear reader, know the exquisite engraving, by far exceeded my expectations in painted form.’208 Although Verheull was familiar with Scheffer’s picture Francesca di Rimini from the engraving by Luigi Calamatta, he had never seen the actual painting. With the reproduction in mind, he thus encountered the original for the first time in Scheffer’s studio. Keeping the reproductions after Scheffer’s work similarly in mind, I shall now consider the painter’s output from the point of view of subject, composition, technique and colour. Religious sentiment

Scheffer’s work was reproduced throughout his career. During the 1820s prints were published after his history paintings, including his picture Saint Thomas d’Aquin prêchant la confiance dans la bonté divine pendant la tempête. His portraits of famous figures such as General Lafayette and members of the house of Orléans were also regularly replicated and multiplied. However, he achieved his greatest successes with his literary genre scenes, such as his depictions of Mignon, Faust and Gretchen. The esteem enjoyed by these works must be viewed within its cultural context: German literature was extremely popular in France at the beginning of the nineteenth century. Works such L’Allemagne by Madame de Stael were much loved, as were works by Goethe and Schiller. Scheffer’s visual representations of these could therefore command a large public. L’Artiste wrote with regard to Scheffer’s contributions to the Salon of 1837: c

‘Ary Scheffer est le Christo Colomb de ce nouveau monde qu’il a découvert; il est le peintre ordinaire des plus fantastique créations des poètes de l’école du Dante: Goethe, Schiller, Byron voilà ses héros, ses compagnons, ses inspirateurs.’[…] ‘Pouvons-nous dire à propos de M. Ary Scheffer ce que dit Horace: Ut pictora poesis?- Ne m’interrogez pas.’209

Scheffer’s paintings form part of a wider development in which history painting, with its grand and lofty themes from literature and the past, were increasingly ousted by genre paintings which focused on the everyday emotions of ordinary people from petit histoire. After Christus Consolator he painted various

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religious works during the 1840s and 1850s, including Les Rois mages, Saint Augustin et Sainte Monique, Jacob et Rachel and biblical characters. Throughout the nineteenth century religious subjects such as these could count on a large public, which included Vincent van Gogh. As a rule no changes were made to the composition of Scheffer’s popular paintings during reproduction. In a few exceptional instances, however, the composition was deliberately altered: the American version of Christus Consolator, for example, was stripped of its overtly political message by the removal of the coloured figure in chains. In another reproduction, a remarkable print produced in collaboration by a number of pubishers in 1828, the original compo­ sition was actually expanded. The work was a response to the arrest and con­ viction of the well-known chansonnier Pierre-Jean de Béranger (1780-1857), who had fallen victim to the house of Bourbon’s repressive regime. The fiercely liberal-republican Béranger had been found guilt of slander, sentenced to nine months in prison and ordered to pay a fine of ten thousand francs. Several publishing friends came to his assistance, with a plan to collect this sum through the publication and sale of a print bearing the beleaguered singer’s portrait. The condemned man agreed to this on condition that the print be made after Ary Scheffer’s recent portrait of him, with bars added in the background as a subtle reference to his conviction. The English printmaker S.W. Reynolds, one of the most renowned engravers of the time, was called upon to produce the print. He used the aquatint technique, probably because the print was required too immediately for engraving to be an option. The print was published in 1828.210 [fig. 51]

No colourist

Scheffer depicted his historical, literary and religious subjects in countless compositions. The history paintings from his early career, such as Les Femmes Souliotes, are complex in appearance. Groups of figures are carefully positioned in the picture plane within a complicated structure of diagonal and horizontal lines. Many of these figures are also manoeuvred into complex attitudes. During the 1820s and especially the 1830s, the transition to more genre-style painting was accompanied in Scheffer’s work by considerable compositional changes: the painter substantially simplified the layout of his pictures and drastically reduced the amount of figures to just a few individuals; he also made his larger paintings featuring more figures, such as Christus Consolator and Christus Remu-

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fig. 51 Samuel William Reynolds after Scheffer, Portrait of Pierre-Jean de Béranger (1828), aquatint, Dordrechts Museum, Dordrecht.

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nerator, less complicated in appearance. Moreover he kept subsidiary decorative elements remarkably simple, with a minimum of natural elements in outdoor scenes, and little by way of adornment in interiors and clothing. Thus, in many of Scheffer’s works the prevailing mood is that of serenity and restraint, with a minimum of detail, both in the pictorial and decorative sense. It was for good reason that engravers were drawn to Scheffer’s paintings. The colourist Eugène Delacroix contended that drawings and engravings were meaningless works of art, on account of their lack of colour.211 In the majority of instances the act of reproduction was characterised by the translation of a colour painting into a black-and-white print. The colours used by Scheffer in his work have often been debated. Laurens Reinhart Beijnen wrote in the Scheffer-Album regarding the painter’s two versions of Dante and Beatrice that he considered the existence of two paintings on this theme, one with a gold background and one with a blue background as:

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c

‘Evidence that Scheffer was uncertain in this matter and that his strength in this picture, as in many of his pieces generally, lay above all less in the use of colour than in the drawing, a quality one often encounters in idealistic painters.’212

While Beijen was cautious in drawing attention to Scheffer’s problematic use of colour, Baudelaire’s tone was much sharper in his comments on Scheffer’s submissions to the Salon of 1846: c

‘Apres avoir imité Delacroix, apres avoir singé les coloristes, les dessinateurs francais et l’ecole néo-chrétienne d’Overbeck, M. Ary Scheffer s’est apercu,- un peu tard sans doute,- qu’il n’était pas né peintre. Dès lors il fallut recourir à autres moyens; et il demanda aide et protection à la poésie.’213

The Art Journal wrote in 1859: ‘His best productions are those in which he has not been seduced by attempts at colour; and in the extensive allusion and copious description of his limited compositions he can never be excelled.’214 When Harriet Grote, married with the well-known historian George Grote, visited Scheffer, she saw the painting Temptation, one of his final works, and took him to task for his meagre use of colour. Some time later the oil painting went to England, to be reproduced as a black-and-white print, on the subject of which Grote observed: ‘It will probably be regarded as highly important by the art world, so my objections regarding the colour of the painting fall away in the case of an engraving.’215 After the engraving by Alphonse Francois had been published, The Art Journal observed of Scheffer’s colours: c

‘Whatever Scheffer lacked as a colourist, and often-times as a poetical idealist, received a counterpoise in the dignity of his conceptions, and the intellectual expression, he gave to his figure.’[...] ‘The engraving is in the line manner, delicate and yet very solid in execution. The tones both of the flesh and the draperies are appropriately and truth-fully rendered, without hardness on the one and weakness on the other. The publication, as the work of either artist, – painter or engraver – is undoubtly one of the most valuable contributions to high art which the age had produced.’216

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Scheffer’s paintings were not remarkable for their use of colour, in the manner of work produced by his contemporaries Eugène Delacroix and J.M.W. Turner. Even a Scheffer admirer such as Van Gogh acknowledged this: ‘For Ary Scheffer is hardly a colourist.’217 So little was lost when colour was omitted in a Scheffer reproduction. In many instances, in fact, his compositions were liberated from a recurring problematic element. The writer Anna Bosboom-Toussaint only knew Scheffer’s work from black-and-white prints, such as the engraving after Christus Consolator. Suddenly faced by the painted original in C.J. Fodor’s collection she was startled: ‘How gaudy Chr[istus] Cons[olator] is, I am sorry I saw it, would that it were only in marble!’218 Scheffer’s painting technique is also an interesting element to consider in the reproduction of his work. Previous reference has been made to the printmakers’ debate regarding the reproduction of paint texture, or the painter’s hand. Unlike his contemporary Gustave Courbet, Scheffer did not engage in intense experiments with a palette knife; neither did he deploy the impasto of Barbizon painters. On the contrary, Scheffer’s paintings generally employ a smooth stroke, carefully applied to the surface, so his technique has more in common with that of nineteenth-century fijnschilders, such as Paul Délaroche, Horace Vernet, Ingres or Franz Xavier Winterhalter, from the milieu juste.219 A major characteristic of work by this group of painters is that the paint has been applied so smoothly that the brushstrokes appear to have dissolved, producing a silky-smooth paint surface with a transparent view of the image, painted by an invisible hand.220 Although Scheffer did not possess such a virtuoso technique, he did not apply the paint to his canvases in rough loose strokes. It was this smooth surface in Scheffer’s work that was such a blessing for engravers, for the absence of a complex paint texture meant there was one important element less for them to deal with. Even the most radical change effected by the reproductive process, the conversion of a painting into a print, did not encounter major difficulties in the case of Scheffer’s work. As Théophile Gautier wrote: ‘Ary Scheffer laisse une réputation que d’admirables gravures augmenterons encore, car elles ne traduisent que ses qualités; le burin excelle surtout à rendre l‘idée d’un tableau, et les tableaux d’Ary Scheffer ne sont que des idées pures.’221

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Art for reproduction?

Given the ‘reproduceable’ character of Scheffer’s work, the question arises of whether the painter took the potential for reproduction into account when creating his pictures. To what extent was his work ‘art for reproduction’? Two wellknown works by Scheffer, Christus Consolator and Christus Remunator, are interesting in this connection. Scheffer painted the former, a work subsequently converted into print form by Louis Henriquel-Dupont, for the Duchess of Orléans; the pendant, Christus Remunerator, [plate 10] he produced many years later, on commission from Goupil who intended to reproduce the painting. This can be inferred from the words of Abraham Johannes de Bull (1823-1888) in the Scheffer-Album: c

‘If a noble woman’s love of art gave the painter cause to produce the consolator, the Remunerator owes its origins, at least so goes the legend, in part to a leading art dealer’s lust for enterprise. The The astonishing rise of the aforesaid engraving [of christus consolator, rv] awoke in the British public the desire for a pendant, and he [goupil, rv] took the royal road to satisfy this. For his commercial house – the voice of the century is heard everywhere and in everything – he asked what the Duchess of Orleans had asked: he invited him [Scheffer], to produce a second painting, in order to bring an engraving onto the market.’222

If De Bull is correct, Scheffer painted Christus Remunerator for reproduction. Once the painting had been completed, Goupil published Auguste Blanchard’s engraving of the picture and this print also became one of the best-known reproductions after Scheffer’s work. Although Scheffer may have painted his Christus Remunerator for reproduction, the picture is certainly not at odds with the rest of his work in regard to its style. The nature of Scheffer’s work, together with the techniques at the printmakers’ disposal, meant that he did not have to explicitly adapt the painting to meet the demands of reproduction. This raises the question of of the extent to which Scheffer may have taken factors associated with reproduction into consideration when producing his work. As previously observed, the painter’s oeuvre comprises a complex body of many similar works. Like many of his contemporaries he frequently repeated his compositions in a range of variations, in which he only changed the details or the format. The result was a diverse col-

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lection of works, plus replicas and variations, some of which were by Scheffer’s hand, others produced under his supervision. The first version of a particular theme is often regarded as ‘the’ original, although, taking another perspective, the same work can also be viewed as a first attempt at a specific composition. Where various versions of a composition are closely related, it seems arbitrary to designate one particular picture as ‘the’ original, for the various works all differ slightly, forming an oeuvre in which each picture seems ‘more or less original’. Moreover, the distance between original and reproduction seems smaller and smaller. Viewed in this light, Scheffer should not be denounced as an artist who simply made prototypes for reproduction, as such a view is based on the assumption that he not only made his own work suitable for reproduction, but that he subordinated it to this purpose; it also assumes that ‘original’ art and ‘reproduceable’ art necessarily preclude each other, whereas the boundaries between the two merge imperceptibly. Scheffer thus operated in both the market for original art works and the market for reproductions. As previously observed, he sometimes sold possession of a painting together with the right to reproduce this. These two separate rights made it possible to split ‘the sole and unique work of art’ in two, the advantage of this being that it could then be circulated in two different markets: the original in the painting market and the right of reproduction in the print market. Once a painting had been completed, some time elapsed before the engraving was published. The painting of Christus Consolator, for example, was finished in 1837 but the engraving by Henriquel-Dupont was not published until 1842; Blanchard’s engraving of the 1848 painting Christus Remunerator dates from 1851, while Levasseur’s two engravings of Ruth et Noemi (1855) and Jacob et Rachel (1857) were published in 1859. If we assume that it often took one to three years to produce an engraving, these prints were published fairly soon after their original’s completion. However, there are also instances in which prints were not published until ten years or more after a painting had been finished. Scheffer straddled the art world with one foot in the painting trade and the other in print publishing, doing business with the firm of Goupil in both these markets. Goupil sold Scheffer’s paintings, drawings and the reproductions of these. The relationship between print publishing and the art trade is one of the gray areas in the nineteenth-century art world. The accounts kept by the publishing side of Goupil have been lost, so we only have Scheffer’s own scanty information on this subject. The financial and economic relationships between the two mar-

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kets remains unclear. Did the trade in paintings benefit from the trade in reproductions or vice versa? It is conceivable that a reproduction increased the value of painting, while the success of a painting was a good advertisement for its reproductions. Owing to lack of concrete information it is hard to gain any insight into such patterns, although one fact does stand out: both Scheffer and the firm of Goupil continued to be involved with the traditional print trade, even after they had enjoyed successes in the art dealing world.223 The above discussion supports the identification of three kinds of connection between Scheffer and reproductions of his work. In the first place, there was Scheffer’s artistic involvement in the production of prints after his work; an involvement illustrated by his proposal for Couwenberg to visit his studio so that Scheffer could correct his engraving. The painter was not the actual maker of the reproduction, in that he did not produce the print himself, but he felt a connection with the image that was being reproduced and thus had an artistic relationship with reproductions after his work, as their intellectual father. It was this intellectual bond between the artist and his work that was increasingly recognised and protected by laws on authorship rights over the course of the nineteenth century. This brings us to the second type of connection between Scheffer and reproductions after his work, his legal relationship with these. It has emerged that the painter was clearly aware of the legal rights associated with his work, selling possession of his paintings with, and without, the rights to reproduce these. Before work had even begun on a print, the painter showed that he was thoroughly aware of the possibilities for exploiting reproductions of his paintings. This touches on the third connection between Scheffer and reproductions of his work, the economic relationship. The moral right of reproduction could be converted into cash, although it is often hard to ascertain the actual sums involved. Scheffer’s artistic, legal and economic relationship with reproductions after his work put these prints almost on a par with the pictures he made himself. The reproductions bearing his signature are an interesting phenomenon in this connection. The Dordrechts Museum owns a copy of an engraving by Louise Girard after Lenore and a photograph by Gustave Le Gray of Le Coupeur de nappe, both of which have been signed by the painter. The act of signing these prints seems to have ‘dissolved’ the difference between original and reproduction: a reproduction authorised by the painter and signed by the painter appears to be-

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come a new ‘original’. Scheffer’s habit of presenting reproductions of his work to people in his immediate circles underlines this. Such reproductions may have been made by engravers and photographers, but the painter regarded these as a representation of his own work. Although Scheffer himself did not produce these prints, he seems to have been explicitly involved in the reproduction of his work. The legal aspects of this are equally interesting, the primary factor being the author’s intellectual bond with his work, and reproductions of this work, rather than actual makership. In this sense Scheffer may be regarded as the author of any reproductions after his pictures. It would not do justice to the special bond between Scheffer, his work, and its reproductions, if we did not include these reproductions in his oeuvre as a matter of principal, despite the absence of actual makership on the part of the painter. The result is an oeuvre which comprises works characterised by varying ‘degrees of originality’, ranging from original paintings, variations and replicas to prints produced by an engraver. This enables us to take a different view of works such as Christus Remunerator, which Scheffer painted ‘for reproduction’. Although this is the only clear-cut example in Scheffer’s oeuvre of a picture painted for reproduction, it is probable that the artist bore in mind how ‘reproduceable’ a picture would be when he was painting it. The general use of replicas, reductions and variations, and the significance of reproductions in Scheffer’s career, show that the quality of ‘reproduceability’ was certainly not a reason for the painter to suffer a loss of prestige in his artistic circle. With every new work, and with every new version, variation or reproduction, Scheffer appears to have made a work, or authorised the making of a work, that was worthy of his oeuvre, and esteemed by himself and many others. The allocation of reproductions to the oeuvre of the image originator, Scheffer himself, does not mean, however, that these should be dropped from the printmaker’s oeuvre. On the contrary, the engraver also had a special bond with his work, as its actual maker; a bond which he may have underlined with his own signature. So we should rather ascribe reproductions to two artists and classify them in two oeuvres, that of the painter and that of the printmaker. It is for this reason that reproductions form an exceptional group of works, which we should place on the periphery of Scheffer’s oeuvre, where this partially intersects with that of the printmaker. Reproductions thus have an exceptional relationship with Scheffer and his work: in addition to being considered part of the artist’s oeuvre they also make

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a substantial contribution to the dissemination of this oeuvre. Prints in every kind of technique, state and format, and sold at a range of prices, formed an important medium for the dissemination of an artist’s name and work. If we can believe the statements made in a number of art journals, it was enough simply to mention the title of a specific work for many people to conjure up an image of this in their mind’s eye. Occasionally this would have been the original painting, but in the majority of instances the image they would have recalled would have been a black-and-white one. The many reproductions after Scheffer’s work made the painter one of the best-known artists of the nineteenth century, a fact underlined by Henri Beraldi: c

‘Constater qu’Ary Scheffer a été très souvant gravé serait insuffusant, car, en définitive, tous les célèbres du xixe siècle ont été fréquemment traduits en estampes: Ingres comme Paul Delaroche, Delacroix comme Horace Vernet, Millet comme Meissonnier; si on ne tient compte que du nombres des estampes, on trouvera même que tel Schlesinger, tel Schopin ou tel Compte-Calix n’a pas été gravé moins souvent que Inges ou que Delacroix. Mais Ary Scheffer est, avec Paul Delaroche, le peintre qui a été le plus capitalement gravé, et celui qui a dû à la gravure le plus de popularité.’224

Renown acquired or enhanced by reproduction is hard to measure. In considering the contribution made to to Scheffer’s fame by reproductions, his relations with the art trade and publishers should also be taken into account. The painter’s relationship with the firm of Goupil is illustrative of this. Undoubtedly Scheffer profited from Goupil’s international activities through the firm’s various branches at home and abroad, while Goupil naturally profited from the famous painter. It should be emphasised here that the painter was already making a name for himself at the Salon during the 1820s, while his special relationship with the house of Orléans gave him a unique status as an artist in the period in which Adolphe Goupil was taking his first steps in the world of print dealing. Scheffer’s importance to Goupil is shown by the fact that, until the late 1850s, the firm advertised itself as publisher of the work of Délaroche, Scheffer and Vernet.225 The artist and the publisher shared interests from which both profited. There seems to have been a similar interaction between Scheffer and his en-

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gravers, described by De Kunstkronijk apropos Scheffer’s contemporary Paul Délaroche: c

‘The great name, which Paul Délaroche possesses in France and abroad, can be attributed to two reasons. In the first place he is, more than any other, the man of his country and his time; in the second place he was fortunate that his labour was interpreted by outstanding engravers.[...] It is a double success, for as the reputation of a painting attracts the engraver, he in his turn enhances and spreads this reputation still further.’226

In many instances Scheffer worked with the same ‘outstanding engravers’, including Louis Henriquel-Dupont and many of his pupils. While Scheffer profited from master engravers such as Henriquel-Dupont and Luigi Calamatta, these printmakers profited in their turn from their association with Scheffer’s popular compositions. Indeed, Scheffer may have benefited even more from reproductions than Délaroche for the dissemination of his name and fame, as the critic Théophile Thoré remarked.227 Engravings, lithographs, etchings, mezzotints and photographs of his work hung on Scheffer’s own walls and found their way into the hands of the cultural elite in Paris, many admirers at home and abroad, the artist’s own daughter Cornelia Marjolin-Scheffer and an art lover like Vincent van Gogh. His work was available in all kinds of forms for a range of prices, allow many people to acquire a Scheffer and thus make the painter one of the most framed artists of the nineteenth century.

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chapter 6

Israëls and His Children’s Best Clothes Jozef Israëls (1824-1911) and Reproductions after His Work

In 1844 the young painter Jozef Israëls made his debut at the Amsterdam exhibition of living masters, with a painting entitled Een Turk in verpozing (A Turk in Repose) At the same exhibition he saw his first picture by his renowned compatriot Ary Scheffer, Gretchen aan het Spinnewiel (1831), of which he later said: ‘That is is my feeling, that is what I like in art, that treatment, in which the doing and the skill yield to the feeling of colour and subject united together.’1 Thus, the painter’s first encounter with the work of Scheffer occurred at the beginning of his own artistic career. Israëls received his artistic training at the studio of the well-known portrait painter Jan Adam Kruseman (1797-1857), and at the Koninklijk Academie voor Beeldende Kunsten in Amsterdam. In 1854 he decided to continue his studies in Paris, and travelled to the French capital armed with a letter of introduction to the distinguished engraver Johannes de Mare; De Mare had also left the country of his birth to try his luck in France, where he had worked with leading artists such as Ary Scheffer.2 On De Mare’s advice Israëls joined the studio of the painter F.E. Picot (1786-1868), where he met the young Dutch artist J.B. Jongkind. In Paris he also attended the École des Beaux-Arts, receiving instruction there from the renowned masters Paul Délaroche and Horace Vernet. During this

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first stay in Paris, Israëls had probably not yet met his great hero, Scheffer. However, he did meet him in Paris several years later, in 1853. Israëls’ admiration for Scheffer’s sentimental genre art is evident in several of his early works, such as Mijmering (Reverie) (1850).[71] The reviews of this painting were very positive and the work gave the young Israëls his first success. It is now in the Dordrechts Museum, amongst many works by Scheffer whom Israëls so admired.3 Like many of his contemporaries Israëls hoped to make a name for himself as a history painter, and so depicted prestigious scenes from Dutch history, such as De laatste Letter from Oldenbarnevelt (Last Letter of Oldenbarnevelt) (1852) en Willem van Oranje in de raad bij landvoogdes Margaretha van Parma ( Margaret of Parma and Prince William of Orange). Israëls sent the latter work to the 1855 Exposition Universelle in Paris. That same year, however, during a stay in Zandvoort, he discovered a subject that would bring him much more success, the lives of fishermen. Eerste Liefde (First Love) from 1856 is Israëls’ first attempt to capture the everday lives of simple fisher folk. His great breakthrough followed later that year with the impressive work Langs moeders graf (Passing Mother’s Grave). [plate 11] The painting presents a sober scene, a grieving father and his two children walking past the grave of his dead wife, their mother. Although a realistic genre picture, it is painted in an imposing format normally reserved for a history piece. From this point onwards Israëls rapidly developed into an international renowned specialist in the fishermen genre, producing a stream of paintings, watercolours, drawings and etchings with sentimental scenes of fishermen and their families, including well-known works such as Kinderen der Zee (Children of the Sea), Na de Storm (Anxious Moments) and De Schipbreukeling (The Shipwrecked Mariner). During the 1870s Israëls extended the scope of his work, specialising with equal success in scenes from the daily lives of farmers and peasants as well. Throughout his career his work was reproduced on a considerable scale. The earliest print after one of his pictures dates from 1849 and is a lithograph by Elchanon Verveer (1826-1900) after his early academic piece Aaron en zijn zonen (Aaron and His Sons) (1849), which was published in De Kunstkronijk.4 After this his realistic and sentimental genre work, depicting fisher folk and peasants, was reproduced on a wide scale, in engravings, lithographs, etchings and photographs, and published in almanacs, periodicals and albums.

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Israëls and reproductierecht In 1878, the problematic regulation of authorship rights in the Netherlands prompted a group of artists to submit a petition to the Second Chamber of the States-General. The petition had been initiated by Israëls, signed by well-known contemporaries, such as Johannes Bosboom, HendrikW. Mesdag, Jacob Maris and Philip Zilcken, and was supported by the artist, writer and lawyer Carel Vosmaer.5 Israëls’ association with this petition is the first sign of his personal involvement in authorship rights. His efforts in this connection show that he was aware of how important this legal principle was for contemporary artists. However, the campaign was only partially successful, for the pledged protection through a separate law for visual art failed to materialise.6 The first law to offer painters legal protection would not come into force in the Netherlands until 1912, a year after Israel’s death. Did Israëls have agreements with publishers concerning the rights to reproduce his work? Legally speaking, publishers in the Netherlands were not required to ask painters for permission to reproduce their work. But rights were acknowledged outside the law. In 1857, for example the Haarlem publisher A.C. Kruseman asked Israëls for explicit permission to reproduce his work Langs het kerkhof, also known as Langs moeders graf (or Passing Mother’s Grave) in the Aurora-Almanak. The painter replied in a letter: ‘Now about your question regarding the little engraving for your almanac, I am willing to grant the satisfaction if I can thereby render you a friendly service.’7 This affair reflects a general development in authorship rights, in which primacy was acknowledged to lie with the author, even though this was far from being codified in law. Early in his career Israëls seems to have made agreements about reproduction rights with the Amsterdam publisher Buffa. In 1859 Buffa had decided to produce an album of reproductions, for which he bought twelve small drawings from Israëls, for 600 guilders, intending to have these engraved and published as a ‘little album’.8 However, Buffa then thought better of this plan and only published two prints, after Eerste Liefde (First Love) and De Wieg (The Cradle). Some forty days later the drawings had been returned to Israëls who then sold these to the publisher Kruseman, for 800 guilders. Krusemann also intended to produce an album.9 Israëls wrote to Kruseman regarding his conclusion of business with Buffa:

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c

‘I have the pleasure of informing you that I have wound up the business with Buffa and thus defer to that which you have said of the matter in question, namely that you would purchase them for 800.[…] The matter of the album is entirely with the fore-knowledge and approval of Buffa.’10

Israëls probably asked the firm of Buffa for permission to reproduce the two prints published by Buffa in Kruseman’s album Kinderen der Zee (Children of the Sea). I shall return to the subject of this album below. Here it is important to note that it is highly probably that Israëls made agreements with his publishers regarding the rights to reproduce his work early in his career. Many years later Israëls received a request from Goupil, the renowned French firm of art dealers and publishers, to reproduce one of his pictures, the painter’s submission to the 1888 Salon, De Naaister (The Girl Knitting). The work had received a great deal of attention at the exhibition and the firm wanted to reproduce it in the illustrated Figaro-Salon for that year. So H.G. Tersteeg, who managed Goupil’s branch in The Hague, approached Israëls to obtain explicit permission to reproduce the picture. However, the painter had already sold the work to another well-known French firm of art dealers, Arnold & Tripp of Paris, and was unwilling to give permission for reproduction until the new owner of the painting had agreed to this. He presented the request to the Arnold & Tripp in a letter: c

‘Mr Tersteeg m’a demandé pour sa maison la reproduction du tableau pour le salon pour le Figaro Salon et le salon de 1888 je n’ai pas voulu donner la permission avant de vous en demander votre adhesion.’11

Like Dutch publishers, Goupil was not required to ask Israëls for permission to reproduce his work. Neither did the painter have any legal right to prohibit reproduction. Israëls, however, was aware of the tension between the interests of a work’s owner and the reproduction of that work, and he was unwilling to jeopardise his relationship with Arnold & Tripp. The firm agreed to allow the reproduction, provided it received explicit mention as owner of the work.12 Some time later the well-known writer and critic Albert Plasschaert also requested Israëls’ permission to reproduce several paintings. The painter again acceded to this request, but on the same condition, that the owners of the works did not object. In his reply to Plasschaert the painter explained: ‘If Messrs. Cre-

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mer and Crone [owners of the works in question] have nothing against it, you can safely incorporate in your publication my paintings, which are in your possession.’13 The publication cited was probably Plasschaert’s xixde-eeuwse Hollandsche Schilderkunst, published in 1909. Israëls also readily gave authorisation for his portrait to be multiplied. When the journal Eigen Haard asked the painter to be allowed to publish a photograph of him and his son Isaac on a boot trip he responded: ‘I have absolutely no objection to “Eigen Haard” reproducing the photograph, that was taken of me and my son on the deck of the Lady Bird, commanded by captain Whylie.’14 This brings us to portrait rights which give the subjects of portraits rights over the exploitation of their image. Portrait rights were first acknowledged and protected in Dutch law in the 1912 Authorship Rights Act; the same act that also gave authorship rights to practitioners of the visual arts in the Netherlands. Israëls must have been aware of the significance of authorship rights. If he had any questions on the subject, he could turn to his nephew, the lawyer Herman Louis Israëls (1856-1924), the son of his brother Louis Israëls (1827-?).15 Israëls’ signature on the petition for better protection of authorship rights, reflects his years of experience with this issue. However, the existence of concrete agreements on reproduction rights is hard to establish, as is the level of any income which Israëls may have derived from these. Carel Vosmaer’s observation that reproductions also involved substantial sums suggests that it is highly probable that Israëls earned money from reproduction (rights), although the amount is not known. Nevertheless, the examples cited above show that money was not always of decisive importance to Israëls. He may have been aware of authorship rights, but did not in practice always require a great deal to grant these. When approached with requests to reproduce a specific work he generously acceded to these: the permission he gave to Kruseman was less motivated by money than a desire to do the publisher a friendly turn.

Independent reproductions Lithographs, engravings and etchings

In 1854 Israëls became friends with the French master lithographer Adolphe Mouilleron(1820-1881) when Mouilleron was staying in Amsterdam to make a

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lithograph after Rembrandt’s Nightwatch. Since the 1840s the printmaker had caused a stir with lithographs after works by the well-known French Salon painters Eugène Isabey (1803-1886), Joseph Nicolas Robert-Fleury (1797-1890) and Ernest Meissonier (1815-1891). Mouilleron stayed intermittently in Amsterdam from 1854 to 1856, in order to reproduce Rembrandt’s masterpiece in the Trippenhuis, a commission from the French state. During his time in the Dutch capital, he regularly visited to Israëls’ house. These visits were later described by Jan Veth: ‘On Fridays, when the gallery in the Trippenhuis was being cleaned and Mouilleron could not therefore enter there, he frequently went to work with the painter [Israëls] at his studio on the Rozengracht.’16 During these visits Mouilleron worked on his lithograph after Eerste Liefde (First Love) under the watchful eye of Israëls, who proudly wrote to his publisher friend Kruseman17 [fig. 52]: c

‘It will certainly do you pleasure to learn that a large lithograph is being made after my little painting which you saw in Rotterdam [Eerste Liefde], and by Mr Mouilleron France’s premier lithographer […] It will be extremely fine.’18

When Israëls subsequently painted his picture De Wieg (The Cradle), this was also reproduced as a print by Mouilleron. According to Jan Veth the printmaker even drew from the model in Israël’s studio, so painter and lithographer seem to have worked side by side on the original and the reproduction.19 The image of Israëls and Mouilleron working side by side raises the question of their mutual relationship. Although the young Israëls was a promising painter in this period, he was no more than that and would only gain national renown in 1856, through the exhibition of Langs moeders graf (Passing Mother’s Grave). Mouilleron, however, was already an established printmaker with many years of experience. The relationship between the young painter and the experienced lithographer is illustrated by the fact that when Israëls submitted his first works to the Salon, in 1857, he listed Mouilleron as a reference.20 Israëls’ later fame undoubtedly attracted printmakers, but early in his career the relationship between the painter and the French lithographer was on a contrary footing. Mouilleron’s two lithographs were published two years later, in 1858, by the firm of Buffa. They were some of the earliest independent reproductions of Is-

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52

fig. 52 Adolphe Mouilleron after Israëls, Symptome d’amour/ First Love (1856), l ithograph 33.3 x 26.1 cm, Museum Boymans van Beuningen, Rotterdam.

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fig. 53 August Allebé after Israëls, Adagio con Espressione (1858), lithograph 34 x 26.4 cm, Museum Boymans van Beuningen, Rotterdam.

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raëls’ work, and formed part of an planned series entitled Les enfants de la Mer.21 However, the series faltered after these two lithographs had appeared, probably undermined by the success of the album Kinderen der Zee (Children of the Sea) (1861), which had been published by A.C. Kruseman. It was not until 1864 that the two additional prints, after Het eerste zeebad (The First Bath in the Sea) and De terugkeer van de visser (The Return of the Fisherman) were finally published by Buffa. These two lithographs were no longer by the French master Mouilleron, but by the Dutch printmaker H.A.C. Dekker (1836-1905).22 When the artist August Allebé (1838-1927) asked Israëls for information about the technique of lithography, Israëls referred him to Mouilleron in Paris.23 Once he was an accomplished lithographer, Allebé produced a number of prints, including a lithograph after Israëls’ Adagio con Espressione, published in 1859 by the Leiden publisher A.W. Sijthoff.24 [fig. 53] When Allebé’s pupil Jan Veth also wanted to learn lithography, he in turn suggested the name of Mouilleron: ‘I would so like to do some lithography – perhaps a whim, because everyone is etching nowadays – but I’m surely brought to this by a real inclination.[…] Mouilleron or other great lithographers must have written something about their art.’25 The first lithograph Jan Veth made was a small portrait of Israëls in the series Mannen van Beteekenis (Men of Significance); in 1893 he also produced a print after one of Israëls’ best-known works, Als men oud wordt (When One Gows Old).26 Engravings and etchings after Israëls’ work were regularly published. The majority of these were mainly produced by pupils of André Taurel. In 1859 Taurel’s son, C.E. Taurel (1824-1892), made an engraving after Na de storm (Anxious Moments); in 1860 J.W. Kaiser (1813-1900) engraved a large-format print after Het Breistertje (The Girl Knitting). [fig. 54, 55] Several years later, in 1864, J.H. Rennefeld published an engraving after De schipbreukeling (The Shipwrecked Man). [fig. 56] A productive printmaker was the engraver H. Sluyter (1839-1931), who made various copies of Israëls’ work.27 During this period, however, use of the traditional engraving technique for independent prints was declining, although it continued to be employed mainly for small-format engravings in illustrated almanacs, a subject discussed further below. During the 1880s in particularly, Israëls’ work was reproduced in etched form on a considerable scale. In 1880, for example, Leopold Löwenstam produced an etching after the painter’s successful work Langs Moeders graf (Passing Mother’s

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fig. 54 Charles Edouard Taurel after Israëls, Anxious Moments (1860), engraving 21.5 x 28.8 cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

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fig. 56 Johan Rennefeld after Israëls, The Shipwrecked Mariner (1864), engraving 22.7 x 43.3 cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

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fig. 55 Johan Wilhelm Kaiser after Israëls, Het Breistertje (1860), engraving 33.2 x 42.5 cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

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fig. 57 Ferdinand Leenhoff after Israëls, The Frugal Meal (ca.1881), etching 13.3 x 20.7 cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

Grave). Israëls’ work was subsequently etched by the printmakers W. Steelink junior (1856-1928), J.M. Graadt van Roggen (1867-1959) and C.L. Dake (1857-1918). In the same period the productive etcher Philip Zilcken also made etched reproductions after work by Israëls, as a changed from his prints after pictures by Jacob Maris and Anton Mauve, and his own original etchings. These etched reproductions after Israëls’ work reflect the general popularity of reproductive etching in France and England, outlined in chapter two. A noteworthy printmaker was Ferdinand Leenhoff (1841-1914), who produced an etching after the painter’s well-known work The Frugal Meal. [fig. 57] Leenhoff is mainly known nowadays as the brother-in-law of Edouard Manet, who ensured that the face of the reproductive etcher, if not his name, is still familiar today as he features in one of the most reproduced paintings in art history, Manet’s Dejeuner sur l’herbe (1863).28 [plate 12]

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Israëls sometimes saw his work reproduced in his own studio: Adolphe Mouilleron made his lithographs as the painter looked on, and the etcher Carel Dake is known to have produced his etchings after Alleen op de wereld (Alone in the World) and De man uit het oude volk (Son of the Ancient People) in the painter’s presence.29 However, such direct control over the reproductive process was an exception rather than a rule in the painter’s career. When the London-based etcher Leopold Löwenstam wanted to make an etching of Israëls’ well-known painting Langs moeders graf (Past Mother’s Grave), a work then located in Amsterdam, Israëls came to his aid, making a special replica which was then shipped to the printmaker in England.30 As previously observed, it was not unusual for replicas to be made for reproduction. Both Israëls and Löwenstam must have been familiar with the use of such ‘alternative originals’ for reproduction. In addition to replicas, Israëls also provided printmakers with watercolours, drawings and photographswhich they could use to produce their prints, without even seeing the original.31 Once the print had advanced, the printmaker would make a proof which could be submitted to the painter for correction. The etcher Philip Zilcken, for example, showed prints to Israëls which the painter then corrected, using charcoal and white chalk to explain these to the printmaker.32 We can assume that this practice was fairly common, for there is a similar corrected proof by the etcher Graadt van Roggen’s print after Israëls’ work Op de uitkijk (On the Lookout), fig. 58 Johannes M. Graadt van Roggen after Israëls, On the Lookout (1901), etching with pencil, 21.4 x 32.4 cm,

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Drents Museum, Assen.

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fig. 59 Philip Zilcken after Israëls, Mother washing child, etching, Museum Boymans Van Beuningen, Rotterdam.

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from 1901.33 [fig. 58] The painter also returned this proof to the etcher. The margin of the print is inscribed with several observations by Israëls, such as ‘the little ship a little more forceful’, plus several small sketches. By a little drawing of the girl’s foot is the remark ‘not so coarse’. The painter also kept an eye on Löwenstam’s print after Na de Storm (Anxious Moments). After correcting the print, he wrote to the printer in London: ‘Your engraving is much better now [...] when I am done with my corrections I shall send it to you immediately.’34 On completion prints were sometimes signed. There is an interesting copy of Zilcken’s etching after Moeder wast kind (Mother Washing Her Child) which bears the signatures of both Israëls and Zilcken. [fig. 59] H. Koetser’s colossal print after Als men ouder wordt (When One Grows Older) was also signed by the painter and printmaker. [plate 13] Some of Israëls’ works were repeatedly reproduced, including Na de Storm (Anxious Moments). Circa 1860 Taurel junior produced a steel engraving after this painting; twenty years later Löwenstam reproduced the image in an etching; several years after this (between 1885 and 1895) H. Sluyter made his own reproduction of this well-known work. Another example is Als men oud wordt (When One Grows Old), which was reproduced in various prints. The diverse reproductions of a specific work are interesting for several reasons. On the one hand they illustrate the continuing popularity of a particular painting, on the other hand they may be regarded as specific adaptations of an original image and and therefore products of their time. Löwenstam’s etching of Na de Storm (Anxious Moments), for example, should be placed in the context of the general popularity enjoyed by etched reproductions during the 1870s and 1880s. This was a trend which probably required a new form of reproduction, rather than reprints from the (possibly reworked) plate of Taurel’s steel engraving. Photographs

Israëls had his work photographed at an early stage in his career. In 1855 the painter wrote to the Haarlem publisher A.C. Kruseman that he would send him ‘a photograph after a drawing of the painting’ for the engraving after Willem I voor het eerst in de Staatsraad te Brussel zich verklarende tegen de plakkaten van de Koning van Spanje (Margeretha of Parma and Prince William of Orange) : ‘For the engraver this will be a sufficient beginning and I can afterwards finish off the drawing and effect a little more on proofs.’35 Some time later the painter wrote to the engraver D.J. Sluyter (1811-1886):

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c

‘I shall send what I have in the way of photography for the engraving and will leave it at that. Libre à vous, to have another and better photograph taken. I shall always be entirely willing to make the drawing available for this. I believe in the meantime that with a little thought the engraver will have sufficient with the existing [photograph].’36

Here, the photograph was not an end in itself, but a means to assist in the production of an engraving for Kruseman’s Aurora-Almanak. I shall return to the subject of this and other engravings after Israëls in almanacs, when I discuss reproductions of his work in illustrated publications. The essential point here is that at an early stage in his career the painter was familiar with the possibilities for reproduction offer by photography. It is not known when he had his first work photographed, although the tone in the letter cited above suggests that he already had experience with this medium in 1855. Instead of being simply amazed by photography, the painter seems rather to have been aware of the possibilities and limitations of photography. Like many of his contemporaries, Israëls did not photograph his own work: photographic reproduction was a job for professional photographers, or at least for skilful amateurs. The photograph mentioned by Israëls in his letter is not known, nor is the name of the photographer with whom he collaborated. At the time of writing, 1855, this unknown photographer would at any rate have been one of the pioneers of Dutch photography. An early photographic reproduction of Israëls’ work is a photograph of his picture Mijmering (Reverie) (1850), taken in 1855 by the photographer Eduard Isaac Asser (1809-1894). [plate 14] Asser came from a well-known family of lawyers, and was a lawyer himself, but above all he was a passionate art lover. Between 1842 and 1857 he pioneered the new medium of photography in an amateur capacity. He did not actually photograph Israëls’ painting, but his own copy of the engraving after this by C.E. Taurel,37 although he may have seen the actual painting in 1850, at the exhibition of work by living masters held in Amsterdam, where the painting was positively received by the critics and soon bought by the well-known Amsterdam collector Jeronimo de Vries, a good friend of Asser.38 Two prints of Asser’s photograph are known, salt prints produced using the wet collodium process. Did Israëls know of these photographs, and if so, did he play a role in these? There is no evidence of direct contact between the photographer and the painter, although it is certainly feasible that they knew each

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fig. 60 Anonymous after Israëls, Sewing Class at Katwijk (1882), photo­ gravure 76.9 x 93.9 cm,

60

Musée Goupil, Bordeaux.

other, for they moved in the same circles in Amsterdam and were both friends with the lithographer Mouilleron.39 Despite the existence of these early photographs of Israëls’ work, his pictures were probably not photographed on a larger scale until the 1880s, when the firm of Goupil published photographs after his paintings, albeit on a modest scale. In 1882 Goupil published a photogravure after the painter’s well-known work De Naaischool van Katwijk (Sewing Class at Katwijk), whose admirers included Vincent van Gogh, [fig. 60] who wrote enthusiastically to his brother: ‘The reproduction in photogravure of Israëls’ Sewing School […] is superb- as published by Goupil & Cie.’40 Israëls worked for more than fifty years with this important, international firm of art dealers, who both sold original works by his hand and published prints after his pictures.41 Nevertheless, there is a curious discrepancy between the 74 works by Israëls sold by Goupil and the few reproductions after his pictures that appear in the firm’s stock list.42 One possible explanation for this is that Goupil mainly specialised in contemporary French artists for its reproductions and the firm’s stock included relatively few non-French artists. The Amsterdam firm of Schalekamp actually circulated more photographic reproductions after Israëls than Goupil. In 1892, the firm published collotypes

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of Israëls’ works, En attente, La couturiere, Un fils du vieux people and Comment on s’amuse, in its French language series École Hollandaise. Photographies d’après des tableaux et des dessins de Maîtres Hollandais Modernes;43 it also sold Le pêcheur de Zandvoort, L’aide de Maman, Seule au monde and Des ténèbres à la lumière in a smaller format.44 Circa 1900 Schalekamp expanded its stock with new photographic reproductions, publishing photogravures, similar in technique to Goupil’s, after La Garde malade and Intérieur de Pêcheur.45 The fact that Schalekamp, a Dutch publisher, opted to publish its reproductions with French titles, serves to emphasise that these were intended for international distribution, rather than for the modest Dutch market, of which more below. The firm of Schalekamp often published its photographs in series, devoted to well-known (Dutch) museums. The series for the Stedelijk Museum in Amsterdam comprised such works as Goede Buren (Good Neighbours), Een zoon van het oude volk (Son of the Ancient People), De gang langs het kerkhof (The Path Past the Churchyard), Kinderen der Zee (Children of the Sea) and a portrait of Israëls painted by Jan Veth, while the series for the Stedelijk Museum in Dordrecht included a photograph after Israël’s well-known work Middaguren in een boerenwoning te Delden (Afternoon Hours in a Peasant Dwelling in Delden).46 In 1905 the painting Seul au monde featured in the Rijksmuseum series.47 Schalekamp also published postcards with art reproductions after modern Dutch masters, including popular works by Israëls, such as De Naaister (The Girl Sewing), Aan het ziekbed (At the Sickbed), Levenswinter (The Evening of Life), Binnenhuis (Indoors), Langs moeders graf (Passing Mother’s Grave), Bij den Haard (By the Hearth), Aan den arbeid (At Work), Moeders hulp (Mother’s Help), Een zoon van het oude volk (A Son of the Ancient People), Kinderpret (Children’s Fun), De laatste dag (The Last Day), Alleen op de wereld (Alone in the World), Van duisternis tot licht (From Earkness into Light) and Kinderen der Zee (Children of the Sea).48 In 1900 the Dutch firm even produced a wall calendar with three phototypes after Israëls.49 Circa 1900 Israëls’ work was photographed on a regular basis, thanks to the efforts of Schalekamp and also a firm of Groningen-based art dealers, Scholtens & Zoon.50 From 1903 onwards Scholtens & Zoon repeatedly did business with Goupil in The Hague, although the Groningen firm had maintained contacts with the painter long before this: Israëls had been born and bred in Groningen, and regularly returned to the city for family visits. During the course of the 1880s the Groningen firm regularly dealt in works by Israëls; around the turn of the century it also published photographic reproductions of these.51 In terms of definition, contrast, image stability and format, these photographs were very

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different from the products of Asser’s experiments fifty years previously, for technological changes in the field of photography were unparalleled in this period. Nevertheless, photographing artworks in the early twentieth century was still far from problem-free. In 1903 Israëls was involved in the reproduction of a self-portrait by the publisher J. Slagmulder (who had taken over the firm of Buffa in 1895). Israëls, by now an elderly painter, wrote in his journal on 22 December 1903: c

‘Painted my portrait for Slagmulder (Buffa). He says they like it very much. He is having an etching or a photogravure made after it. It will be difficult, as the largest part is in shadow.’52

By this time the painter now had more than fifty years’ experience with photographic art reproduction and knew that dark areas in paintings were still difficult to capture on the light-sensitive plate. This is possibly the reason why the publisher eventually chose to have an etching made of the work, instead of a photographic reproduction. Several weeks later the print had been completed, but the painter was not entirely satisfied with it. Although he claimed not to be overly critical, he confided to his journal that he should have paid more attention while the etching was being made: c

‘I have now been shown the etching that was made after my own painted portrait by Karsen. It is exactly the same as the painted portrait and yet the proper charm and also the resemblance is less. In general I am easily satisfied if only a little, I should have decided, to have had the painting by the portrait during correction, then it would have probably been better.’53

At the end of his career the old artist mainly saw his work being reproduced in the form of photographs. However, the etching of his self-portrait was not unique, for reproductive etchings after his pictures continued to be produced, albeit it infrequently, by traditional printmakers such as Dake, Graadt van Roggen and H. Koetser (1878-1952), while Schalekamp was still selling handmade etched reproductions in 1900, for five guilders, the same price as for largeformat photogravures of La Garde malade and Interieur de Pecheur.54

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The distribution of Israëls’ reproductions

In 1894 De Nederlandsche Spectator wrote of the distribution of Israël’s reproductions by the Amsterdam publisher Buffa: c

‘Through these, in character mostly exceptionally successful reproductions, the art of Israëls has been distributed for 40 years into the most remote corners of the world, enabling those who have had no opportunity to see the master’s paintings, to form a good idea of the same.’55

Ultimately the painter enjoyed more than fifty years of positive contact with Buffa, conducting ‘many pleasant correspondences’ about paintings, prints and exhibitions.56 A leading Dutch publisher, Buffa made a substantial contribution to the distribution of reproductions after Israëls’ work.57 Regrettably, however, little is still known about possibly the ‘best-known’ publisher in the Netherlands during the nineteenth century. Until circa 1870 the firm’s principal activity was the publication of reproductions after popular Dutch masters, such as J.A. Kruseman, N. Pieneman and D. Bles. These activities were subsequently expanded, as they also were at the firms of Goupil and Gambart, by sales of paintings and watercolours. Buffa published a total of more than twenty-five prints after Israëls, made by printmakers such as D.J. Sluyter, Graadt van Roggen, Koetser, Dake and Zilcken. No figures are known for the actual volume of production, so we must make do with cautious estimates. Given the character and technique of such reproductions, the print runs probably ranged from several hundred to several thousand copies. Even a cautious estimate brings the total number of reproduction published by Buffa alone into the tens of thousands. The remains of Buffa’s stock of reproductions were sold at auction on 21 and 22 November 1934, when diverse engravings and etchings went under the hammer, including exclusive states of prints by Dake, Graadt van Roggen, Sluyter and Koetser after works by Israëls; various etching plates were also sold, bringing a definitive end to the distribution of reproductions by this leading publisher.58 Reproductions after Israëls’ work were circulated on an international scale.59 Diverse prints of his pictures were published in England, the tone being set by the flamboyant art dealer Ernest Gambart, who followed his successful introduction of Scheffer in England with similar responsibility for Israëls’ break-

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through. In 1862 he bought De Schipbreukeling (The Shipwrecked Mariner), which became a great success in England. Gambart left the publication of reproductions after Israëls’ werk to his successors Pilgeram & Lefèvre. On 13 May 1879 an etching of Anxious Moments (Na de Storm), made by the London-based Dutch etcher Leopold Löwenstam, was published in England by Pilgeram & Lefèvre. According to the register of the Printsellers Association, five states of the print could be obtained: ‘Artist’s Proofs’ (100 copies), ‘Presentation Proofs’ (25 copies), ‘Before Letters’ (25 copies), ‘Lettered Prints’ (100 copies) and ‘Prints’ (no number listed). Thus, a total of more than 250 copies was registered. Eighteen months later, on 21 December 1880, the same publisher issued Löwenstam’s etching of Passing Mother’s Grave (Langs moeders graf ), of which more than 275 copies were registered, including a state on exclusive Japanese paper. Six months after this, on 23 June 1881, Pilgeram & Lefèvre published an etching by Léon Richeton after Watching (23 June 1881), registering at least 200 copies of this. The wellknown firm of T. McLean also published an etching by Richeton after Sunshine and Shadow (20 January 1882), in an edition of 125 copies, while Graves and Co published an engraving by Alfred Smith after Dawn (13 June 1883), with at least 100 registered copies. The British and Foreign Artist’s Association issued an etching by A. Geri Bichard after Nothing Left (6 September 1883),60 and the English art dealer Obach pubished an etching by Graadt van Roggen after De schaapherder (The shepherd) in 1892. The (international) distribution of reproductions was achieved by the collaborative efforts of varying firms. Buffa, for example, had Dake’s print after Kinderen der Zee (Children of the Sea) printed by the well-known firm of Salmon in Paris and published the print jointly with the publisher Harry C. Dickins of London. This English print publisher also worked with the Groningen-based firm of Scholtens on the publication of several etchings by Graadt van Roggen.61 Where prints were not initially published abroad, we may assume they were distributed there: the firm of Goupil alone had its own extensive network of branches in various countries, which could sell reproductions outside their country of origin. Many publishers also functioned as wholesalers, supplying local booksellers and printsellers with prints; they often acted as representatives for other (foreign) firms as well. It is likely that prints after Israëls published abroad were available in the Netherlands and vice versa, thanks to the international networks established by printsellers and publishers. In addition to these commercial prints, reproductions of Israëls’ work were

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also published in the form of presentation plates. In 1859 the Vereniging tot bevordering van de Beeldende Kunsten (Association for the Promotion of the Visual Arts) published Taurel’s engraving of Na de storm (Anxious Moments), to present as a consolation prize to those of its subscribers who failed to win anything in the association’s lottery.62 A unique example of such a presentation plate is the reproduction after Werken en Zwoegen (Working and Toiling), published in HollandKrakatau in 1883, to raise funds for the victims of the volcanic eruption in Indonesia.63 When Israëls died in 1911 Arti et Amicitiae paid tribute to its honorary chairman with the presentation publication of six photogravures of his work.64 The extensive networks established by the print trade, the book trade and the publishing trade managed to secure a wide distribution for reproductions after Israëls’ work, transporting these into ‘the remotest corners of the world’. In the shadow of graphic innovation and the increasing professionalisation of the publishing business, however, traditional structures for the production and distribution of prints persisted. Until the end of the nineteenth century there were still printmakers who made, published and sold their own prints. One of these was C.E. Taurel, who was continuing to sell his own engravings after Israëls’ Mijmering (Reverie) in 1878. De Nederlandsche Spectator reported that the engraver was planning to rework his plate, which he had made in the early 1850s, with a view to reprinting prints from this; however, he first intended to make prints from the unmodified plate: ten copies on Chinese paper and fifteen on white paper, which would be sold for ten guilders and five guilders respectively. These prints could be bought directly from the engraver, a system that had operated since the fifteenth century.65

Reproductions in illustrated publications Almanacs and periodicals

In 1852 an engraving by Willem Steelink (1826-1913) after Israëls’ Mijmering (Reverie) (1850) appeared in the Holland-Almanak. The picture had brought the painter an early success, in 1850, so it is hardly surprising that this was the work chosen for inclusion in the almanac. From this point onwards reproductions after Israëls’ pictures regularly appeared in such illustrated yearbooks, which generally incorporated a calendar, literary contributions, practical information and all

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kinds of interesting facts.66 There was fierce competition between the various publishers of a wide range of almanacs, with reproductions serving as an important weapon in this conflict.67 The Aurora-Almanak, published by the Haarlem-based publisher A.C. Kruseman (1818-1894) between 1849 and 1865, was one of the best and most expensive of its kind in terms of form and content. Various prints after Israëls were included in its pages.68 Kruseman spared no effort or expense on his illustrations, opting to have reproductions specially made for the almanac, instead of buying up clichés from foreign publications, as was common practice. Moreoever, he also chose to use traditional, and also expensive, (steel) engravings, which enjoyed higher status than lithographs or wood engravings.69 Thanks to various letters sent by Israëls to Kruseman we can gain an idea of how the publisher obtained a number of reproductions for the Aurora-Almanak.70 In 1855 Kruseman decided to have an engraving made for his Aurora-Almanak after Israëls’ history painting Willem I voor het eerst in de Staatsraad te Brussel zich verklarende tegen de plakkaten van de Koning van Spanje (Margaretha of Parma and Prince William of Orange). He was probably prompted to choose this work to show his readers because the enormous picture had been included in the Exposition Universelle held in Paris that year. For the reproduction Israëls himself made a drawing of the painting, which he then had photographed for the engraver D.J. Sluyter (1811-1886), as noted above. It was fairly common practice to make a drawing of a painting destined for reproduction: Israëls made his own drawing of the huge history painting; renowned contemporaries such as Scheffer sometimes entrusted this task to pupils or assistants. It is not clear why Israëls gave the engraver a photograph of the drawing, rather than the drawing itself. He may have been too attached to the drawing, as a souvenir of the original painting which had been sold to the collector F.C.W. Becker immediately after the Exposition Universelle. The fact that the drawing was photographed, rather than the original painting, is understandable, given the problems of colour and lighting associated with photographing paintings.71 Although Israëls was aware of photography’s limitations, he believed the image would be enough for the engraver to make a start on the print. If the publisher wished to have a better photograph taken, possibly at the engraver’s insistence, the painter was willing make the drawing of the painting available for this purpose.72 Israëls checked the proofs of Sluyter’s engraving during his memorable stay in Zandvoort in 1855.73 Here he discovered the picturesque outdoor life of the

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town’s fishermen and laid the foundations of his later speciality, as a painter of the fishermen genre. Indoors he made minute corrections to the engraving after his history painting of William of Orange, writing to the publisher: c

‘Enclosed I have the correct proofs to send Your Honour and there has been quite a lot to do to them. Sluiter [sic] has also written to me that he is willing to do it and I believe it will look entirely different. If Your Honour just spurs him on and gives him the time it can become very fine.’74

Some time later Israëls wrote: c

‘I am engaged in rectifying the engraving but it is not yet finished enough. Should Your Honour wish to fetch it from me this evening it will be at Your Honour’s disposition from four o’clock, otherwise I shall send by letter-carrier early tomorrow.’75

Although the proofs which Israëls checked are not known, the painter’s letters show how critical he was; they also reveal the publisher A.C. Kruseman’s central position in the reproductive process, as a link between the painter and the engraver. In 1856 the engraving was published in the Aurora-Almanak, accompanied by a poetic caption, by S.J. van den Bergh, such captions being the custom in almanacs. Kruseman was also charmed by Israëls’ painting Langs moeders graf (or Passing Mother’s Grave). The painting was a great success at various exhibitions and would become one of the most important works in Israëls’ oeuvre. It is hardly surprising therefore, that Krusemann wanted a reproduction of the picture for his Aurora-Almanak. The painter cordially agreed to the request, but did express his preferences as to the engraver, which he made clear to the publisher: c

‘Would old Taurel (not the young one for heaven’s sake not him) but the old Taurel be willing to make a small engraving of it he is our most able engraver an extremely great talent. Have you seen the last portrait of Tollens that’s something different from all that botching done here nowadays. Enfin should he not want to not be able to or require too much payment (it is always worth trying) let Kaiser or Steelink do it I prefer the latter to Sluiter [sic].’76

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Israëls thus had a hierarchy of engravers in mind as candidates for reproducing his work; a hierarchy headed – understandably – by Taurel senior, now the éminence grise of Dutch printmaking.77 If the master engraver was not available for the task or too expensive, Kruseman was to turn to one of Taurel’s pupils, Kaiser, Steelink or Sluyter. However, Sluyter was at the bottom of Israëls’ mental list, possibly owing to his previous experience with Sluyter’s engraving after his history painting of William van Orange, which the painter had described as ‘having quite a lot to do’. Israëls was vehemently opposed to working with Taurel junior, although the engraver did make several engravings after Israëls’ work at a later date, so the painter’s objection to him was apparently not insurmountable or definitive. Israëls’ preference for Taurel senior to engrave the print after Langs moeders graf (Passing Mother’s Grave) was not heeded, and he had to be content with W. Steelink. On this occasion, too, the printer pointedly corrected the print, to such an extent that little remained of the image: c

‘Will Your Honour ask the photographer Deutman to send me six copies of the photograph taken after my painting? I had received 2 proofs from Mr Steelink but have spoil’d these by making notes on them.’78

Instead of approaching the photographer directly for several prints, Israëls corresponded with the publisher, which shows once again the extent to which the publisher formed the linchpin in the reproductive process. Steelink’s engraving after Langs moeders graf (Passing mother’s grave) was published in 1858 in the Aurora-Almanak, complete with an accompanying text by ‘Thrasybulus’, the penname of the pastor and poet Cd. Busken Huet (1826-1886). This caption provoked some commotion, for the liberal preacher appears to have employed certain expressions with ‘everything but a biblical or Christian colour’, according to Kruseman.79 The publisher received an extremely perturbed letter from the conservative pastor and man of letters Isaac da Costa (1798-1860): c

‘Reading the Aurora has made a painful impression on me! I may not dissemble that the piece by Trasybulus not only offended me but also roused my indignation. What cowardly and above all unbecoming ridicule of sacred matters! What a text to the work of art by an Israelite by (as generally is thought) a Preacher!’80

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Kruseman wisely remained aloof in this religious dispute: c

‘In general, and not just in relation to the Aurora I deem it my social duty to remain wholly impartial in the field of faith, science and art, as a publisher and intermediary.’81

After the publication of Steelink’s engraving of Langs moeders graf (Passing Mother’s Grave) in the Aurora-Almanak of 1858, the same print appeared in 1868 in another almanac, the Hollandse Muze.82 In considering the distribution of such reproductions we can base any estimates on these almanacs’ circulation figures. The literary Aurora-Almanak, published between 1849 and 1865, had a circulation that ranged from 1500 to 1750 copies, making it one of the smaller publications.83 The Christelijke Volksalmanak and the Praktische Volksalmanak achieved circulations of 3000 and 3500 copies respectively, while the Nederlandse Almanak even attained a circulation of 8000 copies. After 1855 sales of the Aurora-Almanak declined slowly but surely, with 122 copies remaining unsold of the 1700 printed that year; in 1860 as many as 302 copies of the 1625 printed did not sell. In addition to these differences in circulation, the almanacs also varied widely in price: the Nederlandsche Almanak cost 60 cents and the Praktische Volksalmanak 75 cents, while the Aurora-Almanak, at 4 guilders, was one of the more exclusive almanacs.84 This exclusivity was reflected by the latter’s relatively high-quality engravings after Israëls’ work, which were not cheap and mainly destined for art lovers from the upper middleclass. De Aurora-Almanak was a success for the publisher Kruseman, who made a profit of 30,000 guilders on the publication.85 During the 1850s and 1860s almanacs increasingly fell out of public favour as a result of the rise of illustrated periodicals such as The Penny Magazine (1832) and popular (art) journals such as L’Artiste (1833), Die Illustrierte Zeitung (1843) and The Art Journal (1849).86 In the Netherlands De Kunstkronijk quickly grew into a leading publication, finely illustrated with many prints after artworks by contemporary masters, including Israëls. The first reproduction of his work in this journal, in 1849, was a print by Elchanon Verveer (1826-1900) after Aaron en zijn zonen (Aaron and His Sons).87 Israëls had painted this work in 1848 while he was still studying to become an artist. The young painter must have been pleasantly surprised to see this youthful work published just a year later in the Nether-

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fig. 61 Jan Mesker after Israëls, Hanna in den tempel, from: De Kunstkronijk (1870), p.94, lithograph 21 x 17 cm.

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lands’ best-known journal for visual art, while he was still receiving instruction at the Koninklijke Akademie voor Beeldende Kunst. Verveer’s print is the earliest known reproduction of Israëls’ work, published in a period when the successes (and reproductions) of Mijmering (Reverie) and Langs moeders graf (Passing Mother’s Grave) were yet to come. Several years later, in 1853, a lithograph by F.H. Weissenbruch after Israëls’ first history painting De laatste brief van Oldenbarnevelt (Last Letter of Oldenbarnevelt) (1852) was published in De Kunstkronijk, followed during the 1860s and 1870s by various reproductions after the painter’s work, including, in 1863, lithographs by H.C.A. Dekker after Levenswinter (The Evening of Life) and by A.P. Felix after Kleren verstellen (Mending Clothes).88 In 1867 the journal published a lithograph by Dekker after De Muze (The Muse), in 1870 a lithograph by J.J. Mesker after the religious work Hanna in de tempel (Hannah in the Temple) and five years later another Mesker lithograph after Een huiselijk tafereel (A Domestic Scene). [fig. 61] De Kunstkronijk mainly published lithographic reproductions, interspersed with other kinds of print. The 1870 engraving by J.H. Ren-

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fig. 62 Leopold Löwenstam after Israëls, Moeder Jacob at the Hearth from: De Kunst­kronijk (1872), etching.

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nefeld after Thomas à Kempis is rare, however, as etchings were more usual in the journal, such as the 1861 print by Leopold Löwenstam after an earlier version of De dag voor het scheiden (The Day before Parting) (1862).89 In 1871 the journal again published an etching by Löwenstam after a work by Israëls, this time Moeder Jobje bij de haard (Mother Jacob by the Hearth). [fig. 62] During the course of the 1880s photographic reproductions increasingly appeared in De Kunstkronijk. In 1886 the journal published the first photographic reproduction after a work by Israëls: a Goupil photogravure after a peasant interior. This was followed in 1888 by another Goupil photogravure, this time of De Naaischool te Katwijk (The Sewing Class at Katwijk).90 During the 1860s, 1870s and 1880s works by Israëls were also published in Dutch periodicals other than De Kunstkronijk, including the Katholieke Illustratie, Eigen Haard and De Huisvriend, while reproductions of his pictures appeared in foreign (art) periodicals as well.91 In 1879, for example, the etcher Ferdinand Leenhoff produced a print after Jong en Oud (Young and Old) for the chic French art journal L’Art van 1879. The painter had made a smaller version of the original work especially for this purpose. The print was subsequently purchased by the Magasin Pittoresque and also appeared in the Dutch journal Eigen Haard.92 In 1889 the well-known Gazette des Beaux-Arts published an etching after Ankerdragers (Anchor Bearers).93 Thanks to illustrated journals Israël’s work was distributed on a wide scale.94

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How did Israëls respond to the opportunities offered by illustrated periodicals? Virtually nothing is known of any personal involvement on the painter’s part in the reproduction of his work in journals. Did he himself take the initiative? Did he sometimes refuse permission for a reproduction? Did he check the prints as critically as he did for the almanacs? There is no evidence to support any definite judgements on these matters, although it seems feasible to assume that reproduction of the painter’s work for journals largely occurred along the same lines as with the earlier prints for almanacs. Some of the prints were made by printmakers familiar to Israëls, such as Steelink, Dekker and Rennefeld; there are also indications that the reproductive process followed its customary course. In 1882, for example, at an exhibition of the Dutch drawing society in The Hague, Vincent van Gogh recognised a drawing by Israëls of a ‘little old woman stoking the fire in the twilight, formerly etched for the Kunst Kronyk’.95 A great fan of illustrated periodicals, Van Gogh knew the etching by Löwenstam after Moeder Jobje bij de haard (Mother Jacob by the Hearth), which had been published in De Kunstkronijk in 1871. It is quite conceivable that Israëls made this drawing especially for the reproduction; the variation he made of Jong en Oud (Young and Old) for Leenhoff’s etched reproduction of the work points to the painter’s involvement in reproductions in this kind of journal, continuing his previous involvement with prints after his pictures in almanacs. Illustrated albums

At the Colonial Exhibition held in Amsterdam in 1883, the etcher Philip Zilcken met the publisher, Launette of Paris, who told him of his plans for a ‘deluxe album’ of modern art. This was to be a fine publication, richly illustrated with photogravures after artworks by contemporary French and foreign masters. A planned item on the renowned French artist Meissonier, had unfortunately had to be dropped, so the publisher was now looking for something to replace this, preferably a piece on an artist whose name also began with ‘M’, so as not to disrupt the layout of the album; he had thought of ‘Mesdag’ and asked Zilcken to write an essay on this Dutch master; Zilcken then remarked that if ‘Mesdag’ was to be included, ‘Israëls’ should certainly feature in the album too, and the publisher agreed that Zilcken would write an essay on Mesdag and Israëls.96 Some time later the album, entitled Grands Peintres Francais et Etrangers: ouvrages d’art publié avec le concours artistique des maîtres: texte par les principaux critiques d’art was published in two volumes, with illustrations that included 120 photo-

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gravures of modern works of art, among them, thanks to Zilcken, pictures by, Jozef Israëls. The album Grands Peintres Francais et Etrangers is just one example of the many illustrated albums into which reproductions of Israëls’ work found their way. A rich culture of ‘deluxe albums’ developed during the course of the nineteenth century. Pictures by Israëls, a renowned artist, were regularly incorporated in albums of modern art. An early example was the Album van Photographien naar schetchingen en teekeningen van Levende Meesters, published in 1865, which included a reproduction after Israëls’ watercolour Verhuizen (Moving House) (c.1864). In 1871 another such album was published, Neerland’s Nieuwe Kunst. Photographien naar J.W. Bilders, J. Bosboom, Hein J. Burgers, Jozef Israëls, C. Rochussen en W. Roelofs. Met oorspronkelijke gedichten van N. Beets, J.P. Hasebroek, J.J.L. ten Kate, E. Laurillard, which, when opened, immediately revealed a photograph of Israëls’ renowned work Langs moeders graf (Passing Mother’s Grave) (1856).97 Exhibitions were an important stimulus for publishers to produce this kind of illustrated album. International exhibitions, Salon exhibitions and other shows often generated finely bound volumes of reproductions as souvenirs. The catalogue of the 1883 Amsterdam International Exhibition, for example, included an engraving after Israëls’ Schelpenvissers (Shell Fishers). In France illustrated catalogues were particularly popular, including the Salon catalogues, in which pictures by Dutch masters were regularly reproduced from the 1870s onwards. Works by Israëls and other popular Dutch masters, such as D.A.C. Artz (18371890), B.J. Blommers (1845-1914) and Anton Mauve (1838-1888) were mainly included in Goupil’s popular Salon series. The Salon album for 1876 was exceptional as no less than five Dutch artists were represented in this: Israëls, with Karig maal (Frugal Meal), Anton Mauve, Hendrik W. Mesdag, P. Sadée (1837-1904) and H.J. Burgers (1834-1899). Other popular albums were the Figaro-Salons, published later in the century, in which work by Israëls was also reproduced.98 At the Antwerp International Exhibition of 1885, a substantial display of visual art was organised. Among the works on show was Israëls’ painting Als men oud wordt (When One Grows Old), subsequently reproduced in an Italian album of Dutch modern art.99 The memoirs of Philip Zilcken, the etcher, give us an idea of how such albums were made, thanks to his description of the production of an illustrated album

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of works from an 1886 exhibition held in Edinburgh, with masters of the Hague School (including Israëls) and the Barbizon School. Zilcken, who had reproduced many works by the Hague School, was asked to supply etched reproductions for this album, and wrote at length of this in his Herinneringen: c

‘On the 21st of October I departed with van der Maarel for Edinburg, because I had been commissioned to make a number of etchings together with the Scot William Hole, for the “Memorial Catalogue of the French and Dutch Exhibition” of paintings by masters of the Barbizon and Hague School. My work at the exhibition (where the “Carlisle” by Whistler uncommonly attracted me, amongst other pictures), comprised the making of a series of drawings after the paintings, which I was to etch, while I would later work up the plates with the aid of good photographs. When the documents were finished, the return journey began and I soon set to work in the spacious studio of the Kleine Loo. Although I executed all these proceeding labours not without success, the earnings were not considerable, particularly in proportion to the labour expended. “The struggle for life” was very demanding, and the desire for a regular sphere of work arose, so that, despite my activities in the artistic field, I applied for the appointment as director of the Haagsch Gemeentelijk Museum, together with B.W. van Riemsdijk Esq., – without any success however.’ […]’The fine work “ Memorial Catalogue of the French and Dutch Loan Collection at the Edinburg International Exhibition 1886”, appeared in that autumn [1888]. The Dutch painters, who contributed to the lustre of this Feast of Art, were Artz, Blommers, Bosboom, Israëls, Jongkind, J. Maris, M. Maris, W. Maris, Mauve, Mesdag, Alb. Neuhuys, Ter Meulen.’100

Zilcken also made albums of reproductions (including prints after Israëls’ work) on his own initiative. In 1887, for example, he was working on an album of etchings after watercolours at exhibitions organised by the Hollandsche Tekenmaatschappij (of which Israëls was a joint founder): c

‘In the summer [1887, rv] I made a series of ten etchings after watercolours by the Holl. Teekenmaatschappij, of Blommers, Bosboom, Israëls, Jacob Maris, Willem Maris, Mauve, Mevr. Mesdag-van Houten, Al. Neuhuys, Termeulen en Weissenbruch, – which were published in a portfolio.’[…

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]‘There were quite a few subscribers to this series, which was later followed up. They could apply to me or to the firm of Mouton, who I believe printed the etchings. Such work I considered, – alongside the productive side, – as exercises in technique through the quest to express precision of character as much as possible.101 In 1893 Zilcken published another album of etchings after watercolours by the Hollandsche Teekenmaatschappij, ‘somewhat as a sequel to my first portfolio, which had appeared several years previously’.102 Israëls was again represented in this album, a relatively small-scale publication that was initiated, produced and sold by the etcher.103 Finally, there was the album Peintres Hollandais Modernes, published by the Amsterdam publisher Schalekamp in 1891; Zilcken and Israëls had both collaborated on this project which the etcher described thus: c

‘At the end of the previous year [1891, rv] the first instalment of my work “Peintres hollandais modernes” was published by Schalekamp, with fine illustrations. The Spectator called the publication of this book a “magnificent idea”. Most of the papers received it with much appreciation; even abroad it drew attention and the Belgian and French papers and the Spectator cited large passages from it. A pity that the publisher Schalekamp’s original plan, to produce a sequel to this first part, could not be realised, on account of the soaring costs of the illustrations, – as I would have undertaken the task with an exceptionally great deal of satisfaction, owing to a constant contact with painters, my contemporaries, whom I knew from close at hand, and with whose aspirations and actions I felt so at home. It would have been pleasurable for me to have published a handbook on those artists, who belonged to a particular period, (and not one of the least) in our art history.’104

To demonstrate that Israëls’ approved the reproductions, the introduction to the album included a letter from the painter to the publisher in facsimile (8 November 1891), which reads: ‘I thank you for sending the sketches and the reproductions I find them all good […].’ Nevertheless, the painter was not happy with three of the reproductions:

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c

‘I find these too coarse and not at all palatable. What the reason is I do not know. They are disagreeable, the others all appear good to me. I do want the study you still have back. You can always have it back if necessary.’105

Israëls’ criticism may have prompted two of the three reproductions to be dropped from the final album. He had also provided a study for the reproductive process and was insistent that this be returned to him. Israëls albums

Amidst the medley of illustrated albums there were also monographic publications devoted to the life and work of Jozef Israëls. The earliest example of these is the fine album Kinderen der Zee (Children of the Sea) from 1861, with poems by Nicolaas Beets and engravings by J.H. Rennefeld. [plate 15] This was followed by albums such as Jozef Israëls. L’Homme et l’artiste (1890) and Jozef Israëls (1910), an illustrated monograph written by the printmaker C.L. Dake.

Kinderen der Zee: schetchingen naar het leven aan onze Hollansche stranden door Jozef Israëls, gravures door J.H. Rennefeld; gedichten door Nicolaas Beets, Haarlem (A.C. Kruseman) 1861. (Children of the Seas: Sketches after Life on Our Dutch Beaches by Jozef Israëls, Engravings by J.H. Rennefeld; Verses by Nicolaas Beets, Haarlem (A.C. Kruseman)

The album Kinderen der Zee (Children of the Sea) has already been clearly and comprehensively discussed by Dieuwertje Dekkers in her article in Jong Holland in 1986.106 This serves as the basis for a brief sketch of this ‘deluxe album’, the first speciment in a series of illustrated monographs on Israëls, published during his life. The plan for this album dates from as early as 1859, at a time when the artist had enjoyed a national breakthrough a few years earlier with Langs moeders graf (Passing Mother’s Grave) (1856).107 The Amsterdam publisher Buffa had bought twelve small drawings from the painter for 600 guilders, intending to have these engraved to publish as a ‘little album’, as Jan Veth later described. For unknown reasons Buffa abandoned the project and the publisher A.C. Kruseman purchased the plates from Buffa for 800 guilders, in consultation with Israëls. The painter advised the publisher to ask the young engraver J.H. Rennefeld to do the engravings, and offered to bear the costs.108 Israëls’ choice of Rennefeld may have been prompted by the painter’s positive experience of this young en-

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graver when he was involved in the illustrations for the Dutch translation of George Eliot’s novel Adam Bede, of which more below.109 These fine illustrations made the painter happy to work again with Rennefeld on the deluxe album. He also reported to Kruseman that his fellow publisher Buffa had no objection to the album, a probable reference to reproduction rights.110 According to Israëls, the images were excellently suited to literary captions, as he informed the publisher: c

‘The final engraving is not yet so far that it can be printed in proof […] The subject however is again highly suitable[;] to say something about this it is a little old mother sitting on a chair by the hearth slowly falling asleep and thus properly forms the conclusion to this series.’111

The combination of a ‘story with a picture’ belonged in the tradition of ‘caption poetry’, associated with the almanacs described above. It was generally the publisher who approached a poet with a request for some verse to ‘enliven’ the image on a print.112 Israëls was already familiar with this practice, thanks to his reproductions for almanacs, so it is hardly surprising that for this publication he also thought of poetic captions to accompany his work. According to Jan Veth, the publisher Kruseman had initially approached the romantic man of letters Gerard Keller (1829-1889) for these verses, apparently without result as some time later he sought contact with the renowned poet Nicolaas Beets (1814-1903). Israëls followed these developments closely and wrote anxiously to the publisher: c

‘So I hope that you will quickly bring me agreeable tidings that the poet in question is now intending to do this with our Kinderen. Should it be that you deem it necessary that I write to the Gentleman myself I am willing to do this although I do not have the honour of knowing him.’113

Israëls’ hope became reality: c

‘Today I heard to my great pleasure that there is a chance that Nicolaas Beets will compose something for our Kinderen der Zee. The fear that we might lose something like this compels me to urge you to do your utmost to ensure this may happen. From my youth I have always been taken with

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that man and I fancy that no-one is as suitable as Beets to compose like Heinrich Heine something lovely and sensitive briefly and lyrically.’114 During the course of 1860 Beets became involved in the project, to Israëls’ delight. The painter furnished the poet with the visual material necessary to inspire him. As with his reproductions for the almanacs, Israëls had photographs made of the drawings. Once again communications were conducted through the publisher: c

‘Enclosed I have the pleasure of sending Your Honour a photograph of “Kleine Jan” for our poet Beets. How is it going. I hope that Your Honour will not be disappointed. The little engraving will be finished in about a day.’115

In a letter written perhaps shortly after this, Israëls mentioned the work of Rennefeld, the engraver: c

‘There is still progress with the engravings. They will be ready at the end of June. I wish you much pleasure of the spring it is an entirely different life than in the winter is it not. Friend Rennefeld added his letter of thanks to mine it read exactly the same and that is why I did not send it.’116

In her article on the album Kinderen der Zee, Dieuwertje Dekkers managed to identify the original works used for nine of the twelve reproductions. These comprised seven paintings and two worked-up drawings. For the details of the identification I refer the reader to Dekkers. The seven ‘original’ paintings were: De Wieg (The Cradle), Dolce far niente, Het Breistertje (The Girl Knitting), Eerste reis (First Trip), Herdenking (Remembrance), Langs Moeders graf (Passing Mother’s Grave) and Waar blijft hij?(Where Is He?) No paintings of Joost Atlas and Netten Boeten (Mending Nets) are known, only worked-up drawings. As yet it is unknown which work served as the original for the prints Uitreis (Voyage Out), Middagslaapje (Afternoon Nap) and Het anker (The Anchor). Even when a (painted) original did exist, the question still arises of which version of the subject was actually used for the reproduction. Is Rennefeld’s engraving of Het Breistertje (The Girl Knitting) based on the first painting of this subject, from 1858, or the smaller replica painted by Israëls circa 1861? Probably the former, although this is far from certain. Doubts

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as to the identity of ‘the’ original are a recurrent problem in the world of nineteenth-century art reproduction. For the album Kinderen der Zee Rennefeld probably worked from drawings, photographs of the paintings or a combination of these, illustrating how problematic it can sometimes be to pinpoint ‘the’ original.117 Israëls was very happy with progress and Rennefeld’s execution of the prints: c

‘As Mister Rennefeld is visiting Your Honour I can not let him go without a few words of writing and greeting to Your Honour.- He will deliver to Your Honour the 4 completed engravings and I believe we may be satisfied with his Choice execution. Does Your Honour know anything of B[eets]?’118

In his assessment of Rennefeld’s engravings, the painter focused not only on the engraver’s execution but also on the format, enquiring of Kruseman: ‘Shall they not be printed on a quarto sheet? I believe as the proofs which I now have.’119 The prints were completed in the summer of 1860, Beets’ verses in mid January 1961. [fig. 63] In the album Kinderen der Zee the prints were the central element, supplemented by Beets’ verses. The painter set great store by the primacy of the images and clearly communicated this to the publisher. The title of the album was not to leave any misunderstanding on the part of its readers, the painter declared: c

‘The title will not be I hope, Kroost der zee [Progeny of the sea] .- I find this of an unbearable dissonance[;] let it be called sketches from the life of fishermen from B to J. I find that the best simplest and most attractive name. The word ‘naar’ (after) also does justice to me, as otherwise people might believe that I have made them after Beets and not Beets after me. I also hope that Your Honour will expend every possible care on my Children’s smart best clothers and Mister Beets sometimes thinks that I have no right to speak of this[;] that I am quite conceited.’120

Israëls emphasised the importance of the images in the album. It was his work that was being supported by Beets’ verses, not vice-versa; the painter had ‘an historic objection’ to Beets’ proposed title ‘Kroost der Zee’. Painter and writer reached a compromise with Kinderen der Zee. According to Beets, however, the

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fig. 63 Johan H. Rennefeld after Israëls, Passing Mother’s Grave (1861), engraving, from album Kinderen der Zee 1861, Netherlands Institute for

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painter was not enthusiastic about this title either, as he had already used it for a previous work.121 The painter was aware of the undesirability of using the same title for different works, a continuing problem to this day. The title Kinderen der Zee alone is associated with various works – paintings, watercolours, etching and drawings – and thus appears to denote a specific genre of works, rather than one particular piece. Despite Israëls’ objection the album was entitled Kinderen der Zee.122 Kruseman, the publisher was extremely satisfied with the result, as he wrote to Nicolaas Beets, the poet: c

‘Now I can once more publish something that I shall dare to present: something entirely new, something very fine![…] ‘Israëls will be over the moon! And the engraver Rennefeld who hopes to make some name with these engravings!’123

The painter was also very happy with the album ­­Kinderen der Zee. c

‘Back from my trip to Paris I have received the copies of Kinderen der zee sent to me for which I am in Your Honour’s debt. The execution is ex-

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tremely to my liking and as far as I have heard it generally pleases. I now just wish us all a great success.’124 The album Kinderen der Zee was published in parts in 1861. The first part, published on 7 June 1861, comprised three engravings by Rennefeld.125 Part-publishing was common practice with this kind of deluxe album, which generally consisted of a series of separate parts, bound into a fine binder when complete. The first part of Kinderen der Zee was followed by a further three parts, each comprising three engravings, making a total of twelve reproductions after Israëls’ bestknown work. Although Beets’ verses suffered somewhat from criticism, the album Kinderen der Zee brought the painter success, and at the right moment. After the success of Langs moeders graf (Passing mother’s grave), in 1856, Israëls had rapidly developed into a well-known specialist in the fishermen’s genre, a position now emphasised by Kinderen der Zee. In 1861, the year in which this album was published, the painter was on the point of making an international breakthrough. In the same year he had painted De schipbreukeling (The Shipwrecked Mariner), a picture which had rapidly won him renown abroad, particularly in England, where the work was bought by the influential art dealer Ernest Gambart. Israëls’ name was now established in the art world. In the prospectus for the album A.C. Kruseman, the publisher, wrote: c

‘The sensitive scenes, for which we have to thank the singular brush of our Israëls, have a well-earned renown, not only here in our country but also abroad. Renneveld’s graver has rendered these in this collection in a manner that attests to great artistic talent. The poet Beets has had the kindness to add his poetic contribution. Thus this is a truly national bundle of drawing, engraving and poetry.’126

From a financial point of view Kinderen der Zee was also a great success.127 The album was reprinted various times by a number of other publishers.128 In 1872 D.A. Thieme produced a second edition, in 1889 A.W. Sijthoff a third. Sijthoff continued to advertise the album until the early twentieth century,129 although the heyday of the ‘picture with the story’ had been over since the 1870s.130

Jozef Israëls. L’Homme et l’Artiste /eaux-fortes par Wm. Steelink; texte par F. Netchingcher et Ph. Zilcken; avec un essai de catalogue descriptif des eaux-

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fortes, de nombreux facsimilés et une eau-forte originale inédite, Amsterdam (Schalekamp) 1890. Between 1888 and 1889 the Amsterdam publisher J.M. Schalekamp part published a series of etchings that would eventually form the album Jozef Israëls. L’Homme et l’Artiste. 131 The individual parts comprised etchings by W. Steelink junior, and were initially accompanied by text by the man of letters Frans Netscher and, after two issues, Philip Zilcken.132 When complete the album Jozef Israëls L’Homme et L’Artiste presented the painter’s work in words and images, with eleven etchings by Steelink junior, plus an original etching by Israëls himself.133 Steelink made his etchings after popular works such as Van duisternis tot licht (From Darkness into Light) (1871), De schipbreukeling (The Shipwrecked Mariner), (1861), Langs moeders graf (Passing Mother’s Grave), (1856) and Alleen op de wereld (Alone in the World) (1881). Nevertheless, the album not only presented the master’s wellknown work, but interestingly also included reproductions of recent works, De verkwikking (Refreshment) (1887) en De zoon van het oude volk (The Son of the Ancient people) (1889), whose paint was barely dry. Although the album Kinderen der Zee, published in 1861, had still employed traditional engraving, by the time Jozef Israëls. L’Homme et l’Artiste was produced, etching had become the technique of choice for reproducing artworks. W. Steelink junior, a leading Dutch reproductive etcher of the period, had learned the profession from his father W. Steelink senior, who had made engravings after Israëls’ work during the 1850s and 1860s for various almanacs. Steelink senior, an engraver by profession, had also produced several etchings during his career, although this technique was more his son’s province. Where once Steelink senior had engraved Langs moeders graf (Passing Mother’s Grave), his son Steelink junior now made an etching after the same work. The prints in Jozef Israëls. L’Homme et l’Artiste were likewise accompanied by explanatory text; not in verse, as in Beets’ poems for Kinderen der Zee, but in prose by Netscher and Zilcken. It is unclear to what extent Israëls himself was directly involved in the creation of this album. In the past he had collaborated intensively with Steelink senior and would have known his son; he also knew Zilcken through various reproductions the latter had made of his works. Schalekamp was also a familiar name: several years later the firm would also publish the album Peintres Hollandais Modernes (1891). These connections, plus the fact that the album included an original etching by Israëls, suggest that the painter must have been closely involved in its production. isr a ëls a nd his childr en’s best clothes

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Once the diverse parts had been published, the album was available in various versions for a range of prices. Like traditional independent prints, this illustrated publication could be obtained in diverse states and variations. According to the Schalekamp stock list for 1892, the most exclusive copies were the 25 albums avant la lettre, printed on Japanese paper, signed by Israëls, contained in a portfolio and sold for the considerable sum of 240 guilders; the following 75 numbered copies avant la lettre were printed on Chinese paper and available in a portfolio for 120 guilders; finally there were 200 copies avec la lettre in portfolio on sale for 75 guilders.134 By way of comparison: the albums published by Schalekamp with etchings after Jacob Maris, Anton Mauve and Johannes Bosboom cost a maximum of 60 guilders, 75 guilders and 60 guilders, respectively.135 So the album Jozef Israëls. L’Homme et L’Artiste was a relatively expensive work, mainly aimed at the more well-to-do art lover. As the title suggests, the album was published in French, a choice of language determined by the target public for this work, as Schalekamp explained in his stock catalogue for 1900: c

‘That one mostly finds French titles in this Catalogue of Dutch publications about mainly Dutch artists, is explained accordingly in that several major publications, for example the work on Israëls, have been written in French because the sale of such major works is not enough in Holland, just as that of reproductions after Dutch paintings is also not. A large proportion of sales must come from abroad and as French is still the pre-eminent international language in the art world, preference was given to this language.’136

It is not known how many copies of this album were actually distributed at home and abroad. Schalekamp’s remark once again indicates the limits of the Dutch print market during the nineteenth century, something already pointed out by his fellow publisher Beijerinck back in the 1830s. Schalekamp’s album was positively received at home and abroad.137 An anonymous reviewer wrote of the work: c

‘It is an excellent selection by the publisher from work dedicated to Israëls, enriching his publication with sketches in charcoal of fusains by the master’s hand, in addition to reproductions of paintings. They allow you

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a glimpse into the artist’s secret workroom, they tell you the Genesis of his works, they reveal his most intimate thoughts, as these welled up in pure state from the very spring. The etchings included in the 3rd and 4th in­stalment of the said work, were taken from the paintings known as: De schip­breukeling (The shipwrecked mariner) and Kinderen der Zee (Children of the Sea). The latter etching especially seems to me to have turned out particularly well. The silver-blond tone of the images is extremely finely rendered in the etching; the light sparkles at you from it, and the endless quality of the sea, whose confines flow away into the far horizon. In fact, in their original form, Kinderen der Zee also makes more of an impression than De schipbreukeling. In the latter painting the melodrama is too dominant, the story diverts your goodwill from the whole […]’138 As was often the case in such albums the tone was set by the reproductions, with accompanying text: c

‘The text [by zilcken, rv] is not at the height of that provided by Mr Netscher in the previous instalments. He moves too much in the sphere of generalities.’[…] But apropos the fine work on Israëls one can regard the text as secondary. Israëls’ art is enough in itself.’139

The album was a well-known publication on Israëls and his work, one of a series of illustrated monographs on the master which had commenced with Kinderen der Zee. At the same time Steelink’s etched reproductions made this album a typical product of its period. At the time of publication, in the late 1880s, Israëls was at the height of his fame. His scenes of fishing life and peasant interiors were being sold to buyers in England, France, the United States and Canada for a great deal of money. Given this international success, it is understandable that Schalekamp decided not to use Dutch as the language for this album, but to publish it in ‘international’ French, in the hope that this collection of reproductions ‘would follow’ their originals. The album Jozef Israëls. L’Homme et L’Artiste certainly seems to have been a success and was reprinted in 1903.

C.L. Dake, Jozef Israëls. Met 27 kunstdrukplaten, 1 gravure, 2 vierkleurdrukken en 33 andere reproductiën naar schilderyen, 8 teekeningen en etsen, Amsterdam (C.L.G. Veldt) 1911. isr a ëls a nd his childr en’s best clothes

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(C.L. Dake, Jozef Israëls. With 27 art-printed plates, 1 engraving, 2 four-colour prints and 33 other reproductions after paintings, 8 drawings and etchings, Amsterdam (C.L.G. Veldt) 1991)

The year 1911 saw the publication of a monograph, written by the printmaker C.L. Dake and simply entitled Jozef Israëls. It was a finely executed album, with various kinds of reproduction offering an impression of the painter and his work. In 1911 Israëls, by now very advanced in years, finally died. The author of the album, C.L. Dake, the printmaker, was very familiar with Israëls and his work, and had already made various etchings after the painter’s pictures, sometimes in close collaboration with Israëls himself.140 In his 1911 album the etcher described, in chronological sequence, the most important events in the painter’s life and work. Dake also used various well-known works to discuss Israëls’ oeuvre, in terms of subject and technique, considering at length frequent criticisms of the painter’s allegedly weak drawing technique and rebuffing all objections: c

‘Israëls’ technique is properly exalted above all commendation. It evades every judgement based on rules, on a system. I, who know his work so well, also because I have made various engravings after it, sometimes even under his personal guidance (“Alleen op de wereld (Alone in the World) in 1894 and “de man uit het oude volk (Son of the Ancient People 1909)), will bear no-one ill-will, who thinks they may make observations about Israëls’ drawing and modelling. Apparently that drawing is sometimes slovenly, even flawed. Where is it that the woman’s upper arm in “the Sexton” is too long, where is it that David’s thighs in “David and Saul” are too short and Saul’s fist too heavy! But a draughtsman is not a reproduction machine and there are thousands of flawless drawings and paintings in the world which are “spiritless” and thus worth nothing.’141

The printmaker defended the painter unequivocally: c

‘An artist is not a watchmaker. Moreover it is sure that the superficial judgement of many (including so-called artists), who think Israëls a weaker draughtsman than Alma-Tadema for example, arises from their lack of feeling for the character of the form. The same people will also

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call Hans Makkart a greater colourist than Israëls. No, Israëls is no weak draughtsman.’142 Dake then sketched Israëls, the man behind the painter, as a cheerful but modest person, with few pretentions, who earned a great deal of money and did not splash this around, although he was far from miserly with gifts to the less welloff. In short, Dake regarded Israëls as ‘a truly Dutch painter’. He concluded his monograph with a personal view of a number of Israëls well-known works, such as Adagio con espressione, Na de Storm (Anxious Moments), Alleen op de wereld (Alone in the World), Kinderen der Zee (Children of the Sea), Langs velden en wegen (On Country Roads and Fields) and Een Zoon van het oude volk (A Son of the Ancient People). Dake’s monograph on Israëls contained various kinds of reproduction, as the secondary title indicated: ‘27 art-printed plates, 1 engraving, 2 four-colour prints and 33 other reproductions after paintings, 8 drawings and etchings’. This range of reproductions is remarkable, given that previous albums, such as Kinderen der Zee and Jozef Israëls. L’Homme et L’Artiste, had consisted solely of engravings or etchings. Dake’s monograph incorporated images in various photographic and photogravure techniques. The most striking of these is the fine photogravure after the painting Visschersvrouw (Fisherman’s Wife), by the Berlin firm of George Buxenstein & Comp, a fine, brown-toned reproduction with the printing pressure marks still in the paper. The publication also presented many collotypes of paintings and etchings, plus various small sketches by Israëls, scattered amongst the text. This variety of reproductive techniques exemplifies the range of graphic possibilities circa 1900. The fact that the technique is explicitly stated in the title, as an extra reference for the reader, shows that this was not always clear from the print’s appearance. The diversity in reproductive techniques in the album does not mean that all the images are equally fine. The much-used collotypes, in particular, are fairly sober (black-and-white) representations of Israëls’ work. The author – and printmaker – Dake was also aware of these limitations, which he mentioned in the text that accompanied the reproduction of Het Varkenskot (The Pigsty): c

‘How imperfectly photography may have reproduced this painting, one can still get some notion of the delicacy of the dune rim with the delightful blue sky above: of the uncommon charm of both the children’s figures. The little heads are masterpieces of expression, and the colour of them is tender beyond all description.’143 isr a ëls a nd his childr en’s best clothes

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Dake then turned his attention to the picture Aan het venster (At the Window) and the limitations of this image’s photographic reproduction: ‘The distance between the photograph and the painting is unbelievably great and yet this overly hard reproduction does give an impression of the sensitive colour and treatment.’144 The album was intended for a wide public and could be obtained in Dutch, German and French. A luxury edition of 50 numbered copies, ‘bound in genuine parchment’ was also issued. The publication of luxury editions was common practice, as previously demonstrated by the various versions of Schalekamp’s Jozef Israëls. L’Homme et l’artiste, reflecting the tradition of ‘deluxe albums’ and also recalling the use of states in printmaking. Like his colleagues, the publisher C.L.G. Veldt of Amsterdam was responding to public diversity by publishing this monograph in a range of states. A finely executed album on the life and work of Jozef Israëls, it was also an exclusive publication with its own intrinsic qualities, in the tradition of illustrated monographic albums on Israëls’ work that had started with Kinderen der Zee (Children of the Sea). The album formed part of a series, Het Artistiek Schoone Verzameling van Moderne Kunst- Monographieën (The Artistically Fine Collection of Modern Art Monographs), which had previously featured albums on such artists as Rodin, Fragonard, Rossetti, Hogarth, Hodler, Delacroix and Boucher, by a range of authors, including Gustave Kahn (1859-1936), Fritz Stahl (a pseudonym for Siegfried Lilienthal) and Camille Mauclair. The advertisement for the series read: ‘The reproductions of the principal pieces are explained by a fluent and entertainingly written text. Each instalment comprises around 50 illustrations.’145 Although the monographs were published independently, readers were subtly encouraged to collect the entire series via subscription: the price per instalment was 3.25 guilders, or 2.6 guilders by subscription (for six instalments). To store six of these monographs art amateurs could also purchase, for 5.2 guilders, a special, ‘artfully made’ folder: ‘The back of leather, the flat cover of linen, while a tasteful drawing adorns the front’. Thus, for a reasonably low price, art amateurs could acquire a modest art historical library of old and modern masters, including Israëls, which was neatly stored in special folders and constituted an ornament in the bookcase.146 The final pages of Dake’s monograph featured two interesting advertisements for the well-known firm of art dealers, Buffa & Zonen, which was based at Kalverstraat 39 in Amsterdam. The first of these reads: ‘Paintings and watercolours

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by the best Dutch masters – permanent exhibition’; the second: ‘Publishers and dealers of engravings, etchings, coloured plates in all genres – largest selection’ plus ‘Framing in all styles’. These advertisements were illustrated with two collotypes of Israëls’ work, underlining the longstanding relationship between the painter and the firm. Once readers of the monograph had been spurred on by Dake’s enthusiastic text, the advertisements gave them the opportunity to convert their admiration into action. The firm of Buffa in the Kalverstraat was the best place to see and buy Israëls’ work, which ranged from oil paintings, watercolours, engravings and etchings to coloured plates, framed or unframed, according to the customer’s taste. Thus, the Jozef Israëls album not only provided a view of Israëls’ life and work through the eyes of one of his printmakers, but also an explicit allusion to the most important dealer and publisher of Israëls’ work. The book is therefore inextricably associated with the context of the artist himself, which was shaped by various printmakers, art dealers, publishers and the public, his own work and the reproduction of this.147 Israëls’ book illustrations

Like many of his contemporaries Israëls was also active as a book illustrator.148 He was commissioned by the Haarlem publisher A.C. Kruseman to produce several illustrations for the translation of George Elliot’s novel Adam Bede, which had been executed by Dorothea van der Tholl, better known as the wife of the minister and poet Cd. Busken Huet.149 Kruseman, the publisher, the literary Busken Huets and Israëls, the painter, were well acquainted with each other. Kruseman published work by both the poet and the painter, sometimes as part of the same project, as was the case in the Aurora-Almanakken. In 1863 Israëls offered to paint portraits of Busken Huet and his wife, although the couple were so dissatisfied with the finished paintings that the painter never delivered them, an incident that does not, however, seem to have affected the good relationship which the painter and the literary couple had enjoyed for many years.150 To gain inspiration for his illustrations, Israëls read the Dutch translation of Adam Bede, but let his artistic sensibilities govern his depiction of the characters. On receiving Adam Bede he wrote to the publisher: c

‘I have received the freshly printed work it pleases me greatly the translation seems excellent to me [.] do me the pleasure of speedily sending me

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the conclusion. I have been so free as to observe that I am not making Adam with a basket on his back that is ugly in form. I am making him resting from his work with some tools around him. That is more picturesque and better in character. Hetty [?] with the little mirror is good but I am not making Dina preaching it has to become one image then it will be irresistible. Contrary to Hetty’s coquetry I am making her pensive and dreaming. Within several weeks I hope to send them to you however I still do not know when, such a thing depends on the humours. Give […] Huet my compliments.’151 Israëls’ drawings were reproduced by J.H. Rennefeld, the engraver, with whom he later collaborated on the album Kinderen der Zee (Children of the Sea), which was likewise published by Kruseman. Israëls was a close friend of the engraver who, according to Jan Veth, even visited the painter every day for coffee.152 This informal friendship is not insignificant, when we remember the hierarchy of relationships sometimes encountered in the world of nineteenth-century art reproduction. Once Israëls had completed his drawings, he gave them to the engraver with instructions to discuss ‘one thing and another’ with the publisher.153 We do not know what they talked about; however, sometime later, Rennefeld delivered the engravings to the painter who then wrote to the publisher: c

‘On receipt of the three engravings for Adam B. I am being so free as to add my [greetings] to them. I think I dare to contend that our friend has complied Capitally. A pity they have to be printed on such a small scale.’154

The painter was satisfied with the result but somewhat disappointed about the prints’ small format. Eventually he received the final result from Kruseman, the publisher: ‘I am certainly obliged to you for sending the novel Adam Bede and it will be gratifying to me to receive you once more in my studio […]’155 Busken Huet was curious about the success of this Dutch translation of Adam Bede and wrote to his good friend E.J. Potgieter (1808-1875): c

‘This coming week the Dutch “Adam Bede” appears, with a preface by Pierson and three sketches by Jozef Israëls. I am highly curious as to whether this book will be appreciated here; and even more curious as to

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whether my fondness will also be able to hold its own in the long run against your more moderate [opinion of the book].’156 Success was guaranteed with one reader, Aleida Schaap, whom Israëls would marry several years later, on 7 May 1863. Widely read and a friend of writers such as Anna Bosboom-Toussaint, she wrote to her translator friend A.S. Kok a number of years later: c

‘The novels of George Elliot are my ideal in this respect. If I could do it, I would instantly set aside my entire housekeeping and would try it; who knows what I shall yet do.’157

Yet the enthusiasm of Mrs Israëls does not seem to have been shared by the general public. At any rate the publication of Adam Bede was not a great success: only 500 copies sold during the first two years, the relatively high price of nine guilders probably contributing to these disappointing sales.158 Almost two years after the translation of Adam Bede had been published, Israëls wrote a letter to A.C. Kruseman, the publisher, on New Year’s Day 1862, regarding payment for his illustrations. Despite years of harmonious collaboration with the publisher, the painter had been unpleasantly surprised by a letter from Kruseman. Although we do not know the publisher’s letter, it is possible to reconstruct the affair to some degree from Israëls’ reply to this.159 c

‘Just as Your Honour was disappointed with regard to the invoice for the latest drawings, so I was amazed and disappointed in reading your letter of yesterday. Your previous [one] was also thus based on a misunderstanding, as you assuredly cannot have forgotten, and this one in question is the consequence of this too. You yourself sought me out and encouraged me to make little drawings for the lovely Bede. You afterwards came to my studio and said then that the matter was in order I calculated 50 guilders for it I replied that I approved this. If the matter had proceeded so then and as I had left it to Your Honour if I had been told either by you or by [Fuhri] we have calculated so much for it without willing to value your work I would also have agreed with this as I know very well how ungrateful the public is in the face of such new imports and I do not need heaven be praised to live from illustrations and do not concern myself once it is

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done with whether little or a great deal is paid for it, as for me it is a matter of enjoyment.’160 The conflict between Israëls and A.C. Kruseman, the publisher, concerning the drawings for Adam Bede is a remarkable incident, as generally speaking, we only have summary information about the commercial ups and downs of nineteenth-century artists: while their works of art have come down to us, their financial accounts generally have not. We should not overestimate the amounts entailed in the Israëls/Kruseman conflict, however: the works in question were only three illustrations from which the artist, as he himself admitted, fortunately did not have to live. The Adam Bede dispute offers an interesting insight into the informal business relationship between Israëls and his publisher. The dispute reinforces the suspicion that business agreements were mainly verbal and frequently not committed to writing.161 Although a gentlemen’s agreement was no less binding than a written one, there was always a danger of misunderstandings: agreements and sums of money were not set down on paper; Israëls himself admitted that he ‘never [had] calculations or figures in [his] head’, and thus considered himself not really suited to being a businessman.162 However, this self-proclaimed image requires some qualification: Israëls the painter was exceptionally successful in financial terms and certainly allowed his commercial insight to shine through when the female painter Wally Moes visited his studio. She later described the painter in her Herinneringen: c

‘As he was chatted on confidentially, he innocently gave me to understand that he absolutely did not consider himself as great as his fervent admirers did, readily comparing him with Rembrandt. He knew better, but being a clever man did not contradict them. The art buyers had been pocketing the major profits for so long and had always fobbed him off with a little bit; they should now just fork out, and who knows, it was perhaps a fine thing, if they all said it!’163

In considering this commercial side to Israëls we should not forget his wife, whose role in her husband’s career Wally Moes also mentions. According to her account, Israëls admitted that he would never have come so far materially without her; she was the first person who took care that the art dealers did not forget him.164 The connection between business and personal relationships was

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aptly expressed by Israëls when he wrote to Kruseman, the publisher, concerning the Adam Bede conflict: ‘Should you not visit my studio as a publisher, it will always be agreeable for me to see you there as Kruseman.’165 In addition to his illustrations for Adam Bede Israëls made a (rare) lithograph for Het Leven een droom. Toneelspel van Calderon de la Barca (1871), translated from Spanish by his friend A.S. Kok, a dedicated collector of his work. He also made drawings for the Dutch adaptation of Alfred Lord Tennyson’s Henoch Arden (1882) and for Het Nachtlicht van de Zee by M.J. Brusse (1873-1941) from 1907.166 Israëls’ illustrations thus form a modest but characteristic part of his oeuvre, placing him in a large group of nineteenth-century artists who were active as illustrators of various literary works alongside their own ‘free’ work. Israëls’ illustrations for Adam Bede reflect the practices associated with the reproduction of his work described above, as the painter kept a close and critical eye on the process.

The public for Israëls’ reproductions Israëls himself

In April 1883, when Vincent van Gogh walked past Israëls’ house at 2 Koninginnegracht in The Hague, the door was open so he looked inside and recognised a wood engraving and a photograph on the wall, which he subsequently described to his brother Theo: c

‘Recently I want past Israëls’ house – I have never been inside, the frontdoor was open, as the hall was being scrubbed. I saw things hanging in the hall and do you know what they were? The large Herkomer, Last muster Sunday at Chelsea and a photograph after that Van Roll painting, Greve de Charbinniers, which you maybe remember I wrote to you about way back when.’167

Van Gogh – and apparently Israëls too – particularly admired realistic social prints after the work of the English artist H. Herkomer (1849-1914). Van Gogh’s observation provides a rare glimpse of the decoration inside Israëls’ home. What a pity he did not enter the house and wander through the rooms, looking at the other pictures on the walls. Nevertheless, the wood engraving and the photo-

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graph in the hallway provide the first evidence of Israëls’ personal interest in reproductions.168 Friends and acquaintances

In 1890 Israëls received two reproductions from the firm of Buffa, to whom he wrote in thanks: c

‘I thank you for sending the 2 fine prints which you have published after me, although I would have been better served by a number of very ordinary prints as I use these to give as gifts from time to time.169

The identity of the two prints is not known, for Buffa published various reproductions after Israëls’ work. It seems that Israëls liked to have reproductions of his pictures at hand in order to give these away on occasion, a practice previously noted in connection with Scheffer. From Buffa, his publisher, Israëls received two fine prints that were almost too fine for him to give away. Who would have been the recipients of such reproductions? Probable candidates are Israëls’ fellow painters, art dealers, publishers and critics; the painter regularly gave away prints to friends and family as well. In a letter to Buffa of 16 april 1872, for example Israëls wrote: ‘Will you be so good to send the two prints which Sluiter has engraved after me at my expense to the following address: Mr B. Cohen solicitor of Groningen.’170 Although the prints are not known, the recipient is for Bennie Cohen was Israëls’ brother-in-law. Circa 1888 Israëls painted a double portrait of the couple Bennie Cohen and Anna Schaap.171 Several years later Israëls again requested Buffa to send him a reproduction of his work, to give his elder sister as a birthday gift: c

‘The undersigned is burdened by a large and somewhat troublesome family. Now I have a sister living in Groningen who is going to be seventy years old […] I truly know nothing better to devise than to send her the last Dake of me in a fine frame with glass. Will you be so good to arrange this for me carriage-free to the door. My bill with you is becoming somewhat large but my hand is I hope still vigorous enough to pay it.’172

The print in question was probably the etching by Carel Dake after Enfants de la mer, published by the firm of Buffa circa 1890. [fig. 64] The work was to be des-

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fig. 64 Carel.L. Dake after Israëls, Children of the Sea (ca.1890), etching 37.4 x 68.8 cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

patched framed and behind glass, which shows how such large-format prints were used as wall decoration. As was the case with Scheffer, reproductions also seem to have fulfilled a representative function in Israëls’ career, helping to build up and maintain his personal network. When the painter gave away reproductions after his work, he contributed to their distribution. His contact with Buffa played an important role in this regard, as the firm supplied him with prints and he also called on its services to send reproductions to several people. A considerable public was brought face to face with reproductions after Israëls’ work. These could be admired at exhibitions at home and abroad: C.E. Taurel’s Na de storm (Anxious Moments), for example, was displayed at the 1860 exhibition of living masters in Rotterdam and at the Antwerp Salon of 1861; several years later Rennefeld’s De schipbreukeling (The Shipwrecked Mariner) was included in the Antwerp Salon of 1864 (no. 740) and, five years later, at the international exhibi-

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tion in Munich.173 Although these were prints of well-known paintings, they were also exhibited as independent works in their own right. In all probability these reproduction would have been displayed in Buffa’s shop window in Kalverstraat or Goupil’s in The Hague. Although Buffa may have sold the largest selection of reproductions after Israëls’ work, it is likely they could be ordered in many places. While paintings or watercolours by Israëls remained out of reach for many art amateurs, engravings, lithographs, etchings, photographs and albums offered an attractive alternative. Moreover, behind every title there often lay a wealth of different states and variations, with and without inscriptions (title, maker and publisher), printed on various kinds of paper, unsigned or signed (by the printmaker and/or the painter). The different states varied greatly as to quality, price and number printed. It is probable that reproductions by a popular painter such as Israëls were collected on a considerable scale, to be framed and hung on the wall, or neatly stored in specially designed portfolios. However, the character and extent of this collecting culture is still largely veiled in mystery. Thanks to Dieuwertje Dekkers we do have some insight into collectors of Israëls’ paintings, including the works owned by several exceptional individuals, such as Verloren van Themaat and Staats Forbes, but we still have to guess what ordinary art amateurs hung on their walls or kept in their albums. Given the nature of reproductions, we may assume that prints after Israëls mainly found their way into middle class homes. Naturally, many of these reproductions were primarily distributed in the Netherlands, although J.M. Schalekamp, the publisher, was aware of the limitations to this modest market; his expensive albums were chiefly made for export abroad. Given the volume of print sales in the United Kingdom, we may assume that many reproductions, like paintings and watercolours, also found their way to the United States and Canada. Whether these were individual etchings or reproductions in illustrated journals, there was choice enough, as the study Holland Mania, by Annette Stott, indicates. Stott writes of masters of the Hague School, such as Israëls, in the context of Dutch art in America: c

‘Even if one had not the means to obtain original work or good oil copies, reproductions in these magazines and fine art reproductions by numerous printing firms allowed the decoration of home walls with Dutch pictures.’174

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Although there is still a great deal of uncertainty regarding the character and scale of the reproduction collecting culture in the nineteenth century, there is one exception in the case of Israëls: his close friend A.S. Kok. A.S. Kok (1831-1915): an amateur collector of Israëls’ reproductions

On 16 November 1894 Israëls wrote to his faithful friend, the writer and translator A.S. Kok: c

‘I have recently had a visit from an esteemed writer, who intends to write something interesting about me and my works. However he was eager to learn all kinds of things about me, which are not so evident and known by everyone. This is why he asked if I knew collectors, who made my oeuvres in photographic plate or woodcut or whatever their business.- I thought then of you. Might it be possible for your collection to spend some weeks at home with me, then I should send them back multiplied by several. You will get them back undamaged after perusal.’175

The ‘esteemed writer’ was Jan Veth, who was researching an article on Israëls. Within a week Israëls had Kok’s substantial collection of reproductions at his home and wrote to his friend ‘I thank you very much for sending the portfolios. I shall take particular care that nothing befalls them.’176 When Veth asked about collectors of Israëls reproductions, the painter himself immediately thought of his good friend Kok, and with good reason.177 For fifty years Kok had collected anything connected with the painter’s life and work: albums, domestic and foreign art historical publications, notes made by Israëls, newspaper cuttings, portraits, illustrations, auction catalogues and original graphic works. A major portion of his Israëls collection comprised a huge assortment of reproductions, which he had been given by publisher friends, printmakers and the painter himself. It was a unique collection.178 v Circa 1870 Kok was working on his translation of the play La vida es sueno by the Spanish writer Calderon de la Barca, and asked Israëls to make a portrait drawing of the playwright for this work. The painter had not yet started to make his own etchings.179 He would have preferred to make a lithograph, as he informed Kok: ‘If you will now send me the size of the sheet I shall draw the portrait on stone for this. I have never etched but I do it quite nicely on stone.’180 Israëls produced an intitial design for the portrait, followed several months lat-

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er by a second.181 As thanks for this illustration Kok dedicated the translation to his friend Israëls and Israëls’ wife.182 In early December 1870 Israëls received a copy of the new translation, which was published the following year in.183 Kok followed this several years later with a translation of Shakespeare, which also pleased Israëls greatly.184 On one occasion Kok wrote a passionate piece praising Israëls, to which the painter responded with thanks and a reproduction of Oude vrouw bij de haard/Als men oud wordt (Old Woman by the Hearth/When One Grows Old) from 1883): c

‘I read with a great deal of pleasure your effusion on art in the portfolio in this manner one is still reminded of each other. Is it not silly that what you say in your piece is as yet understood by so few people. Amongst others I believe there was someone in the nieuws van de dag [a popular dutch newspaper, rv] , who thought the old woman by the hearth, a small reproduction of which I am sending you by this post, however beautifully painted was loathsome simply loathsome in subject. Albert Thijm was also harping on recently about my fussing with poor folks’ clothes. Well roared lion I thought. Well understood why it was painted.’185

The friendship between the painter and the man of letters was characterised by shared interests, mutual respect for each other’s work and personal esteem. At the end of the letter Israëls asked his friend: ‘Are you coming to The Hague sometime? Do it for life, sea and the Israëls family [sic].’186 Undoubtedly the small reproduction after Als men oud wordt (When One Grows Old) became part of Kok’s enormous print collection. Israëls regularly supplied his close friend with new prints: ‘I do not know if you have my etchings, otherwise I will send you some of them,’ the painter wrote on 12 December 1891.187 After this he sent an approved copy of each new etching to Kok.188 Israëls’ friend Kok assembled a large print collection as part of his enormous compilation of ­Israëls memorabilia.189 Regrettably the A.S. Kok Archive, now kept in the Nether­ lands Institute for Art History (rkd) in The Hague, no longer contains Kok’s prints after Israëls’ work: these probably became scattered when the archive was sold at auction on 13 and 14 July 1920 and a total of 577 reproductions, div­ ided between 11 portfolios and seven albums with prints after Israëls went under the hammer, bringing the collection to an end. Fortunately the inventory list for Kok’s collection of reproductions has survived, allowing us some insight

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in to the character and contents of this collection.190 Undoubtedly Kok regularly bought prints from various book and printsellers. He also owned diverse reproductions published by the Amsterdam firm of Schalekamp, including a photograph after En Attente and a collotype of Het Naaistertje (La Couturière), plus various collotypes published by the Utrecht firm of Versluys & Scherjon and the renowned Munich-based firm of Hanfstaengel. Many prints came to him from publishers, printmakers and, of course, the painter himself. Kruseman gave Kok a first print of Sluyter’s steel engraving after De weduwe van Johan Van Oldenbarneveld den afscheidsbrief lezende (The Last Letter of Johan Oldenbarneveld) and J.W. Kaiser’s engraving after Het Breistertje (The Girl Knitting), both of which had been made especially for the Aurora-Almanak of 1854 and 1860, respectively. From Buffa he received a collotype of Aan het wiegetouw. Drentsch binnenhuis (At the Cradle Pull. Drenthe Interior). J.H. Rennefeld, the engraver, gave him various first prints after Dolce far niente, Joost Atlas and Langs het kerkhof (Passing Mother’s Grave), while Philip Zilcken sent him a signed etching after Het kind in ’t bad (Child in the Bath).191 Israëls presented Kok with a signed phototype after Als men oud wordt (When One Grows Old), an autotype after De Zandvoortsche vissersvrouwen (Zandvoort Fishing Wives), a photograph after David en Saul (David and Saul) and etchings by Dake and Graadt van Roggen.192 Although the collector never explicitly formulated his motives and objectives in assembling such a collection, the nature of the collection itself leaves little doubt as to these. Kok’s mania for collecting Israëls-related objects was boundless. His chief guideline seems to have been to collect simply everything, without priority or specialisation.193 In Kok’s collection, photographic reproductions are most widely represented, with almost 300 pieces. Israëls’ friend also owned 62 lithographs, 33 steel engravings, 31 photogravures, 23 etchings, 17 wood engravings, 14 colour prints and 102 autotypes and phototypes. These numbers roughly reflect the ratio between the various reproductive techniques in the late nineteenth century, in terms of price and number of copies printed. The photographs and collotypes were the cheapest forms of reproduction and were published on a large scale, followed by lithographs, then etchings and engravings, which were techniques that produced the least number of prints and sold for the highest prices. In many instances Kok possessed diverse reproductions of a work by Israëls in various techniques: his prints of the painter’s well-known work Mijmeren (Reverie), for example, comprised a steel engraving by W. Steelink for the Aurora-Almanak,

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C.E. Taurel’s large independent steel engraving, a wood engraving and an autotype. He also possessed various kinds of reproductions after another wellknown Israëls work, Alleen op de wereld (Alone in the World). Kok not only owned many reproductions after Israëls’ work, he also had a number of exceptional prints, including a ‘first print’ of various steel engravings. Another rare print in his collection was C.L. van Kesteren’s steel engraving after Janmaat invalide (Jack Tar Invalided), which Kok claimed had originally been intended for the well-known album Kinderen der Zee (Children of the Sea), but was for some reason not included in the publication; Kinderen der Zee ultimately comprised prints by only one engraver, J.H. Rennefeld. Kok also possessed various prints by Rennefeld. Likewise in his collection were five proofs of the illustrations for the album Jozef Israëls. L’Homme et L’Artiste, which had been given to the painter for correction, plus a range of fine signed etchings avant la lettre by Dake (Les Enfants de la Mer and Seul au Monde) and Graadt van Roggen (Le Batelier, Jeune Fille sur les Dunes). The size of the collection made some kind of classification essential. Kok employed various methods for this. In the first place he collected the prints into portfolios according to technique, establishing portfolios with etchings, steel engravings, lithographs, photogravures, photographs and collotypes. This classification of reproductions according to technique was fairly common practice during the nineteenth century, as can be seen from the layout of salon exhibitions and the Goupil stocklists. Kok left behind a substantial card index in which his reproductions were also numbered and ordered according to the chronology of Israëls’ original works, with prints classified after paintings and watercolours from the periods 1837-1855, 1855-1869, 1869-1880, 1880-1890, 18901900 and finally 1900-1911. He had a separate category for reproductions after pen drawings, chalk and pencil drawings and sketches. The different systems of classification employed by Kok in his collection of reproductions are somewhat at odds with each other: on the one hand he sorted them according to their own qualities (in the portfolio), on the other according to the date of production of the ‘originals’.194 This dual method of classification brings us once more face to face with the intrinsically dual nature of reproductions, which is determined both by the original and the copy’s own qualities. Kok’s collection of reproductions was entirely unique in character and size. This raises the question of to what degree this collection was representative of collections of Israëls reproductions in general. There was probably no compara-

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ble collection in terms of size, although the structure of the collection, with its classification of reproductions according to technique, ranging from engravings to lithographs and photographic processes, was commonly encountered in the nineteenth century in exhibition catalogues and stock lists, while the keeping of prints in portfolios was a longstanding tradition that continued into the nineteenth century. Kok also framed and hung reproductions on the wall.

Israëls’ work versus reproductions While Jozef Israëls was painting his picture De Wieg (The Cradle) in 1856, the lithographer Adolphe Mouilleron was working alongside him on the lithograph of this.195 To what extent did Israëls’ work lend itself to reproduction, in terms of subject, format and technique? Realistic sentiment

Israëls initially chose to paint scenes from Dutch history. Subjects such as De laatste brief van Oldenbarneveld (Last Letter from Oldenbarneveld) (1852) and Willem van Oranje in de raad bij landvoogdes Margaretha van Parma ( Margaretha of Parma and Prince William of Orange) were popular works that were quickly reproduced in the widely read almanacs. Under the influence of the Dusseldorf School and the Barbizon painters, however, Israëls soon let his eye fall on sentimental scenes from his own period. His pictures Langs moeders graf (Passing Mother’s Grave) and De schipbreukeling (The Shipwrecked Mariner) were great successes. He did not, however, paint spontaneous ‘snapshots’ of reality, but carefully staged scenes from the lives of ordinary people, such as Na de Storm (Anxious Moments), generally producing works with a heavily ‘narrative’ character that explored the silent drama of daily life. These realistic sentimental subjects were enormously popular at home and abroad; French and English artists had been successful with such themes since the 1840s.196 Whether Israëls painted scenes of fishermen or simple peasants, these were all subjects that had more than proved their popularity, were excellently suited to reproduction and could count on a large public.

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Rough technique

Colour was a recurring problem for printmakers and photographers. Although Israëls used many dark shades of brown and gray, he did not shun bright blue, red and yellow. Both his sunlit scenes of fishing life and his peasant interiors display a rich range of colour and tone that must have presented printmakers with a challenge. It would be interesting to know what Mouilleron was thinking as he was making his lithograph after Israëls’ colourful painting Eerste Liefde (First Love), for the subtle diversity of grays in this print shows that the experienced printmaker was familiar with the translation of colour to black-andwhite. Both bright colours and dark shadows were often hard to reproduce; Israëls was himself aware of the difficulties which his use of colour caused during reproduction, but did not allow this to influence him.197 Many paintings such as Van duisternis tot licht (From Darkness into Light) (1871) and Niets meer/Alleen (Nothing More/Alone) (1881) display dark areas with no visible features to help printmakers in their adaptation of these. It is interesting to consider Israëls’ painting technique in relation to reproduction. The painter’s early works from the 1850s and 1860s still display a polished paint surface, in which any brush strokes have been smoothed away. This technique reflects his lessons at Paul Délaroche’s studio and his admiration for Ary Scheffer’s work. Over the course of the 1870s and 1880s, however, Israëls employed an increasingly loose and rough technique, like many of his Hague School contemporaries: the smooth paint surface was replaced by clearly visible brushstrokes and a rough texture, not found in the work of ‘fijnschilders’ such as Délaroche and Scheffer. Israëls’ change of technique had consequences for the reproduction of his work, as the rougher texture of his paintings presented printmakers and photographers with increasing problems. Some printmakers endeavoured to produce an exact rendering of the original work, including the paint texture, others opted for their own interpretation of the original.198 At issue was the question of how far printmakers should imitate painting technique or remain faithful to their own graphic medium. In reproductions after Israëls we find examples of adherents of both the ‘moderate’ and ‘orthodox’ persuasion amongst printmakers. The difference between these two approaches is evident in the two reproductions of De Schaapherder (The Shepherd), an etching by Philip Zilcken and an etching by Graadt van Roggen. [fig. 65, 66] The original is the same, the reproductive medium is the same but there is a

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disparity in interpretation, generated by the printmaker’s divergent approaches to the representation of Israëls’ painting technique. Graadt van Roggen was clearly of the ‘orthodox’ school, for he attempted to render the painter’s brushstrokes with his etching needle, etching the blobs and grooves in the paint with minute precision and carefully reproducing Israëls’ painted signature. Although Zilcken also considered himself to be ‘orthodox’, a printmaker at the service of painters and their original pictures, his etched reproduction of De Schaapherder (The Shepherd) tells a different story, for he modified the composition and made no attempt to suggest the original painting technique.199 Thus, Zilcken explicitly translated the original painting into a graphic reproduction. A comparison of both etchings reveals the differences: Zilcken’s treatment is and remains an etching, while Graadt van Roggen’s print is an etching that actually ‘wants’ to be a painting: Graadt van Roggen attempted to transform his graphic medium, Zilcken remained faithful to his graphic metier. It is not known which approach Israëls preferred; he must have been conscious of the two different treatments of his work, yet worked intensively with both etchers.200 Israëls’ rough technique also presented photographers with problems, to which his attention was regularly drawn, as the foreword to the 1904 album Jozef Israëls en zijn kunst, with large-format photogravures, implies: c

‘I never thought that a machine could give back so much of what my disorderly hand had put on the canvas through thick and thin. The more so because I had always been cautioned that no good photographs were to be taken after my work. The heights and depths of the paint, the traces of the scraping knife and the brush hairs, which could not be smoothed away, shiny areas and dull areas, that could not be done. And now today I see reproductions, which give back these paintings in a flattering and complimentary way.’201

The roughly painted surface made great demands on photographers. Nevertheless, technological advancement made many such problems a thing of the past by the end of the nineteenth century. Fine photogravures not only reproduced the composition but also the original technique; the only element absent now was colour.

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fig. 65 Philip Zilcken after Israëls, The Shepherd, etching, Museum Boymans van Beuningen, Rotterdam.

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fig. 66 J.M. Graadt van Roggen after Israëls, The Shepherd (1892), etching, 54.0 x 42.0 cm, Museum Boymans Van Beuningen, Rotterdam.

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When comparing Israëls’ paintings with their reproductions the difference in format is not without significance. Many of his pictures are very large. Naturally, changes to the format affected the appearance of the original work. An interesting picture in this connection is the much reproduced painting Langs moeders graf (Passing Mother’s Grave), one of Israëls best-known works, yet rarely seen over recent decades. After years in the depot of the Stedelijk Museum in Amsterdam, the renowned painting was recently brought out for the Israëls’ retrospective in the Groninger Museum (1999-2000), where it presented a familiar image in an unfamiliarly large format. Although considered a typical example of realism, the scale of the painting defies all reality, for the realistically painted, grieving fisherman is more than lifesize. So the format is more than a formal property of the work, it also determines its significance. Israëls himself was obviously aware of the change in format that occurred when his work was reproduced. He was disappointed, for example, by the small format of the illustrations in Adam Bede. In several letters from 1910, written six months before his death, the elderly painter was still exasperated by his work being reduced in size. The reproduction in question was after one of his pen drawings and the painter had expressed his wish to check the proof closely.202 When he received this, however, he wrote back angrily: c

‘Why reproduced so small? I actually drew it to the scale in which I thought it should be reproduced. With the last one, that was so large, that was different, but this that you have sent me is ridiculous.[…]Enfin, I am depending on it, being reproduced as large as I have drawn it […]203

Although it was common practice to reduce the format of Israëls’ work in reproduction, this was not always the case. Sometimes efforts were made to retain the original’s format, as with the large work Als men oud wordt (When One Grows Old): although Koetser’s reproduction is half the size of the original, it is still an impressive sight, just like the original.204 Art for reproduction?

In general, Israëls’ work lent itself well to reproduction. His sentimental, realistic scenes of simple fishing folk and peasants were extremely popular and highly suitable for reproduction. However, Israëls’ use of colour, sharp contrasts and rough painting technique made the reproduction of his work somewhat trou-

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blesome, although these factors do not seem to have hindered the large-scale reproduction of his pictures. The result was a wide assortment of reproductions, including sophisticated lithographs by Adolphe Mouilleron, a new of versions of De Schaapherder (The Shepherd) and Koetser’s colossal print after Als men oud wordt (When One Grows Old). Israëls’ involvement in the reproduction of his work indicates that he was thoroughly aware of the demands of reproduction. Instead of making his pictures subordinate to the reproduction, however, he seems rather to have fully integrated the element of reproduction into his work. Thus Israëls – like Scheffer – repeated his compositions in painted reductions, replicas, watercolours and drawings, some of which he produced specially for reproduction. Israëls’graphic oeuvre is an exceptional category in this connection. Inspired by the concept of the peintre-graveur, Israëls was active during his career both in the field of painting and printmaking, like many of his contemporaries. After years of collaboration with various printmakers on the graphic reproduction of his work, he decided in the winter of 1872-1873 to try the graphic metier for himself. After several practice pieces, from 1875 he produced an increasing number of published prints.205 Israëls made a total of 37 prints, mainly etchings and a single lithograph.206 How do these prints relate to his ‘original’ works and their graphic reproductions? Israëls’ etchings are generally regarded as original or free graphics and not as reproductions. For the majority of his etchings this classification is certainly correct, as in many instances these are ‘original’ compositions applied to the copper plate by the artist himself. However, an artist can reproduce his own work, as argued in the chapter ‘Pinxit et Sculpsit’. The factor which determines whether a print is a reproduction is the context of its creation, not the identity of the maker. As Dieuwertje Dekkers has demonstrated, the relationship between Israëls’ etchings and the rest of his work is a complex one. Some of these etchings were preliminary studies for a painting, such as the etching Binnenhuis (Interior), a study for the picture Het slapend kind (The Sleeping Child), but with ­others it is hard to ascertain whether the etching was made before or after a specific work.207 Various prints reproduce details from existing paintings: the etching Nettenboetster (Woman Mending Nets), for example, is based on the paintings Oud en versleten (Old and Worn) and Kind aan tafel (Child at Table).208 However, Israëls made other etchings after existing works, one sure indication of this

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­ eing a print’s mirror-image reproduction of a painting: for example, his ­oeuvre b includes mirror-image etchings of Op weg naar huis (On the Way Home) and Als men oud wordt (When One Grows Old).209 [fig. 67] The fact that such prints are a mirror image of an original is a consequence of the graphic process, sometimes found in reproductions by other printmakers, such as Mouilleron’s print after Eerste Liefde (First Love).210 Israëls does not seem to have had a problem with ­mirror-­image compositions, despite the existence of techniques to avoid this ­effect. Mirror-image prints imply a form of ‘imitation’, an essential element in the ­reproductive process, as previously described, so these works should be regarded as reproductions by the artist, rather than examples of ‘original’ graphic art. Although the remaining ‘original’ etchings can be distinguished from reproductions, they are also affiliated with these. In the first place these ‘original’ etchings could be multiplied by printing from the plate; in the second place Israëls treated these prints in a similar way to earlier reproductions of his work, relying on the publisher Buffa for their production and distribution, while keeping a critical eye on the process.211 And as with these earlier reproductions, the painter checked the proofs meticulously before sending them back, covered with notes, to the printer, via the publisher.212 If the results did not please him, he regularly urged the publisher to recover the plates from the printer: c

‘My etchings look highly disagreeable. I think that you should claim them and cout qui cout have them brought back. Then I can perhaps have them printed in Munich or elsewhere. I hope that you will be good enough to see to it that I have the copper plates back as soon as possible.’213

If Israëls was satisfied with the result he set his signature on the prints, as indicated in one of his letters to Buffa: ‘I am home again and shall receive and sign the proofs with pleasure.’214 Once the artist had approved the proofs, the etchings were published as individual prints by the publishers Buffa and Schalekamp, and also included in illustrated publications, like many reproductions. In 1875 De Kunstkronijk published the etching Kind in de stoel (Child in Chair) which Dake, the etcher, praised for being ‘as complete as a painting’.215 In 1876 the Album van de Nederlandsche Spectator published the lithograph Kinderkopje (Head of a Child).216 Several years later, in 1879, some of the artist’s etchings were also published abroad, in the

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fig. 67 Jozef Israëls, When One Grows Old, etching, 38. 6 x 28.1 cm, Groninger Museum, Groningen.

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well-known French journals L’Art, Gazette des Beaux-Arts and l’Illustration.217 In the same year The Fine Art Society of England also offered for sale a set of ten of Israels’s etchings.218 Thus the artist’s original etchings were distributed on a wide scale. Israels also gave them as gifts to his friends and acquaintances. In 1876, for example, he wrote to the influential civil servant Victor de Steurs: c

‘I have taken the liberty of sending you some of my etchings which I have had printed for my pleasure in the hope they will not disappoint you too greatly.- As a token of my esteem I send this small gift, they have not been published.’219

A great admirer of Israëls’ etchings was Vincent van Gogh, who wrote of these to his brother Theo on 6 March 1883: c

‘Have I already written to you about the two large etchings by Israels, a man who is lighting his pipe and an interior of a labourer’s house? How fine they are … I think it so almighty fine of Israels that he is carrying on with etchings, the more so because putting it this way all the others have let it go, despite the gusto with which the etching club was once begun. At least the majority have made no progress in etching and if they do do one, it is no better or more complete that what they made years ago. Yet father Israels is despite his gray hairs still young enough to make advances, and enormous ones too – and I consider that true youth and always green energy. Zounds, if the others had done the same, what fine Dutch etchings would have come into the world. I have 2 small etchings by Israels, perhaps his very first, a girl with a spade in a garden and a woman with a basket on her back. Do you know them? ‘It is I believe published by the “Aquafortistes Belges”.’220

Israëls graphic work forms an important part of his oeuvre. His own etchings display an interesting interaction between original and reproduction. The majority of these etchings are ‘original’ etchings which display original compositions depicted by the artist in his own fashion. Some of the artist’s etchings can be regarded as his ‘own’ reproductions, given the context of their creation. All these prints were distributed through the same firms and networks as other reproductions, and found their way into the same illustrated publications. Israëls’

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own prints thus form an important addition to his own paintings, replicas, watercolours, drawings and the reproductions of these by others. For Jozef Israëls the distance between his art and its reproduction was not so great. From the beginning of his career his work was reproduced in diverse prints and photographs. The painter was thoroughly aware of his connection with his brainchildren, whom he believed deserved careful legal protection, as indicated by his efforts to secure authorship rights for visual artists in the Netherlands. He also seems to have been conscious of the economic value of reproductions after his work. Although he probably derived income from prints after his work, we do not know how much. Yet the sums involved in this should not be overestimated. When Israëls was asked to give his permission for a work to be reproduced, he generally granted this in an amiable fashion, without demanding much in return. Moroever, he showed himself to be artistically involved in the multiplication of his work: he had definite preferences for specific printmakers and kept a close eye on the reproductive process, checking all reproductions meticulously, whether these were independent prints, small engravings for almanacs, albums such as Kinderen der Zee (Children of the Sea), illustrations for Adam Bede or his own etchings. He regularly signed finished reproductions, some of which then found their way into exhibitions. He frequently used prints after his work as gifts to help him maintain and expand his personal network. His sense of involvement in reproductions after his work is illustrated by his insistence that Kruseman the publisher taken care of his ‘children’s best clothes’. Israëls himself also cared for his brainchildren as a committed father. Given his exceptional involvement in reproductions after his work, such prints should be regarded as a special category on the periphery of his oeuvre, which further comprises paintings, watercolours, drawings, etchings and book illustrations. The close association between Israëls’ original work and reproductions of this is not only expressed through his involvement in the reproductive process, for art and reproductions also went hand in glove at the firms of art dealers with whom he did business: Buffa, Goupil and Schalekamp all sold reproductions after the painter’s work, alongside his paintings, watercolours and etchings. The loss of much of these firms’ archive material, however, makes it hard to gain any insight into the relationship between their trade in original work and their trade in reproductions. Nevertheless, their respective backgrounds suggest that

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fig. 68 Abraham Hesselink, monument for Jozef Israëls (1922), bronze and stone, height 465 cm, Groningen.

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there was probably a connection between the two activities. All had started out as publishers of reproductions, expanding their activities over time to encompass the sale of original graphic works and paintings as well. The combination of print selling and art dealing is illustrated by Schalekamp’s differentiated range of Israëls’ products, which included diverse photographic reproductions, etched re­ productions by Steelink (also available in the deluxe album Jozef Israëls. l’Homme et l’Artiste) and an original etching Nettenboetsters (Women Mending Nets) by the painter himself (sold in 1900 for the same price as Steelink’s reproductions).221 Finally the master’s own etchings were also published in the same illustrated journals as graphic reproductions after his work by various printmakers. Jozef Israëls died on 12 August 1911. The Groningen association of art lovers Pictura decided to honour the town’s famous son by erecting a statue in his memory. Designed by Abraham Hesselink, this comprised the figures from Israëls’ masterpiece Langs moeders graf (Passing Mother’s Grave), translated into three-dimensional bronze.222 [fig. 68] Thus the artist was commemorated with a ‘monumental’ reproduction of his best-known work.

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chapter 7

‘I Rather Like to Combine Profit with Pleasure’ 1

Lawrence Alma-Tadema (1836-1912) and Reproductions after His Work

In 1869 De Kunstkronijk included a report about a highly unusual visit to the exhibition of living masters in Amsterdam. Bronze statues of Ary Scheffer and Rembrandt had come to life and met each other in the early hours of the morning, before the doors of the Arti et Amicitiae society of artists in the Dutch capital: c ‘Anybody who realises how tediously and monotously the life of a statue creeps forward, can easily comprehend that these statues make the best of the nightly and early morning hour, to recoup themselves for this painful repose. Yet Scheffer was singularly surprised when he saw Rembrandt standing before him. The same object had enticed them both here. Scheffer made a shallow bow to Rembrandt, allowed him to enter first and soon both were in the upper halls of Arti, to which an exhibition of modern art had manifestly inveigled them. “Popped over from Dordt [Dordrecht], to see Arti’s exhibition?” asked Rembrandt, his moustache curling; “there won’t be much here to your liking!” “Who knows?” answered Sheffer, “I am not so exclusive; perchance you do not know that there was even a period in my art life when people called me Rembrandtesque: when I

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painted those pictures of Count Ebenhard for example, which were in the Kat in Dordt and have now been purchased by the city of Rotterdam for her Boymans museum.” “Yes I do,” replied Rembrandt. “I knew that. You have no reason to complain of your compatriots. Just think of that Scheffer-Album.” “And neither do you. What does Vosmaer not do for you with his Rembrandt Harmens van Rijn? And is not the old-Hollandish school, of which you be indisputably the head, presently celebrated and imitated?”’2 Once inside, the two famous masters stroll through the exhibition and discuss modern art. By Alma-Tadema’s painting Hoe Claudius keizer van Rome werd (Proclaiming Claudius Emperor), their conversation continues thus: c ‘“That is no common-place artist,” cried Scheffer, “who endeavours to dig up and restore the general character of extinct races. Archaeological painting!” “Definitely a commission for the library of some archaelogist or another,” said Rembrandt, “for to be sure that is not the calling of art; there is no soul in it, though the whole antique mish-mash be exhibited with undisputable knowledge!” “Tis able,” said Scheffer pensively, “but, so as said, I fear, that art in this fashion deviates from its calling. There is yet another canvas by Tadema, let us go and see that in the other hall.” Arriving at the work Wittebroodsweken (The Honeymoon): “A la bonheur!” exclaimed Scheffer, “that is more attractive. Here that archaic-like execution and style is less pettily displayed. The blond figure of a woman is extremely charming in pose and the head excellently modelled, the youth as well. There is a grace scattered over the whole, that should charm everyone.” “To be sure,” replied Rembrandt, “but the pettiness with which the slightest details are treated, is repugnant to me. Look at that table and that floor.” “I can somewhat fancy,” Scheffer continued, while he meticulously viewed the details, “that a man like you, who lives for light and brown, and neglects many a detail for your effect – ” “Neglects? Better to choose another word!” Rembrandt exclaimed gruffly. “What haven’t you ‘neglected’ with your adoration of contour and lines!” “That is what I recently thought when I viewed your Christus Consolator at Fodor: very philosophical, deeply considered, rigorously drawn, but – not a painting!” “They thought otherwise in my life!” said Scheffer pensively, nodding his

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head. “At least in your life you did better with your art than I!” resumed Rembrandt somewhat regretfully. “Posterity thinks it can make up for everything with its statues!”’3 This fictional conversation between Rembrandt and Scheffer offers a ‘realistic’ picture of the attitude towards Alma-Tadema’s work in the Netherlands. Although the painter received a gold medal in 1862 for his Merovingian painting Venantius Fortunatus leest zijn gedichten voor aan Radegonda (Venantius Fortunatus Reading His Poems to Radegonda) and an award in 1868 for his contribution to Dutch art, in the ‘land of Rembrandt’ his ‘archeological painting’ struck a false note amidst the realistic genre and landscape paintings of Willem Roelofs, Anton Mauve and Jozef Israëls. In general there was respect for his technical skill and great archeological knowledge of the past, but no more than that.4 Back on the street, the bronze figures of Rembrandt and Scheffer were greeted by a statue of the poet Vondel, then all three gentlemen returned to their plinths. In 1869, when the statues of Scheffer and Rembrandt discussed his work, the Frisian-born painter Lawrence Alma-Tadema had been absent from his native country for many years. From 1852 he had worked in Antwerp, under the influence of his mentors Louis de Taeye (1822-1890) and Henri Leys (1815-1869). In 1861 he had also enjoyed his first success, with the painting De opvoeding van de kinderen van Clovis (The Education of the Children of Clovis) (1861). [plate 16] After producing several works with medieval subjects, he began to specialise in depicting ancient Egypt, making his debut at the Paris Salon, in 1864, with the painting Pastimes in Ancient Egypt 3,000 years ago (1863), which immediately won him a gold medal. [plate 17] In the same year the ‘archaeologist amongst the painters’ became acquainted with the treasures of the Roman Empire; a visit to Pompeii confirmed his fascination with this richly historical period and produced countless paintings of Greek and Roman subjects.5 Alma-Tadema’s archeological depictions of the past also captured the attention of the influential art dealer and publisher Ernest Gambart, who had learned his profession from Goupil but was now a leading player in his own right, doing good business with work by artists such as Henri Leys and Rosa Bonheur (1822-1899). Through them he had undoubtedly heard of the talented young painter Alma-Tadema. Gambart and Alma-Tadema first met in 1864. Once the young painter heard that the influential dealer was coming to Antwerp, he

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arranged a meeting with him through a carefully planned ruse: when Gambart went to pay a visit to the studio of the painter Joseph Laurent Dyckmans (18111888), Alma-Tadema’s friends ensured that Gambart’s coachman was given the young Frisian’s address instead. The art dealer took this ‘ruse’ sportingly and was immediately impressed by Alma-Tadema’s work, even offering him a contract for no less than twenty-four paintings, which he proposed to purchase at increasing prices. Although Gambart was initially attracted by the painting Bij het verlaten van de kerk in de vijftiende eeuw (Leaving Church in the Fifth Century) (1864), Alma-Tadema soon managed to persuade him to include his Egyptian subjects and new interest in Greek and Roman antiquity in this arrangement; the art dealer agreed, doubtlessly thinking of the success enjoyed by young English artists such as Frederick Leighton (1830-1896), Albert Moore (1841-1893) and Edward Poynter (1836-1918), who were currently attracting attention with scenes from classical antiquity.6 In 1865, partly on the advice of Gambart, AlmaTadema moved from Antwerp to the more sophisticated city of Brussels, where he worked on the art dealer’s pictures, his first major commission. From this period onwards, slowly but surely, his paintings began to sell increasingly well, encouraging Gambart, in 1868, to award Alma-Tadema his second major commission, this time for fifty-two paintings. Both commissions established an exceptionally successful working relationship between the artist and his dealer.7 In the past Gambart had achieved previous successes with Ary Scheffer, Jozef Israëls, Holman Hunt and Rosa Bonheur; from this moment onwards, however, his name would be chiefly associated with the young Alma-Tadema. Gambart’s biographer Jeremy Maas has produced an incisive analysis of their relationship: c ‘In him Gambart found a painter who was tailor-made to his requirements; industrious, never so rarefied in his idealism as to be blind to the vagaries of the art market, and unfailingly capable of painting rich and luscious pictures exactly suited to the tastes of the new bourgeoisie, particularly in England and America. It is no exaggeration to say that, while he was aided and abetted by that genial figure, Alma-Tadema was Gambart’s greatest creation.’8 Thanks to Gambart’s commissions, by the late 1860s Alma-Tadema had de­ veloped into a well-known artist. On 8 June 1868 he wrote to his cousin Hendrik W. Mesdag: 43 0

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c

‘If an amateur has asked after my paintings believe me it is more to own a work by me than because he admires it.’[...] One thing is certain namely that I have more reputation in Paris than in Holland and Belgium. Everyone knows me there. I have even encountered a Gentleman who has offered to build a house according to my need and pleasure and drawings on a plot that he owns [...] I have not immediately snapped this up as it does not yet altogether suit me. We have been to see some other houses extremely charming and extremely suitable for me all about 5, 6 or 7 thousand francs rent situated around rue de Boulogne rue de Bruxelles rue Laval etc. as well as in Paris. It has become apparent to me that it is extremely difficult to find an entire house with a garden in Paris. We have deferred the matter somewhat, however, there is du reste no haste as yet and we have time.’9

Nevertheless, at this point Alma-Tadema’s work was little collected in France, the Netherlands or Belgium; his paintings were mainly exported to England, where Gambart had introduced the young artist into the Victorian art world. In England Alma-Tadema had met contemporaries such as John Everett Millais, Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828-1882) and George Frederick Watts (1817-1904), plus his future (second) wife Laura Theresa Epps (1854-1909). While the road to Paris had been closed by the Franco-Prussian War, he was received with open arms in England in more than one respect. So Alma-Tadema decided to move to London where he would evolve into one of the leading Victorian artists during the 1870s. From this point onwards England became his second homeland. Unlike ‘Scheffer and Rembrandt’, many English critics did admire this archaeological painter of subjects from Greek and Roman antiquity. In the early 1870s Gambart gradually withdrew from his business which he passed on to his nephew L.H. Lefèvre on 25 March 1871. Nevertheless the old art dealer remained active in the art world under his own name and maintained close contacts with Alma-Tadema.10 In Gambart’s footsteps Lefèvre continued to deal in paintings and publish reproductions; the English firm of Lefèvre, later Pilgeram & Lefèvre, also continued the relationship with Alma-Tadema and thus remained the most important firm to deal in his work and its reproductions. Alma-Tadema saw his work reproduced in many engravings, etchings, lithographs and photographs. Reproductions after his work were also published in various illustrated publications – from periodicals and exhibitions catalogues to

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archaeological reference works. The two previous chapters have considered Scheffer and Israëls; this chapter now focuses on reproductions of Alma-Tadema’s work. What kind of reproductions were published after his work and what was the painter’s attitude to such prints? The chapter concludes by examinining the significance of reproductions for Alma-Tadema and his work. In many respects the Frisian-born artist had transformed himself into an English gentlemen and had even been elevated to the English aristocracy, as Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema. When referring to his work, I shall use the original titles wherever possible: Dutch titles for his early work on the European continent, and mainly English titles for the pictures he produced after moving to England. I shall refer to the artist himself as Alma-Tadema. Born with the surname Tadema, he later added Alma to this himself. Opinion is divided as to when and why he did this. Some believe this was a Christian name, derived from his grandfather; another story is that he added the name to give his work more prominence at exhibitions where it was the custom to hang pictures alphabetically: unsuspecting visitors (including critics, publishers and dealers) would thus see work by AlmaTadema sooner than work by Tadema. We do not know if this story is true, but given the artist’s business acumen, we cannot exclude the possibility. What is certain, however, is that the artist signed his work Alma-Tadema from the age of sixteen.11

Alma-Tadema and copyright Alma-Tadema was the son of a notary public so he was familiar with the world of law from an early age. Although he initially seemed destined for a legal career, he chose to become an artist. The biographer Helen Zimmern later wrote: c ‘Today we hardly know whether it is more touching or more comic to think of the painter of “Sappho”, of “Phidias”, of the “First-born” of so many masterpieces, as destined for the dry, dusty, unpoetic profession of the law.’12 However, Alma-Tadema never completely divorced himself from the law. The first explicit indication of his legal awareness is found in a letter that he wrote to his good friend, the classicist and lawyer Carel Vosmaer (1826-1888).13 In this

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he refers to several sketches of the personifications of Music and Drawing that he had made to decorate his studio. There was a possibility these sketches would be published as prints by the Leiden-based publisher Sijt­hoff, in which event Alma-Tadema proposed: ‘then Mr Sijthoff will have to give me something. e.g. a “Royalty.”’14 He did not regard the reproduction and distribution of his compositions as something to which no strings were attached: the exploitation of his work via reproduction required some compensation for the artist in the form of a ‘royalty’. The absence of a law in the Netherlands governing authorship rights for the visual arts, however, meant that Sijthof was not legally required to pay AlmaTadema anything. The painter’s proposal simply attests to a general awareness of his rights, an awareness increasing felt by increasing numbers of artists. For unknown reasons the plan to publish his sketches as independent prints was not pursued, although these works eventually found their way into De Kunstkronijk, of which more later. Alma-Tadema’s desire for a royalty raises the question of how he dealt with the issue of copyrights to his work. Did he make agreements with art dealers regarding the possible reproduction of his paintings? It is feasible that reproduction rights were an important element in the purchase and sale of Alma-Tadema’s work, and certainly conceivable that Ernest Gambart made agreements with the painter in this regard, for he, more than any other dealer was aware of the importance of copyrights. At any rate copyright agreements were made between Alma-Tadema and Gambart’s successors, Pilgeram & Lefèvre. The painter wrote to Vosmaer concerning the sale of his work A Parting Kiss (1882) also known as Au Revoir: [plate 18] c ‘These amateurs are a fine bunch.[...] My Au Revoir that now should be seen in Paris in the Salle Petit was reserved by an amateur friend for a low price. Madame took no fancy to it, at least not to be agreeable to me. As she did not decide I sold the painting in the 12 hours for the same money plus copyright to my art buyer who made 1500 livres on it within the hour from another amateur. Now the friend is angry of course, but I don’t care.’15 Alma-Tadema sold the painting ‘plus copyright’ to his ‘art buyer’, L.H. Lefèvre, who then sold it on to an art lover, although the dealer probably did not part with the reproduction rights, for several years later he published an engraving of this work.16 Another example is the picture At the Shrine of Venus (1888, cclxxx-

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ix), the reproduction rights to which the painter had sold to the Berliner Photografische Gesellschaft before its exhibition at the Royal Academy.17 Alma­Tadema also parted with the copyright to Tarquinius Superbus when he sold this work to Pilgeram & Lefèvre; The Magazine of Art explicitly thanked this firm of art dealers when it published a reproduction of the picture in 1878.18 Alongside reproduction rights, exhibition rights also played a role in Alma­Tadema’s career. The exhibition of artworks provided an important opportunity for their commercial exploitation.19 Once again the tone had been set by Gambart; many art dealers followed his example and endeavoured to capitalise on popular art works through exhibition, often without the artist’s consent. AlmaTadema, for example was highly displeased when his sketch Hush! She Sleeps (1870, lxxxv) was exhibited by the art dealer and publisher Thomas McLean, who had not advised the painter of this in advance: c ‘May I be allowed to say that I am sorry to see that the old sketch called Hush dating as far as 1870 is exhibited publi­cly. Really, exhibiti­on-makers ought to ask the artist’s permission to use his name in order to at­tract the public to pay their shillings for his show.’20 With this objection Alma-Tadema went to the heart of the matter. Exhibiting an artwork was a form of exploitation that directly touched on the artist’s interests, as the painter well knew. He regarded this particular sketch as out of date, no longer representative of his artistic qualities at that time and thus unsuitable for exhibition. Apart from the artist’s interests, the interests of an artwork’s owner also had to be taken into consideration. This is illustrated by a letter from AlmaTadema to the actor Benoit-Constant Coquelin (1841-1909) regarding his painting Reve­rie (1874 opus cxli). The painter wanted to exhibit the picture and asked the work’s new owner for permission to do this; on receipt of this permission he wrote: ‘Comme vous n’avez pas re­prondre a ma proposition de l’expose a la gallery. Ici j’ai en avoir votre permission de le faire et dis au­jourd’hui c’est depose la et visible a tous les visiteurs comme votre proprie­te.’21 Alma-Tadema’s interest in authorship rights extended beyond his own work. In his library he had several legal publications, including W. Briggs, The Law of International Copy­rights. Pros­pectus of Work, Giving Contents and Index (1906), M. Routh, The Law of Artistic Copyrights (1881) and various American law amendments.22 A

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review of Routh’s The Law of Artistic Copyrights in The Art Jour­nal reproached the author for writing too much from the perspective of artists’ interests and thereby failing to give sufficient weight to the interests of other parties, such as owners.23 Given Alma-Tadema’s own defence of his rights as an artist, it is doubtful whether he would have agreed with this criticism. The painter’s interest in authorship rights is also evident in his efforts to secure greater legal protection for artists and their work. On 27 April 1897 Alma-Tadema wrote to his friend, the artist Edward Burne-Jones: ‘I left at 7 to reach home for a match of food to be at 8.30 at the Commis­sion Meeting of the Copyright Law which lasted till 12 mid­night.’24 The Copyright Law Committee had been established fourteen months previously, on 24 February 1896, during a meeting at the St John’s Wood Arts Club; Alma-Tadema had been appointed chairman of this committee whose immediate task was to investigate and report on legislation in the field of authorship rights, the ultimate objective being to formulate an amendment to the law and improve this legislation. The other committee members were prominent painters, engravers and designers. The committee’s recommendations were adopted by the Royal Academy and presented to Parliament.25 Alma-Tadema’s chairmanship of the Copyright Law Committee underlines his interest in authorship rights, a field in which by now he had acquired the requisite experience. The painter was also following in Gambart’s footsteps, for the art dealer had already been an advocate of authorship rights back in 1863. In the final decades of the nineteenth century the issue was still highly relevant.26

Independent reproductions Engravings, etchings and photographs

During his time in Antwerp Alma-Tadema had completed his painting The Education of the Children of Clovis (1861, xiv). [plate 16] The work had been commissioned by the Antwerpse Vereniging voor de Bevordering van de Beeldende Kunsten (Antwerp Association for the Promotion of the Visual Arts) and was to be the prize in its lottery. The fortunate new owner was none other than King Leopold of Belgium. The large work caused quite a stir and provided the young painter with his first success. After the picture had been exhibited in Antwerp it was transferred in the same year, 1861, to the exhibition of works by living masters in The Hague; in 1864 and 1866 it was also displayed at the premises of

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Arti et Amicitiae in Amsterdam. Given the picture’s success it is hardly a coincidence that the Vereeniging tot Bevordering van Beeldende Kunsten in Nederland (Association for the Promotion of the Visual Arts in the Netherlands) chose this work as its presentation plate for 1866.27 As in Antwerp a lottery was also organised, the consolation prize being a reproduction of the picture engraved by J.H. Rennefeld, who had also made prints of Israëls’ work.28­ Rennefeld’s engraving of The Education of the Children of Clovis (1861, xiv) is thus one of the earliest independent prints after Alma-Tadema’s work. While the painted original was owned by the King of Belgium, a reproduction of this could be acquired by the man in the street. In 1865 Alma-Tadema moved from Antwerp to Brussels where he shared a studio at 51 rue de Palais with the Belgian photographer J. Dupont.29 The photographic medium had now developed beyond the experimental state and was being used for the reproduction of artworks on an increasing scale; it was no longer regarded as innovative for a painter and a photographer to work together. Ary Scheffer and Jozef Israëls had had photographs taken of their works ten years previously. What was new, however, was the intensive and structural nature of Alma-Tadema and Dupont’s collaboration. The painter had the photographer record his pictures in their various phases, as he was painting them, then used these photographs as the basis for elaborate experimentation with the design of his compositions.30 Dupont’s reproductions thus served as ‘photographic’ intermediate stages in the creation of the painter’s work. Dupont also took many portraits of Alma-Tadema and his family. As thanks for these diverse photographs the painter gave Dupont his picture The Mirror, which the photographer subsequently sold. Alma-Tadema mentioned this in a letter to Vosmaer: c ‘Dupont who, has photographed my family more than once, to be explicit: some hundred portraits and who has reproduced several of my paintings, I paid with a sketch of a day’s work. His excellency [J. Dupont] has sold the thing for 3,000 francs, it turned up here for sale [and] has caused me troubles with my art dealer and at last it has been sold to some lover of art for 6,000 francs.’31 The art dealer in question was Ernest Gambart, who was very keen on photography, as has been previously noted. His business appears to have been disrupted by the arrival of this work on the market, although it seems curious that Du-

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pont’s picture constituted a greater threat to his trade in paintings than Dupont’s photographs to his trade in reproductions. However, these photographs probably only left the shared studio to an extremely limited extent, and were mainly used within its walls, to aid the painter in his work. An interesting early photograph is a reproduction of the watercolour In the Temple (1872, xcvii), from 1872, one version of which is currently in the Fries Museum in Leeuwarden. By the time he painted this work, Alma-Tadema was living and working in London, where he was producing many pictures to commission for Gambart. The photograph of the watercolour was also published by Gambart. Although the art dealer’s opposition to illegal photographs of art works was stated in chapter three, it should be made clear that it was the illegality of the act, not the medium itself which bothered him. He was, after all, one of the first dealers to venture into the photograph trade during the 1840s. It is not clear when Gambart had the first photographs taken of Alma-Tadema’s work, although this was probably not much earlier than 1870. During this period the painter’s pictures were only photographed on a modest scale, much to his disappointment as he complained to Vosmaer in 1873: ‘The publication of photographs is a difficult thing, the publishers are not willing to spend enough money on this.’32 Although the artist himself saw the opportunities offered by photographic reproduction, he depended on the publishers’ cooperation. To Alma-Tadema’s disappointment publishers still preferred traditional engravings and etchings. When Gambart decided to have his favourite work by AlmaTadema, The Vintage Festival, reproduced, he also opted for a traditional engraving, rather than a photograph. The artist had painted the work for Gambart on commission and completed the picture in 1870. With his plans for an engraving in mind, the art dealer also commissioned Alma-Tadema to paint a reduced version of the work, which was finished just over six months later.33 [fig. 69] Several months after this the first, large version was put on display in Gambarts French Gallery in London, where it was soon bought by the wealthy banker Baron J. H.W. von Schroeder. The large painting was transported to its new owner and the reduction was sent to the well-known engraver Auguste Blanchard. Even before the print had been published The Art Journal wrote, in 1871: c ‘It is placed in the hands of the eminent engra­ver Blanchard, whose reputa­tion is very high in England as well as in France. He is certain to

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fig. 69 Auguste Blanchard after Alma-Tadema, The Vintage Festival (1874), engraving 49.5 x 95 cm, Fries Museum, Leeuwarden.

produce a plate of surpassing merit; for the style and “manner” of the picture is precisely suited to the burin of the master.’34 It was undoubtedly Gambart who chose to have his favourite Alma-Tadema painting engraved by Blanchard: he must have known Blanchard’s fine engravings after Scheffer’s work, such as Christus Remunerator, and the Frenchman had already made a name for himself in England with prints after various renowned Victorian masters. These included his 1858 engraving after the famous painting Derby Day by William Powell Frith and his 1867 work after The Fin­ding of the Saviour in the Temple by William Holman Hunt, both highly popular successful prints, both published by Gambart.35­Gambart must have been a great admirer of the French engraver, for he commissioned various reproductions from him. Charmed as he was by Alma-Tadema’s paintings, it is hardly surprising therefore that he once again chose Blan­chard for their reproduction. The engraver already had experience with Alma-Tadema’s work, through his engraving after the painter’s Egyptian picture Pastimes in Ancient Egypt: 3,000 Years Ago, published in The Art Journal of 1867.36 According to the register of the Printsellers Association, Blanchard’s engraving after The Vintage Festival was published on 8 January 1874.37 It is thus the

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first independent reproduction of a work by Alma-Tadema to be listed in this register. The print was not published by Gambart himself, but by his successor and nephew Léon Lefèvre. Blanchard’s engraving of The Vintage Festival was followed almost two years later, on 24 December 1875, by a further two engravings by his hand after works by Alma-Tadema, The Picture Gallery and The Sculpture Gallery.38 For the reproduction of these two pictures Alma-Tadema once more painted a reduction of the original as an alternative for the engraver; in fact he apparently completed the reduction of The Picture Gallery earlier than the full-size version, for he wrote to Vosmaer: ‘The large paintings are still in the process of creation, the reduction of the painting lover is now in Paris with Blan­chard who has started the engraving of it.’39 Although use of the term ‘reduction’ generally implies that the work which this denotes was made after the original, in this instance the two versions of The Picture Gallery appear to have been painted at the same time. Nevertheless, there are some notable differences between the two. The large picture depicts a Roman gallery of paintings with diverse figures, identified as individuals from Alma-Tadema’s immediate circle. In all probability the old art dealer in the centre of the composition is none other than Ernest Gambart, with his successors, P.J. Pilgeram and Léon Lefèvre, in the background, and the influential art dealer Paul DurandRuel to the right; in the foreground two men, possibly the art dealers Henry Wallis and Charles Deschamps, are looking intently at a work on the easel. All these figures are thus well-known business associates of the old dealer, which also makes this Roman scene an interesting reflection of the Victorian art dealing world. Only the woman in the foreground is not an art dealer; in all probability she is Madame Angelée, Gambart’s mistress. Alma-Tadema painted both the pictures, large and small, on commission for Gambart; the larger painting was intended to hang in Gambart’s own house in Nice, which is probably why the painter incorporated various individuals from the art dealer’s life in this Roman subject.40 In the print after the reduction, which was also commissioned by Gambart, Alma-Tadema modified the composition, however, and omitted the figure of Gambart, [plate 19, fig. 70] who probably did not wish to feature in a print he was publishing himself. In 1875 Alma-Tadema completed the pendant, A Sculpture Galle­ry (1874 cxxv), plus a reduced version for reproduction (1875 clvii).41 In addition to such reductions Alma-Tadema also supplied the printmakers with watercolours, drawings and photographs as (additional) visual material.42 On 24 December 1875 Blanchard’s prints after The Picture Gallery and The Sculpture Gallery

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were published, plus another engraving by his hand after A Bacchante. It was partly thanks to his earlier print after The Vintage Festival that Blanchard was now able to make a name so rapidly as an engraver of Alma-Tadema’s work.43 At the same time as Blanchard’s engravings were published, an etched reproduction after A Roman Emperor: 41 ad by the French etcher Paul Rajon (1842/31888) was also issued.44 Like Blanchard, Rajon was another leading printmaker. The Art Journal lauded the print as: ‘the joint work of two great men, the painter Alma-Tadema and the artist-etcher Rajon.’45 Alma-Tadema himself also described the print as ‘a magnificent etching’.46 The painter was a close friend of Rajon and a great admirer of his graphic work. In a letter to Carel Vosmaer he declared: ‘Sijt­ hoff asked me for the address of a good etcher [...]. I immediately mentioned Rajon to him who is certainly the best of all.’47 Rajon’s etching is inextricably associated with the rising popularity of etched reproductions in this period.48 The etching technique was particularly popular in England during the 1870s and 1880s, and many etchers crossed the Channel, hoping to profit from this. In 1876 The Art Journal also observed the growing popularity of the etching technique in the reproduction of paintings, for which Rajon’s etchings were partly repsonsible.49 On 24 December 1875, the same date on which Blanchard’s engravings and Rajon’s etching were issued, two etchings by the Dutch printmaker Leopold Löwenstam (1842-1898) after works by Alma-Tadema, The First Whisper of Love and its pendant In Confidence, were also published.50 In the footsteps of etchers such as Rajon, Löwenstam was also making a name with etched reproductions. After studying at the Koninklijke Academie voor Beeldende Kunst in Amsterdam and working in Stockholm for some time as an etcher, he also moved to London where he lived and worked from 1873. There he also met Alma-Tadema with whom he would subsequently collaborate intensively for many years. The majority of reproductions after Alma-Tadema were produced by this Dutch etcher, who, like the painter himself, regarded England as his second homeland. I shall return to the subject of the collaboration between Alma-Tadema and Löwenstam below. While the printmakers Blachard, Rajon and Löwenstam were working on their prints, Alma-Tadema was hoping that the distinguished etcher Leopold Flameng (1831-1911) would be willing to make two etchings after two Merovingian works. Knowing that the printmaker was going to Amsterdam to make a print of The Nightwatch in the Rijksmuseum, Alma-Tadema wrote to his friend Carel Vosmaer:

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‘You know that Fla­meng, copied the hundred guilder print for the French

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fig. 70 Tadema, A Picture Gallery (1877), engraving 50.2 x 39.4 cm, The Maas Gallery, London.

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fig. 71 Leopold Löwenstam after Welcome Footsteps by Alma-Tadema (1888), etching, 34.3 x 47 cm, The Maas Gallery, London.

Government and now [is coming] to Amsterdam to make the Nightwatch as a pendant? The print has turned out magnificently and as the Nightwatch is so successful, I promise you that the etching will be finer. If we reach a decision he can now start on the Fredegon­da and Venan­ti­us Fortu­natus, which are now in Amster­dam.’51­­ In 1873 the two Merovingian paintings, Queen Fredegonda at the Death-Bed of Bishop Praetextatus (1864) and Venantius Fortunatus Reading His Poems to Radegonda vi: ad 555 (1862) were owned by J. Borski and H.D. Hooft van Woudenberg, respectively, both of whom lived in Amsterdam. It is interesting that Alma-Tadema wished to take advantage of the printmaker’s stay in Holland for the reproduction of his own work.52 It is not known if Alma-Tadema and the renowned printmaker

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reached any agreement. I know of no prints by Flameng after Alma-Tadema, so it seems as if the plan did not go ahead for one reason or another. After these early prints from the mid-1870s, most of the reproductions after Alma-Tadema’s work were etchings, which were mainly produced by Leopold Löwenstam, and one by Paul Rajon. On 9 May 1876, for example, Rajon’s etching after On the Steps of the Capitol was published. While the etcher was still working on this print, Alma-Tadema wrote to Vosmaer: ‘He is now already “busy” with the “spri­ng flo­wers” and is looking forward greatly to etching my portrait in the project.’53 As there is no painting known with this title, Alma-Tadema was probably referring to the watercolour Spring Flowers: Garland Sellers on the Steps of the Capitol (1874, cxxxviii), a second version of his earlier painting On the Steps of the Capitol (1874, cxxxii). When the etching was published, however, it did not bear the title of the watercolour, but of the oil painting.54 Another etching is by Löwenstam after Pleading (1876, clxvii), for which the etcher probably worked from a watercolour entitled, A Sollicitati­on (1878, clxxxix), produced two years after the original oil painting.55 William Unger made an etching after a related picture A Questi­on (1877 opus clxxxv) in 1879.56 During the 1870s and 1880s etchings after Alma-Tadema’s work were regularly published in England, including Löwenstam’s fine etching after Welcome Footsteps from 1888.57 [fig. 71] The popularity of etched reproductions did not prevent engravings after AlmaTadema’s work from continuing to be published, including two Auguste Blanchard engravings, one after The Torch Dance (1881, ccxxii), intended as a pendant to his earlier engraving after A Bacchante, and one after In the Time of Constantine, published a year later in 1883.58 In 1884 and 1886 prints were also published after The Parting Kiss and An Oleander.59 [fig. 72] The extent to which engravings were published alongside etchings is shown by the reproduction of Alma-Tadema’s paintings of the four seasons, which had been commissioned by Pilgeram & Lefèvre: on 25 September 1879 a series of four Blanchard engravings after the paintings were published, subsequently followed by an etched series by Löwenstam and the Italian etcher Battista Maggi.60 A noteworthy engraving is Blanchard’s print after Dolce far niente (also known as Resting, 1882, ccxliv). Five days before completing this painting Alma-Tadema had produced a watercolour with the same title. However, the two works were mirror images of each other. According to Swanson, Alma-Tadema had probably had the painting photographed before completion, as he often did, and used the

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negative as the basis for the watercolour, which he may have made as additional visual material for the printmaker; since the watercolour was already a mirror image of the painting, the printmaker, in this instance Auguste Blanchard, was able to simply transfer the image to his plate; after printing the image again corresponded with the original.61 Thanks to the use of this watercolour the engraver was released from the troublesome task of reversing the image. Blanchard’s print after Dolce far niente is thus an interesting example of how painting, printmaking and photography were sometimes deployed in combination in order to make the reproduction of artworks an easier process. Ernest Gambart had set the tone in the early 1870s with his project for Blanchard’s print after The Vintage Festival. The large original painting of this subject had been purchased at this time by the banker Baron von Schroeder. Years later the same collector asked Gambart for a pendant to accompany his cherished painting, prompting Gambart to commission Alma-Tadema to produce an appropriate pendant, A Dedication to Bacchus (1889, ccxciii), featuring a similar subject and painted in the same format. Gambart again asked the artist to paint a reduction of this work (1889, ccxciv) which he completed a few months later, and Blanchard was once more asked to produce the engraving. When the plate had been finished, the reduction went to Gambart’s villa Les Palmiers in Nice. The print, published in 1892, was one of the last engravings to be produced after Alma-Tadema’ work. [plate 21] Although this traditional reproductive technique continued to exist, it was now only practised by a few printmakers. Blanchard was one of the last skilled engravers; Gambart’s successors were the last publishers who ventured to publish such expensive prints. From the late 1880s onwards, Alma-Tadema’s work was photographed on a considerable scale.62 In the wake of Dupont’s early images such as his photograph after The Sculpture Gallery, publishers were now apparently willing to spend enough money on this technique. [fig. 73] In 1888, when Alma-Tadema painted At the Shrine of Venus (1888 cclxxxix), he had already sold the copyright to this to the Berliner Fotografische Gesellschaft, before the work had been exhibited at the Royal Academy.63 The German firm had branches in Berlin, London and New York, and played an important role in the publication of photographic reproductions. Among their specialities during the 1880s and 1890s were large-format photomechanical photogravures. The first photographic reproduction of a work by Alma-Tadema to be listed in the psa register is The Frigidarium, from 1890,

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fig. 72 Auguste Blanchard after Alma-Tadema, The Parting Kiss (1884), engraving 54.6 x 35.6 cm, The Maas Gallery, London.

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fig. 73 Joseph Dupont after Alma-Tadema, The Sculpture Gallery (ca.1867), albumen print, private collection.

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fig. 74 Anonymous after Alma-Tadema, Spring Festival (1894), photogravure, 38.7 x 95.9 cm, The

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Maas Gallery, London.

published by this German firm.64 Several years later, in 1894, the same firm issued a photograph after Spring, a painting that also dates from 1894.65 [fig. 74] During the second half of the 1890s various photogravures after Alma-Tadema’s work were published, mainly by the art dealer and publisher Arthur Tooth, a leading player in the field of photogravures in this period. In 1894 his firm published a photogravure of The Benedic­tion (1894, cccxxv); a year later a photogravure of Past and Present Generations (1894, cccxxvii). Arthur Tooth followed this print

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fig. 75 Anonymous after Alma-Tadema, Ask Me No More (1906), photogravure 45 x 66.7 cm, The Maas Gallery, London.

with further reproductions after Alma-Tadema’s work, such as photogravures of Roses and Love’s Delight.66 After 1900 the firm of Tooth continued to publish various large-format photogravures of the painter’s pictures.67 The last independent reproductions that I know are photogravures after Ask Me No More, For at a Touch I Yield, from 1906, and the print after Caracalla and Geta: Bear Fight in the Colosseum ad 203, from 1907.68 [fig. 75, 76] In the early years of the twentieth century, these fine large-format photographs determined the public image of Alma-Tadema’s work. It is not known if, and how, the painter may have been involved in these photographic reproductions at the end of his life. Given his fascination with photography, he must have viewed the fine photogravures – in a format of which he could only have dreamed fifty years previously – with great interest. To summarise: for more than half a century Alma-Tadema’s work was reproduced in engravings, etchings and photographs. Remarkably, however, several reproductive techniques are largely absent from the range of reproductions after his

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fig. 76 Anonymous after Alma-Tadema, Caracalla and Geta: Bearfighting in the Coloseum ad 203 (1907), photogravure, 64.1 x 78.7 cm, The Maas Gallery, London.

pictures. Lithography, for example, was barely used for large-format reproductions, with the exception of Bong and Honemann’s lithography after Fredegonda at the De­athbed of Bishop Praetexta­tus (1864 opus xx), from 1866.69 Another absent technique is the typically English mezzotint; like line engraving, this was used less and less at the end of the nineteenth century, although examples of the method were still published. Nevertheless, Alma-Tadema never saw his work reproduced by his renowned contemporary, the mezzotinter Samuel Cousins, or other distinguished printmakers such as T.L. Aitkinson (1817-c.1890) and J.D. Miller (1860-1903). The closest the painter came to this was a mezzotint by Aitkinson after Collier’s portrait of him.70 Why were so few lithographs, and no mezzotints, after Alma-Tadema’s work published? In the case of lithography, this is probably connected with its relatively sparing use for independent prints; in the second half of the nineteenth century the technique tended to be used for illustrated publications and cheaper printed matter rather than for prestigious prints. The absence of lithography and mezzotinting in reproductions of Alma-Tadema’s work may also be associated with the publishers and printmakers with whom

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the painter chose to collaborate. For more than 30 years he worked almost exclusively with Gambart and his successors Pilgeram & Lefèvre.71 He also collaborated for many years with the printmakers Blanchard, Rajon and Löwenstam, who were also his close friends. Alma-Tadema’s informal, personal relationships with specific publishers and printmakers may have caused him to reserve the reproduction of his work exclusively for these firms and individuals, thereby restricting this to the printmakers’ speciality. Blanchard was an engraver, not a mezzotinter, while Löwenstam was a modern etcher who probably had no practical experience with the mezzotint technique. Alma-Tadema’s attachment to a printmaker sometimes seems to have been closer than his relationship with his publisher. For many years he worked intensively with Löwenstam, whose prints were published by Pilgeram & Lefèvre and other publishers; Löwenstam became the painter’s standard etcher, producing more reproductions after Alma-Tadema’s work than any other printmaker or photographer. The painter and his etcher

The careers of the painter Alma-Tadema and the etcher Leopold Löwenstam are similar in pattern. Both had moved from their home country at an early age and gained their first successes abroad, although Alma-Tadema went to Belgium and Löwenstam to Sweden. In the early 1870s they both then moved to London where their paths crossed and they collaborated frequently on reproduction of Alma-Tadema’s work. The painter and etcher also became close friends; Löwenstam even married Alma-Tadema’s English nanny, Alice Search. The bond between Alma-Tadema and Löwenstam is beautifully expressed in the portrait which Alma-Tadema painted of the printmaker in 1883 (1883, cclii), to mark his 41 st birthday. This shows the etcher working intently on a print after a work by Alma-Tadema, using a paper window to view this in mirror image; the watercolour A Declaration (1883, cclviii), which formed the basis for Löwenstam’s reproduction of Amo Te Ama Me (1881, ccxxxiv), can just be identified. Alma-Tadema kept a close eye on the reproductive process. He gave Löwenstam instructions and made corrections, as is evident from an interesting letter from the painter to the printmaker regarding his etching after A Favourite Author.72 [plate 21] The letter, written in English, offers an exceptional insight into their working relationship and is therefore quoted in its entirety:

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‘April 6th, 1889 Dear Löwenstam, When yesterday morning I received a letter from Lefèvre tel­ling me that the etching was finished save a few touches after my remarks, I tele­graphed to Lefèvre in answer to his letter, to come and talk the matter over with me. I cannot feel com­pletely satisfied with the progress of the plate as submit­ted to me in the last proof and as I wanted to dispel the idea from Lefèvre’s mind that he could publish and promise the plate shortly... I asked him to speak to you, and to request you the favour of a call if possible at 7 p.m. yesterday. You arrived at lunch time, and being at the time unusually preoc­cupied with my own work, I preferred not to see you and discuss your work which upset me too much, and I trust you will under­stand and accept this apology. It is not clear to me why you complain of labouring under difficul­ties, in line of a touched up photo. I told you at the time I believe it the better way to leave a photo, which is unusually good in tone and model­ling and to give you a careful drawing of the picture. This drawing in many cases is an outline only, in others it is carried much further, in the left hand of the reading girl for instance. Had you followed my drawing as I repeatedly insisted upon, you’d finish, the plate must have (undeciphe­rable).. and hair like horsehair out of an old sofa... you persist to leave out the hand of the fair girl... you will not look carefully at my drawing, you pay no attention to the modelling on the photo, you accept very little of my comments... you reproach me for having failed in keeping my promise, you are childish and infatuated with your work as to tell me that under the circumstances you doubt very much whether any etcher could do better. I am sorry to have to write, Lowen, that I decline to sign such work as it stands, and I trust that our meeting tomorrow at 12 Noon will make you feel that it will be a good thing if you took the plates up again and worked at it with all the might and wish to make it as well as you can. Yours sincerely, Alma-Tade­ma’

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The letter shows that Alma-Tadema had examined the reproduction minutely, in search of irregularities in the drawing. He believed that instructions in the margin and close consultation with the printmaker were required to steer the reproductive process to its desired outcome, which could only be achieved, however, if the printmaker was willing and able to comply with all his demands. The print referred to in the letter, Löwenstam’s etching after A Favourite Author, is not the only reproduction subjected to the painter’s demands. Alma-Tadema’s exacting attitude and treatment of Löwenstam was also confirmed by his daughter, Millie Löwenstam: ‘He was too much of a perfectionist, and always demanded extra work of Father. He was hot tempered and could become excessi­vely angry if details didn’t run smoothl­y.’73 Alma-Tadema’s letter to Löwenstam regarding his etching is a kind of ‘written’ proof, complete with critical comments.74 The painter became edgy if he was unhappy with a reproduction. In this instance he found himself in an awkward situation: he was extremely dissatisfied with Löwenstam’s etching after his picture A Favourite Author and tried to persuade the publisher to delay its publication, yet he remained dependent on Löwenstam’s contribution to the project. In forceful language he endeavoured to exert his authority and win round the publisher and the printmaker to his point of view. It is debatable whether the painter ultimately got his way completely: although he had expressly stated his wish to extend the reproductive process, in order to improve the quality of the print, Löwenstam’s etching was published by L.H. Lefèvre just over a month later, on 14 May 1889.75 There was an underlying reason for the conflict between the painter AlmaTadema and the etcher Lowenstam, the fact that Alma-Tadema, like many of his fellow painters, did not make his own reproductions and thus was at the mercy of his printmaker’s qualities and commitment. The painter was equally dependent on his publisher. The extent to which Alma-Tadema depended on both parties is possibly reflected by the fact that after publication of this print, with which he had seemed so dissatisfied, he did not take the apparently logical step of ending his business relationship with Löwenstam and Lefèvre. A few months later, another etching by Löwenstam, after Alma-Tadema’s Rose of All the Roses, was published by Stephen T. Gooden.76 The painter’s apparent rift with Lefèvre was not definitive, however: just over a year after the ‘problematic’ etching of A Favourite Author was published, an etching of In the Rose Garden, by Löwenstam, was published by Lefèvre.77 Apparently the painter was formally or informally

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fig. 77 Paul Rajon after Alma-Tadema The Bath (1879), etching proof 31.8 x 14 cm, British Museum, London.

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not in a position to pursue an independent course as regards reproduction of his work, and it is his frustration and powerlessness, rather than his power, which resounds through his vehement language. It was a powerlessness engendered by his artistic involvement in the reproduction, combined with his dependence on the printmaker and the publisher. Alma-Tadema was not only critical towards Löwenstam, the etcher, for his critical attitude is also illustrated by his comments on a proof of Paul Rajon’s etching after The Bath (Strigils and Sponges), owned by the British Museum.78 [fig. 77] The margin of the print is full of detailed comments for the etcher regarding elements such as the balance between light and dark: ‘trop de lumiere sur le jet’ […] la strigyle dans l’ombre plus foncée’ Moreover, the painter paid close attention to the drawing in the etching: ‘un peu plus de dessin dans les cheveux sur le bronze […] l’eponge pourrait avoir des trous plus varieés et plus profondes.’79 In addition to these written remarks, Alma-Tadema also drew extra attention to various details, such as hands or other body parts, with little sketches in the margin. Once Rajon had incorporated Alma-Tadema’s comments in the etching plate, the painter allowed him to keep the proof as a gift.80 The etching was published by Pilgeram & Lefèvre on 1 July 1880.81 Although Löwenstam was one of a generation of printmakers who made a name with etched reproductions of artworks, in the late 1880s the etched reproduction was no longer popular with everyone. When the Dutch art critic Jan Veth was staying in London in 1887, he wanted to visit Alma-Tadema, but this was not possible, owing to building work at the painter’s home and studio, or so he was informed by Löwenstam, whom he did meet. Veth and Löwenstam discussed subjects such as art production, as Veth informed his friend Albert Verwey on 11 December 1887: c ‘Tadema I shall not need to visit. His studio is being rebuilt. Yesterday I met his friend Lowenstam whose portrait by him was once at the triennial. The man gave me no great idea of Tadema’s need for artistic contact. He asserted that Arendzen was a smarter etcher than Thijs Maris!!! And he found Waltner the greatest living etcher, – to prove that he told me how expensive the epreuves d’artiste of the Night Watch were: 2500 guilders.’82 The modern art critic Veth was astonished by the opinions expressed by the reproductive etcher Löwenstam. Veth himself felt infinitely more regard for origi-

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nal etchings by Matthijs Maris than for reproductions by Arendzen and Waltner. In fact, he even thought that the fine photographic reproductions produced by the firm of Braun made this kind of reproduction redundant.83 For many years the painter Alma-Tadema and the printmaker Löwenstam collaborated intensively on diverse reproductions. Löwenstam was the most productive adaptor of Alma-Tadema’s work; he profited from the painter’s success and the painter profited from the printmaker’s fine adaptations of his pictures. Thus they enjoyed joint success, for which both partially had the other to thank. States, prices and editions

The Fries Museum in Leeuwarden owns an interesting advertisement for the art dealer L.H. Lefèvre, which lists the reproductions after Alma-Tadema’s work published by this firm. [fig. 78] The composition of this dates the advertisment to the late 1880s.84 Lefèvre, Gambart’s successor, specialised in the work of Alma-Tadema and reproductions of this. The advertisement lists a cross-section of reproductions after Alma-Tadema’s work at a time when the painter was at the height of his fame, comprising a wide selection of his Greek and Roman subjects in the form of engravings by Auguste Blanchard and etchings by Paul Rajon and Leopold Löwenstam.85 The prints could be supplied in three to five states and variations, comprising artist’s proofs, proofs before the letters, India proofs, Indian prints and plain prints, at a wide range of prices. The most exclusive artist’s proofs were signed by both the painter and the printmaker. Blanchard’s engravings after the pendants The Picture Gallery and The Sculpture Gallery were both available in five variations: artist’s proofs (eight pounds, eight pence), proofs before letters (six pounds, six shillings), India proofs (four pounds, four shillings), Indian prints (three pounds, three shillings) and ordinary prints (two pounds, two shillings). The prints after Alma-Tadema’s paintings of the four seasons were sold as a set in various states: artist’s proofs (twenty-one pounds), proofs before letters (twelve pounds, twelve shillings), Indian proofs (six pounds, six shillings) and ordinary prints (four pounds, four shillings). Blanchard’s engravings after The Parting Kiss were relatively expensive: artist’s proofs (ten pounds, ten shillings), proofs before letters (six pounds, six shillings); India proofs (four pounds, four shillings) and ordinary prints (two pounds, two shillings). According to the advertisement, the proofs before letters and the India proofs of Blanchard’s popular engraving after The Vintage Festival had already sold out;

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fig. 78 Advertisement L.H Lefèvre, ca.1888, printed paper, Fries Museum, Leeuwarden.

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only the India prints (four pounds, four shillings) and the ordinary prints (two pounds, two shillings) could still be supplied from stock. The advertisement further reported: ‘The Artist’s Proofs of this celebrated subject have long since been disposed of. The publisher has, however, repurchased some [illegible, rv] and will furnish price on application.’ For true amateurs there were still several Artist’s Proofs for sale, price on application; the firm also stocked Blachard engravings after A Bacchante, The torch dance, Dolce Far Niente, In the time of Constantine andn An oleander.86 In addition to these engravings Lefèvre also sold various etchings by Rajon and Löwenstam, although these were generally available in fewer variations and for lower prices. Rajon’s etching after The bath could be purchased in the form of artist’s proofs (five pounds, five shillings), India proofs (two pounds, two shillings) and ordinary prints (one pound, one shilling). The artist’s proofs of Rajon’s etching after A Roman Emperor had sold out and only prints on Indian paper (four pounds, four shillings) and ordinary paper (two pounds, two shillings). The advertisement also lists various etchings by Löwenstam: his etchings after the pendants The First Whisper and In Confidence were available as artist’s proofs (five pounds and five shillings), prints on Indian paper (two pounds, two shillings) and prints on ordinary paper (one pound, one shilling); his etching after Pleading was sold in the same states for the same prices, while his etching after Autumn was available in three versions: artist’s proofs (five pounds, five shillings), proofs op Indian paper (two pounds, two shillings) and prints on ordinary paper (one pound, one shilling). So the firm of Lefèvre sold Autumn in reproduction both as a Blanchard engraving and a Löwenstam etching. These reproductions after Alma-Tadema’s work were supplemented by a reproduction of John Collier’s portrait of the painter, engraved by T.L. Aitkinson.87 The print employed the mezzotint technique and thus forms a noteworthy exception in Lefèvre’s range of etchings and line engravings. It was also available in various versions: artist’s proofs (five pounds, five shillings), India proofs (two pounds, two shillings) and ordinary prints (one pound, one shilling). The mezzo­ tint’s metal plate had been destroyed, the advertisement explicitly stated, so collectors need not need fear that their print’s exclusive status would be compromised. The number of copies in a print edition is of great importance when considering the distribution of these prints. Although the figures for these are a recurrent

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problemen in research into art reproduction in the nineteenth cendury, the information recorded by the Printseller’s Association does afford us some insight into numbers. If we consider prints after Alma-Tadema’s work as a whole, the editions of artist’s proofs comprise roughly between 100 and 500 copies; a maximum of 25 prints were printed from this state as presentation copies. From 25 to 100 copies were generally printed from the ‘before the letters’ state, while ‘with the letters’ generally produced 50 to 100 copies. Generally speaking editions ranged from a minimum of 25 to a maximum of more than 800 registered copies. It should be emphasised, however, that not every print was published in the same states; moreover, the cheapest state, comprising the ordinary prints, was not required to be registered, yet probably produced the highest print run. So the total number of prints in an edition was mostly higher than the registered number of prints. One exception is the mezzotint after Collier’s portrait of Alma-Tadema., for which the psa lists 275 artist’s proofs, 25 presentation prints, 100 lettered proofs and finally 400 other prints; as the printing matrix was deliberately destroyed, the total for all these registered prints, 800, should be regarded as the total number of prints in the edition.88 Of course the figures quoted are not the same as the number of prints actually sold. Blanchard’s print after The vintage festival s interesting in this regard. The advertisement states that all the artist’s proofs had been sold, a total of 500 prints, plus the 25 special artist’s proofs presentation copies; the 100 unlettered prints had also sold out, as had the 200 proofs on Indian paper. This means that at least 825 copies of this print had been sold, not including sales of the cheapest copies. It should be noted here that this print was available in a relatively wide range of states, while the total number of prints in a state’s edition was also relatively high. If we combine these figures with the listed prices, we can calculate that the revenue from this print was at least 7,290 pounds. As the production costs are not known, it is hard to ascertain how much profit the firm of Lefèvre could have made from this publication. What is clear, however, is that considerable sums of money were associated with just this one print. The advertisement stated that all the prints ‘can be obtained from the publisher L.H. Lefèvre, 1A King Street, St James’s Square, London’. So the firm was not only a print publisher, it also operated as a print seller. The combination of these two commercial activities was common, but not necessarily standard, practice in this period.89 According to the advertisement the prints could also be obtained, apart from the firm of Lefèvre itself, at ‘the leading Publishers and Printsellers in

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all countries.’ This simple phrase is of interest, as it points to Lefèvre’s connection with the world of international printselling and publishing. Two observations should be made here. Firstly, the advertisement refers to ‘leading publishers and printsellers’. So the renowned firm of Lefèvre was in contact with the most important print publishers and printsellers. The identity of these is hard to ascertain, although we may assume the company had contact with other leading players in England and abroad, such as the well-known French publishers Goupil and Petit, and the Dutch firm of Buffa. Lefèvre’s collaboration with Buffa is confirmed by a remark in De Kunstkronijk in 1876: c

‘Mister Löwenstam, the meritorious engraver who first lived in Amsterdam, but has established his domicile in London since a few years, has engraved two plates after paintings by Alma-Tadema, The first whisper and Confidence. These plates are well drawn and treated with propriety and display great progress in the work of Mister Löwenstam. They are to be had at the firm of Buffa & Sons in Amsterdam.’90

Löwenstam’s etchings after The First Whisper of Love and its pendant In Confidence, cited above, had been published by the English firm of Pilgeram & Lefèvre on 24 December 1875.91 They could soon be obtained from the firm of Buffa in Amsterdam.92 Given Buffa’s fame and reputation it seems likely that the firm would have sold other reproductions after Alma-Tadema’s work, in addition to these early prints. In the shadow of the leading firms there was a considerable network of regional and local firms, each with its own ‘niche’ in the international print trade’s wide and branching system. This did not mean, of course, that all publishers permanently stocked prints after Alma-Tadema, although it did mean that many publishers and printsellers would have been able to order specific prints for a customer with relative ease. The Lefèvre advertisement mentions leading firms in all countries, which brings us to our second observation: the term ‘all’ countries should be regarded in the first instance as referring to Europe and the United States of America. Naturally these continents did not constitute the entire world, although they did represent a large portion of it, particularly when their former colonies were brought into the equation. Does Alma-Tadema’s status as a famous Victorian artist, working in London, also mean that he was famous throughout the British Empire, on which the sun never set? Although the print trade did not enjoy the same level of

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representation in every region, this does not detract from the fact that new means of transport in the nineteenth century made it possible to cover greater and greater distances in less and less time. Ernest Gambart, for example, did not hesitate to organise exhibitions in South Africa, Australia and New Zealand, from his base in London. International trade in prints during the nineteenth century often consisted of ‘intercontinental’ dealings. How far prints may have travelled is hard to establish, although the fact that Löwenstam’s etchings of Alma-Tadema’s work were displayed and awarded prizes in Sydney, Australia, speaks volumes.93 The firm of Lefèvre dominated the (international) range of independent prints after works by Alma-Tadema. Other well-known firms such as Agnew, McLean and Tooth also published prints after his pictures.94 Given Alma-Tadema’s reputation in England, it is not surprising that these were all English firms, although this was not automatically to be expected. Previous reference has been made to Alma-Tadema’s reputation in France. He had almost acquired a house in Paris with an eye to pursuing his career in the French capital. However, his fame in France does not seem to have translated into a stream of French reproductions after his pictures. He did work with the French printmakers Blanchard and Rajon, but French publishers do not seem to have concerned themselves greatly, if at all, with reproductions of his work: Goupils’ stock lists, for example, mention no reproductions after Alma-Tadema. This dearth of French publishers is curious, particularly as many of the artist’s paintings eventually found their way into the hands of French collectors. In this sense, therefore, Alma-Tadema was correct when he wrote to his cousin Hendrik W. Mesdag of his fame in France.95 His work was very popular there, and yet it was hardly reproduced by French publishers. The absence of French reproductions after work by Alma-Tadema and many other English artists probably lies less in the popularity of these individuals than in the tendency of these publishers to specialise in homegrown artists and collaboration between various international firms, as previously discussed in chapter three. This international collaboration is illustrated by a photogravure of Under the Roof of Blue Ionian Weather from 1901, printed in Munich and published by Arthur Tooth & Sons, who had branches in London (5 & 6 Haymarket), Paris (41 Boulevard des Capucines) and New York (299 Fifth Avenue); the print could also be obtained from the firm of Stiefbold & Co in Berlin. For Alma-Tadema, however, all these avenues for distribution were not enough. Not only did he check reproductions after his work meticulously, he also seems

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to have been closely involved in the distribution and sale of these. An interesting piece of evidence is provided by a letter from Alma-Tadema to Carel Vosmaer in which the painter describes the disappointing sales of Paul Rajon’s etching after A Roman Emperor. Claudius is interesting. He wrote: c

‘And now a few words of business. To our great amazement Rajon’s splendid etching after my Claudius has found no buyers. I have taken the liberty of asking them [the publishers pilgeram & lefèvre, rv] to send you a proof. With the request for you to see them and another with a view to exhibiting them for some time. Excuse me such a liberty but it is for the development of good taste and so I therefore hope that I am not knocking on a deaf man’s door.’96

Alma-Tadema’s request for Vosmaer to help with publicity is understandable. For many years the critic, classicist and man of letters had done his best to publicise Alma-Tadema’s work and reproductions of this, regularly endeavouring to bring his friend’s work to the public’s attention, in many articles, generally published in the Nederlandsche Spectator and De Kunstkronijk. Vosmaer’s efforts had not gone unnoticed by the painter: ‘Sincere thanks for the fine defence and articles in the Spectator,’ he wrote to Vosmaer.97 Vosmaer regularly referred to reproductions after Alma-Tadema’s pictures, as on 27 July 1878 in the Spectator: ‘The firm of Pilgeram & Lefèvre in London has again published some steel plates by Aug. Blanchard after Tadema which are an honour to the new art of engraving.’98 The prints in question were after The Picture Gallery and The Sculpture Gallery, which Vosmaer described as just an introduction to Blanchard’s engraving after A Bacchante, ‘perhaps the most perfect he has made thus far after Tadema’s work’.99 Thanks to such references by Vosmaer, Dutch readers were also kept informed of the latest engravings after the painter’s pictures. Alma-Tadema, more than anyone, grasped the importance of publicity. His efforts to promote the sale of Rajon’s etching also suggest that he had a financial interest in this reproduction, although the actual sum involved is not known. It was all business for Alma-Tadema. While a reproduction was being made, he followed the reproductive process with the critical eye of an artist. Once a print had been completed, he behaved like a businessman, treating it as merchandise. In this respect his attitude to reproductions after his paintings corresponds with the way in which he managed work by his own hand. Artistic and commercial

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considerations succeeded each other, as Alma-Tadema himself explained in a interview from 1882, recorded in his familiar broken English: ‘So long I paint my picture, I work ‘ard, I work slow to get ‘im right. If ‘e is not right, I paint ‘im out, once, twice. But when ‘e is finished, I am not an artist no more. I am a tradesman.’100

Reproductions in illustrated publications Illustrated periodicals

In 1862 Alma-Tadema exhibited his painting Venantius Fortunatus leest zijn gedichten voor aan Radegonda vi (Venantius Fortunatus Reading His Poems to Radegonda vi) at the exhibition of living masters in Amsterdam, receiving a gold medal for the work which was subsequently published as a reproduction in the Nederlands Maga­zijn.101 Two years later, in 1864, he exhibited his Egyptian painting Pastimes in Ancient Egypt: 3,000 Years Ago at the Paris Salon, once more gaining an gold medal; [plate 16] a reproduction of the picture was published later that year in the Gazette des Beaux Arts.102 Both prints are some of the first examples of reproductions after the painter’s work in illustrated publications. Illustrated art journals in particular regularly included reproductions of Alma-Tadema’s paintings in their pages, as will be outlined below, with reference to English, French and Dutch publications. Several years after the painting Pastimes in Ancient Egypt 3,000 Years Ago was published in the Gazette des Beaux Arts, another engraving after this work appeared in The Art Journal. This second print was by Auguste Blanchard and may have been his first reproduction after a work by Alma-Tadema. It is conceivable that the art dealer Ernest Gambart was also involved in this reproduction for The Art Journal, as he had purchased the original painting after it had been displayed at the Paris Salon. Given his connections with both the French engraver and the English art journal, it is certainly feasible that the art dealer had a hand in the publication of this print in the journal. During the 1870s Blanchard’s engraving was followed by various reproductions after Alma-Tadema’s work in The Art Journal; several years later, for example, in1874, Blanchard’s print was once more reproduced in this journal.103 The Art Journal also published several etched reproductions by Löwenstam. In

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fig. 79 Leopold Löwenstam after Alma-Tadema, Our Corner (1877) etching, from: The Art Journal (1877), p.280.

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1877 his etching after Our Corner (1873 opus cxvi) featured in the journal.104 [fig. 79] The subject of this was Alma-Tadema’s two daughters, Anna and Laurense, in a corner of their home.105 When this print was published Löwenstam was already working on two other etchings that appeared in the same journal a year later, Sculpture (1877, clxxx) and the associated work Architecture in Ancient Rome (1877, clxxxi). [fig. 80] The original paintings, both made on commission for Pilgeram & Lefèvre, were painted on copper plates, which may have come from the etcher.106 After these two reproductions had been published, Alma-Tadema probably saw these prints and wrote to Vosmaer in vexation: ‘Löwenstam has made horrible engravings for the Art Journal.’ Afraid that these images would give his good friend the wrong impression of his work, he continued: ‘As I know that you will not judge me from these, I have given Pilgeram and Lefèvre the order to send you the photographs of these.’107 Alma-Tadema’s critical attitude to Lö-

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wenstam was previously discussed in connection with the printmaker’s etching after A Favourite Author; [plate 20] apparently he also monitored these reproductions for The Art Journal with similar interest and irritation. In additions to the cited works Sculpture (1877, clxxx) and Architecture in Ancient Rome (1877, clxxxi), reference should also be made to the related work Painters (1877), a painting also reproduced by Löwenstam for The Art Journal of 1877, but for for unknown reasons not published.108 These prints by Löwenstam were followed by diverse reproductions in The Art Journal, particularly in the 1886 and 1909 publications that were devoted to Alma-Tadema.109 From the late 1870s onwards a number of prints also appeared in another wellknown English art journal, The Magazine of Art.110 As early as 1866 the general interest publication The Illustrated London News featured a reproduction of AlmaTadema’s Returning Home from Market (1865).111 From the second half of the 1870s in particular, this journal published various wood engravings after Alma-Tadema’s work, including, in 1877, a reproduction of Our Corner, with the painter’s two daughters, in the same year as Löwenstam’s etching of this painting appeared in The Art Journal. Also in 1877, a large wood engraving after Between Hope and Fear was published (1876).112 [fig. 81] Paul Rajon’s etching after On the Steps of the Capitol (1874) in The Illustrated London News of May 1876 is a notable reproduction.113 The print was available as an independent work from the publisher Pilgeram & Lefèvre; the date of publication registered by the Printsellers Associfig. 80 Leopold Löwenstam after Alma-Tadema, Sculpture in Ancient Rome van Alma-Tadema (1878) etching, from The Art Journal (1878), p.124.

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fig. 81 Henry Linton after Alma-Tadema, Between Hope and Fear (1877), wood engraving from: The Illustrated London News (1877), p.128-129.

ation was 9 May 1876, which means that this etching by Rajon was published in The Illustrated London News in the same month as the independent print was issued.114 It is not known to what extent publication of the print in this periodical may have influenced sales of the independent print; publicity gained via the popular journal may conceivably have stimulated sales of the exclusive independent print, although a contrary scenario is more likely: readers who knew the image from the journal (and had removed the reproduction from its pages) would probably have been less interested in acquiring the expensive, independent print. According to Alma-Tadema this print did not do well commercially, so publication of the etching in The Illustrated London News does not seem to have helped sales. When considering reproductions of Alma-Tadema’s work in English illustrated journals, satirical publications should not be forgotten, From the second quarter of the nineteenth century, an important tradition of such publications existed in England, sparking a number of imitations during the rest of the century. One of the most important representatives of this genre was the magazine Punch, for years a thorn in the side of Victorian England. Countless politicians,

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cultural figures and events were ridiculed in this periodical, which also regarded artists and their works as fair game. Punch published several parodies on well-known artworks by Alma-Tadema.115 Such satirical interpretations of his work can also be regarded as reproductions, albeit an exceptional category of these, as caricatures are only effective when the original is well-known. So these mocking prints illustrate how well the general reading public actually knew Alma-Tadema and his work. Although illustrated periodicals generally published reproductions of existing artworks, they sometimes commissioned original works for reproductive purposes. In 1880, for example, The Graphic commissioned twelve artists to paint their idea of feminine beauty. One of theses artists was Alma-Tadema who produced the picture Interrupted. A Type of Female Beauty (1880, ccxiii), showing his wife, Laura Tadema-Epps, suddenly looking up from reading The Graphic, a subtle allusion to the periodical which commissioned the work. The painting was displayed at an exhibition organised by The Graphic and also reproduced in the periodical some time later.116 Alma-Tadema’s work regularly appeared in French at journals. The early reproduction of Pastimes in Ancient Egypt: 3,000 Years Ago in the Gazette des Beaux Arts, cited above, was followed in the 1870s by various prints after his work, including reproductions of The Vintage Festival, Greek Wine, A Picture Gallery in Rome and his series of the four seasons.117 Paul Rajon’s etching after A Roman Emperor: ad 41 (1871), published in 1877 in La Chronique des Arts, for, like his etching after On the Steps of the Capitol this reproduction had previously been issued by Pilgeram & Lefèvre in England as an independent print and now appeared in the art journal.118 During the 1880s fine prints were also published in the chic art journal L’Art.119 In 1885 the journal published an etching after A Love Missile: c

‘Le celebre membre de la Royal Academy of Arts, de Londres, dont l’Art a publié plusieurs oeuvres importantes, nous a fait l’honneur de nous autoriser à en graver d’autres. A Love Missile- un message d’amour,- si bien traduit à l’eau-forte par M.A. Mongin, est une des perles de la collection de M. John Fielden.’120

Prints after Alma-Tadema’s work regularly featured in the leading French art journals published in the final decades of the nineteenth century, albeit in few-

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fig. 82 Jan Mesker after Alma-Tadema, Kersen (1886), lithograph, from: De Kunstkronijk (1886), p.68.

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er numbers than in English journals. Reproductions of the painter’s pictures in French periodicals bear witness to his reputation in France. After the Nederlands Maga­zijn became the first Dutch periodical to publish a reproduction after Alma-Tadema, of Venantius Fortunatus leest zijn gedichten voor aan Radegonda vi (Venantius Fortunatus Reading His Poems to Radegonda vi), in 1862, the painter’s work regularly featured in Dutch art journals.121 As in England and France, a stream of reproductions appeared from the 1870s onwards. In 1871, for example, De Kunstkronijk published a lithograph by J.J. Mesker after Romeinse galanterie, also known as Spelevaren (The Embarkation), from the collection of Hendrik W. Mesdag. In 1886 the journal published another lithograph by Mesker after Alma-Tadema, a mirror-image print of Cherries (1873 opus cxiv).122 [plate 22, fig. 82] On occasion Alma-Tadema personally supplied the illustrated periodicals with material for publication. In 1871, for example, he made a print for De Nederlandsche Spectator. Through Carel Vosmaer and the publisher D.A. Thieme, the painter was well acquainted with the circle around the journal. De Nederlandsche Spectator was published weekly from the 1860s onwards, and covered a wide range of subjects connected with politics, literature, the visual arts, science and current events.123 An important feature of the journal was the weekly print, generally a satirical response to political developments. Although the journal’s regular artist

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fig. 83 Detail of Lawrence Alma-Tadema A Private Celebration (1871), lithograph from: De Nederlandsche Spectator (1871).

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J.M. Schmidt supplied many prints for the publication, Carel Vosmaer, Alexander VerHuell and various painters from The Hague also drew images for De Nederlandse Spectator. During a stay in the Netherlands Alma-Tadema produced a lithograph for reproduction in the journal, showing two women playing flutes, a detail, as Vosmaer’s accompanying text explained, from a recently completed painting. The two figures actually come from A Private Celebration (1871), in which they appear to the left of the composition, although in the lithograph they are reversed, as is the painter’s signature, as a result of printing from the lithographic stone.124 [fig. 83] The custom of reproducing details from a painting, sometimes for the purpose of advertising a forthcoming print of the entire picture, was initially found mainly in France. Ernest Gambart subsequently introduced these close-ups of artworks in England, well before photographers were able to produce similar images. So it hardly seems a coincidence that his protégé Alma-Tadema drew a detail from one of his paintings for reproduction in De Spectator. Back in London Alma-Tadema heard some time later from his cousin Hendrik W. Mesdag that the print had appeared in De Spectator.125 Unable to obtain a copy of the Dutch journal in the English capital, he wrote to Vosmaer:

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c

‘I heard a few days ago through a missive from Mesdag that my drawing had appeared. I am rightly glad... and would very much like to get hold of a copy. For I cannot see where to buy a Spectator and am therefore being so free as to trouble you with a request to send me one.’126

Thanks to the painter’s lithographs even Dutch readers were afforded a (rare) glimpse of Alma-Tadema’s work, as Vosmaer explained in the text that accompanied the print: c

‘The Dutch public has not had the privilege of seeing them, as they have mostly been either exhibited or placed in Brussels, Paris or London. So we welcomed the opportunity of being able to direct attention to these interesting works by our compatriot, now that he so kindly, during a brief stay in The Hague, took up the drawing stylus to enrich our Album.’127

A few years later Alma-Tadema was back in the Netherlands, where he visited an editorial meeting of De Nederlandse Spectator, on 9 October 1879, in the company of such notables as his cousin Hendrik W. Mesdag, Jozef Israëls and S. van Witsen.128 During this meeting Alma-Tadema made another drawing for reproduction, appropriately entitled Not at Home; for unknown reasons, this never appeared in the periodical.129 Alma-Tadema also supplied De Kunstkronijk with material for reproduction. As early as 1869 he was apologising to Carel Vosmaer for not having had an opportunity to comply with Vos­maer’s request for a lithograph for De Kunstkronijk.130­ In 1873 he wrote to Vos­maer: ‘I will most readily comply with your application for a small print on stone for the Kunst­kro­niek.’131 Some time later he sent the journal several drawings for reproduction, of the wall paintings in his studio at his London home, Townshend House. Alma-Tadema had moved into this house in May 1871 and had subsequently spent several years working on the decoration of his studio ceiling. Wall paintings in the Pompeii style harmonised the painter’s studio with the work he made there. Alma-Tadema had almost finished the project of decorating his studio when a ship laden with gunpowder exploded close to his home, on 2 October 1874, wrecking most of his studio. The studio had to be substantially rebuilt, so the decorations, with Greek gods, garlands and arabesques, were not fully completed until 1877. Before the wall paintings had been finished, Alma-Tadema consulted with Vosmaer about the

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possibility of reproducing and publishing the decorations in some form. The plan was to reproduce the ceiling decorations, complete with explanatory text, in the album published by De Spectator, but this plan never came to fruition. However, the painter did make several drawings of the decorations, which appeared in De Kunstkronijk. [fig. 84] Alma-Tadema wrote to Vosmaer about the publication of the sketches in various letters, discussing in detail the technicalities of reproduction. In a letter from 7 January 1875 he wrote to his friend: ‘Will you be good enough to despatch the sketches to Sijthoff and loan him the drawings for proofing.’132 He wrote again on 11 February: c

‘I am overwhelmed with activities and have been unable to find a moment to provide further and this time clearer clarification in this matter of reproduction. The photographic reproduction is the simple [kind] as it is always done with the exception that the photographer must wash out the fond. I mean here by fond everything that is not figures or rather everything that does not lie in the contours of drawn figures or objects and then after the stone has been prepared for printing the figures and objects should be printed on white paper. After this a stone should be prepared for an even blue tone for the area outside the contours. See here the examples first print. This now seems [to be] to be highly simple and should succeed.’133

It is interesting that the painter opted for a combination of photography and lithography. Although photomechanical reproduction was fairly common in this period, the majority of prints in De Kunstkronijk were still produced using traditional lithography. The painter explicitly chose for his sketches to be reproduced photographically, thereby eliminating the factor of personal interpretation. In his letter from 11 February 1875 Alma-Tadema also discussed other aspects of the sketches for reproduction and publication by Sijthoff: c ‘A few weeks ago I sent to Mr Sijthoff in Leiden the painting I had promised him of my wife and four drawings, delineated in black chalk for the decoration of my ceiling in my studio. The day after I sent four others in a letter to his Ed. and proposed that he publish it all, with the twelve others added to these. In any case those eight are property and I shall be so free as [to ask]

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fig. 84 Lawrence AlmaTadema, decoration for his studio (1877), lithograph

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from: De Kunstkronijk (1877).

you to send one of the others and drawn in the way I should like to see them appear.’[…] ‘Now as regards the trouble of executing those drawings on my own, this does me great pleasure, chiefly if some money can be made with it. For I rather like to combine profit with with pleasure. [...] should it prove that not only my work [...] appears in a poor light but also that it is an uneconomical manner of publication, we can always knock on friend Alle­beé’s door.’134 In this letter Alma-Tadema offers a clear insight into his attitude regarding the publication of reproductions after his pictures. In the first place, he insisted that his work had to appear to advantage; in the second place its publication had to be economically advantageous, thereby combining ‘profit with pleasure’. If the publication did not yield enough profit, the painter suggested the option of applying to Auguste Allebé, with whom he had become friends in Brussels. Although Alma-Tadema expressed these views in connection with several specific

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reproductions, they probably reflect his attitude to prints of his work in general. I shall return to this subject at the end of this chapter. More than a month later the painter again wrote to Carel Vosmaer regarding the publication of his sketches by Sijt­hoff: ‘Thank Mr Sijthoff in the meanwhile for his good intention and tell him that he should just insert the proof of Bacchus in the Kunstkroniek and his sketches can also find a place in it.’135 The painter was highly aware of the various options for publishing his sketches and clearly interested in deriving financial advantage from this publication, as he himself previously revealed. Later in the letter he offers an insight into the sums entailed in such a publication: c

‘The twelve sketches and 24 photolithographs can be paid with 1500 pounds. The hundred proofs before the letter at 15 pounds apiece will cover the publication. The 1000 copies at 10 pounds and 6 pounds will be bonuses. Now the speculation doesn’t seem so bad.’­136­

As Alma-Tadema indicated in the letter cited above, he wished to have two lithographs made for each sketch: one of the figures and one of the fond (the background). This made a total of twenty-four photolithographs for twelve sketches.137 The sale of all 100 proofs would cover the costs of the entire project, so all further revenue from the sale of lettered proofs was profit. Although we have no concrete sales figures for these particular prints, we know from other instances that it was not exceptional for prints to sell out. If this was also the case with the reproductions of Alma-Tadema’s sketches, profits from their sale could have amounted to thousands of pounds. Twelve simple sketches could thus bring in more money than many a painting. So the artist did not hesitate to take a risk with the publication of these reproductions. After Alma-Tadema had received the prints of the sketches he wrote to Vosmaer: ‘thank you for the reproduction of my sketches. They are doing very well. Will there be more of them? Methinks I should also take out a subscription to Kunst­kroniek.’138 In 1876 the sketches were published in De Kunstkroniek. The Vosmaer text accompanying the figure of the Bacchante read: c

‘Our pictures are imitations, excelling through fidelity, of the painter’s original chalk drawings, which served for the decoration [of the painter’s studio ceiling]. They thus present the first designs, the original births of

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those spirited and artful fantasies. They are extremely fine through the firmness of the traits, the breadth and tenderness of the touch, while the lines still visible here and there, where the hand first felt and touched, allow us to be present as it were at the creation of the images.’139 Vosmaer emphasised the immediacy of the sketches, a quality preserved by Alma-Tadema’s choice of photography for the reproductions. Photographic reproduction not only had technical and financial advantages, it also provided a ­direct image of the original without the intervention of a printmaker’s ‘interpreting’ hand. The photographic reproductions of these sketches only displayed the master’s hand. Thus, during the 1860s and especially the 1870s, Alma-Tadema’s work found its way into various English, French and Dutch illustrated art journals; it also featured in several German and American periodicals.140 Depending on the type of publication, these reproductions took the form of engravings, etchings, wood engravings and lithographs. The many references to foreign periodicals, and reviews of these, suggest that such publications enjoyed a wide distribution, as previously contended. Although language differences may have presented readers with difficulties, the reproductions did not, so journals offered a great deal to look at even when people could not read the text. Thus, reproductions after Alma-Tadema’s work must have enjoyed a wider public than even the language of a journal would suggest. This is illustrated by a reference in De Kunstkronijk to Löwenstam’s etching of Our Corner in The Art Journal: c

‘Mr L Löwenstam, formerly of Amsterdam, now of London, has made a third engraving after Alma-Tadema, namely his painting which represents his children and was first exhibited in 1873 in the Dudley Gallery with the title: This is our corner. Löwenstam’s engraving appears in the September number of the Art Journal.’141

Alma-Tadema’s work did not only feature in periodicals. Exhibitions in particular often gave rise to the publication of illustrated catalogues. One of the first works the painter exhibited at the Royal Academy, The Pyrrhic Dance (1869), also appeared in the illustrated catalogue for this.142 His painting On the Road to the Temple of Ceres (1879), exhibited at the Paris Salon of 1881, similarly found its way

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into Goupil’s Salon album.143 Moreover Alma-Tadema’s work regularly turned up in various publications on (modern) art in general.144 Finally, publications with an archaeological flavour gratefully derived illustrative material from his work. The painter’s archaeologist friend George Ebers in particular incorporated reproductions after Alma-Tadema in various books.145 The question arises of whether Alma-Tadema was even aware of all these reproductions, let alone was able to assess them all critically before publication. He probably was not, to his own great annoyance. In 1884, for example, he wrote to Vosmaer in irritation after receiving a copy of Moderne Kunst in Nederland: c

‘Today I received your portait and the instalment of Moderne Kunst in Nederland with the etching after Venantius Fortuna­tus. Infernally black and the heads wrong! Can’t such a man take the trouble to call on my judgement when it’s time? Perhaps he knows (much) better too. Now I even have to pay 3 guilders for this travesty, if you please. Your por­trait is not very successful either. You look as if you were stuffed with cottonwool.’146

The fact that Alma-Tadema was furious about these reproductive etchings by J.P. Arendzen underlines his involvement in reproductions of his work, even when he had never seen these before. [plate 23 a,b] An illustrated monograph

In 1886 The Art Journal produced a special illustrated publication devoted to the life and work of Alma-Tadema. Entitled The Life and Work of L. Alma-Tadema. With Numerous Illustrations, it had been written by the art critic Helen Zimmern who regularly contributed to art journals and had a number of publications to her name, including works on Schopenhauer and Lessing. Zimmern was also close friend of Alma-Tadema. This publication was one of the first monographs on the painter, and subsequently became a much-used source of information on the artist and his work. I would like to consider this monograph at length, particularly the reproductions incorporated in it. Zimmern’s monograph provides an overview of Alma-Tadema’s life and work. She based her publication mainly on the special exhibition held in the Grosvenor Gallery in 1882-1883, about which she wrote: ‘The Tadema Exhibition, […] afforded Art lovers a rare opportunity for studying not the works only, but the manner

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of Alma-Tadema. They saw side by side the earliest and latest of his creations.’147 Using this exhibition as a starting point, Zimmern described the different periods in Alma-Tadema’s artistic career. After a brief introduction, she discussed his continental periods, 1852-1862 and 1863-1869, followed by his time in England up to 1875. In 1876 the painter was admitted to the prestigious Royal Academy, which was for many English artists an important milestone in their artistic career. Zimmern finished her overview of the painter’s work with an examinination of the period 1876-1886. She then turned her attention to the person of AlmaTadema, in an interview with him, and concluded the monograph with a description of his house and studio. The monograph presents Alma-Tadema and his work in words and image, with a total of 36 illustrations. On opening the work the reader’s eye was captured by a fine etching by the well-known etcher C.O. Murray, after Sappho, one of the painter’s most popular pictures, previously published in The Magazine of Art in 1881.148 Midway through Zimmern’s monograph is another Murray print, after Quiet Pets, which the etcher had previously made for publication in The Art Journal of 1883; the painter himself had been extremely dissatisfied with this print.149 [fig. 85] Murray made a number of reproductions after Alma-Tadema’s work, which were published as independent prints or featured in art journals. These were mostly published by H. Virtue & Co in London, a firm that was also responsible for The Art Journal and the monograph by Zimmern. So Murray’s two fine etching were not made especially for this publication but reused after previous publications. This reuse of images was common practice to avoid the high costs of ‘new’ reproductions. In addition to the two fine Murray etchings Zimmern’s monograph mainly featured wood engravings in combination with photography. As previously observed, the technique of wood engraving was closely associated with the development of illustrated publications in general. However, the wood engravings in the monograph were not made in the same way once used by Thomas Bewick: they may have resembled standard wood engravings, but were actually products of photoxylography, a technique that combined traditional wood engraving with photography, invented circa 1860 and subsequently employed on a large scale for illustrations of every kind. A characteristic feature of this technique was that the image was transferred photographically to the wood block, into which the printmaker engraved the composition by hand; the relief composition in the wood block was then transferred to a metal galvano, from which almost unlimited cop-

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fig. 85 Charles Oliver Murray after Alma-Tadema, Quiet Pets (1902), etching, from: H. Zimmern, Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema R.A., London, 1902.

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ies of the image could be printed in a short time.150 Amongst these images were also works previously published elsewhere, such as J. Robert ‘s wood engraving after A Roman Emperor: 41 ad, from The Art Journal of 1883, and the wood engraving of Shy that had appeared in The English Illustrated Magazine in 1884.151 Small print informed the reader that the latter journal had given explicit permission for the image to be reproduced in the monograph.152 The wood engraving of Fredegonde at the Death-bed of Preatextatus was produced by the well-known firm of Bong & Honemann, which had previously been responsible for a presentation print with this image; the firm may still have owned the copyright to this after twenty years. The art reproductions were supplemented by three wood engravings after drawings by J. Emsly Inglis with impressions of Alma-Tadema’s home. One advantage of wood engravings as illustrations is that this technique allowed the images to be printed together with the letters, while etchings, engravings and lithographs all needed to be printed separately. So Murray’s etchings in Zimmern’s monograph, for example, were printed separately on a different kind of paper and not added to the text until the work was bound together, while the relief wood engravings were printed simultaneously with the letters and distributed through the text. Naturally this new process offered new typographical possibilities which were exploited to the full in many illustrated publications. However, the introduction of these also seems to have eliminated the unique character of an image: whilst Murray’s two etchings are presented as a more personal interpretation of Alma-Tadema’s work, the wood engravings are simply scattered through the text. An interesting feature of the monograph are the four engravings not wedged between the blocks of text, but presented independently on a page: Fredegonde at the Death-Bed of Preatextatus, Pandora (Alma-Tadema’s diploma piece for admission to the Royal Academy), Who Is It? and A Reading from Homer.153 Their format and position in the work make them stand out as independent reproductions, which are not subordinated to the text. Finally, Zimmern’s monograph incorporates one more reproduction, an autotype. This technique used photography to transfer the image to a printing matrix with a grid of points. Closer examination of the autotype in the monograph reveals that this employed a ‘cross-line grid’, one of the latest inventions in photographic art reproduction at this time.154 The autotype represents a signed pencil study for An Apodyterium, from 1886, and is thus an early example of this photographic reproduction technique. Leafing through Zimmern’s monograph on Alma-Tadema, readers encountered

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a varied selection of reproductions in differing techniques. Murray’s etchings reflect the popularity of this technique in the period. There are also diverse wood engravings, typographically distributed amongst the text and an autotype, one of the most modern methods of reproduction at that time. The choice of these reproductive methods was partly determined by economic motives. So it is no accident that the publication was adorned with various images that had previously been published. Instead of commissioning all the reproductions, the publisher choose a number of existing pictures, making grateful use of images that had already appeared in The Art Journal, supplemented by reproductions from other publications. Murray’s ‘handmade’ reproductions gave the monograph a more exclusive character, in keeping with the tradition of deluxe albums. Yet the publication is more than a just ‘picture with a story’: Zimmern’s careful research and the beautiful illustrations make this art historical monograph a valuable reference work on the life and oeuvre of Alma-Tadema.155 Alma-Tadema’s book illustrations

On 26 November 1880 Carel Vosmaer published his novel Amazone, a love story involving several artists, set in the romantic and picturesque setting of ancient Italy. Vosmaer chose Alma-Tadema as his model for a major character in the novel, the Dutch artist Siwart Aisma. The book enjoyed rapid success: the first impression of 700 copies sold out within five weeks and a total of ten impressions was eventually published. The writer Jacques Perk proclaimed to Vosmaer in a letter: ‘Your book is such a boon. We poor souls, want so much to see something more noble in the squirming of the common-place, we have to make it ourselves.’156 Multatuli was considerably less positive in his response to Vosmaer’s novel: ‘You speak of Vosmaer’s Amazone! Oh, I am so distressed about it. Vosmaer is my friend, and what is more I have great obligation to him. But … his Amazone is not to my liking!’157 Lodewijk van Deyssel likewise wanted nothing to do with it: ‘Amazone is a book, that the least prose artist, the most minor of the naturalists, woud be ashamed to have written, a book that in all respects I find jaw-achingly ridiculous’Alma-Tadema may have thought differently.158 Undoubtedly he recognised himself in the novel which inspired him to paint his picture Amo Te Ama Me, completed in December 1881, over a year after Vosmaer’s book had been published.159 The title of this painting comes from the novel, from a ring given to the character of Aisma by his love Marciana in Rome. Alma-Tadema made the lithograph Amo Te Ama Me after the painting for the English translation of the book.

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fig. 86 Lawrence Alma-Tadema, Ama te amo me (1884), lithograph from the English translation of C. Vosmaer, Amazone, London, 1884.

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[fig. 86] The reviewer in The Magazine of Art was downright critical: ‘M. Carl Vosmaer’s “Amazon” (…), tolerably translated by Mr. E.J. Irving, and insignificantly frontispieced by Mr. Alma-Tadema, belongs to that irritating kind of literature which under the guise of a story treats one to a sermon.’160 The print can be regarded as a reproduction by Alma-Tadema after one of his works. The lithograph later appeared in the third impression of the Dutch version as well. Alma-Tadema’s lithograph Amo Te Ama Me for Vosmaer’s novel Amazone is one of the illustrations which the painter produced to enliven the prose and poetry of author friends. Another example is the etching Tesselschade at Alkmaar for his good friend, the critic and painter Edmund Gosse (1849-1828), the frontispiece for Gosse’s Studies in the Literature of Northern Europe from 1879.161 Alma-Tadema also made etchings for Helen Zimmerns The Epic of Kings, Stories Retold from Firdusi and several etchings to illustrate the poems of W.B. Scott.162 So he tended to use etching rather than lithography for his illustrations. Like Scheffer and Israëls, Alma-Tadema was one of the many nineteeth-century

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artists who regularly produced illustrations for prose and poetry. There was a rich tradition of illustration in Victorian England, harking back to Thomas Bewick, which flourished particularly during the 1860s, thanks to the efforts of the Dalziel family and other Pre-Raphaelites.163 Dante Gabriel Rossetti, William Holman Hunt and John Everett Millais made many graphic decorations for literary publications and popular illustrated periodicals such as The Illustrated London News, The Graphic and Punch, supplying designs which were then incised into the wood block by professional wood engravers. Alongside the popular wood engraving, the etching technique was also widely used for illustrations. The tone was set by the then exclusive periodical The Germ, established in the early 1850s and sumptuously illustrated with etchings by the leading Pre-Raphaelites.164 Millais, a productive painter, was extremely active as an illustrator, supplying many publications with etchings. This is the context in which Alma-Tadema’s etchings should be viewed. His illustrations were more than simply a kindness rendered to several author friends, for graphic book decoration, which was closely associated with publishing and the print trade, formed an essential part of the Victorian art world and a characteristic aspect of artistic identity in this period. Strictly speaking Alma-Tadema’s illustrations are generally not reproductions, for most of these are not imitations of an existing work. His lithograph after the painting Amo Te Ama Me is the exception in this regard. The painter usually made his compositions specifically to illustrate the text; he was familiar with the etching technique and so etched the plates himself, supplying a matrix that was ready for printing and thus did not require any specialist treatment by a printmaker or photographer. This contrasts with the illustrations that Israëls made for Adam Bede, for he supplied the drawings which were subsequently reproduced by Rennefeld in engraved form. Alma-Tadema’s illustrations are thus closer to his ‘original’ work than his reproductions, forming a modest, yet characteristic part of his artistic oeuvre.

The public for Alma-Tadema reproductions Alma-Tadema himself

In the spring of 1867 Alma-Tadema completed a painting for his uncle Klaas Mesdag.165 Mesdag’s son, Hendrik Willem Mesdag, had been a pupil of his cousin, Alma-Tadema, since 1866. The painting for Mesdag senior was a family portrait set

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fig. 87 Jan Verhas, Interior of Alma-Tadema’s Townshend House (1870), oil on canvas, private

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against the backdrop of Alma-Tadema’s Brussels studio, showing the painter’s first (French) wife, Marie Pauline Gressin de Boisgirard, who was expecting their second child, Anna, in the company of their daughter Laurense and her mother. [plate 24] The painting gave his uncle in the Netherlands an impression of the people in his life and the surroundings in which he was working. More than a century later this work also affords us an impression of Alma-Tadema’s Brussels’ studio. Particularly interesting is the row of four reproductions, behind glass in slim gold frames, hanging side by side on the wall. Closer examination reveals that these are photographic reproductions of Egyptian Chess Players (1865, xxii), Gallo-Roman Women (1865, xxiv), The Armourer’s Shop in Ancient Rome (1866, xli) and Queen Fredegonda at the Death-Bed of Bishop Praetextatus (1864, xx), by the photographer Dupont, who shared the studio with the painter in this period.166 After Alma-Tadema had moved to London he also hung reproductions on the wall. A picture by his painter friend Jan Verhas allows us a glimpse into the interior of Townshend House circa 1870. [fig. 87] Once again there are several framed photographs of his work on the wall, possibly by Dupont. However, only a few of the ten pictures in the painting can be identified. Clearly visible is a photograph after Spelevaren (The Embarkation) (1868), the original painting of which Alma-Tadema had produced for his cousin H.W. Mesdag; the work subsequently became part of Mesdag’s substantial art collection. We can also recognise a photograph after Een Pyrrhische dans (A Pyrrhic Dance), painted in 1869 and one of the first works the artist exhibited in England.

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These two paintings of Alma-Tadema’s studio and domestic interior attest to his interest in reproductions. In addition to reproductions of his own work he also owned prints after old masters. In search of etchings after painting by Frans Hals the painter wrote to Vosmaer: ‘Why have I never heard anything more of the etchings after Frans Hals? [...] should a specimen of these turn up I would certainly open the best places in my library for it.’167 Alma-Tadema was probably alluding here to prints by the renowned German etcher William Unger, who had chiefly made a name with etchings after old masters and was a close friend of Carel Vosmaer.168 In 1872 Vosmaer had collaborated with the etcher on his book about Frans Hals, which was published in 1874. Given Unger’s long and distinguished career it is hardly surprising that Alma-Tadema was very interested in his prints.169 He also thought of his good friend in connection with several exclusive photographs after a work by Mantegna: c

‘As I rightly recall you were very eager then for a reproduction of the Mantegna in Hampton Court. Several friends being of your opinion have obtained permission from the Queen to photograph this and give to friends for the distribution of these fine things [with] the photographs at cost price; that is 9 large unmounted prints around 50 centime [sic] high and just as wide for the sum of two guine­as, that is 42 English shillings. So I thought of your and subscribed for two copies which are now in my possession. Might it be to your taste to offer up that money for them let me know and I will forward them directly. As for the 42 Eng. Shillings you can pay these when it suits to Mesdag as I always have more to settle up with him. Should my proposal not entirely please you I can always place my second copy elsewhere.’170

Alma-Tadema’s interest in reproductions created an extensive collection of prints that was eventually sold at auction in 1913, a year after his death. Thanks to the auction catalogue we still still gain an idea of his collection of reproductions.171 If we focus on reproductions after his own work, the catalogue lists sixteen exclusive artist’s proofs of engravings and etchings, including engravings after the four seasons, signed by Auguste Blanchard and himself. He also owned both Blanchard engravings after the pendants The Vintage Festival and The Dedication to Bacchus, the print of the latter in a specially made frame, and both prints after The Picture Gallery and The Sculpture Gallery. A possibly similar print, coloured by

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hand, is currently in the Fries Museum te Leeuwarden. [plate 25] Alma-Tadema also had a number of etchings, such as Paul Rajon’s prints after A Roman Emperor en The Bath: Strigils and Sponges and C.O. Murray’s etching after The Ever-New Horizon from 1902, signed by the etcher and the painter. Curiously no etchings by Löwenstam were put up for sale at the auction. Given the years of collaboration between Alma-Tadema and Löwenstam we may assume that the painter would have owned various prints by the Dutch printmaker. Possibly these were given privately to the etcher’s family at some point before the auction. The catalogue also mentions a lithograph after Fredegonde et Pretextat, perhaps a copy of the 1866 print by Bong & Hönemann, one of the first firms to publish indepent reproductions after Alma-Tadema’s pictures. The painter also owned a fine collection of 33 framed photogravures after his work, including various prints published from the 1890s by the firm of Tooth.172 Among these photogravures were prints after The Benediction, Hero, Past and Present Generations, Caracalla and Geta, Roses, and Love’s Delight, and also the print after Comparisons published by Stephen Gooden. Alma-Tadema’s portrait of Löwenstam seems to have been photographed as well. According to the auction catalogue all the photogravures were framed and signed by the painter; moreover the photogravure of his portrait of Paderewski also bore the famous pianist’s signature.173 The fact that these prints were framed indicates that Alma-Tadema hung reproductions on the wall, as the two paintings of his interior show. This observation is not without significance for the painter attached a great deal of importance to the design and decoration of his home. He had his houses in London radically remodelled so he could fit them out entirely to his own taste, incorporating such features as the ceiling paintings, discussed above in connection with their reproduction in De Kunstkronijk. Thus Alma-Tadema brought his entire house into harmony with his work; his home may even have been his greatest creation, an artwork through which he could stroll with his wife.174 This ensured his renown, not only as a painter, but also as an architect and interior designer. In his carefully designed interior Alma-Tadema did not hesitate to hang engravings, etchings and photographs after his works, despite having enough painted ‘originals’ at his disposal. He displayed these, not only for his own pleasure but also for the many guests who regularly visited the famous ‘Casa Tadema’.175 The importance which Alma-Tadema attached to reproductions in his interior is shown by the family portrait which he painted for his uncles Klaas Mesdag, in which the photographs on the wall are clearly identifiable. It should be re-

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marked, here, however, that a painting is not a photograph. Had Alma-Tadema wanted to convey a photographic impression of his studio to his uncle, he could have asked a photographer (Dupont for example) to take such an image; instead, he placed his family in his studio, with the reproductions in the background, as if he not only wanted to depict his flesh-and-blood daughter in this family portrait but also several of his brainchildren. Friends and acquaintances

Alma-Tadema collected reproductions; like Scheffer and Israëls, he also gave them away on occasion to family and friends. Previous mention has been made of the photographs that he sent to Carel Vosmaer, fearing that his friend would otherwise get the wrong impression of his works from Löwenstam’s weak adaptations of these. It is likely that he regularly sent photographs to Vosmaer, although he was not always in a position to do this, as he informed his friend: ‘I am at odds with my publisher, so first of all no photograph.’176 In another instance Alma-Tadema promised to send a photograph to another friend, the well-known cleric and writer Francois Ha­verschmidt of Schiedam, alias Piet Paaltjes, to whom he wrote a warm letter in 1872:177 c

‘Honoured minister and friend […] you narrowly escaped having to give me dinner again but in truth I had no time we had to be home for Christmas and the Sea had us [terribly?] not and allow to cross than 10 days before that most celebrated of feasts. Ergo no time. Exuse me and be persuaded that next time acquaintance will be made with [?] and influential Schiedam. Take advantage of our correspondance in the meanwhile to request a copy, and add a photograph after one of my paintings to this to be despatched at the first opportunity after being much blessed in the new year with having my old friends and family together I remain with regards, L Alma-Tadema’178

To fulfil his promise to send Haverschmidt a photographic reproduction, AlmaTadema called on the services of Vosmaer to deliver the print: ‘I have added to the consignment an engraving after my Egyptians. Send this s.v.p. to Minister Frans Haversmith of Schie­dam.’179 Although it is unclear which print the painter actually meant, it is conceivable that he was referring to Auguste Blanchard’s engraving of Pastimes in Ancient Egypt 3,000 Years Ago, previously published in The

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Art Journal. After the painter had despatched the print to Vosmaer, the latter wrote to Haverschmidt: c

‘Tadema sent me this plate some time ago. I delayed sending it, in order to find opportunity, but now I no longer want to wait. I received it folded in two; so this is not my fault.[…] You’ll tell him surely of its proper receipt.’180

So Haverschmidt received a folded reproduction of a work by Alma-Tadema. The painter also sent a reproduction to his old grammar school in Leeuwar­den, a large-format photogravure of Under the Roof of Blue Ionian Weather (published by Arthur Tooth & Sons in 1901), on which he personally wrote: ‘L. Alma-Tadema former pupil of the grammar school of Leeuwarden: in grateful memory Sept.1902.’ The framed print is now in the possession of the Fries Museum in Leeuwarden. Finally, the artist also seems to have kept some reproductions in his studio, as gifts for visitors. In addition to many famous musicians, such as Tchaikowsky, Paderewsky and G. Henchel, his studio was also visited by an entire a cappella choir, on 21 May 1894. As a souvenir of their visit Alma-Tadema presented the choir with a signed photogravure of Comparisons, published in 1893 by Stephen T. Gooden.181 Alma-Tadema thus appears to have regularly distributed reproductions in this manner to friends and aquaintances in his immediate circle. Like Scheffer and Israëls the painter used reproductions of his work to maintain and expand his social network. He sent them by post, or gave them away to causal visitors. Although he had not made these prints and photographs after his paintings himself, they were literally representative of his work. The general public

Reproductions of Alma-Tadema’s work were brought to the general public by art dealers and print publishers. Prints after his paintings must have been regularly displayed in printsellers’ windows on Pall Mall and the Strand in London. While the public stood and gaped at these poor men’s galleries, the critic John Ruskin viewed the scene with suspicion and distaste: c

‘And there are simply no words for the mixed absurdity and wickedness of the present popular demand for art, as shown by its supply in our thor-

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oughfares. Abroad, in the shops in the Rue the Rivoli, brightest and most central of Parisian streets, the putrescent remnant of what was once Catholicism promotes its poor gilded pedlars’ ware of nativity and crucifixion into such honourable corners as is can find among the more costly and studious illuminations of the brothel: and, although, in Pall Mall, and the Strand, the large-margined Landseer,- Stanfield,- or Turner-proofs, in a few stately windows, still represent, uncared-for by the people, or inaccessible to them, the power of an English school now wholly perished, -these are too surely superseded, in the windows that stop the crowd, by the thrilling attraction with which Doré, Gérome, and Tadema [italics, rv] have invested the gambling table, the duelling ground, and the arena; or by the more material and almost tangible truth with which the apothecary-artist stereographs the stripped actress, and the railway mound.’182 The critical art connoisseur Ruskin did not have a good word for the general public’s bourgeois taste for popular art in art dealers’ windows, including that of Alma-Tadema. However, his irritation allows us an interesting glimpse of public interest in reproductions of work by this kind of popular artist. A chic venue in London was the Grosvenor Gallery, where only the most high-priced art dealers displayed their art in elitist, sophisticated surroundings. In 1882 this hosted a large special exhibition of Alma-Tadema’s work which displayed a total of 150 paintings and 30 drawings. In addition to original work, there were also several reproductions: three etchings by Paul Rajon and C.O. Murray and 18 engravings by Auguste Blanchard.183 In 1894 the well-known art dealer Thomas McLean organised a remarkable double exhibition with reproductions after works by Alma-Tadema and the equally popular – and much reproduced – artist Rosa Bonheur. Like Alma-Tadema, Bonheur was one of Gambart’s ‘stable’ of artists, who made a great name with her animal paintings, not least through the many reproductions of these.184 The exhibition was glowingly described by The Magazine of Art as: c

‘an exhibition [...] of great interest, not only as illustrating the history of engraving during the thirty years prior to the development of photo­ engraving, but also as enabling us to see at a glance the whole record in black and white of the life of two great artists.’185

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Among the prints after Alma-Tadema were reproductions by the printmakers Rajon, Löwenstam and Blan­chard. Thanks to Alma-Tadema, Carel Vosmaer received an exclusive invitation to a preview of The Vintage Festival, held in Gambart’s London gallery on 22 April 1871. [fig. 88] After this works by Alma-Tadema were frequently displayed in the commercial exhibitions circuit. Pilgeram & Lefèvre followed in Gambart’s footsteps, regularly sending paintings on tour through Europa, including diverse works by Alma-Tadema. When several of the artist’s paintings could be viewed in Amsterdam in 1873, E.J. Potgieter (1808-1894) reported on this in a letter of 20 February 1873 to his friend C. Busken Huet (1826-1886), who was now living and working in Batavia: c

‘Messrs. Pelegrin [sic] and Lefèvre, art buyers of London, their agents are on tour through Europe with four paintings Tademas beginning or concluding, I do not rightly know,-also visiting with us. Whether we are the first or the last, I am no less grateful for it – it is a delight I have long wished to taste.’186

The writer let his thoughts flow on the subject of what he actually knew of the painter: c ‘Until then I only half knew Tadema. His “Children of Clovis” had only been beheld by me in the fairly stiff engraving, which Arti had made after it, to present as consolation prize. And our exhibitions, were they considered by the master in love? I recollect just two pieces, a most charming young Roman girl, stretching up on tiptoe, to smell the scent of the fig. 88 Invitation for Carel Vosmaer for the Private View of The Vintage Festival, on

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flowers, which are standing on a small table in front of her, and Tarquinius, a precept in a picture, how one should deal with turbulent folks in days of national division, striking off the heads of the tallest plants in a poppy field. Both tableaux de chevalet, contended the scholars, left nothing to desire in showing knowledge of the time and situation, they rivalled each other in grace of presentation and ageeability of colour. It is true, the first subject was the height of triviality, but an admirer of the Dutch school may not be difficult on that point, it’s true, the second piece elicits the question of whether someone who had never heard the legend, could surmise why the envoy looks searchingly up at Tarquinius; but the second Lessing has yet to be born to point out the boundaries of painting in that respect. In four paintings the master now gives us a better gauge of his gifts.’ The four paintings afforded Potgieter a greater idea of Alma-Tadema’s work than he had hitherto been able to acquire from the few works he already knew, one of these thanks to Rennefeld’s engraving of The Education of the Children of Clovis. Among the works he was now able to see in Amsterdam was The Vintage Festival; some time after this the Auguste Blanchard engraving of the painting also became available. A few years later several more works by Alma-Tadema toured the Netherlands. In De Nederlandse Spectator Vosmaer mentioned Harte­lijk Welkom (Warm Welcome) (1878 opus cxc) and Naar de tempel van Ceres (On the Road to the Temple of Ceres) (1878 opus ccviii), which were exhibited briefly in The Hague in 1879.187 In the same year a Merovingian work by Alma-Tadema also came to the city, where its presence was noted by De Kunstkronijk: ‘“A morning gift to Galeswintha”. The work has been exhibited in Amsterdam and is now being briefly displayed in The Hague on its way back to England.’188 Works by Alma-Tadema were also note or announced in other publications. On 31 December 1884, for example, a Berlin newspaper wrote: ‘Def­foir, in Berlin, Ein neues Bild von Alma-Tadema wird demnachst die Runde durch Europa machen.’189 Finally reproductions after Alma-Tadema’s work could also be admired at the Royal Academy’s most prestigious exhibitions. In many instances these were displayed several years after their original paintings had been exibited in the same building. One example is the painting A Picture Gallery, displayed at the Royal Academy in 1874, whose reproduction by Auguste Blan­chard was also exhibited there in 1878. However the picture He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not (1887 opus cclxxx)

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was only displayed at the Royal Academy, in 1893, in the form of Löwenstam’s etching. When reproductions were exhibited, they were generally for sale too. There is an interesting letter from H.J. Scholtens to the firm of Buffa, supplier of Alma-Tadema reproductions: c

‘I have received the Engraving after Tadema in good order. It is excellently succeeded and Mister v.d Vlugt would very much like to keep this specimen for the Art Collection were it not that he believes, during the exhibition of Paintings in Arti, he signed for an épreuve d’artiste for Teyler’s collection on the list there. […]’190

This illustrates the interest in prints after Alma-Tadema when these were displayed at exhibitions, where both private and institutional collectors were apparently eager to acquire them. When Blanchard’s engraving after The Vintage Festival was published in 1874, a laudatory review appeared in The Art Journal: c ‘It is quite impossible to examine the print closely without being impres­sed with the beautiful work everywhere visible [...]: The engraving, exqui­site in every portion, is one for thought and study: that such a work should have been publis­hed in this coun­try is no small compliment to the nati­onal taste.’191 Blanchard’s print after Alma-Tadema’s In the Time of Constan­tine (1878 opus cxcii) was also admired for its own qualities: ‘The engraving [...] is desirable as illustra­ ting a curious and little under­stood period of history, alto­gether apart from its intrinsic merits which, it being by the master of French line engraving, are very conside­ra­ble.’192 The talented printmaker had produced an engraving with its own artistic value, a print that every amateur would want to possess. In expressing admiration for the printmaker Auguste Blanchard, The Art Journal also acknowledged the role of the publisher who had brought painter and printmaker together. Just as appreciation for the firm of Goupil had been expressed in connection with Scheffer, Pilgeram & Lefèvre were respected for their contribution to Alma-Tadema’s success.193 Concerning Blanchard’s print of The Torch Dance (1881 opus ccxxii) The Art Jour­nal observed:

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fig. 89 J. Robert after Alma-Tadema, A Roman Emperor: 41 ad (1883), wood

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engraving, from: The Art Journal (1883).

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‘A publis­her [pilgeram & lefè­vre, rv] who so continu­ally brings the two artists into connec­ti­on with each other is rendering a real service to Art. [...] The engraving is one which can with confidence be recom­mended as a good specimen of the state of the Arts in 1882.’194

Rajon’s etchings regularly won admiration, although his print after A Roman Emperor did not meet with unqualified praise. The reviewer in The Art Journal was somewhat disappointed that it was this horrific picture by Alma-Tadema that the talented etcher had reproduced: c

‘No doubt this is a pro­duction of great ability, one that will be very welcome to collectors; but we cannot help regretting that the two great masters have not combined to produce a work which would give pleasure to all who look upon it, that its claim to admi­ration might be not merely what is derived from its value as a work of Art. We can hardly consi­der any artist justified in multiply­ing a picture that repels – one that cannot fail to give pain rather than enjoyment.’195

Although the critic had an eye for the artistic qualities of the print – in this respect he had no doubts concerning the collaboration between Alma-Tadema and Rajon – he found the gruesome subject of the picture unpleasant to look at. This did not prevent the image from also being reproduced in The Art Journal, several years later. [fig. 89] The brutal scene is an exception in Alma-Tadema’s oeuvre, in

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which poverty, violence or other forms of suffering barely feature.196 Alma-Tadema’s friend Vosmaer was much more positive in his assessment of Rajon’s print: ‘His etching after Tadema’s Clau­dius is one of the finest and most complete interpretations of a painting through means of etching.’197 Full of admiration he pointed to the ‘pleasure of all those little lines, following their movements and intersections, feeling what the draughtsman felt.198 Reviews of prints after Alma-Tadema reveal the attention paid to the individual qualities of the printmaker. The Magazine of Art declared of Leopold Löwen­ stam’s etching after Alma-Tadema’s Rose of All the Roses (1885 opus cclxxii): c

‘Del­icate piece of work. It is perhaps more of a line-engra­ving wrought with the et­ching tool, than a true etching, but it is a very earnest attempt to reproduce faith­fully all the delica­cies and refine­ments of a very deli­cate and refined subject.’199

According to The Magazine of Art the same impression was produced in his etching after Welcome Foot­steps (1883 opus cclvii) [fig.71], whose meticulous pattern of lines seemed rather to have been produced by the burin rather than a rapid etching needle. Was the etcher attempting to endow his print with engraving’s traditional status by imitating the character of an engraving, the journal wondered. This apparent imitation of engraving did not, however, detract from the fact that the etching technique was capable of rendering the texture of a fabric or a tigerskin with more subtlety than an engraving; etching also seemed the technique best able to reproduce the marble and sparkling light on the various materials in Alma-Tadema’s work.200 Löwenstam’s fame was such that even when a print was ‘weak’, this did not necessarily jeopardise its success, according to The Magazine of Art, writing of his print after A Silent Gree­ting: ‘The head of the sleeping girl seems hardly satisfactory as a translati­on of Mr Tadema’s drawing, but the reputation of the etcher is enough to guaran­tee a generally succes­full result.’201 [fig. 90] The print was judged in the light of the original, but also placed in the framework of the printmaker’s own oeuvre.202 Appreciation for the printmaker’s personal qualities was, of course, closely associated with the choice of technique. While engravings and particularly etchings displayed the individual hand of the maker, photographs appeared to have been made by an ‘invisible’ hand. The various reproductive techniques described in chapter two each had their own place in the spectrum of art repro-

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duction in the late nineteenth century. Some collectors were interested in handmade prints of artworks, while others preferred modern photographs of these. This situation was clearly described by a critic in The Magazine of Art in 1893, who compared Löwen­stam’s etching after Alma-Tadema’s A Silent Greeting (1889 opus ccxcix) with a photogravure of An Earthly Paradise (1891 opus ccvii): c ‘As affor­ding a means of compa­rison between repro­ducti­on by et­ching and photo­engraving, anot­her picture of Tadema (An Earthly Paradise) has oppor­tunely just been reproduced by the Berlin Photoghap­hic Company and should be seen side by side with Löwen­stams et­ching [after almatadema’s a silent greeting, rv] . The re­sults are so different, however that it is not possible to say that one is better than the other; but the compa­rison is most interes­ting between the transla­tion of the artist-etcher and the mechani­cal reproduction of the camera. Difference of taste will cause a difference in appreciation. People who want “the picture, the whole picture and nothing than the picture” will choose the mechanical repro­ duction, which is certainly most admirebly made; but the etching will be the choice of those who prefer that a reproduction should be rather a sugge­stion in the spirit of the artist than a facsimile of the work of art. Mr Tadema has supervised both reproductions.’203 The different kinds of graphic and photographic reproduction were not simply distributed amongst the general public as competitors, for they also complemented each other. Moreover, it was not simply the art trade which maintained this wide range of reproductions, for the production of both the photogravure of An Earthly Paradise and Löwenstam’s etching of A Silent Greeting were supervised by Alma-Tadema himself.204 Thus the painter kept a personal eye on the diversity of reproductions for distribution to the public. An ‘Alma-Tadema room’

Reproductions of Alma-Tadema’s work were enjoyed by a broad public of amateurs and connoisseurs. The L.H. Lefèvre advertisement cited above is interesting, for it not only shows what people could collect but also offered suggestions as to how they could go about this. The introduction to this advertisement for Alma-Tadema reproductions also made pointed reference to the quality of individual printmakers:

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fig. 90 Leopold Löwenstam after Alma-Tadema, A Silent Greeting (1892), etching 40 x 30. 5 cm, The Maas Gallery, London.

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c

‘Engravers of fame, viz. in pure line by Auguste Blanchard, one the greatest masters of this branch of Art; Mr. Paul Rajon, the celebrated Etcher, so well known by his grand reproductions in etching of celebrated portraits; and Mr. Löwenstam, who for some years has also etched pictures of Mr AlmaTadema R.A., and of other artists.’205

The advertisement underlined the fact that these were not only reproductions after works by the painter Alma-Tadema, but also works by individual printmakers in specific techniques. Significantly the firm stocked both a Blanchard engraving and a Löwenstam etching after Autumn. These individual interpretations were, as usual, available in varying states and printed on different types of paper. Thus various copies were offered of each print, for varying prices. The prints were available in the first place as individual works; there were also various pendants of related works, such as the engravings after The Picture Gallery and The Sculpture Gallery and the etchings of The First Whisper in Confidence. The four engravings of the four seasons were probably only available as a set. When purchasing a print buyers were undoubtedly made aware of the fact that their current purchase was ‘only’ part of a larger whole. Combinations of prints had a wider significance than simply commercial implications, for related prints gave collectors direction when forming their collections. It is interesting that not only certain prints belonged together, but that the publisher presented the total range as a whole, as the headline to the advertisement clearly proclaims: c

‘The complete engraved works of L. Alma-Tadema. R.A. […] The Attention of Art Connoisseurs is respectfully invited to this unique Collection of the Engraved works of L. Alma-Tadema, R.A. […] The Publisher desires to draw the attention of amateurs to the great impor­tance this Collec­tion forms as a whole.’

The list of prints was presented as a complete overview of reproductions after works by Alma-Tadema, comprising diverse engravings and etchings, but forming a single collection. By concentrating on just one artist, collectors were in a position to acquire the ‘collected work’ of an artist and thus give direction to their collection, as Whitman emphasised in his Print-collector’s handbook:

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c

‘for it is necessary to say with emphasis that he should collect with a definite purpose and not buy haphazard. Shall he take a school or a period; a class of prints, such as portraits; a method of engraving as stipple […] shall he take a painter and collect engraving after his pictures?’206

The publisher added a further tip, to ‘recommend Collectors to form an AlmaTadema room, as there are in sever­al instances collections of Sir Edwin Land­ seer’s and Rosa Bonheur’s.’ This recalls eighteenth-century print collections, exclusively dedicated to reproductions of Raphael’s work, which were sometimes hung together in a so-called ‘Raphael room’. It is hard to ascertain whether any collectors followed the publisher’s suggestion and actually established their own ‘Alma-Tadema room’, for I regrettably know of no examples of these. Given the collecting tradition and artist’s fame, together with the renowned printmakers who reproduced his work, it is certainly conceivable that such rooms might have existed. In order to gain some idea of how such an ‘Alma-Tadema room’ might have appeared, we can look at the painter’s own domestic and working environment. In the artist’s own painting of his Brussels studio and the painting by Verhas of his home, we see rooms decorated with photographic reproductions after his work.207 So Alma-Tadema’s Brussels studio, painted for his uncle Klaas Mesdag, can be regarded as an ‘Alma-Tadema room’ in more than one respect.

Alma-Tadema’s work versus reproduction On 2 January 1885 Alma-Tadema wrote to his friend Vosmaer: c ‘Art going badly here the paintings won’t come off. So what will those Goupils have to reproduce? So good of you to loan them that drawing. Everyone doesn’t just do that. Besides I have discovered that those queer fish return things very slowly. They don’t seem to like it.’208 The painter often had difficulty finishing his works, owing to his time-consuming methods and technique. This jeopardised not only production of his original paintings but also reproduction. Goaded by stagnation in the progress of his work, Alma-Tadema felt the publishers breathing down his neck in their search

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for art to reproduce. His paintings refused to ‘come off’, so he could supply nothing ‘reproduceable’ to the firm of Goupil. Vosmaer, his faithful friend, helped him out of a tight spot by loaning Goupil a drawing for reproduction. This illustrates how closely art was associated with its reproduction, with the art trade functioning as an intermediary. If we review Alma-Tadema’s contacts with the art trade, it is evident that he did a great deal of business with relatively few firms. After his first encounter with Ernest Gambart he produced many works for this dealer and his successors Pilgeram & Lefèvre. During the course of the 1890s the role of this ‘major patron’ was increasingly taken over by the dealer Arthur Tooth, for whom Alma-Tadema painted many works in the final decade of the nineteenth century and early years of the twentieth. However, the art dealers Gambart, Pilgeram & Lefèvre, and Tooth were not only the chief commissioners of paintings in Alma-Tadema’s career, but also the principal publishers of reproductions after his work.209 When Gambart, and also Pilgeram & Lefèvre, commissioned the painter to produce a new painting, some time later the same firm would regularly publish an etching or an engraving of this original work; paintings commissioned by Tooth were generally followed by photogravures.210 So it seems reasonable to assume that provision was already made for reproduction when a painting was ordered, with the commission for both original and reproduction apparently going hand in glove. It should be observed here, however, that not every new work by Alma-Tadema was reproduced in print form as a matter of course: many paintings he produced on commission to Gambart were not converted into prints. Unfortunately the financial information relating to these matters has largely been lost. What was the income from copyrights, from the sale of reproductions? What effect did reproduction have on the prices of Alma-Tadema’s original works? The income derived by both the painter and his dealer from copyrights and reproduction remains unclear, leaving us in the dark as to the economic arguments which may have prompted one painting, rather than another, to be reproduced. Give the connection beneath commissioning the original work and its reproduction, the initiative probably lay with the art dealer and publisher, although it was naturally up to the artist to accede to this initiative. This relationship between Alma-Tadema’s art and its reproduction raises the question of to what extent the artist made allowance for potential reproduction when producing his work. To what degree was his work actually ‘reproduceable’, in terms of subject, technique and use of colour?

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historical sentiment

Alma-Tadema’s oeuvre was dominated by sentimental genre scenes situated in a distant past. His Belgian teachers Louis de Taeye and Henri Leys introduced him to the romantic genre painting of artists such as Horace Vernet, Paul Délaroche and Ary Scheffer. It was a tradition to which Alma-Tadema generally remained faithful throughout his career. History paintings, landscapes and still lives were barely found on his easel, or not at all. Working in this rich tradition, Alma-Tadema soon distinguished himself from his contemporaries through his archaeological accuracy. He had been fascinated by history and archaeology from his first contact with his first teacher, Louis de Taeye, and quickly gained the name of ‘the archaeologist among the painters’. With great passion he immersed himself in the past: the murky Middle Ages of the Merovingians, the exotic Egypt of the pharaohs and, above all the rich Greek and Roman cultures. Alma-Tadema took various trips to Italy, where he exhaustively studied the remains of ancient Roman culture. When the classicist Vosmaer accompanied him on one of these trips, he remarked of the painter: ‘His astonishing accuracy, tirelessness and fire: he espied the door grooves, the bolt holes, everything, everything.’211 Alma-Tadema supplemented his personal drawings with the purchase of countless photographs with archaeological details, establishing a large library of reference works.212 The painter once confidently proclaimed: ‘Now if you want to know what those Greeks and Romans looked like, whom you make your masters in langua­ge and thoug­ht, come to me. For I can show not only what I think­ but what I know.’213 If he was missing a detail, he would turn to his friend Vosmaer. While working on Keizer Hadri­anus in Engeland (Emperior Hadrian in England) (1884 opus cclxi) Alma-Tadema asked his friend: ‘Can you give me some details about the emperors’ visiting in Britannye[sic]? Or where can I find this? Have thanks for the inscriptions. Although I do not know how I should write them.’214 Employing archaeological dedication and expertise, the painter applied himself to the task of rendering the ‘couleur locale’ of the Graeco-Roman world with historical accuracy.215 He wished to bring the distant past back to life, but according to the latest scholarly insights, thereby distinguishing himself from his contemporaries Frederic Leigh­ton (1830-1896), Albert Mo­ore (1841-1893) and Edward Poynter (1836-1919). When completed Keizer Hadrianus in Engeland was an archaeological tour-de-force, full of accurate details. Exhibited in the Royal Academy and soon reproduced, the canvas was eventually cut into pieces by Alma-Tadema himself, who subsequently painted over these to create three independent works.

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fig. 91 Anonymous after Alma-Tadema, Hadrian in England (1884), engraving from: RA Illustrated (1884).

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This made the reproduction a unique historical document in its own right, as it is only thanks to this print that we can still gain some idea of the original work with its plethora of archaeologically accurate information.216 [fig. 91] Alma-Tadema was consistent in his treatment of the past, whether this was Merovingian, Egyptian or Graeco-Roman. He typically chose to paint everyday scenes, or ‘petite histoire’, paying great attention to the historical accuracy of the ‘couleur locale’. Although the painter dressed his figures in different costumes, gave them varying requisites and placed them in other settings, the story remained the same, or as he himself remarked: ‘All my pictures, […] are the expression of one idea, they deal with different subjects, but one style of thought is expressed in them.’217 Alma-Tadema’s work attests to a vision of history that closely concurred with the ideas propounded by the romantic historians Michelet, Thierry and Carlyle and their interest in ‘couleur locale’.218 He seems to have studied with particular care the work of the influential historian Augustin Thierry, whose Recits des temps merovingiens (1840) he owned, developing Thierry’s vision into Merovingian scenes, which he then followed with Egyptian, Greek and Roman subjects, all depicted with archaeological accuracy.219

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Moreover, through his study of archaeology Alma-Tadema seems to have taken literally Thierry’s call not to trust too much to other people’s descriptions but to make the greatest possible use of original sources. Just as the ideas of the romantic historians extended beyond their studies of the Middle Ages, so Thierry’s influence on Alma-Tadema extended beyond his Merovingian works. Thierry’s theories formed the foundation for the painter’s historical images in general, as Busken Huet observed, as early as 1878: ‘Alma-Tadema is a pioneer, the first who has availed himself of the labour of the newcomers amongst the historians. As Augustin Thierry wrote, as Mommsen and Ebers write, so Alma-Tadema paints.’220 The archaeological accuracy of Alma-Tadema’s work was particularly and repeatedly lauded in England.221 In the Netherlands Carel Vosmaer had nothing but praise for this accuracy which he contended was essential to the ‘authenticity’ of the painter’s work.222 It is interesting that the archaeological character of AlmaTadema’s pictures does not seem to have been valued only by specialists, for this was the period in which major archaeological developments were closely followed in newspaper and periodicals, such as The Graphic and the popular Illustrated London News. Archaeology had not yet fully evolved into a specialised, scientific discipline and major finds appealed to the imagination of more than simply a few initiates; it was an integral part of popular Victorian culture with its great fascination for the past, described by Peter Gay in The Naked Heart: c

‘The Victorians’ sense of themselves was enriched and, with the passing decades, complicated by their sense of the past as they consumed biographies and histories in unprecedented numbers. Seldom a purely disinterested pursuit, their reading often amounted to the search for a usable past.’223

So it is probable that the historical accuracy of Alma-Tadema’s work found support in a broad public of the culturally interested. This is not to ignore the fact that not everyone admired the painter’s archeological erudition: Lodewijk van Deyssel wanted nothing to do with it and De Kunstkronijk also spoke disparagingly of his work, through the mouth of ‘Rembrandt’, as we have seen above: ‘“Surely a commission for the library of some archaelogist or another […] for that is not the calling of art; there is no soul in it, though the whole antique mish-mash be exhibited with undisputable knowledge!”’224

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The historical dimension to Alma-Tadema’s work was an important factor in its ‘reproduceability’. Its historical accuracy was generally simple to reproduce: the archaeological significance of an inscription was not changed by reproduction. Various reviews also praised the archaeological accuracy of reproductions after his paintings, as well as that of the original images.225 In a discussion of Pastimes in An­cient Egypt, The Art Jour­nal wrote of the work’s archaeological aspect: ‘He has made himself a valua­ble tea­cher, and in a manner more attractive and “reada­ble” than any writer, for pictures are more general­ly intelli­gible and more impres­sive than the most elaborate verbal description.’226 The archaeological character of Alma-Tadema’s pictures made these highly suitable as material to illustrate literature with an archaeological flavour, such as Aegypten in Bild und Wort by the painter’s friend, the Egyptologist Georg Ebers.227 Archaeological information in inscriptions, decorations and other reconstructions, so essential to Alma-Tadema’s vision of ‘couleur locale’, was easily translated into print form, without any loss of ‘authenticity’. Alma-Tadema’s work presented the past in all its decadence and sentimentality, a world made for endless reverie, far removed from the problems of contemporary life in industrial Victorian England. Yet his paintings were never completely divorced from their nineteenth-century context. In the first place, the painter used the most recent archaeological insights to help him reconstruct the past. In the second place, the figures in his paintings ensured that these were more than simply a selection of historical details: the men and particularly the women in antique dress were represented in scenes of daily life permeated by recognisable feelings of faith, hope and love. Human actions which the nineteenth-century public could immediately identify were depicted within an archaeologically accurate setting. Alma-Tadema’s many figures, mostly women, play a key role in making the distant past accessible in his work. Classically dressed ladies with auburn hair, reflecting the Victorian ideal of beauty, are characteristic in his paintings.228 Even without subjecting Alma-Tadema’s work to systematic gender study, it is immediately evident that this male painter tended to depict beautiful women in revealing states of dress, or undress, two examples of such paintings being A Favourite Custom (1909 opus cccxci) and In the Tepidarium (1881 opus ccxxix). [plate 26] When this was pointed out to him, Alma-Tadema replied: ‘For I never looked at a picture or portrait with a view of looking at a beautiful woman. Beauty is so depen­dent on so many things and so multip­le that I hardly ever

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thought of it in your way.’229 Such a remark is hardly convincing: Alma-Tadema’s admiration for female beauty seems far from Platonic and the painter appears to have been well aware of the importance of incorporating such beauty in an image, a major consideration being its commercial exploitation. The critical review of Paul Rajon’s etching after A Roman Emper­or. ad 40, cited above, also revealed how vitally important it was for a picture to be pleasant to look at.230 This gruesome scene of the Roman emperor was an exception in Alma-Tadema’s oeuvre, however, for his paintings presented an attractive combi­na­tion of archaeological erudi­tion, encased in sentimental genre pictures that were extraordinarily popular in the Victorian world and therefore highly suitable for reproduction in prints and photographs. The only drawback was that auburn hair tended to turn out gray in black-and-white prints. A colourist

Alma-Tadema’s painting technique is also an important factor in the reproduction of his work. He acquired the basis for his faultless style during his training in Belgium between 1852 and 1862, chiefly under the guidance of the Belgian history painter Henri Leys (1815-1869). Leys’ sh­arp, linear realism and clear contours, inspired by the work of Hol­bein, Dürer and the Flemish Primitives, clearly influenced his talented pupil. Alma-Tadema generally employed a polished style of painting and did not engage in experiments with the palette knife. At most he varied his brush somewhat on the canvas: like many of his contemporaries, he often left the background perceptibly rougher and sketchier in finish than the detailed rendering of marble and figures in the foreground. Generally speaking, however, he employed an extremely smooth painting style. So it is with good reason that his technique was sometimes compared to that of the famous seventeeth-century ‘fijnschilder’ (fine painter) Gerard Dou.231 In this respect Alma-Tadema could hold his own against his illustrious predecessors, and also against other nineteenth-century ‘fijnschilders’ such as Winterhalter, Gérôme, Bouge­ reau, Rossetti, or Burne-Jones, whose virtuoso handling of the brush made their technique sometimes invisible. In this respect Alma-Tadema left even Scheffer far behind him. The smooth technique that both painters employed had the same consequences for reproductions of their work, for the absence of any rough paint texture spared the printmakers the trouble of reproducing this. In this respect, therefore, Alma-Tadema’s smooth painting technique was highly suitable for reproduction.

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In the winter of 1888 Alma-Tadema was working on his well-known painting The Roses of Heliogabalus, which depicts the emperor Heliogabalus suffocating his guests in countless rose petals. [plate 27] The story goes that, while he was painting this picture, the artist had fresh rose petals brought every week from the French Riviera to his studio in chilly London.232 We do not know if this story is true, although the explosion of colour in this painting suggests that it is. During Alma-Tadema’s life his use of colour was frequently praised. His introduction to Mediterranean light was particularly responsible for a major expansion of his palette, allowing him to hold his own with impressionists such as Renoir or Degas in terms of colour. What was the significance of his (literally) ‘sparkling’ use of colour for the reproduction of his work? It goes without saying that a printmaker was helpless in the face of such vibrant, varied colour, for it was still barely possible to reproduce colours graphically in the nineteenth century.233 Although the results of some techniques were promising, many painters did not regard these as a viable alternative to traditional forms of reproduction. Even a fan of colour like Alma-Tadema preferred a black-and-white reproduction to an image in pallid colours, as he wrote to Carel Vosmaer: ‘Now I do not like colour printing so if you have nothing against it Rajon can etch all the compositions.’234 This inability to reproduce colour successfully compelled printmakers and photographers to make do with representing differences in tints and tones. AlmaTadema must have been extremely conscious of the importance of using balanced tones. As mentioned earlier, the photographer J. Dupont photographed his paintings in various phases of completion; the painter then used these monochrome images to help him correct the tones of the different colours.235 Although it is unclear how many paintings Alma-Tadema actually produced in this way, his biographer Swanson believes there must have been various works.­236 Thanks to this procedure, the painter kept control of the ratio between light and dark in his paintings and thus avoided undesirable contrasts. Both the light and dark areas in his works remained completely ‘readable’ for the printmaker. Thanks to AlmaTadema’s carefully balanced use of tone, the picture could be reproduced in its entirety, without the need for printmakers to fill in unclear portions as they saw fit; the colour original could be simply translated into a black-and-white image in which the tonal values were preserved. This does not mean, however, that AlmaTadema’s rich use of tone and colour in his work did not present printmakers with serious challenges. The Art Journal sounded a critical note in its review of August Blanchard’s engraving of The Vintage Festival:

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c

‘if as a whole, it does not come effectively toge­ther, this arises from what we may call the materi­als of the subject; there is so large a prepon­derance of white, or light colours, in the marbles, the costu­mes &c., that apparent weakness in the foreground is but a natural result.’237

Remarkably, however the weak print was seen as a ‘natural result’ of the style employed by the painter: the cause of the problem lay in the original painting, rather than in the printmaker’s graphic interpretation of this, the journal contended. This observation attests to the complexity of reproducing the wealth of light colours in Alma-Tadema’s work. Lacking the ability to reproduce colour through graphic means, the only recourse was to colour in prints by hand. The Fries Museum in Groningen owns an interesting example of a hand-coloured print, of Blanchard’s engraving after A Dedi­cation to Bac­chus, which has been coloured in with light pastel hues. [plate 24] Closer examination, however, reveals that Blanchard’s careful balance of black, white and grays has been disturbed by the less-than-subtle addition of pallid colours. Although we do not what the painter thought of this particular specimen, we may assume that he would have preferred a fine black-and-white to these clumsy, washed-out colours. Art for reproduction?

Regarding Goupil’s request to Alma-Tadema to supply the firm with art for reproduction, it can be confidently stated that his work generally lent itself well to this purpose. His many historical genre paintings were extremely popular subjects and therefore attractive for reproductions. The archaeological accuracy displayed in Alma-Tadema’s pictures successfully translated into print and his smooth painting technique released printmakers from the problematic task of rendering a troublesome, rough paint texture. However, his use of colour was another matter: although printmakers might to some extent be able to reproduce his light and dark ratios, his wealth of colours remained a problem. Nevertheless, this was not insuperable, given that the painter himself preferred black-and-white reproductions of his work. To what extent did Alma-Tadema take into account the reproduction of a picture when he was actually painting? Like Scheffer and Israëls, the painter created a complex oeuvre of more or less related works. He regularly repeated compositions in reductions and sometimes made minute adjustments to these; he also translated his paintings into watercolours and his watercolours into paintings.

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Moreover, there were also dubious copies of his work, such as Fredegonda & Prae­ textatus (1871 opus xcii), which bore his signature but was painted by his friend, the Belgian artist Louis Delbeke (1821-1891). In the early morning of 29 July 1871, the day of his marriage to Laura Theresa Epps (1852-1909), Alma-Tadema had spent some time working on the copy which he then signed with his own name, as if he had painted the picture entirely himself.238 In a letter to Carel Vos­maer he confessed this artistic transgression: c

‘I had a copy made for myself by Delbeke at 2/3 size and have sinned in this regard. The very first sin which I to my eternal regret have committed in Art. On the morning of my present marriage I touched up the copy and signed it. It kept me working hard from 4 to half-past nine. At ten got married etc..I received 2500 guilders for it and Mister Fop Smith of Kinderdijk recently bought it from Goupil for 12000 guilders.’239

Alma-Tadema does not seem to have made a strict distinction between originals, reductions and copies. This is evident from The Picture Gallery, on which the painter was still working when the reduction had already been sent to Blanchard, the engraver. In order to keep track of his complex oeuvre – and protect himself against forgeries – Alma-Tadema developed his own numbering system: c

‘Copyists are clever fellows and painters sometimes surprisingly good. I therefore give my paintings a number, through which I easily uncover deception, by consulting the number in my books, whereby I note everything: the description of the painting, when I made it, to whom I sold it where exhibited, etc. etc.’240

With this inventory system every work was given its own unique number. An interesting picture in this connection is the painting Porti­a, the Wife of Brutus (1887 cclxxxii), which had been commissioned by The Graphic.241 Like Alma-Tadema’s reductions this work had been explicitly made for reproduction, which may explain why the painter had not finished it completely or given it an opus number.242 At the prompting of the art dealer Thomas McLe­an, who wanted to sell the picture as an independent painting, Alma-Tadema completed the work and gave it an opus number.243 Curiously, the painter numbered ‘original’ pic-

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tures and reductions consecutively, according all his works an independent, equal place in his oeuvre.244 Thus his reductions could lead their own life, as in the case of his reduction of The Vinta­ge Festival, which Alma-Tadema had originally made especially for the engraving by Blanchard; this was subsequently awarded a gold medal at a Paris exhibition as an independent artwork. Even more than his opus numbers the painter’s signature served as the hallmark of an authentic ‘Alma-Tadema’: the painter also signed his reductions and copies, while his signature on engravings, etchings and photographs underlined his relationship with these reproductions, as the designer/originator of their composition. Alma-Tadema’s signature on a reproduction gave this the appearance of an independent work. Prints were sometimes signed by the printmaker for the same purpose. With Alma-Tadema, as with Scheffer and Israëls, the distance between ‘reproduceable art’ and ‘original art’ does not seem to have been very great. The essential factor was probably not so much that a work was original or reproduceable, but that it was original and reproduceable. It is partly for this reason that works made for reproduction do not strike a false note in Alma-Tadema’s oeuvre; his oeuvre rather displays a continuous line that does not seem to have been directly influenced by reproduction. The painter’s work was suitable for reproduction, but not subordinate to this.245 There also appear to have been gradations in the degree of ‘originality’ and ‘reproduceability’. A more important factor than the originality of a picture was its authenticity: it was crucial that a work, whether it be a first version, a reduction or a reproduction, could be regarded as an authentic ‘Alma-Tadema’, complete with an opus number and/or the artist’s signature, incorporating its own qualities and sold at its own appropriate price. Alma-Tadema was involved in the reproduction of his work in several respects. In the first place he had a clear legal understanding of his work and explicitly applied himself to the task of improving authorship rights, for he was highly aware of the special bond between the author, his work and adaptations of these. By extension he had a second, economic relationship with prints after his work, although it remains unclear to what extent he enjoyed financial advantage from these reproductions. Thirdly, he emphatically displayed his artistic involvement in the production of prints after his work, an involvement illustrated by his demanding attitude towards Löwenstam, the etcher. His involvement in reproductions of his pictures made him regard these prints as largely representative of his own work, a function which he underlined through

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his own signature. Thus, reproductions after Alma-Tadema can also be placed on the ‘periphery of his oeuvre’, where the painter and the printmaker’s contributions intersect. Finally, Alma-Tadema made a clear effort to distribute these prints, handing them out to friends and acquaintances. Alma-Tadema moved in the Victorian art world and personally witnessed photography’s development into a mass medium, the popularity of etched reproduction, the increasing rarity of traditional engravings, the well-oiled international art trade and print trade, and the mass distribution of a range of diverse illustrated periodicals. By combining, as he himself remarked ‘profit with pleasure’, he carefully ensured that his work was satisfactorily and profitably reproduced.246 As a result the artist enjoyed unprecedented fame, and did everything he could to preserve this. He numbered his work, checked the reproductions, counted his medals and lived like a celebrity.

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chapter 8

From Art to Reproduction

Reproduction of art in the nineteenth century

In the shadow of art history works of art have been reproduced for centuries. The nineteenth century was an exceptional period in art reproduction, for this was the age when a major change occurred in the field of reproduction techniques, when graphic methods were replaced by photographic technology, leading to an enormous diversity of reproductions. The ancient privilege system finally evolved into modern copyright, based on a new vision of the author/artist, his work and the reproduction thereof. At the same time art dealers and publishing houses expanded their operations considerably. Modest firms dealing in prints rapidly grew into international concerns, creating an intricate network for the production and distribution of reproductions. All kinds of new illustrated publications, such as journals, catalogues and artists’ monographs appeared alongside traditional prints. As a result a huge range of reproductions in every form became available to a wide public. These fundamental changes in the history of art reproduction were closely followed by many artists. Ary Scheffer, Jozef Israëls and Lawrence Alma-Tadema

Scheffer, Israëls and Alma-Tadema all witnessed the transformation in nine-

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teenth-century art reproduction within their own cultural context. Although Scheffer observed the development of photography, he could only dream of the photographic opportunities that would be available to Israëls and Alma-Tadema. Yet he had worked with illustrious engravers such as Reynolds and Couwenberg, both printmakers whom Israëls and Alma-Tadema could only have known by reputation. Moreover Scheffer had seen with his own eyes how the young Adolphe Goupil built a humble print business into a large firm with various branches in Europe and the United States, while Israëls and Alma-Tadema would only have known Goupil’s as a multinational in paintings and reproductions; Israëls would have been most familiar with the firm’s establishment in The Hague, Alma-Tadema would have had more experience of the London branch. These differences in time and place engendered various reproductions of the three artists’ work – steel engravings, lithographs, etchings and photographs – which were published either as independent prints or incorporated in a range of publications. Together their reproductions span virtually the entire nineteenth century. Napoleon had just been beaten at Waterloo when Scheffer beheld the first prints of his work; Alma-Tadema and Israëls saw reproductions of their artistic output appear up to the eve of the First World War. Various motives prompted the production of art prints. Success at an exhibition constituted one valid reason for publishing a painting as a print. Journals that closely followed current events were particularly motivated by such triumphs when selecting works for reproduction. It seems no accident that Israëls’ success with Langs moeders graf (Passing Mother’s Grave) was quickly converted into prints in the almanacs. Alma-Tadema’s first international success at the Paris Salon, Pastimes in Ancient Egypt: 3,000 Years Ago, was also translated into journal reproductions with similar speed. In the case of independent engravings the situation was somewhat different, if only because it often required several years to produce an engraving. Firms such as Goupil, Buffa and Gambart possessed great commercial insight and a keen eye for art that enabled them to select ‘art for reproduction’ with immense success for many years. Art dealers were regularly encouraged by the popularity of a previous work to commission reproductions as a suitable pendant. Goupil’s commission of a print after Scheffer’s Mignon et son Père, for example, cannot be viewed independently of the success enjoyed by previous Mignons and their reproductions. Examination of Goupil’s stock list reveals how often reproductions were offered for sale in series of two or more related works.

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Commercial considerations also alternated with individual preference when selecting paintings for reproduction. Gambart’s personal admiration for Alma-Tadema’s The Vintage Festival, for example, is probably the most important reason why this was the first work he chose to have engraved. Alma-Tadema’s own desire to have his works photographed, however, was initially frustrated by lack of support from publishers. A painting by a famous artist could also attract diverse printmakers and photographers who hoped their reproduction of the piece would meet with equal success. This attraction sometimes worked the other way, too: the young Israëls was delighted when France’s best lithographer, Mouilleron, produced a print of his painting Eerste Liefde (First Love). Thus various motives lay behind the reproduction of specific works. There was often a special connection between the reproduction of a painting and its exhibition, as Gambart was well aware. The exhibition of a work sometimes provided the stimulus for its reproduction, while other times a new reproduction would prompt the organisation of an exhibition to showcase the original. On occasion a reproduction would be planned before an original work even existed, and a painting would be commissioned with its reproduction in mind. This was the case with Scheffer‘s Christus Remunerator, whose reproduction provided the motive for the original painting. In the diversity of reproductions after works of art by Scheffer, Israëls and Alma-Tadema, a few obvious, similar patterns can be discerned. A shared characteristic was the artists’ considerable involvement in reproductions after their work, an involvement that extended into three specific fields. In the first place the three painters were all involved in the legal aspect of reproducing their work. During the 1820s Scheffer was already selling copyrights to his paintings. Such copyrights would later play a role as well in the careers of the other two artists, to a greater (Alma-Tadema) or lesser (Israëls) degree. Moreover, these two masters showed an interest in copyright that clearly extended beyond their own work. Alma-Tadema in particular publicly devoted himself to the task of effecting a general improvement in copyright law, following in the footsteps of his art dealer Gambart. Although copyright in the Netherlands developed in another direction, it is probably no accident that the name of Israëls appears in the parliamentary history of Dutch copyright law. All three painters were extremely conscious of the nature and importance of copyright, and the principle on which this was based: the unique connection between the artist, his work

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and reproductions of that work. In the second place the three artists were also involved in the economic relationship that existed between the artist and reproductions after his work, a relationship that was closely associated with their legal connection to their paintings. While Scheffer enjoyed income from the sale of reproduction rights during the 1820s, Alma-Tadema was manifestly keen on royalties later in the century, and it is more than likely that Israëls also received money from reproductions of his work up to the end of his life. So there is reason enough to presume that the three artists profited from reproductions, although the scale of this income remains to a large extent unclear. Reproduction of art was ‘business’, as Alma-Tadema famously declared. In the third place Scheffer, Israëls and Alma-Tadema were also artistically involved in the reproduction of their work. Corrected proofs provide the most obvious evidence of this. Both Alma-Tadema and Israëls were extremely demanding when working with printmakers. Reproducing art was a specialised profession and painters relied heavily on the good will, dedication and abilities of the individual printmaker or photographer. However, the painter’s artistic involvement on the one hand and the printmaker or photographer’s independent status on the other could cause the painter a great deal of tension. This is illustrated by the conflict between Alma-Tadema and his etcher Löwenstam that was largely shaped by the painter’s power and lack of power in the reproduction process. It was usual for the painter to sign a reproduction once this had been completed. Naturally a signed print was worth more than an unsigned specimen. However, the painter’s signature had more than simply financial consequences, as it also showed that he approved the print and confirmed the artistic connection between painter, work and reproduction. The artist’s legal, economic and artistic involvement created a close bond between the artist and the reproduction of his work. Although the painter did not produce the prints or photographs himself, the original work was his creation and lived on through the reproduction. It was of little consequence that a printmaker or photographer employed another form or technique, or brought a different interpretation to the image, for the reproduction represented the work of the original artist. All three painters, Scheffer, Israëls and Alma-Tadema, gave reproductions of their pictures to friends and acquaintances in their immediate circle. Engravings, lithographs, etchings and photographs were sold to

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the general public, introducing ordinary people to works they had never even seen, let alone would be able to purchase. King Leopold of Belgium owned Alma- Tadema’s painting Education of the Children of Clovis (1861, xiv), while ordinary citizens had a print of the picture in their home. Reproductions spread an artist’s name and reputation far beyond the borders of his native land. Scheffer’s fame in England was mainly based on the prints of his work circulated there. Reproductions were sometimes distributed simultaneously in England and France. Although Scheffer’s painting Christus Consolator was acquired by the Amsterdam collector Fodor, it was also known in the United States, thanks to prints. According to the publishing house of Pilgeram & Lefèvre, Löwenstam’s etchings after Alma-Tadema were available at ‘the leading Publishers and Printsellers in all countries’, and could even be found in Australia. Reproductions did not detract from the authenticity or ‘aura’ of the original work of art. On the contrary, prints and photographs tended to increase the renown of the original, thereby reinforcing and even enhancing its ‘aura’. Nevertheless, reproductions did not exist merely to serve the original painting. They were more than just a means of providing the artist with income and publicity, of secondary importance to the original. The independent character of reproductions is evident both in the production and distribution of these images, and in the estimation in which they were held. Artists were critical in their choice of printmaker or photographer, kept a close watch on the reproduction process and even hung reproductions of their work on the wall, alongside their painted ‘originals’. Moreover, art prints and photographs were often exhibited as independent works. They were also collected by a large crowd of enthusiasts who had an eye for the intrinsic qualities specific to a print or photograph. Reproductions, like original works, had their own character, their own ‘aura’. Reproductions are therefore distinctly ambivalent in nature: on the one hand, they are inextricably associated with the original paintings on which they are based, on the other hand, they are works in their own right. To whom should we ascribe such works? Who is the author of these reproductions? If we think in terms of actual authorship, of the individual who has physically made a work, there is, of course, a difference between original works painted by an artist and reproductions of these produced by printmakers and photographers. During the nineteenth century, however, the development of copyright law

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was accompanied by a new vision of the artist’s relation to his work, which went far beyond his material connection to this work as its maker, and emphasised instead the intellectual and spiritual bond that existed between maker, brainchild and adaptations of that brainchild. This theoretical principal was reinforced by practice, for Scheffer, Israëls and Alma-Tadema proved to be just as involved in the reproduction of their work as they had been in creating their original paintings. Thus the criterion of actual authorship appears to be a standard which these artists did not themselves observe. It could even be said that to apply this criterion would do an injustice to the special bond that exists between the artist, his work and reproductions of that work. So in theory reproductions should also be considered work by the painter of the original piece, although this does not mean they should be designated ‘original’ works by his hand. Neither should we attribute reproductions exclusively to the painter, for we should also include the printmaker or photographer in the equation. Israëls’ connection with Zilckens’ etched reproductions after his work in no way negated the relationship which the etcher had with his print. The same is true of photographers. Reproductions essentially involve a kind of combined authorship: they can be ascribed both to the maker of the original image and the maker of the print. This is why prints were often signed by the painter and the printmaker, forming a separate group of works on the fringes of the painter’s oeuvre that partially overlap with the oeuvre of printmaker and photographer. Thus, reproductions have a double significance within an artist’s body of work. On the one hand a reproduction can be interpreted as a multiplication of the work it represents, as a repeated expression of the original; on the other hand, the same reproduction distinguishes itself from the original by its own intrinsic qualities and is, as it were, a new work in its own right. For Scheffer, Israëls and Alma-Tadema the distance between their art and the reproduction of this art was not very great. It is therefore important to view their art and its reproductions in association with each other. All three artists painted works that were reproduced relatively soon after their completion. All three exploited the opportunities offered by art reproduction from the beginning of their career. Reproductions of their paintings appeared before they had made a name for themselves, so prints and photographs after their work were not only a product of their fame, but also contributed directly to this fame. The three artists’ rising star simply increased the opportunities for reproducing their paintings. Scheffer’s success with religious genre pictures such as Mignon

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et son Père unleashed a flood of fine engravings, while Israëls’ breakthrough with Langs moeders graf (Passing Mother’s Grave) was translated into various reproductions. At the height of the three artists’ fame the possibilities offered by the original work and the reproduction were quickly recognised and combined. The firms Pilgeram & Lefèvre and Arthur Tooth commissioned paintings from Alma-Tadema at the same time as they assigned engravers and photographers to reproduce these. Blanchard produced an engraving of Alma-Tadema’s Picture Gallery while the original painting was still on the easel. Israëls and Mouilleron worked side by side on the painting and lithograph of De Wieg (The Cradle), respectively. Thus the original works of art and their reproductions were largely produced and distributed in parallel. Alma-Tadema’s concern about what the firm of Goupil would have to reproduce when his paintings defied completion demonstrates how close this relationship could be. The association between the three masters’ art and its reproduction reveals an interesting aspect to their work. ‘Original’ compositions were regularly reprised in replicas, reductions, watercolours and reproductions. Yet this does not mean we should consider the artists’ ‘original’ compositions purely as ‘prototypes’ for reproduction. They may have been eminently suited to this purpose, but they were not secondary to it. Even works painted especially for reproduction, such as reductions, were finished to a degree that guaranteed them independent status as ‘fully fledged’ works of art. After the printmaker had finished with these pieces, they were exhibited, traded and sold as works of art in their own right. Given this network of more or less related works, it was not always possible to identify ‘the’ original in (reproduction) practice. If we review the three artists’ oeuvre, their original works appear to have been shaped, to a greater or lesser degree, by elements derived from reproduction, while reproductions after these works possess their own ‘original’ qualities, thanks to specific interpretation, technique, printing process, paper sort and signature. Viewed from this perspective the painters’ oeuvre comprises a collection of diverse works in which elements of originality and reproduction flow smoothly one into the other. Moreover, this alliance between originality and reproduction was carefully kept in balance by the subtle interaction of the art trade, publishing world, exhibitions and journals. It is significant that many art dealers-cum-publishers sold both painted ‘originals’ and reproductions. Thus a fan of Scheffer’s work could find a selection of paintings, watercolours and repro-

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ductions by his favourite artist at Goupil’s art gallery, while Buffa’s sold paintings, drawings, etchings and reproductions by Israëls, and Pilgeram & Lefèvre offered a wide range of originals and reproductions by Alma-Tadema. A rich ‘culture of copies’ thus developed around each of the three artists. Such a collection of interrelated artworks and reproductions may seem at odds with the nineteenth century’s romantic ideal of artistic originality. And for Scheffer, Israëls and Alma-Tadema’s originality was certainly an important principle. However, during this period the originality of a composition was believed to lie less in its uniqueness than in the more important notion of authenticity. Although Israëls painted many works entitled Kinderen der Zee (Children of the Sea), their essential feature was that each and every one of them was a true ‘Israëls’. This precedence of authenticity over uniqueness also explains why art and reproduction could be so closely associated in the nineteenth-century art world. Reproduction is at odds with uniqueness, not with authenticity. Although a painted reduction of an existing work was (by definition) not unique, it was still a true ‘Alma-Tadema’ or ‘Scheffer’. A reproduction, distributed by the thousand, was also a true print or photograph after the work of the original artist and, in certain respects, even a work by the master himself. A confrontation

The names ‘Scheffer’, ‘Israëls’ and ‘Alma-Tadema’ refer to three very different personalities. So their specific attitude to reproductions should not only be viewed within the context of their general social environment, it should also be set against the background of their personal qualities and ambitions. A confrontation between the artists will serve to further modify our view of them. As far as we know Scheffer, Alma-Tadema and Israëls never met as a threesome, although this would have been possible. However, we do know that Israëls greatly admired Scheffer’s work and visited the painter at his Paris studio in 1853, subsequently manifesting his admiration for his older colleague in early romantic paintings, such as Mijmering (Reverie). Many years later Israëls himself was visited by Alma-Tadema, although this meeting left no traces in their work.1 Alma-Tadema never seems to have met Scheffer in person. Undoubtedly he would have known the work of his renowned colleague. It is also conceivable that he thought of Scheffer when painting his Merovingian pieces, as Scheffer had also depicted these relatively obscure subjects. Each artist had his own sources of inspiration. Scheffer read Goethe and the

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Bible, while Alma-Tadema was devoted to his archaeological library. Israëls, on the other hand, apparently needed no books to find artistic inspiration, for a walk along the beach provided him with subjects aplenty. While all three artists looked in different directions, they largely found the same subject matter: the painterly, picturesque opportunities offered by the emotional lives of ordinary people, be this set in the literary world of Goethe, the long vanished world of the decadent Roman Empire or the contemporary world of Zandvoort beach. A fine example of this affinity is provided by Israëls’ Eerste Liefde (First Love) and Alma-Tadema’s The First Whisper of Love: the costumes and décor may be different, but the story is the same. The artists represented their subjects in their own individual fashion. Scheffer filled his canvases with stiff, somewhat awkward brushstrokes. Alma-Tadema had more flair and was able to depict whatever came into his head with fluid facility. However, his painting technique, though virtuoso, was also slick and long superseded by the sketchier, more impressionist style of many of his contemporaries, including Israëls. Where Alma-Tadema preferred to depict the eternally sunny world of rich Romans rather than daily life in ever rainy England, dull weather provided Israëls with an important source of inspiration, inextricably associated with the lives of the ordinary peasants and fishermen whom he painted on his canvases in characteristic rough style. Despite the thematic, technical and stylistic differences in their work, Scheffer, Israëls and Alma-Tadema adopted a similar approach to painting. All three produced pictures which they repeated as they saw fit in the form of painted replicas, reductions, drawings and watercolours. They also created their own graphic works and book illustrations, although Scheffer mainly produced lithographs, Israëls etchings and Alma-Tadema both, albeit on a modest scale. Moreover, the three artists were similarly businesslike in their dealings with people from their own world of art, be these art dealers, publishers, printmakers or collectors. Within their own cultural context they even had contacts in common, through the firms of Goupil, Buffa and Ernest Gambart. All three had worked with Gambart, the eccentric Victorian art dealer, to a greater or lesser degree. Gambart had even opened the door to the Victorian art world for each of them. During the 1840s and 1850s, he had introduced prints of Scheffer’s work into England, as a Goupil representative. In 1862, under his own name, Gambart bought Israëls’ De Schipbreukeling (The Shipwrecked Mariner), the work which gave the Dutch painter his international breakthrough. And several

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years later he commissioned Alma-Tadema to paint dozens of works that subsequently formed the basis for the painter’s fame in England. Gambart was thus a remarkable character of exceptional importance to each of the three artists. Their common bond with the art dealer was evident in 1870, when Gambart’s French Gallery displayed works by all three.2 Scheffer, Israëls and Alma-Tadema were more than just painters. They each had a personal horizon that extended beyond their artistic work and were equally at ease both inside and outside their studio. Alongside their career as artists all three were socially active. Scheffer was politically involved in the French liberal movement during the Restoration, manoeuvring carefully between his friendship with the royal house of Orléans and his own liberal convictions. Israëls was president of the Pulchri society of artists and founded the Hollandsche TeekenMaatschappij, together with colleagues. Alma-Tadema dedicated himself to the task of improving copyright law, regularly gave lectures on archaeology and organised concerts at home. Thus, the similarity between the three artists extended beyond their artistic calling. Nevertheless, there were obvious differences between the three men as individuals. Scheffer was an intellectual, familiar with history and valued by the cultural elite of his time. He was a close friend of General Lafayette, the politician and historian Francois-Pierre-Guillaume Guizot (1787-1874), Franz Liszt (1811-1886), Horace Vernet (1789-1863) and the French royal house of Orléans. Scheffer was inspired by his liberal vision to produce carefully constructed works such as Christus Consolator, in which general religious motifs were associated with a specific political standpoint. He effortlessly made a connection between the salvation of the oppressed, as preached by St Luke, and the contemporary Greek and Polish struggles for independence and black slavery in America. It must have annoyed him when the figure of an African-American was removed from the reproduction of this painting for the American market. The situation in America was also reflected by the oppression of the mixed-race figure in Scheffer’s work. Scheffer’s ‘revenge’ was sweet, however, when one of his pupils, the sculptor Auguste Bartholdi (1834-1904), later created the most important icon of liberalism, the Statue of Liberty in New York. Alma-Tadema was very keen to be regarded as an intellectual. He would not be satisfied with his scenes of Greek Antiquity until all the archaeological details of objects, inscriptions and decorations were accurate. A library full of ar-

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chaeological literature and an immense collection of photographs were intended to help him avoid the ‘danger’ of historical inaccuracies. The slightest doubt would prompt him to visit the British Museum to check an inscription. Many of his paintings are an undeniably impressive collection of authentic archaeological details, amassed through years of historical study. On occasion, the artist would even give his visitors a magnifying glass to aid their inspection of the many details in his works – a revealing story.3 Nevertheless, the question arises of whether Alma-Tadema should be considered an intellectual artist on account of this attention to accuracy and detail. The painter’s tireless use of archaeology may command respect, but it also seems remarkably naive. Although his paintings incorporate a great deal of knowledge, with their wealth of archaeological details, they express few ideas. Alma-Tadema drew artistic inspiration from the work of Thierry, but he lacked the renowned historian’s intellectual vision. Neither does his presentation of the past avoid an element of superficiality, also evident in the rendering of his figures. Although the artist’s carefully painted, detailed men and especially women are generally elegant and dressed in historically correct costume, they are also characterless beings without any psychological depth. But what a mastery of ‘superficiality’! The substance and texture of each object in an Alma-Tadema picture – marble, rose petals, silver dishes, downy cushions, rugs – has been painted with the same subtlety and virtuoso touch. It was this talent that made the artist world famous, and he kept a careful record of his success, numbering his works and listing his medals. Israëls, unlike Alma-Tadema, was not keen to be considered an intellectual and endeavoured to conceal his own intellectual background in his contacts with the outside world. He liked to present a somewhat naive, anti-intellectual aspect of his personality by consciously opting for the image of a simple, ‘ordinary’ man. At the same time, however, he corresponded with his good friend A. S. Kok about the latter’s most recent translation of Shakespeare and read a great deal of literature, both Dutch and foreign. So while Israëls painted many simple peasants and fishermen, he always remained aware that he did not belong to this layer of the population. It was precisely this distance from these sober people and their environment that enabled him to appreciate the charm of their constant poverty. Despite this interest in day-to-day reality, however, Israëls’ depiction of daily life is never without its story and his scenes are carefully chosen. Na de Storm (After the Storm) and De Schipbreukeling (The Shipwrecked Mariner) are both dramatic moments in the world of fishermen. So the narrative element

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continued to play an important role in the artist’s work, despite his choice of realism. Israëls always saw the picturesque aspects of reality within a wider context, for he never turned his back entirely on a narrative, intellectual approach to painting. In this respect he is closer to Scheffer than to his contemporary Alma-Tadema, as Israëls’ work unfailingly suggests a context that extends outside the actual scene – a cause and an effect – while Alma-Tadema’s representations virtually never go beyond the image itself. In contrast with Alma-Tadema’s explicit presentation of his historical knowledge, Israëls concealed his intellectual approach in narrative paintings of daily life. Scheffer, Israëls and Alma-Tadema lived in an age that was characterised by the rise and fall of ideologies, large-scale cultural and socio-economic changes and radical technological innovations. These were generally international developments, shaped in part by national traditions and personal initiatives. The art world also experienced sweeping changes. The three artists were confronted, and sometimes caught off guard, by these developments. Yet they did not simply follow the trends but endeavoured, each in their own way, to take advantage of these. Scheffer, for example, undoubtedly benefited from the scaling-up of operations in the international art dealing world introduced by the firm of Goupil, while the firm in its turn profited from the painter’s fame. Alma-Tadema similarly enjoyed the benefits of copyright and also made an active contribution to improving this system. Although all three painters profited from the efforts of printmakers, photographers and publishers, the reverse was just as true. The renown of original works reflected on reproductions which subsequently played their own role in further enhancing the reputation of originals. Despite their differences in personality it is probable that Scheffer, Alma-Tadema and Israëls would have largely agreed as to the nature of their relationship with their work, considering this something that required careful management. Their involvement with their paintings did not come to an end once the work had been finished, the signature set and the paint had dried. At most the first phase had been completed, paving the way for the following phase of (careful) exploitation, or, as Alma-Tadema approximately stated: as long as I’m painting I’m a painter, but as soon as the work is finished I’m a businessman.4 The painting was thus more than simply a unique material object, it was also an abstract entity comprised of various rights that could be exploited independently of each other. This exploitation was divided into management of the work of art

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itself and management of the image on the work. The painting could be exploited in the exhibition circuit, hanging for several weeks at the Salon or in an art dealer’s gallery, or going on tour for years to towns and villages at home and abroad. In addition, and sometimes simultaneously, the work could be copied and distributed in the form of independent reproductions, in albums or in one of the widely read art journals. This enabled money to be made from a work of art without actually selling it. The work could always be sold at a later date, just like the replicas, watercolours or corrected proofs made especially for reproduction. The three painters often kept back a number of reproductions, in order to maintain contacts with dealers, publishers, printmakers, photographers, journals and collectors. Their careful and professional management of their paintings, and reproductions of these, allowed all three painters to bring their work into the public eye and to keep it there, a factor that helped them to become the best-known artists of their age.

In conclusion

The works of Scheffer, Israëls and Alma-Tadema belong in the tradition of nineteenth-century genre painting. Scheffer’s ‘religious sentiment’ is also directly associated with the pictures of Ingres, Délaroche and H. Vernet, while Alma-Tadema’s ‘historical sentiment’ readily evokes the paintings of Victorian masters such as Millais, Moore and Leighton, and Israëls’ ‘realistic sentiment’ is closely connected with the work of his Hague School colleagues. So how did contemporaries of Scheffer, Alma-Tadema and Israëls handle reproduction of their work? At present a great deal of research into this subject is still required. Although the results of the present undertaking cannot be extrapolated to apply directly to contemporaries, several recent studies appear to indicate that the three central artists were no exception in their attitude to reproductions. Results of research into Délaroche, Ingres and Gérôme and their relationship with art reproduction recall Scheffer’s situation. The same can also be said of various Pre-Raphaelite artists such as Holman Hunt or Millais when compared with Alma-Tadema. The fact that the etcher Zilcken had the same experiences with Jacob Maris as with Israëls is equally telling. These similarities with contemporaries are hardly surprising, for the artists generally worked with the same art dealers, publishers, printmakers and photographers. The genre painters were certainly not the only artists who recognised the importance of reproduction.

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The landscape painter Constable had various paintings reproduced as prints by his regular printmaker Lucas, while Koekkoek collaborated with the lithographer Daiwaille and the young Daubigny made a name with his etched reproductions after works by Ruysdael. Popular portraitists and animal painters also saw their work reproduced on a large scale in prints and photographs. So the phenomenon of art reproduction cut across the various modes of painting, although this does not alter the fact that (religious) genre scenes dominated the reproduction market. The popularity of genre painting is evident in the composition of exhibitions, in illustrated journals and the stock lists of print dealers and photographers. It was a popularity that may have offered painters, printmakers and especially publishers the best guarantee of earning back the money invested in reproduction. In the shadow of the popular – and much reproduced – artists from the milieu juste, more progressive, avant-garde artists also engaged in reproducing their work. Although little is yet known on this subject, a few examples can be drawn from the artistic vanguard. Constable and Turner, for example, were closely involved in the reproduction of their paintings, while Delacroix and Courbet took advantage of the new opportunities for photographic reproduction as soon as these became available. Manet, too, was fascinated by the phenomenon of copying and reproduction. Various impressionist painters followed in his footsteps and engaged in reproducing their work. They made their own prints after their paintings and also saw their work reproduced by others. Degas, for example, worked with the lithographer Thornley. We also know that Whistler had various conflicts with art journals regarding reproductions, while Toulouse-Lautrec kept a careful eye on the rights of reproduction for his work. Vincent van Gogh was familiar with reproduction long before he became an artist, and his career at Goupil’s enabled him to make his own contribution to nineteenth-century art reproduction. He subsequently developed into a fanatical collector of prints and also had his own work reproduced. In all genres of painting, from Salon masters to the avant-garde, artists engaged in the reproduction of their work. There are no, or hardly any, examples, of artists who explicitly rejected reproduction. Naturally, painters such as Alma-Tadema sometimes objected to a specific print or photograph on the grounds of poor quality, or because they had not given permission for this particular reproduction. But artists who rejected reproduction in principle are extremely rare. This

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underscores the idea that originality in the nineteenth-century art world could be easily reconciled with the interests of reproduction. Although few artists were probably opposed to reproduction, many painters never saw their work copied. Nineteenth-century catalogues of auctions and exhibitions are full of works of art by long-forgotten artists. These pictures never received attention from critics, the general public or the fortuitous publisher in search of work for reproduction. We can also point to the hordes of amateur artists who painted for their pleasure but never saw their creations multiplied in prints and photographs. Of all these painters we know at most their name, several titles and an occasional surviving work, summarily described in lexicons of artists. Thus, we barely know the artists whose work has not been reproduced. But perhaps it is preferable to reverse this statement and declare that we know certain artists precisely because their work was reproduced. This brings us face-toface with the very nature of art history as a scientific discipline. The importance of reproductions in art-historical research requires extensive further study that falls outside the purview of the present undertaking, so I will confine myself in this connection to several remarks. Nineteenth-century reproductions cannot be viewed in isolation from the study of art history.5 In fact, the question even arises of whether the development and practice of art history as a scientific discipline is conceivable without the phenomenon of art reproduction. Research into various works and masters is practically impossible without the aid of reproductions, a fact that nineteenth- century art academies, libraries and museums already realised when they assembled their collections of reproductions. It is probably no accident that art history developed as a scientific discipline during the nineteenth century when art reproduction gained momentum. Although prints had been used for centuries in the study of artists and their work, the advent of photography introduced a new standard in the reproduction of art. From that moment onwards scholars could possess ‘a facsimile’ of the original and had direct contact with the work of art, ‘unhindered’ by a printmaker’s personal interpretation of an image. It was with good reason that pioneers of modern art history, such as Blanc, Bode and Bredius, maintained intensive contacts with the firm of Braun, wholesaler in photographic reproductions. Cornelis Hofstede de Groot (1863-1930) also recognised the importance of photography in art-historical research, although he rightly expressed several reservations in this regard:

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c

‘Die Photographie giebt jeden strich genau wie im Original wieder und trifft auch annähernd den Tonwert. Dagegen lässt sie uns für die Beur­ teilung der Farbe im Stich; auch genügt sie nicht immer um spätere Zusätze einer Zeichnung zu erkennen, weil man meistens nicht feststellen kann, welche Linie die andere überkreuzt, und dies ist bei den Originalen wohl möglich.’6

Hofstede de Groot was a fanatical collector of reproductions and owned huge numbers of photographs supplied by Braun, which, together with his archive, formed the basis for the Rijksbureau voor Kunsthistorische Documentatie [Netherlands Institute for Art History] in The Hague. For art-historical research into the style, authenticity and iconology of works, the availability of art reproductions appears to be a conditio sine qua non. However, reproductions not only brought new opportunities for study within the field of art history, they also set boundaries. It is therefore important to consider, like Hofstede de Groot, the negative consequences of using reproductions in art-historical research. In the first place reproduction inevitably produces a ‘distortion’ of the original work, whose material, texture, format, colour and context are irrevocably changed by the reproduction process in virtually all instances. So where reproduction is used as an instrument for research, it is almost always the case that this instrument immediately influences the object of research, with all the associated consequences for analysis and conclusions regarding that object.7 Even the digital techniques of reproduction associated with this dissertation could not avoid the danger of distortion. In the second place there is always another danger, that the art historian will develop a ‘blind spot’ for works of art which have not been reproduced, thereby condemning these to fall outside the horizon of art-historical study. As a result research into art history may become a vicious circle, with unknown work remaining unknown and the art historian unintentionally encapsulated in his or her own ‘canon of reproductions’. Thus the use of reproductions can give rise to an undesirable ‘insulating’ effect with respect to the scholar and his or her field of research. However, it was largely possible to avoid this effect in the case of the present study of Scheffer, Alma-Tadema and Israëls, thanks to three recent retrospectives which presented a range of works by these artists that have never, or hardly ever, been reproduced.

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In the third place using reproductions merely as an instrument for art-historical research not only produces a limited impression of the original works but also a one-sided view of the reproductions themselves. Although reproductions have been utilised on a large scale as a means for research, it remarkable how infrequently they have been chosen as the object of that research. Paradoxically enough, while the discipline of art history has made use of reproductions from its inception, this essential instrument has largely been ignored as a legitimate object of study by the same discipline. As a result the intrinsic qualities of reproductions, the function of reproductions in the art world and the importance of reproductions in the methodological development of the art-historical discipline have remained in the shadows. Widespread use of reproductions for the analysis of works of art can therefore have a ‘limiting’ effect on research. In short, this partial use of reproductions in art-historical analysis can lead to distorted, insulated and limited results, whose far-reaching effects are only reinforced by the fact that the ‘history of art’ often corresponds in practice with the ‘history of reproduced art’. The famous outline of art history, The Story of Art by E.H. Gombrich, provides an apposite illustration of this correspondence. In his foreword Gombrich emphasised the importance of the illustrations in his book. He had even resolved only to write about those works of art for which he could provide an illustration, thereby allowing his choice of artists and works to be limited by the number of illustrations that his book was allowed to contain.8 So the art historian wrote his history of art literally from within the confines of art reproduction. Reproductions formed an integral part of the nineteenth-century art world, and were closely interwoven with the visual culture of the period in general. To date, however, little has been known about the significance of reproductions. Neither does this study provide the final word on the phenomenon. On the contrary, during the course of research new questions constantly arose: What was the interaction between intellectual and industrial property in the field of photography? How did competition and cooperation between various art dealers and publishers manifest itself, both inside and outside Europe? What were the financial and economic relationships in the national and international markets for paintings, drawings, prints and photographs? What were the patterns of consumption in the purchase of works of art and reproductions? And what was the significance of reproduction in the artistic process of individual artists,

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printmakers and photographers? How far were they led when creating work by the popularity of pendants, triptychs and longer series? These are just a few of the important issues that emerged during the present study into nineteenthcentury art reproduction, issues which deserve further study in the future. Naturally these questions can also be asked of other periods, places and artists. The reproduction of art continued unabated in the nineteenth century. Reproduction by hand finally disappeared, while photographic techniques brought major improvement in clarity, colour and format at progressively lower prices. Nowadays (analogue) photography also appears to be on the decline, as digital techniques and new media provide numerous possibilities for the multiplication, manipulation and study of works of art. Like their nineteenth-century colleagues, many contemporary artists appear to be similarly aware of the potential offered by art reproduction. Peter Struycken went to court on a matter of principal connected with the copyright to a stamp he had designed. Christo wrapped up the Pont Neuf, the Reichstag in Berlin and several American islands, while carefully keeping possession of the rights of reproduction, so vital to financing his impressive projects. David Hockney has also kept a meticulous eye on the reproduction of his work, correcting the proofs with a critical eye. These are only a few examples of artists who have been highly aware of how important reproduction is to their work. As the Cobra artist Corneille once put it: ‘But make no mistake: whether it’s on a tie or a ‘plane, it remains a Corneille.’9 The artists, their work and the reproduction techniques may be different today than in the nineteenth century. But the special relationship between the artist, his work and its reproduction remains the same. The works of Scheffer, Israëls and, above all, Alma-Tadema continued to be reproduced after their death. Many digital reproductions can now be found on the internet, although art reproduction remains a specialist profession. The three artists’ work still features on posters, in glossy (art) magazines and in richly illustrated catalogues and monographs. Moreover, thanks to modern merchandising the range of items on sale is constantly being expanded with new products: calendars, coffee mugs, T-shirts and mouse mats. Alma-Tadema is particularly well represented, for his work regularly appears in a variety of guises in the most unexpected places. A book cover in a shop window, a computer screen or a rainy bus shelter may suddenly bestow on you a magnificent view of the sunny bay of Capri, once immortalised in paint by Alma-Tadema as A Coign of Vantage.[1] 52 4

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Summary

Reproduction of art in the nineteenth century

In the course of history works of art have been reproduced in many ways. During the nineteenth century art reproduction accelerated immensely because of several important developments. From a technological point of view, traditional manual graphic reproduction gradually passed into mechanical photographic reproduction powered by steam and electricity. From a legal perspective, the old system of privileges changed into modern laws of intellectual property ­reflecting a new vision on authorship, the art work and its reproductions. ­Economically viewed, the market of art dealing and publishing expanded rapidly. Small-scale print publishers transformed their businesses into large international companies for professional production and distribution of works of arts and reproductions. This resulted in a wide and diverse supply of prints and photographs of works of art, sold individually or published in new products like illustrated magazines, catalogues and glossy art books. From a sociological point of view, the art public increased tremendously due to the influence of cultural societies, exhibitions, illustrated magazines and museums. All these trends strongly affected the production, distribution and consumption of art during the nineteenth century. In this book, all these forms and effects of nine-

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teenth-century print culture are investigated. The central question that inspired this research is: how important was art reproduction in the nineteenth century art world? Firstly, how was the production, distribution and consumption of reproduction of modern art organised, especially in France, England and the Netherlands? And secondly, what was the relation of modern artists – in particular Ary Scheffer, Jozef Israëls and Lourens Alma-Tadema – to this phenomenon? What do we actually mean by a reproduction of a work of art? In the first chapter, ‘Pinxit et Sculpsit’, this question is answered in a systematic way. The first step of the process of art reproduction is the imitation of the original composition into the printing plate or photographic negative. By this means, the image can be multiplied in the next step to several ‘identical’ prints; this distinguishes the reproduction from the drawn or painted copies, reductions and replicates. The special interaction between the original image and its interpretation results in the special quality of reproductions. This special interaction has also been related to the question of the ‘author of a reproduction’. Firstly, the author of the original work had a special ‘mental’ relation with his work, which expands to its reproductions. This special bond between the original author, his work and its reproduction became the essence of the modern copyright law protection. Secondly, the interpreter of the image, the engraver or photographer, is the actual author of the reproduction. The use of technical means doesn’t prevent the photographer’s personal relation to his (re)productions. Because of this, both the original painter and the interpreter can be viewed as the author of the reproduction. The interaction of the original composition with its interpretation, of the painter’s part and the engraver’s or photographer’s part, gives the reproduction its special quality in the field of visual arts, slightly comparable with translations of literature or transcriptions of music and plays. In the second chapter, ‘From engraving to photography’, I roughly sketch the most important changes in the field of reproductive techniques during the nineteenth century. What was possible in respect to art reproduction, and when? The traditional line engraving and mezzotint still existed, but they were accompanied by new techniques since the end of the eighteenth century. The need for facsimiles of works of art, especially of drawings, acted as a flywheel for the invention of new technology for graphic reproduction, resulting in aquatint, crayon-manner and stipple engraving. Therefore, the traditional line en-

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graving no longer monopolised the art reproduction at the beginning of the nineteenth century. New methods like lithography and photography were constantly added to the means of multiplying works of art. In a few decades these techniques developed from exclusive, expensive methods to effective mass media for reproduction. In the meantime, engravers and photographers were trying to solve the complex problem of the reproduction of colour. Although photography was constantly improved, lithography remained the best way for the graphic multiplication of colours. By the 1860s, photography was widely used for reproducing art. From then on, the survival of the manual lithography and traditional line engraving seemed no longer self-evident. Soon photography included a variety of photographic pictures, like exclusive photo engravings, beautiful carbon prints and mass-produced carte-de-visites photographs. The commercial success of photography even relieved lithography from its image of a mass medium for reproduction. The man-made lithographic prints were appreciated for their intrinsic qualities comparable to traditional engravings and etchings. By 1900, photography monopolised the field of art reproduction. The transformation of manual graphic reproduction of art into mechanical photographic techniques had now been completed. The actual production and distribution of art reproductions occurred between these lines of technological innovation. Inspired by Robert Darnton’s approach of the history of books, I analyse ‘the lifecycle of the reproduction’. However, I take a more functional approach towards the participants and processes involved in the reproduction of works of art. I divided the lifecycle of an art reproduction into five stages: the initiative, the organisation, the production, the distribution and, finally, the reception of the reproduction of a work of art. In the chapter ‘From original to reproduction’, I present the first, the second and third stages of the lifecycle of the reproduction. Firstly, artists, engravers, photographers, societies and even the French State took the initiative to start the reproduction process. For example, the painter Constable proposed his plan to his engraver Lucas, the painter Mesdag to his publisher Buffa in Amsterdam, and the photographic company Braun the director of the Rijksmuseum. However, in most cases, publishers took the first step to reproducing artworks. Nevertheless, reproducing art was always a matter of co-operation with other parties. The publisher needed the engraver and the painter needed a publisher for the multiplication of art. In the second stage of the lifecycle of the reproduction, the participants had

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to organise the reproduction process. The production of a reproduction presupposed the right to do so. Instead of asking the representatives of the state or church for their consent to make a print after a certain work of art, in the eighteenth and nineteenth century one needed permission from the author himself. This shift had been caused by a legal system of intellectual property that focused entirely on the individual author and his special relation to his work and the reproductions of it, as William Hogarth already claimed. This legal change caused important effects in the Western cultural society and resulted in different legal traditions like the Anglo-American approach of the ‘copyright ideology’ on the one hand and the Continental approach dominated by the droit moral in France and Germany on the other. Once the international copyright system emerged, these national differences slowly faded away. As a result of these legal changes the ‘copyright’, the droit de reproduction and the reproductierecht became more and more of importance in the process of reproduction. The legal emancipation of the artists did concern the other parties involved – the collector, for example. Without proper agreements between artist, dealer and collector the copyright could seriously affect the regular property rights of the owner. Therefore modern copyright changed the position of the author in relation to print publishers, collectors, museums, exhibitions and illustrated magazines. The development of copyright resulted into a ‘legalisation’ of art itself. In fact, the work of art hides a cluster of rights below the surface of the painted canvas: the copyright, the exhibition right, the property right and even the right to rent the painting. The artist could exploit these individual rights separately by reproduction, exhibition or selling the property of his work of art. This made it even more necessary to make clear agreements with other parties involved. Apart from the copyright, parties had to agree on the availability of the original work or alternative images, the reproduction technique, the engraver, the size, the number of prints, the deadline and costs of the reproduction process. Only after this legal agreement could the actual making of the print start, which formed the third stage in the lifecycle of the reproduction. Printmakers and photographers used the original work for reproduction, or alternative visual material. As the original work wasn’t always available for reproduction, they often used replicates, reductions, watercolours, drawings or photographs instead. In order to control and correct the reproduction process, proofs were made, especially in the case of manual engravings. Such proofs were not only

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used by the engravers, but by the artists and publishers as well to keep in touch with the reproduction process. After the first proofs, the prints were printed in different states, on different kinds of paper and were if necessary signed by the original artist and the interpreter. Finally, the reproduction was included in the publisher’s catalogue, like the mentioned lists of the Goupil firm. The completed reproductions were, in the fourth stage, distributed to the public, as explained in chapter 4, ‘For connoisseurs and amateurs’. Publicity through large exhibitions, art criticism or exposure in shop windows brought the new reproductions to the attention of the public. A wide and complex system of publishing and distribution connected towns, nations and even continents. As publishers stated, to find a special print was as easy as to find the nearest bookshop in town. The possibilities of distributing prints seemed almost endless. In 1832, the London publisher Knight typically promised that anyone in the United Kingdom could receive his Penny Magazine ‘as if everyone lives in London’. Reproductions were published as traditional separate prints or in illustrated publications. Illustrated magazines were an important new and very popular medium, largely because of the reproductions of works of art they contained. After the distribution of reproductions to the public we reach the fifth – and final – stage in the ‘lifecycle of the reproduction’: the reception of the reproduction. Generally the public for reproductions consisted of people from the middle class of society. They had a growing interest in art and earned enough money to read books and magazines, to play music and to visit museums and theatres. An original oil painting was still too expensive, but a printed reproduction was an affordable and attractive alternative. Apart from the middle class, the wealthy elite had its special preference for the exclusive and expensive engravings. Some built huge traditional atlas collections, while others were constantly looking for the best prints, made by the best engravers and only available in very small limited editions. Therefore reproductions were not only cheap substitutes for the original paintings, but sometimes also very popular works of art in themselves, valued for their intrinsic qualities. In the course of time, these beautiful private print collections were often donated to the print rooms of libraries, academies and museums. These institutions mainly used their print collections for educational purposes. Academies used prints to instruct their pupils and museums used them as an important reference to their own collection of paintings and for connoisseurs and art dealers. Private collec-

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tors kept their reproductions in special portfolios or framed them to display them on the wall. The reviews in magazines showed a complex appreciation of reproductions. Where one critic mainly valued the composition of the original work of art, another could appreciate the special interpretation by the printmaker. The subject, the imitation of the original composition or the personal translation of colours to black and white by the interpreter were just a few important topics in the critical reception of the reproduction. The many reviews of prints appeared to be a very diverse and heterogenous discourse, in which the awareness for the details of the original work, the personal interpretation of the printmaker and the remarkable results of technological innovation played an important role. Ary Scheffer, Jozef Israëls and Lawrence Alma-Tadema

After this general discussion of art reproduction in the nineteenth century, I ­focus on three particular artists – Ary Scheffer (1795-1858), Jozef Israëls (18241911) and Lourens Alma-Tadema (1836-1912) – and their relation to the reproductions after their works of art. Scheffer witnessed the flowering of modern engraving in France during the first decades of the nineteenth century. He saw his literary and religious works like the Mignons, The Christ Consolator and Francesca di Rimini multiplied in numerous engravings by the best engravers of his time, such as Henriquel-Dupont. Apart from being translated into traditional engravings, his work was soon reproduced by lithography from the early ­exclusive examples to regular mass-produced prints in magazines. He never saw the large commercial success of photography. After his death, though, he became one of the first artists who was commemorated by an expensive beautiful photographic album. It was made by the photographer Bingham and published by Goupil, like many other reproductions after Scheffer’s works. The firm had even made him ‘the most framed artist of the century’. The artist surely took advantage of the efforts of the famous Goupil. However, the interests of Scheffer and the publisher didn’t always correspond, as was proved by the lawsuit between Goupil and Cornelia Scheffer about the copyrights of Scheffer’s work. Inspired by Scheffer’s work, Jozef Israëls became a successful painter in the Netherlands. Like Scheffer, his paintings were reproduced frequently during his artistic career. The pupils of A.B.B. Taurel, including his son C.E. Taurel and Rennefeld, mostly engraved his sentimental compositions of daily life of fisher-

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men and farmers. The famous French lithographer Mouilleron made remarkable prints after First Love and Allebé reproduced Adagio con Espressione. The many prints by Zilcken, Steelink and Graadt van Roggen of Israëls’ work reflected the popularity of reproductive etching in those days. His work was engraved, etched and lithographed, and mostly published by the publisher Buffa in Amsterdam, the most important firm in business in the Netherlands. The firm Schalekamp as well published numerous photographs of Israëls’ work. During his life his paintings were reproduced a lot and published in illustrated yearbooks, magazines and special glossy monographic albums like Children of the Sea. Meanwhile, the painter Alma-Tadema had been actively involved in the reproduction of his Merovingian, Egyptian and Graeco-Roman works. The famous Victorian art dealer/publisher Ernest Gambart played an important role. As Scheffer was connected to the Goupil firm during his life, Alma-Tadema was closely related to Gambart for decades. He commissioned many paintings to the young Dutch artist, like The Vintage Festival and The Dedication of Bacchus, which were often immediately reproduced. The well-known French engraver Blanchard made several engravings and the etchers Rajon and Löwenstam in particular produced several etchings after Alma-Tadema’s work during the 1870s and 1880s. During the 1890s many popular photo engravings where published by Arthur Tooth and the Berlin Photographic Company. Alma-Tadema’s works were also published in several illustrated magazines, like The Art Journal, The Illustrated London News, the French L’Art and the Dutch Kunstkronijk. In 1886 the art critic Hellen Zimmern devoted an interesting monograph to Alma-Tadema’s life and work, beautifully illustrated with several reproductions. Despite the different prints and photographs after the works of these three artists, we can discern a similar pattern in the way the reproduction of their work was managed. Firstly, all three were aware of copyright and the special relation between their work and its reproductions. They were actively involved in matters of copyright. Often they sold paintings explicitly with or without the copyrights. In other instances, publishers asked them for permission to reproduce one of their paintings. Israëls’ and Alma-Tadema’s interest in copyrights went even further than their own compositions, as was shown by their active role in the improvement of copyright law in general. All three artists must have been familiar with the basics of intellectual property and its essential principle: the

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special relation between the author, his works and their reproductions. In connection with this legal relationship there was, secondly, an economical relation between the artist and the reproductions after his works. In the 1820s Scheffer was already making money from selling copyrights, and Alma-Tadema, too, was very interested in the money to be derived from royalties. It also seems likely that Jozef Israëls took financial profit from the prints after his works during his life. Although clear financial figures and facts are hard to find, there are reasons enough to accept the financial importance of reproductions. The reproduction of art was, like Alma-Tadema stated, a kind of ‘business’ to the modern artist. Thirdly, we can recognise an artistic relation between the artist and the reproductions of his works. Especially the annotated proofs are a typical example of the artistic involvement of the original artist in the reproduction of his paintings. Alma-Tadema and Israëls were both very demanding in their collaboration with printmakers. Recognising that the reproduction of art was a job for specialists, painters had to depend on the goodwill, effort and qualities of the individual printmaker or photographer. The tension between the artist’s artistic involvement on the one hand and his dependence on the printmaker on the other hand could cause serious problems. The conflict of Alma-Tadema with his etcher Löwenstam, as described in this book, is therefore typical for the artist’s ‘power’ and ‘powerlessness’ in the reproduction of his work. After the print was finished, the painter (and the interpreter) often signed it. Of course, this autograph resulted in a higher price for the print, but it was not only of financial importance. The signature was also a sign of approval by the artist and an explicit indication of the artistic relation between the original artist and the reproduction after his work. These legal, economical and artistic engagements resulted in a special bond between the artist and the reproduction of his work. Commissioned paintings for dealers were oftenly directly used for reproductions published by the same firms. Sometimes pictures were painted explicitly for the purpose of reproduction, like Scheffer’s Christ Remunerator. Although the painter didn’t make the reproductions himself, the original was still his and lived on through its print or photo. The other form, technique and interpretation took nothing away from this. Therefore the reproduction was closely related to the original work of the artist and was even representational of his personally made work. Characteristically, Scheffer, Israëls and Alma-Tadema decorated their homes with repro-

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ductions of their works and handed them out to their business relations, family and friends, as representations of their own work. The engravings, lithographs, etchings and photographs after their works reached a wide international public, enabling many people to become familiar with the works of these artists, despite never having seen a single original painting (not to mention not being able to afford one). The Belgian King possessed Alma-Tadema’s painting The Education of the Children of Clovis, and the man in the street an engraving after it. Reproductions scattered the name and fame of these artists all over the world. Scheffer’s fame in England was largely built on the distribution of reproductions. His composition Christ Consolator ended in the Fodor collection in Amsterdam, but was, owing to its prints, also known in the United States. Löwenstam’s etchings after Alma-Tadema’s work were, as the publishers Pilgeram & Lefèvre stated, available at ‘the leading Publishers and Printsellers in all countries’ and even reached Australia. Reproductions didn’t affect the authenticity, or ‘aura’, of the original painting. On the contrary, prints and photographs were an important stimulus for the name and fame of the original work, extending its uniqueness, and even adding new ‘authentic’ interpretations. Scheffer, Israëls and Alma-Tadema revealed a special relation with their work; after a painting was completed, signed and dried, their personal involvement wasn’t finished. At the most, a first stage was completed, after which the next stage followed immediately: the exploitation of the work. Alma-Tadema stated it clearly: ‘So long I paint my picture, I work ‘ard, I work slow to get ‘im right. If ‘e is not right, I paint ‘im out, once, twice. But when ‘e is finished, I am not an artist no more. I am a tradesman.’1 The painting wasn’t just a unique artistic object, since it represented at the same time a cluster of rights that could be separately exploited. This exploitation included the exploitation of the object itself and its image. The painting could be exhibited: not only at the famous Salon in Paris but also in an exclusive art gallery, or even be sent away on a commercial tour along numerous places in the world. In addition to this, if necessary at the same time, the image could be multiplied and published in all kinds of prints, illustrated magazines or glossy art books. It was possible to make a lot of money from a painting without even selling it. One could, of course, always sell the painting as well as a replica, watercolour or an annotated proof that had espe-

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cially been made for reproduction. Nevertheless, it was advisable to keep a couple of reproductions in reserve to maintain warm relations with publishers, critics, family and friends. By means of this exploitation of their work, the artists were able to present their work to an enormous international public and to continue their name and fame.

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COLOURPLATES

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PLATE 1

plate 1 Lawrence Alma-Tadema, A Coign of Vantage (1895), oil on panel, 64 x 44.5 cm, private collection.

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PLATE 2

plate 2 Edouard Manet, Les Petit Cavaliers (1861), etching first state proof touched up with watercolour, 24.2 x 37.5 cm, Museum of Fine Arts, Boston.

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PLATE 3

plate 3 Louis-Marin Bonnet after Boucher, Tête de Flore (1769), crayon manner and etching 40.6 x 30.5 cm, Victoria & Albert Museum, London.

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PLATE 4

plate 4 Francesco Bartolozzi, The Spirit of a Child Arriv’d in the Presence of the Almighty (1787), stipple engraving, 44,8 x 59 cm, British Museum, London.

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PLATE extra fig 14

fig. 14 After Jean-Francois Millet, Les Glaneuses (1890), copper and zinc typogravure, Musée Goupil, Bordeaux. c plate 5 Paul Sandby, Windsor Terrace Looking Westward (1776),



aquatint,86, 4 x 120.7 cm Victoria & Albert Museum, London.

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PLATE 5

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PLATE 6

plate 6 Pears’ soap poster after Millais, Bubbles (1889), chromolithograph 56.4 x 37.1 cm, Victoria & Albert Museum, London.

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plate 7 William Macduff, Shaftesbury, or Lost and Found (1862), oil on canvas 47 x 40.6 cm,private collection.

PLATE 7

plate 8 Print portfolio of Theo van Gogh, Van Gogh Museum, Amsterdam

PLATE 8

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PLATE 9

plate 9 Ary Scheffer, Marguérite a la fontaine, oil on canvas 160 x 101 cm, Wallace Collection, London.

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PLATE 10

plate 10 Ary Scheffer, Christus Remunerator (ca.1847) oil on canvas 62,5 x 84 cm, Centraal Museum, Utrecht.

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PLATE 11

plate 11 Jozef Israëls, Passing Mother’s Grave (1856), oil on canvas 224 x 178 cm, Stedelijk Museum, Amsterdam.

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PLATE 12

plate 12 Edouard Manet, Dejeuner sur l’herbe (1863), oil on canvas 210 x 260 cm, Musée d’Orsay, Paris.

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PLATE 13

plate 13 Henri Koetser after Israëls, When One Grows Old (ca.1900), etching and aquatint, 70.5 x 45.4 cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

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PLATE 14

plate 14 Jozef Israëls, Reverie (1850), oil on canvas, 137 x 205 cm, Dordrechts Museum, Dordrecht.

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PLATE 15

plate 15 Album Kinderen der Zee (1861), Netherlands Institute for Art History, The Hague.

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PLATE 16

plate 16 Lawrence Alma-Tadema, The Education of the Children of Clovis (1861), oil on canvas 127 x 176.8 cm, private collection.

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PLATE 17

plate 17 Lawrence Alma-Tadema, Pastimes in Ancient Egypt, 3000 Years Ago (1863), oil on canvas 99.1 x 135.8 cm, Harris Museum & Art Gallery, Preston.

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PLATE 18

plate 18 Lawrence Alma Tadema, The Parting Kiss (1882), oil on canvas 112.5 x 73 cm, Private Collection.

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PLATE 19

plate 19 Lawrence Alma-Tadema, A Picture Gallery (1874), oil on canvas 219.7 x 166 cm, Towneley Hall Art Gallery & Museums, Burnley.

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FIG 70

fig. 70 Tadema, A Picture Gallery (1877), engraving 50.2 x 39.4 cm, The Maas Gallery, London.

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PLATE 20

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c plate 20 Auguste Blanchard after Alma-Tadema, A Dedication to Bacchus (1892),



engraving 37.5 x 90.2 cm, The Maas Gallery, London.

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PLATE 21

plate 21 Lawrence Alma-Tadema, A Favourite Author (1889), oil on panel 36.9 x 49.6 cm, Lady Lever Art Gallery, Port Sunlight.

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PLATE 22

plate 22 Lawrence Alma-Tadema, Cherries (1873), oil on canvas, 79 x 129.1 cm, Koninklijk Museum voor Schone Kunsten, Antwerp.

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PLATE 23a

plate 23a Lawrence Alma-Tadema, Venantius Fortunatus Reading His Poems to Radegonda vi: ad 555 (1862), oil on canvas 65 x 83.1 cm, Dordrechts Museum, Dordrecht.

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PLATE 23b

plate 23b Petrus Johannes. Arendzen after Alma-Tadema, Venantius Fortunatus Reading His Poems to Radegonda vi: ad 555 (1880), etching, from: J.F. van Someren, Moderne Kunst in Nederland, Amsterdam, 1880. 563

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PLATE 24

plate 24 Lawrence Alma-Tadema, My Studio (1867), oil on canvas, 42.1 x 54 cm, Groninger Museum, Groningen

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PLATE 25

plate 25 Auguste Blanchard after Alma-Tadema, A Dedication to Bacchus (1892), engraving and watercolour 37.5 x 90.2 cm, Fries Museum, Leeuwarden.

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PLATE 26

plate 26 Lawrence Alma-Tadema, In the Tepidarium (1881), oil on panel, 24,2 x 33 cm, Lady Lever Gallery, Port Sunlight.

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PLATE 27

plate 27 Lawrence Alma-Tadema, study for The Roses of Heliogabalus (ca.1888), oil on panel, 23.5 x 38.2 cm, private collection.

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NOTES

preface p. 9

1 Letter from Alma-Tadema to Vosmaer,  

2-1-1885, No.87, Vosmaer Archive rpk Am­­ sterdam. The firm of Goupil published few reproductions after Alma-Tadema. This request for work to reproduce was probably connected with the publication of The Great Modern Paint­ers, published by Goupil in Paris a year later, in 1886, and written by Helen Zimmern.



4



5



6

introduction p. ?



1 Exhib.cat., Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema, Amster-

dam/Liverpool (Van Gogh Museum/Walker Art Gallery) 1996, p.256. 2 Landau Parchall 1994, p.104. 3 Landau Parchall 1994, p.103. Until circa 1530 prints representing an existing composition entirely or in part were regarded as variations on a work of art rather than reproductions of it. An engraving by Raimondi after Raphael was therefore considered a new work, not a reproduction. See Landau 1994, p.104. The authors cited assign the first true reproduc-

7 8

tions to the 1530s and 1540s, the period following Raimondi’s work (1475-80 to 152734). See Landau 1994, pp.166-167. Hoogstraeten 1678, p.196. De Lairesse 1717, p.372. In this connection see: Wuestman 1998, p.15. For prints after Goltzius see: W. Mellion, ‘Hendrick Goltzius’s project of reproductive engraving’, Art History 13 (1990) 4, pp.458-487; for prints after Rubens see: I. Pohlen, Untersuchungen zur Reproduction graphic der Rubenswerkstatt, Munchen 1985; for prints after Reynolds see: A. Griffiths, ‘Prints after Reynolds and Gainsborough’ in: T.Clifford, A. Griffiths,   M. Royalton-Kisch, Gainsborough and Reynolds in the British Museum, London (British Museum) 1978, pp.29-59. Ivins 1996, p.93. See also: Alexander 1983, p.11. Like many of his contemporaries Hogarth depended on publishers for the production and distribution of his prints. His well-known series A Harlot’s Progress and A Rake’s Progress brought the painter financial independence. See: Bindman 1997, pp.29-30.

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9 Boschloo 1998. See also: Haskell 1963, pp.33210

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19

346. For rapid changes in the nineteenth-century art trade see: H.C. White, C.A. White, Canvases and Careers. Institutional Change in the French Painting World, Chicago/London 1993. (orig. 1965); N. Green, ‘Circuits of Production, Circuits of Consumption: The Case of MidNineteenth-Century French Art Dealing’, Art Journal (1989), pp.29-34.; N. Green, ‘Dealing in Temperaments: Economic Transformation of the Artistic Field in France during the Second Half of the Nineteenth Century’, Art History 10 (1987) 1, pp.59-78. As early as the 1840s enterprising firms such as Goupil and Colnaghi crossed the ocean to try their luck in America, see: Exh. cat. Bordeaux 2000, p.31-43. Bartsch 1854, p.iii. Bartsch: ‘A cet égard les estampes gravées par les auteurs, c’est-à-dire, par les peintres mêmes, ont presque toujours l’avantage sur celles des graveurs, en ce qu’il ne peut s’y trouver rien qui soit contraire aux idées de l’inventeur.’, Bartsch 1854, pp.iii-iv. For an extensive discussion of the print in French art after 1850, see: M. Melot, The Impressionist Print, New Haven/London 1996. See: P.D. Cate, ‘l’Estampe originale: an Overview of the Fin de Siècle Artistic Concerns’, in exhib.cat. L’Estampe originale. Artistic printmaking in France 1893-1895, Van Gogh Museum Amsterdam 1991, p.9-25. L. Leard, ‘The Société des Peintres-Graveurs Francais in 1889-1897’, Print Quarterly xiv (1997) 4, p.355-363. Benjamin 1976, p.87-88. Constructivist Osip Brik had already stressed this in his essay ‘From Picture to Calico-Print’ (1924): ‘The art culture of the future is being made in the factories and workshops, and not in attic studios’, see: Brik 1993, p.328. Benjamin 1976, p.16. In the past, many attempts have been made to qualify Benjamin’s concept of ‘aura’, a complex notion that is hard to define adequately. Benjamin himself described the concept in Kleine Geschichte der Photographie as: ‘Ein sonderbares Gespinst von Raum und Zeit: einmalige Erscheinung einer

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34

Ferne, so nah sie sein mag’, see: Benjamin 1976, p.83. See also: Hughes 1997, p.45. Benjamin 1976, p.16. Benjamin 1976, p.80. Benjamin 1976, p.21. Knizek in: Harrison Wood 1993, p.363. Derrida in: Harrison Wood 1993, p.922. Krauss 1981, p.64. See also: D. Karlholm, ’Reading the Virtual Museum of General Art History’, Art History 24 (2001) 4, pp.552-577. H. Schwartz, The Culture of the Copy. Striking Likenesses, Unreasonable Facsimiles New York 1996. John Berger, Ways of Seeing, London 1972. Ivins 1996, pp.1-2. Ivins 1996, p.3. A.H. Mayor, Prints and People: A Social History of Printed Pictures, New York 1971. See also: E. de Jong, G.Luijten, Spiegel van Alledag. Nederlandse genreprenten 1550-1700, Amsterdam 1997. Other examples are: L. Rostenbergs, English Publishers in the Graphic Arts 1599-1700, New York 1963 and M. Grivel, Le commerce de l’estampe a Paris au xviie siecle, Geneva 1986. For example see: W. Robinson, ‘“This passion for prints”: Collecting and connoisseurship in Northern Europe during the seventeenth century’, in: exhib. cat. Printmaking in the Age of Rembrandt (1980-1981) pp.xxvii-xlviii. Also of relevance is: Het Leidse prentenkabinet. De geschiedenis van haar verzamelingen, Leids Kunsthistorisch Jaarboek, Leiden 1994, A. Griffiths, Landmarks in Print Collecting, London 1996 and E.de Jong, G. Luijten, Spiegel van Alledag. Nederlandse genreprenten 1550-1700, Amsterdam 1997. See: exhib.cat. Reproductionsgraphik des 16. Bis 19. Jahrhunderts aus dem Besitz des Kunsthistorischen Instituts der universität Tübingen, Tübingen (Kunsthalle) 1976. Luijten 1999, pp.219-233. See also: R. Verdi, Poussin and his Engravers, Nottingham 1981;   G.Wuestman, ‘Nicolaes Berchem in print: fluctuations in the functions and significance of reproductive engraving’, Simiolus. Netherlands quarterly for the history of art 24 (1996) 1, pp.19-53; H. Honour, ‘Canova and His Printmakers’, Print Quarterly12 (1995), pp.253-275;   E.C. Francis, ‘Chardin and his engravers’, The

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Print Collector’s Quarterly 21 (1934), pp.229-249 and K. Scott, ‘Chardin Multiplied’, in: exhib. cat. Chardin, New York/London (The Metropolitan Museum of Art, Royal Academy of Arts) 1999-2000, pp.61-75. An early example is: B. Gray, The English Print, London 1937. Of more recent date are: T. Fawcett, ‘Graphic versus photographic in the nineteenth century reproduction’ Art History 9 (1986), pp.185-212; exhib.cat., Pictures for the Parlour: The English Reproductive Print from 17701900, Ontario (Art Gallery of Ontario) 1983;   R. Engen Pre-Raphaelite Prints. The Graphic Art of Millais, Holman Hunt, Rossetti and Their Followers London 1995 and A. Staley et al., The Post-Pre-Raphaelite Print: Etching, Illustration, Reproductive Engraving and Photography in England in and around the 1860’s, New York 1995. See: Renié P.-L. (ed.), État des lieux-1, Bordeaux 1994 and Renié P.-L. (ed.), État des lieux-2, Bordeaux 1999 and various exhibition publications such as: exhib.cat. Degas, Boldini, Toulouse-Lautrec…Portraits inédits par Michel Manzi, Bordeaux (Musée Goupil) 1997; exhib. cat. Memoires du xviiie siècle, Bordeaux (Musée Goupil) 1998; exhib.cat. Gerome & Goupil. Art and Enterprise, Bordeaux (Musée Goupil), 2000 and exhib.cat. À l’ombre des grand hommes. Autour du portrait de la comtesse Maison d’Hippolyte Flandrin, Villeneuve-sur-Lot, Bordeaux (Musée de Villeneuve-sur-Lot, Musée Goupil) 1995. S. Bann, ‘Ingres in Reproduction’, Art History 23 (2000) 5, pp.706-725. R.M. Verhoogt, ‘En nu nog een paar woorden business. Reproducties naar het werk van Alma-Tadema’, Jong Holland 12 (1996b) 4, pp.2233. R.M. Verhoogt, ‘De uitgaanskleren van Israëls’ kinderen: Prenten naar zijn werk’, in: D.Dekkers (ed.) exhib.cat. Jozef Israëls 1824-1911 Groningen, Amsterdam 1999-2000, pp.71-85. See also: C. Weissert, Reproduktions-stichwerke. Vermittlung alter und neuer Kunst im 18. Und frühen 19. Jahrhundert Berlin 1999 and exhib. cat., Velázquez en blanco y negro, Madrid (Museo del Prado) 2000. See also: Boom 1996, pp .85-96. The work of Francis Haskell has set the tone



41



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46

in expanding art historical research into visual art as part of wider visual culture. See: F. Haskell, History and Its Images. Art and the Interpretation of the Past, New Haven/London 1993. See also: C. Rosen, H. Zerner, Romanticism and Realism. The Mythology of Nineteenth Century Art, London/Boston 1984. Several influential publications are: P. Bourdieu, The Field of Cultural Production. Essays on Art and Literature, Oxford 1993; P. Burke, Popular Culture in Early Modern Europe, New York 1978, and C. Ginzburg, The Cheese and Worms: The Cosmos of a Sixteenth-Century Miller, Baltimore 1982. The travels of American art dealers S.P. Avery and G.A. Lucas are also illustrative of the art trade’s international character. Whilst their journals provide an interesting picture of their experiences on the European continent and their trips to art centres in Germany, Austria and Italy, they also show that the dealers spent most of their time in London and Paris, see: M. Fidell Beaufort, H.L. Kleinfield, J.K. Welcher (ed), The Diaries 1871-1882 of Samuel P. Avery, Art Dealer, New York 1979 and L.M.C. Randall, The Diary of George A. Lucas: An American Art Agent in Paris, 1857-1909, Princeton 1979. For the reproduction of Rembrandt’s work see for example: D. Alexander, ‘Rembrandt and the reproductive print in eighteenth century England’, in: C. White, D. Alexander, E. D’oench, Rembrandt in Eighteenth Century England London 1983, pp.46-54 and: S.E. Asser, ‘Rembrandt in fotografische staat’ Charles Blanc, Bisson frères en L’Oeuvre de Rembrandt reproduit par la photographie, 1853-1858’, Bulletin van het Rijksmuseum 48 (2000) 3, pp.163-199. R. Darnton, ‘What Is the History of Books?’, in: R. Darnton, The Kiss of Lamourette. Reflections in Cultural History New York/London 1990, pp.107-135. Similar processes in literature and visual art are extensively discussed in: P.Collier, R. Lethbridge (ed.), Artistic Relations. Literature and Visual Arts in Nineteenth-Century France, London 1994. Studies in this field interconnect with sociocultural research into the appreciation of

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culture in general, see: P. Bourdieu, La Dis­ tinction: A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste, London 1984 and S.M. Pearce, On Col­lecting. An investigation into collecting in the European tradition, London/New York 1995. 47 For this see: C. Ginzburg, The Cheese and Worms: The Cosmos of a Sixteenth-Century Miller, Baltimore 1982. 48 Moriarty 1994, p.17. 49 Exhib.cat. Ary Scheffer 1795-1858: gevierd Romanticus, Dordrecht (Dordrechts Museum) 1995; exhib.cat. Jozef Israëls 1824-1911, Groningen/ Amsterdam, (Groninger Museum,/Joods Historisch Museum) 1999; exhib.cat. Sir Lawrence Alma Tadema 1836-1912, Amsterdam/ Liverpool (Van Gogh Museum/Walker Art Gallery) 1996.

the nineteenth century.

7 Winkler Prins, Geïllustreerde Encyclopedie 1870-



8 Woordenboek der Nederlandse Taal.

1882: 12,306b [1879].

9 Winkler Prins Encyclopedie 1932-1938 [1937].



10 Hind 1967, p.16.



11 See also: F.van der Linden, Hoe origineel is



12



13

chapter 1 p. ?

1 Edward Young, Conjectures on Original Composi-



2



3



4



5



6

tion in a letter to the Author of Sir Charles Grandison, London 1759, quoted in: Harrison Wood Gaiger 2000, p.538. For extensive information on copies see:   14 H. Schwartz, The Culture of the Copy. Striking Likenesses, Unreasonable Facsimiles, New York 1996, and H. Lafont-Couturier, ‘La maison Goupil ou la notion d’oeuvre originale remise en question’, Revue de L’Art 112 (1996) 2, pp.5969. Mainardi 2000, pp.63-73. She draws attention to the various designations of copies in: Dictionnaire de l’Academie des Beaux-Arts (6 vols.), 1858-1906, vol.4, pp.262-265. See also:   T. Gautier, ‘Beaux-Arts. Les originaux et les copies’, L’Artiste (1845), pp.109-111. This culture of copies was not entirely new in the nineteenth century, see: exhib.cat. De Firma Breughel, Maastricht Brussels (Bonnefantenmuseum, Koninklijke Musea voor Schone Kunsten van België) 2001 and Scott 1999-2000, 15 pp.70-72. Wuestman 1998, p.11 and Robertson 1988, pp.296-298. Wuestman 1998, p.11. In chapter 2 i discuss the range of graphic and photographic techniques employed during in

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grafiek? Over het onder scheiden en onderkennen van originaliteit van grafiek, De Bilt 1992. For the author in graphic arts see also: Fyfe 2000, pp.31-52. Letter from Edward Young to Sir Charles Grandison, London 1759, quoted in: Harrison Wood Gaiger 2000, p.538. In Art and Illusion, for example, Gombrich discusses art as an increasingly realistic imitation of nature. However, in his Vision and Painting, Norman Bryson emphatically   distances himself from this development of art towards the ‘essential copy’, see: Gombrich 1993, and: Bryson 1992, pp.13-36. The relationship between the corpus mysticus and the corpus mechanicus also plays an important role in copyright, see: Dommering 2000, p.444, and: Kabel 1991, pp.98-121. The crayon manner graphic technique in particular was widely used for the reproduction of crayon drawings, see: Griffith 1987, p.255. Gilles Demarteau and Louis Bonnet also experimented at an early stage with the new technique, see: Hind, p.288. The crayon manner was introduced into England by William Wynne Ryland and Gabriel Smith (1724-1783). The technique enjoyed great success in Wynne Ryland’s contribution to the two-volume Charles Roger publication with the self-explanatory title, A Collection of prints in imitation of drawings (1778), see: Griffith 1987, p.262. Stipple engraving was also widely used in   the reproduction of drawings, see: Ivins 1996, p.83. For example an anonymous lithograph published in the wake of Paul Mercuri’s renowned engraving after Lady Jane Gray. For this type of print publishing, see: Anonymous, ‘Foreign lithographs’, The Art Journal (1851), pp.173-174 and: Anonymous, The Art Journal (1859), p.194. In 1868 the Art Journal published a similar

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16



17



18



19



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‘detail reproduction’ after the painting Startlet by Edwin Landseer which featured only the central part of the scene. The editors stressed that: ‘The picture engraved here is simply a sketch’[…] ‘We introduce the engraving more as an interesting pictorial “curiosity” than as an example of finished Art’, see: Anonymous, The Art Journal (1868), p.216. When Gambart commissioned the artist Frith to paint the series The Streets of London, comprising three paintings, they agreed that the painter ‘shall touch up the Photographs of the said Pictures in order to assist the Engravers in engraving the said Pictures.’, quoted in: Maas 1975, p.158. Hamber 1996, p.59. Sometimes the original has not survived in its initial form. The images published in many illustrated journals over the course of the nineteenth century are particularly interesting in this regard. Many makers of woodcuts produced such illustrations at great speed, impelled by the need to supply up-to-date material; they often worked from designs drawn by others on the woodblock, this drawing forming the original which they then carved into the wood. Should this be considered production or reproduction? A case can be made for production, with the design and execution of this design conceived of as a single process. However, the process can also be regarded as a form of reproduction. In my opinion the latter option is preferable, given the fact that there was an actual design, subsequently translated into a print, an interpretative action which amounts to more than pure execution. Nevertheless this does not detract from the fact than in such cases the original seems to have been destroyed by the reproduction, see: exhib.cat. Hard Times. Social Realism in Victorian Art, Manchester/ Amsterdam/New Haven (Manchester City Art Gallery/Vincent Van Gogh Museum/Yale Centre for British Art) 1987, p.53. O.W. Holmes, quoted in: Harrison Wood Gaiger 1998, p.671. Lambert 1987, p.191. Letter from William Blake to John Trusler, 23 Augustus 1799, quoted in: Harrison Wood

Gaiger 2000, pp.994-995.

22 Ivins 1996, pp.96-97.



23 Landau, P.Parchall 1994, p.104. For a concise



24



25



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27

summary of the history of reproductions, see: D. Alexander, ‘“After-Images”: a review of recent studies of reproductive print-making’, The Oxford Art Journal 6 (1983) 1, pp.11-17. Although this differentiation between design creator and executor was customary, it annoyed some artists. The English Arts & Crafts tradition in particular regarded the amalgamation of design and execution as essential. According to William Morris, for the wood engraver the sketch should be ‘as slight as possible, i.e., as much as possible should be left to the executant’, allowing the result to express the quality of the individual printmaker and the qualities of the material used, see: B. Rix, ‘Prints’ in: K. Lochnan, D.E   Schoenherr, C. Silver (ed.), The Earthly Paradise. Arts and Crafts by William Morris and His Circle from Canadian Collections, Ontario 1993, pp.237-238. Such views also found resonance in Dutch representatives of Community Art, such as R.N. Roland Holst, for which see: R.N. Roland Holst, ‘Moderne eischen en artistieke bedenkingen’, in: R.N. Roland Holst, Over kunst en kunstenaars. beschouwingen en herdenkingen, Amsterdam 1923, pp.110-126. Letter from William Blake to John Trusler,   23 August 1799, quoted in: Harrison Wood Gaiger 2000, pp.994-995. Gray 1937, pp.190-191. This division is derived from action theory as applied in modern Dutch criminal law. Within this field of law the action as such plays an important role, albeit with a different purpose, that of establishing whether criminal behaviour has occurred. More specifically this relates to an attempted crime. A crucial question in this regard is whether a preparatory action or an executive action has been committed in connection with the offence in question. The former is not a penal offence, the latter is. In legal literature there is a range of approaches to this characterisation of actions, in which one extreme places the emphasis on the de facto circumstances that can be established by third parties, while the

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28

29

30



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32

other regards the offender’s intentions as the overriding factor. For an extensive discussion of this, see: Enschedé 1990, pp.147-149. For example, see the negotiations associated with the reproduction rights to Wilkie’s Village Politicians, Raimbach 1843, p.112. For the significance of intellectual property in the Victorian art world see: Maas 1975, p.30. In chapter 3 i extensively discuss the significance of intellectual property in the art world. Another practical consideration was authorisation to move the original, in order to light the work for photographic reproduction. Problematic lighting in museums prompted many photographers to ask for works to be moved. For the situation in the Louvre see: McCauley 1994, pp.284-286; for the Rijksmuseum see: Asser and Verhoogt 2002. Bergeon draws attention to two contracts entered into by the engraver Mercuri and the publisher Goupil, both from the early 1830s. The first of these dates from 1832 and formalised reproduction of the painting Ste Amélie Reine de Hongrie/ Offrande à la Vierge by Paul Délaroche, with the two parties agreeing that the work was to be completed in ten months for the sum of 2000 ff (paid in instalments of 150 ff per month); in addition the printer was to receive 12 prints (‘épreuves avant la lettre’) and all proofs back from the publisher. A subsequent revision of the contract agreed a smaller format for the prints and stipulated that the proofs were to be destroyed; the publisher was to put the firm’s stamp on the 12 prints (‘épreuves avant la lettre’), see: Bergeon 1994, p.43-44. For more about contracts see chapter 3. Frizot 1998, p.62. In Photogenic Drawing (1839) the photographer Fox Talbot also emphasised the importance of photography in the reproduction of prints: ‘The invention may be employed with great facility for obtaining copies of drawings or engravings, or facsimiles of mss [manuscripts rv]’, quoted in: Harrison Wood Gaiger 1998, p.254. One example of prints after prints is a publication with nineteenth-century engraved reproductions after several fifteenth-

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33



34



35



36



37



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39

century copper engravings, see: J.W. Kaiser, Curiosités du Musée d’Amsterdam, Facsimilé d’estampes de maitres inconnus du 15e siècle, Utrecht/Leipzig/Paris 1865. Eaves 1982, pp.165-167. Also relevant in this connection is the tendency of illustrated journals to use several engravers to work on one image. Each craftsman engraved his own section, after which the separate blocks were assembled to form the complete image. The Illustrated London News employed a ‘visual manager’ who was responsible for all the matrix sections during reproduction see: Anonymous, ‘De Geïllustreerde pers’, De Kunstkronijk (1875), pp.68-69. The fourth process, stencil printing, barely plays a role in art reproduction and is therefore excluded from further discussion, Van der Linden 1990, p.209. Ivins 1996, p.3. There are a few graphic and photographic exceptions to this rule. Previous reference has been made to the ‘unique’ daguerreotype which did not lend itself to multiplication, while modern Polaroid photographs are similarly ‘unique’. Neither method uses a negative. However, the negative itself is rapidly becoming redundant, as modern digital photography has demonstrated that images can now be made and multiplied without it. Hind 1967, pp.15-16. Zilcken 1928, p.59. Hind, pp.15-16. After the maximum number of prints had been produced the plate was regularly ‘retouched’ for reuse. This prompts the question of whether prints from a retouched plate should be regarded as a new state, given that these have been printed from a modified printing matrix. Strictly speaking, there is something to be said for considering these a new state. For the public destruction of plates by publishers such as Gambart, see: Anonymous, ‘Destruction of engraved plates’, The Art Journal (1855), pp.314-315; and: Anonymous, ‘Reviews’, The Art Journal (1856), p.32. Artists such as the printmaker Seymour Haden would also render their plates unusable, see: Melot 1996, pp.40, 88.

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40 For these print dealers see: Maas 1975, p.28.



41 For the position of the nineteenth-century



42



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47

publisher in general see: Dongelmans 1992, p.14. In this respect the terms publisher and print seller are not synonymous in the nineteenthcentury context. A characteristic feature of publishing, and therefore of publishers, was involvement in the production and distribution of printed material, while the print seller generally confined his activities to the purchase and sale of already completed prints. Wax 1990, pp.63-66. See: R. Barthes, ‘The Death of the Author’, (1968) in: R. Barthes, Image, Music, Text, London 1977. For postmodernist thought and ‘visual culture’ see, for example: exhib.cat. High and Low Modern Art Popular Culture, New York   (Museum of Modern Art) 1990; R.E. Krauss, The Originality of the Avant-Garde and Other Modernist Myths, Cambridge (ma)/London 1993,   K. Moxey, The Practice of Theory. Poststructuralism, Cultural Politics, and Art History, Ithaca/ London 1994, M. Bryson, M. Ann Holly,   K. Moxey, Visual Theory. Painting and Interpretation, Cambridge 1991, J.A. Walker, S. Chaplin, Visual Culture. An Introduction, Manchester/ New York 1997. The changing view of art   reproduction in the twentieth century falls outside the scope of the present study and I intend to develop this subject in a future article. ‘The “author function” is tied to the legal and institutional systems that circumscribe, determine, and articulate the realm of discourses; it does not operate in a uniform manner in all discourses, at all times, and in any given culture; it is not defined by spontaneous attribution of a text to its creator, but through a series of precise and complex procedures; it does not refer, purely and simply, to an actual individual insofar as it simultaneously gives rise to a variety of egos and to a series of subjective positions that individuals of any class may come to occupy’: Michel Foucault, ‘What Is an Author?’ in: Bouchard 1977, pp.130-131. Krauss 1989, p.8. For the connection between the concept of



48



49



50



51



52



53



54



55



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58

genius and the development of copyrights in the eighteenth century, see: Woodmansee 1994, pp.35-55. For the development of copyright see also: Dommering 2000, pp.431-439. Feather 1994, pp.122-124. Dommering 2000, pp.431-439. De Marchi 1999, pp.18-36. The Act 8 Geo.2, c13, known as Hogarth’s Act, is the earliest law in the field of intellectual property, see: Phillips 1863, pp.205-206 and   H. Vernet, Du Droit des Peintres et des Sculpteurs sur les ouvrages, Paris 1841. Feather 1994, pp.3-4. See also: Putnam 1891, pp.20-24 and Saunders 1992, pp.90-95. Kabel 1991, pp.67-73. For the place of Dutch law on intellectual property in the middle ground between English and French traditions see: Dommering 2000, pp.441-455. Dommering 2000, pp.445-446. Schwartz 1996, p.244. This does not disguise the fact that, in western countries too, views on the author continue to go in new directions, for example in the field of film. Since 1985 film producers in the Netherlands have enjoyed certain rights associated with copyright laws, see: Kabel 1991, pp.81-86. It should be remarked that in historical practice, printmakers were regularly and actively involved in the choice of the original work, and were sometimes clearly responsible for instigating a reproduction. For this see chapter 3. The artist Ph.O. Runge wrote as follows to Goethe regarding several reproductions of his work: ‘If this expression of my views has been successful in clarifying for you certain things in the four engravings [The Times of Day], I am sure that I shall be able to clarify them even more if I might one day send you a sketch in oils. I hope you will also have gathered from my preceding remarks just how little commentary of this sort can succeed in making such things properly intelligible. For your own information I should say that the sheets in question were not actually engraved by me. ‘Morning’ and ‘Evening’ were engraved by Herr Seifer in Dresden, and with regard to the two other pieces, the figures were engraved

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63



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by Herr Kruger and the ancillary details by Herr Darnstedt, also in Dresden. Since I did my original drawings directly with the pen which they subsequently copied in pencil and imprinted on the plate, it was possible to maintain the design very accurately, although a lot is still lost in the process, as you will see yourself if I may take the opportunity of sending you the original drawings.’ Letter from Ph.O. Runge to Goethe, 3 July 1806, quoted in: Harrison Wood Gaiger 2000, pp.1079-1080. For this development of the etched reproduction see: J.A. Clarke, ‘Munch, Liebermann, and the Question of Etched “Reproductions”’, Visual Resources vol. xvi (2000), pp.27-63. I shall return to the subject of the popularity of the etched reproduction at greater length in the next chapter. Liebermann quoted in: Clarke 2000,   p.43. O. Wilde, ‘The Critic as Artist. A Dialogue in Two Parts’ in: Wilde 1997, p.990. Letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, circa 9 June 1889, included in: Van Crimpen Berends-Albert 1990, no.781. Ruskin quoted in: Fawcett 1986, p.207. For Ruskin’s view see for example: Taylor 1987, pp.286-296. For Philippe Burty’s views on this in connection with the 1859 exhibition of the Societé Francaise de Photographie, see: Holt 1981, pp.257-258. Letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, 21 December 1882, included in: Van Crimpen Berends-Albert 1990, no. 296. Ruskin’s view of photography (compared with graphic techniques) seems still to resound in Ivins’ Prints and Visual Communication. Gordon Fyfe justifiably draws attention to Ivins’   one-sided view of photography: ‘The Camera is judged to be capable of objective and authoritative statements of which the older handicraft modes of reproduction were incapable.’[…] ‘Ivins tends to treat photoreproduction as a unity whose history has been completed with the advent of the modern halftone. He omits assessments of the aesthetic/economic possibilities, choices and

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68



69



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judgements that attend innovation in art reproduction’: Fyfe 2000, pp.44-45. Asser Verhoogt 2002, p.353. Although from this point onwards everyone may have been able to take photographs, developing these pictures remained specialist work. Kodak addressed this problem by offering the facility for sending the camera to the firm for the photographs to be developed, as proclaimed by the famous slogan: ‘You press the button, we do the rest’, Frizot 1998, p.238. For Kodak posters see: Henisch Henisch 1993, p.79. The differences in photographic techniques are illustrated by various photographs of the same original. See, for example, the different photographic reproductions of works from the Rijksmuseum: Asser Verhoogt 2002. During the 1850s and 1860s in particular, the question of whether a photographer should be considered an author was discussed in various court cases. In the case of Mayer and Pierson vs. Thiebault, Betbeder and Schwabbé   (28 November 1862), protection of the photo­g­ rapher’s rights as an author was acknowledged in French law. For the legal protection of photography see: McCauly 1994, pp.30-34; and: Hamber 1996, pp.11-13. See also   chapter 3. I shall confine myself to the general observation that copyright law is always associated with a concrete work that bears the author’s personal stamp, whereas patent law is generally intended to protect a specific invention, such as a technique or a product. Copyright law essentially protects the author’s personal and intellectual bond with his work, while patent law protects the inventor because he is the ‘first’. Although both fields are considered part of intellectual property law, photographers thus have a different relationship with their work than other authors. Copyright law and patent law have influenced each other in areas where these are associated. At the end of the nineteenth century in the Netherlands, for example, the introduction of copyright law was long resisted for fear of a new ‘disguised’ patent law, see: Kabel 1991, pp.67-73. For copyright law and patent law in general

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see: Spoor Verkade 1993, pp.11-13. In recent decades this tension between ‘author’ and ‘inventor’ has chiefly been a feature of the computer programming world, see: Spoor Verkade 1993, pp.98-100. Stieglitz quoted in: Whelan 2000, p.203. This essay was previously published as ‘The New Color Photography – A Bit of History’, in Camera Work 20 (October 1907), pp.20-25. For extensive consideration of the photographer Joseph Albert see: W. Ranke, Joseph Albert – Hofphotograph der Bayerische Konige, Munich 1977. See the critic Meier-Graefe: ‘it is strange that in the painting with the same subject… the artist achieved exactly the same effect with entirely different means’, quoted in: Clarke 2000, p.54. Melot 1996, p.53. For extensive consideration of the peintregraveur in nineteenth-century art, see: M. Melot, The Impressionist Print, New Haven London 1996. For Whistler see: K.A. Lochman, ‘The Gentle Art of Marketing Whistler Prints’, Print Quarterly xiv (1997) 1, pp.3-15; and M. Tedeschi, ‘Whistler and the English Print Market’, Print Quarterly xiv (1997) 1, pp. 15-41. Letter from Whistler to D. Croal Thompson, 20 August 1894, quoted in: Tedeschi 1997, p.23. Tedeschi 1997, p.39. Lettter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, 19 September 1889, included in: Van Crimpen Berends-Albert 1990, no. 806. Where copying was closely associated with tuition in academies, various artists distanced themselves from this traditional form of training. Van Gogh’s copies after Millet make him one of the artists who reintroduced the copy into the avant-garde oeuvre. For this see: Homburg 1996, p.17-34. As written earlier, the Act 8 Geo.2, c13 – Hogarth’s Act – is one of the first laws in the field of intellectual property in relation to the visual arts, see: Phillips 1863, pp.205-206. Vincent van Gogh wrote to Theo van Gogh about the type of photogravure used at Goupil & Cie: ‘When you were here, I asked you about the costs of reproduction with the G & Cie process. You said then I think 100 francs.



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Well, the old, ordinary lithographic process, now so little regarded, is – especially in Eindhoven perhaps – very much cheaper.’ Letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, c. 13April 1885, included in: Van Crimpen Berends-Albert 1990, no.496. Van Gogh had recourse to lithography for the reproduction of The Potato Eaters, the most important work he was then painting in Nuenen, producing a lithograph after a sketch of the painting to herald his masterpiece. The lithograph was printed by a friend in Eindhoven, Dimmen Gestel. Van Gogh sent Theo various prints of the work, with the request that he provide Portier, the art dealer, with as many introductory copies of this as he desired. Van Gogh also sent prints to various friends and the art dealer Van Wisselingh in The Hague. Although more prints must have been circulated, only 18 of these are known, see: Van Tilborg 1993, p.100. The historian H. Tietze wrote: ‘Every copy, whether made by an artist or by mechanical means, has two kinds of value, one documentary and one creative. Even the freest transcription, a copy by Rubens after Titian or by Cézanne after a book illustration, has a certain documentary value with regard to its original. This value, however, is trifling in comparison with that of the copyist’s creative power. On the other hand, even a mechanical photographic reproduction is a kind of interpretation of its model, just as every restoration is’, quoted in: Shiff 1989, p.172. It should be emphasised that the observation that reproductions are unusual works is not a veiled attempt to ‘upgrade’ their status as works of art. Krauss rightly notes that interest in copies (and reproductions) sometimes still conceals a modernist approach: ‘under the pressures of a modernist definition of art as an act of originality, even copying the work of another is seen as the origination of something new, becoming, that is, an arrestingly distinct interpretive moment’, see: Krauss 1989, p.7. Bartsch 1854, p.III. Godfrey 1978, p.83. Letter from Frans Liszt to Adolphe Pictet,

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September 1837, included in: Ophof 1994, p.94. Letter from J. Bosboom to J.D. Kruseman, 6/7 May 1865, included in: Jeltes 1910, p.12. For forgeries in the field of visual art see: N.Goodman, Languages of Art. An approach to a theory of symbols, London 1969, pp.99-123, J. Elkins; ‘From original to copy and back again’, British Journal of Aesthetics, 33 (1993), 2, pp.113120; M. Jones, Fake? The art of deception, London 1990; I. Haywood, Faking It. Art and the Politics of Forgery, Brighton 1987. For several examples from nineteenth-century practice see: Anonymous, ‘Kunstvervalsingen’ De Kunstkronijk new series vol. 6 (1886), pp.10-13. For the criminalisation of signature forgery in English law see: 25 &26 Vict. C. 68 (29 July 1862), vii, Phillips 1863, p.lxxxiii. For the penal enforcement of copyright in the Dutch Copyright Act (28 June 1881, Stb.124) see: art.18-art.23. It is unclear whether painters were able to take action against forgery prior to the introduction of this act, for example through general charges of deception. Mainardi 2000, p.66. The extent to which an authentic signature is required is even debatable. Although I do not know of any explicit instances of this, it is conceivable that a master might delegate the task of signing a work to one of his trusted assistants, creating a hypothetical situation in which a work has been neither painted nor signed by a master, and yet need not be a forgery Such potential for confusion landed the spiritual father of stipple engraving, W.W. Ryland, in prison on charges of forging drawings, see: Van der Linden 1990, p.119. For the circulation of false prints, see: ‘Mock proof engravings, i.e. spurious proofs, printed without lettering, after the prints have been taken off, and selling them as genuine proofs, whilst they are not worth the cost of the paper they are printed on’, see: Anonymous, The Art Journal (1855), p.218, and: Anonymous, ‘Correspondence. Fraudulent “proofs” from worn plates’, The Art Journal (1855), pp.241-242. Zilcken 1928, p.108.

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98 In this connection see also: K. Varnedoe’s and

A. Gopnik’s introduction in the catalogue High and Low Modern Art Popular Culture: ‘In general, (such) theoretical writing about modern popular culture has shown a sublime lack of curiosity about the particulars of its subjects. Bland assertions about the ‘corrupting’or ‘hegemonic’ social role of jazz, or the movies, or comics, abound, unaccompanied by any sense of the variety within these categories, or investigation of the diverse individuals and histories that have shaped them’, exhib.cat. New York 1990, p.18. 99 Benjamin 1976, pp.14-16. 100 Arnheim 1986, p.283.

chapter 2 p. ?

1 Gage 1989, pp.124-125. For extensive consid-



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eration of the English printmakers’ struggle for recognition in the early nineteenth century see: C.Fox, ‘The Engravers’ Battle for Professional Recognition in Early Nineteenth Century London’, The London Journal 2 (1976) 1, pp.3-31. For a thorough consideration of this development see: P.O.Kristeller, ‘The Modern System of the Arts ii’, Journal of the History of Ideas 13 (1952), pp.17-46. Landau Parchall 1994, p.103. The Academie Royale de Peinture et de Sculpture had been founded in Paris in 1648 and was based on Italian models. One of the academy’s first instructors was the renowed engraver Abraham Bosse who recorded his views on art in his well-known essay of 1649, Sentiments sur la distinction des diverses manieres de peinture, dessein et graveure, see: Goldstein, pp.186-202. Teaching mainly focused on art theory and instruction in drawing. Practical painting, sculpture and engraving were not part of the syllabus as hands-on training in these disciplines was conventionally acquired through the traditional studio system. Printmaking (etching and engraving) ‘depend[s] upon the imagination of their authors and cannot be subject to any laws

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other than those of their genius; this art has nothing in common with the crafts and manufactures’, see: Robinson 1981, p.xxvii. See also: MacGregor 1999, p.401. Especially in German states, academies established courses which accommodated both the ‘liberal arts’ and the ‘lower’, more craft-based, disciplines, see: Pevsner 1940, pp.159-161. Boime 1971, p.5. One example is the expansion of the engraving faculty at the academy in Vienna, see: Kuijpers 1989, p.379. In this connection see: Leeds 1983, p.43. Pevsner 1940, p.165. In defence of reproductive graphic work, Landseer declared in 1807: ‘Engraving is no more an act of copying painting, than the English Language is an art of copying Greek or Latin. Engraving is a distinct language of art and though it may bear much resemblance to painting in the construction of its grammar, as grammars of languages bear to each other yet its alphabet and idiom, or mode of expression, are totally different’, (from J. Landseer, Lectures on the art of engraving 1807, p177), quoted in: Lambert 1987, p.61. Quoted in: Gage 1989, p.132. For the meaning of ‘Fine Arts’ in this context see: Kristeller 1952 Lambert 1987, p.31. For the troubled relations between engravers and the Royal Academy see: Wax 1990, pp.5961. Painters and printmakers received more or less equal treatment at these institutions, although differences were perpetuated by the disparity in numbers. Of the 40 professorships, 14 were held by painters, eight by sculptors, eight by architects, four by engravers and six by composers, see: White 1993, pp.16-18. Following the example of the French academy, a Royal Decree of 13 April 1817 declared that: ‘In Amsterdam and Antwerp an academy of painting, sculpting and engraving, as comprehensive as possible, shall exist under the name Koninklijke Academie der Beeldende Kunsten’, quoted in: Lottman 1985,



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p.92. Previously there had only been modest drawing academies in the Netherlands. Of the six instructors appointed, two were for history, one for drawing and painting, one for sculpture, one for architecture and one for engraving plates. For extensive consideration of art education see: Reynaerts 2001. Anonymous, ‘Etat du travail dans les différent ateliers’, L’Artiste (1840) vi, pp.251-252. Such as the French Ecole des Beaux-Arts, for which see: Boime 1971, p.4. Bann 2001, p.182. Gage 1989, p.132. See also: Wax 1990, pp.113115. Doo, quoted in: Hamber 1996, p.11. Trevor Fawcett has already provided a brief summary of the interaction between graphic and photographic art reproduction in the nineteenth century, in: T. Fawcett, ‘Graphic versus photographic in the nineteenthcentury reproduction’, Art History 9 (1986) 2, pp.185-212. Dyson rightly stresses: ‘Printing processes in general may also usefully be considered in relationship to each other: not only is it essential to consider the intaglio printing technique as being in a sitiuation of competition with other printing processes […] it is also important to consider the cross-fertilisation that to some degree took place’, Dyson 1984, p.31. For example, see: Hind 1967; Van der Linden 1990; Wax 1990; Frizot 1998 and Henisch 1993. Stannard 1859, quoted in: Hamber 1996, p.37. One example is photosculpture, a method for three-dimensional reproduction of sculptures, see: M. Bogart, ‘Photosculpture’, Art History 4 (1985) 1, pp.54-65. H.de Chennevières, ‘La gravure du siecle’, Gazette des Beaux Arts (1889), p.480. French engravers such as Claude Mellan and Michael Lasne had laid the foundations for an important French school of engravers. Jean Morin and Robert Nanteuil made their name with portrait prints, for which see: Hind 1967, pp.142-144. Anonymous, ‘De la gravure’, L’Artiste (1837) xiv, p.287. See also: Hayter 1968, p.187. The Musée Francais was published in four folio

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albums, containing a total of 344 prints. The Musée Royal comprised two folio albums with 161 prints. For the latter see also: Anoymous, ‘De la gravure’, L’Artiste (1837) xiv, p.288, Delaborde 1882, p.269 and Beraldi 1885-1892, pp.63-64. These albums should not be confused with the publication of Musée des Monuments Francais by Alexandre Lenoir. In 1837 L’Artiste wrote: ‘Cependant le dixhuitième siècle a vu décroître l’art de la gravure, soit que les encouragements lui aient fait défaut, soit que les hommes de genie et d’intelligence lui aient manque. Cet art est tombé sous l’influence du mauvais goût qui régné pendant un démie-siècle sur la France’, Anonymous, ‘De la gravure’, L’Artiste (1837) xiv, p.288. Schroder 1997, pp.78-80. See also: G.S. Hellman, ‘Eighteenth Century French Engravings’, The Print Collector’s Quarterly vol. 3 (1913), pp.3-8. Well-known engravers were Drevets, Daullé and Wille. For the renowned engraver Jean-Georges Wille (1715-1808) see: L.R. Metcalfe, ‘The Memoirs and Journal of JeanGeorges Wille (1715-1808)’, The Print Collector’s Quarterly, 4 (1914), pp.131-165; Schroder 1997, pp.72-76 and Hyatt Mayor 1971, ill.578. In addition to French art, many old masters were also published in print form, including works by Raphael and Leonardo, engraved by R. Morghen, Boucher-Desnoyers and Forster, such as Boucher-Desnoyers’ La Belle Jardiniere after Raphael and Vierge aux rochers after Leonardo; see: Delaborde 1882, p.259. Delaborde 1882, p.262. His print after L’Education d’Achille by Regnault in particular enjoyed at least as much success as the original painting. Delaborde engraved Enlèvement de Déjanire as a pendent to this print. Although he worked extremely slowly and did not produce more than 15 prints during his life, his work was of high quality, see: Hind 1967, p.203. In comparison with other reproductive techniques, the print run from a copper engraving tended to be low. Although estimates vary wildly, the print runs supported by a copper plate ranged from 500 to 2000 prints, see: G. Laviron, ‘M. Philippe de Rouen.

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Application de la galvanoplasitque a la reproduction des planches gravées a l’eau-fortes et au burin’, L’Artiste (1846) vii, p.210. Anonymous review of M. Migneret’s engraving after Pierre le Grand by M. Steuben in: Le Globe 6 (1828), p.461. Anonymous, ‘Gravure et lithographie’, L’Artiste, vii (1834), p.158. Some hope was derived from the work submitted for the Prix de Rome that year by the engravers Dupont and Prévost. ‘Les succes inespérés qu’ont obtenus les planches de Dupont et de Prévost montrent bien que la gravure a encore un avenir en France, et que le moment n’est pas éloigné òu elle aura repris son ascendant sur la lithographie’, Anonymous, ‘Concours de gravure pour le Prix de Rome’, L’Artiste, viii (1834), p.64. Z. Prevost (1797-1861) came a good second to Louis Henriquel-Dupont and was one of the most renowned printmakers of the mid-1830s. He produced line engravings and aquatints after work by artists such as Decamps and Robert, Délaroche and Scheffer. See: Beraldi 1885-1892, pp.44-47, and: Anonymous, ‘Salon de 1835. Gravure et Lithographies’, L’Artiste, (1835), ix, p.193. This statement was prompted by Prévost’s engraving after Le Bon Dévot by Charlet, see: Anonymous, ‘Gravure et lithographie’, L’Artiste, vii (1834), p.158. The role played by the English print trade in the production and distribution of prints for the general public was specifically adduced. ‘Tout le monde connait les nombreux prodiges que produisent les graveurs anglais, la force et la richesse de coloris qu’ils ont su donner à la gravure et donc on n’avait point d’idée avant eux. Comparez maintenant a ces ouvrages admirés le système suivi par la gravure francaise telle qu’elle est representée à ce concours.’[…] Quelle sécheresse, quelle pauvreté de ton dans ces figures!’, Anonymous, ‘Concours de gravure pour le Prix de Rome’, L’Artiste, viii (1834), p.64. Wuestman 1998, p.125. Lambert 1987, p.76. Hind 1967, p.15. During Reynold’s lifetime hundreds of mezzotints were made after his work, particularly

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his portraits. Other artists whose work generated many prints were Thomas Gainsborough, George Romney, Allan Ramsay and Joseph Wright of Derby. Line engravings were also produced in England, in the shadow of the many mezzotints. For example, Hogarth’s famous moralising genre series, such as A Harlot’s Progress and A Rake’s Progress, were largely reproduced as line engravings, although this may be explained by the fact that Hogarth tended to work with French engravers, see: Bindman 1997, p.31. For the mezzotint in England in the eighteenth century see: Gray 1937, pp.29-30. The Salons of 1810 and 1812 had already exhibited prints by Reynolds after French masters such as Délaroche and Gericault, which the Englishman had produced during a stay in Paris in 1809. He also stayed in the French capital for some time in the mid-1820s. Reynolds probably spent a total of five or six years in Paris, on the advice of English publishers who had set up branches in the city, see: Wax 1990, p.100. Scheffer painted a portrait of the engraver, now in the Dordrecht Museum. Ewals dates this work to 1847, see: Ewals 1987, p.427. Anonymous, ‘Reynolds’, L’Artiste (1835) x, pp.224-227. See also the obituary in: Anonymous, ‘Variété’, L’Artiste (1835) x, p.84. Van der Feltz 1982, pp.8-9; Hind 1967, pp.280281. Van der Feltz 1982, p.12. Another example is Dirk Sluijter (1790-1852) who made copper engravings after portraits and landscapes by artists such as H.P. Oosterhuis. Sluijter laid the foundations for an important family tradition of printmakers, teaching the profession to his son, Dirk Jurriaan Sluyter (18111886), who would also become a productive engraver of reproductions. The latter passed this tradition on to his son, Hendrik D. Jz Sluyter, one of the final generation of reproductive engravers in the Netherlands. Hodges made many prints after work (mainly portraits) by Reynolds, Romney and Gainsborough, plus portraits of Dutch aristocrats. After 1800 he concentrated on paintings and pastels, although he continued to make prints



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of his own compositions or old masters until his death, see: Van der Feltz 1982, pp.385-387. Hodges and Marcus also sat on a committee charged with organising a competition, in 1820 and 1822, to promote printmaking in the Netherlands. J.E. Marcus (1774-1826), a pupil of Reinier Vinkeles, has largely remained known thanks to his studies (after artists such as Van Troostwijk), rather than his various reproductions after paintings and drawings, see: Knoef 1943, p.157-159. Together with Cornelis Apostool, Vinkeles developed the first plans for establishing the Academy in which Hodges also became involved at an early stage, in 1808. For Marcus’s appointment as professor of engraving at the Academy, see: Reynaerts 2001, pp.35-44, 85. In 1820 the printmaker J.A. Daiwaille was appointed codirector of the Academy, alongside Marcus, but left after a few years to work with his brother-in-law, the painter B.C. Koekkoek, on the reproduction of his work, see: Moulijn 1918, pp.32-33. Reynaerts 2001, p.106, 132. ‘A la même epoque, M. Henriquel-Dupont, que nous aurions cité le premier, sans doute, si nous avions voulu procéder par ordre de talent, achevait sa magnifique planche de Gustave Wasa, ouvrait une voie nouvelle, et se constituait le chef d’une brillante école’, see: F. Lecler, and L. Noel, ‘Revue des Editions illustrées, des Gravures et des Lithographies’, L’Artiste (1839), I, p.142, and C. Blanc, ‘La Joconde de Leonard de Vinci. Gravée par Calamatta’, Gazette des Beaux-Arts 1 (1859), p.164. He also met the painter Charles Thévenin, whose daughter he married. Taurel’s friendship with Ingres prompted the painter to produce several portraits of Taurel and his daughter. Ingres also drew a fine portrait of Mme Taurel, later acquired by Jozef Israëls, and now in the Haagse Gemeentemuseum through the gift of his son Isaac Israëls, see: H.E. van Gelder, ‘Ingres en de familie Taurel’, Maandblad voor Beeldende Kunsten 26 (1950), pp.2-10. Beraldi 1885-1892, p.83. In 1859 Taurel was succeeded as professor of

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engraving by his pupil J.W. Kaiser, who was later succeeded in his turn by the German engraver R. Stang, by which time the Koninklijke Akademie had been remodelled as the Rijksacademie. Quoted in: Te Winkel (i) 1973, p.579. The piece was probably writen by Samuel Muller, a friend of the publisher Yntema, see: Aerts, Calis, Jacobi, Relleke 1987, p.9. It was prompted by the publication of three collections of engravings: Zwitserland en de Alpen van Savoye, by N.G. van Kampen; Bijbelsche landschappen, by Abraham des Amorie Van der Hoeven and De Rijn in Af beeldingen en Tafereelen geschetst, by C.P.E. Robidé van der A. See the advertisement in the Nieuwe Amsterdamsche Courant and the Algemeen Handelsblad of 11 July 1836, quoted in: Aerts, Calis, Jacobi, Relleke 1987, p.9. For the illustrations in De Gids see: T. Jacobi, ‘Made in Holland? Een toelichting op de illustraties in De Gids’, De Boekenwereld 14 (1997-1998) 4, pp.166-178. See: Rosen Zerner 1984, pp.73-96. See extensively about the printmaking revolution in eighteenth century France, Grasselli 2003. Griffith 1987, p.255. Gilles Demarteau and Louis Bonnet also experimented with the new technique at an early stage, see Hind 1967, p.288. Ryland introduced the technique together with Gabriel Smith (1724-1783), see: Griffith 1987, p.262. Ivins 1996, p.83. Although the principle of stipple engraving had already been used for some time, Ryland developed it into an independent technique. For the use of this technique in England see: F. Harvey, ‘Stipple Engraving as Practised in England. 1760-1810’, The Print Collector’s Quarterly 17 (1930), pp.4971. Van der Linden 1992, p.119. Godfrey 1978, p.54. Quote from: Godfrey 1978, p.58. Sandby had picked up the ‘secret’ of the aquatint from Charles Greville who had purchased it from Le Prince. In the British Museum is a text by Sandby: A mode of imitat-

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ing drawings on copper plates discovered by P. Sandby, R.A., in the year 1776, to which he gave the name of Aquatinta. Hind stresses that the year should be 1775, see: Hind 1967, p.303. In such publications the use of aquatint was often combined with the etching technique, see: Wilton 1977, p.18. Hind 1967, p.302. Rebel 1981, p.131. Ivins 1996, p.170. Wax 1990, pp.52-53. The ‘superiority’ of linear techniques over tonal methods recalls the aesthetic debate between the ‘Poussinists’ and ‘Rubenists’ about the relationship between line and colour. Further research could shed more light on these eighteenth-century theoretical relationships between printmaking and painting. Sir Robert Strange quoted in: Harvey 1930, p.58. Anonymous, ‘Bericht’, Algemeene Konst en Letterbode (1802), p.300. During the golden age of the English mezzotint in the second half of the eighteenth century, mezzotints were also used on an increasing scale to reproduce history paintings, see: Wax 1990, pp.51-52. Anonymous, ‘Gravure et lithographie’, L’Artiste, vii (1834), p.158. The credit for inventing the lithographic principle goes to Alois Senefelder. The first steps down this road are somewhat veiled in mystery, as Senefelder was not the only person to experiment with the technique. For this early phase see: Twyman 1970, p.8, 69. An important role in the spread of lithography was played by the many descriptions of the technique. Whereas engraving was not described until 200 years after its invention, 50 different descriptions of lithography had already appeared between 1810 and 1850, with translations into English, French, German and Italian. The first essay by Heinrich Rapp, Das Geheimniss des Steindrucks, was published in Germany in 1810. In his influential treatise Lithography; or the art of making drawings on stone, for the purpose of being multiplied by printing (1813), H. Bankes, like Senefelder, stressed the technique’s capacity to reproduce

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drawings and thus to disseminate art amongst the general public. Several years later, in 1818, Senefeld published an extensive work on his technique. This soon became available in various languages, with A Complete course of Lithography and L’Art de la lithographie appearing in 1819. During the 1820s, new German editions of the work and an Italian translation also appeared. Other influential treatises on lithography were Engelmann’s Manuel du dessinateur lithographe (1822) and Hullmandel’s The art of Engraving on stone (1824), published in various editions. See: Twyman, pp.61-114; and W.M. Ivins, ‘Masters of Lithography’, in: W.M. Ivins, Prints and Books, New York 1969, pp.252-259. Twyman 1970, p.22 Hamber 1996, p.40. Twyman 1970, p.26. In the same year the first patent in England was granted to Philipp André, brother of Anton André who had closely collaborated with Senefelder on the new technique, still known as ‘Polyautography’, see: R. Hunt, ‘Lithography, and other novelties in printing’, The Art Journal 1854, pp.1-3. Twyman 1970, p.37-40, Twyman 1970, p.41, 48-52. Initially his production had also been restricted to the multiplication of sheet music, despite the stimulus offered by Napoleon and artists such as J.-L. David and C. Vernet. Quote from: Moulijn 1918, pp.5-6. Marres 1998, p.10, 23. Marres 1998, pp.22-25. Between 1820 and 1823 D.P.G Humbert de Superville also made several lithographs, see: Knoef 1943 p.186. Quote from: Marres 1998, p.29. Quote from: Marres 1998, p.30. See about the print culture in Dutch Romanticism, Verhoogt 2005. Marres 1998, p.17. Moulijn 1918, pp.51-52. Twyman 1970, p.65. Twyman 1970, p.131 Although Dürer also experimented with steel engravings, the major developments in this field date from the early nineteenth century.



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For the introduction of steel plates in art reproduction see: R. Hunt, ‘On the applications of science to the fine and useful arts’, The Art Journal 1850, pp.230-232. It was harder to engrave the printing matrix, but steel had the additional advantage that it could also be used more easily for etching, since the chemical process of acid biting occurred more rapidly on steel than on copper, see: R. Hunt, ‘On the applications of science to the fine and useful arts’, The Art Journal 1850, p.231. Steel plates were also used for mezzotints. The first mezzotint on steel dates from as early as 1820 and was probably produced by William Say. After this, other engravers quickly adopted the practice, see: Wax 1990, pp.100-103 and Gray 1937, p.97. Wax 1990, p.104. Anonymous, ’Variétés’, L’Artiste, vi (1833), p.316. One of the first engravers in the Netherlands to use steel plates was Jean-Baptist Tetar van Elven (1805-1879). Unlike many other Dutch engravers he did not go to the Akademie voor Beeldende Kunsten in Amsterdam, but headed south for his training. After attending the Akademie in Antwerp (1819-1826) and the Akademie in Brussels, he returned to the Netherlands, where he was awarded a prize in 1833 by the Huishoudelijke Maatschappij of Haarlem for a steel engraving after a portrait of the Prince of Orange. Another engraver who produced steel engravings in the Netherlands at an early date was the Haarlem printmaker J.A.R. Best, who would later (1841-1844) make a name with his contribution to the yearbook ‘Nederlandsch Museum’, see: Vervoorn 1983, p.46. Anonymous, ‘Un vieux soldat, par Léon Noel, d’après Charlet’, L’Artiste (1835) x, p.98. L’Artiste wrote in a similar vein regarding the Salon of 1836: ‘Aujourd’hui, l’art du graveur voit souvrir un nouvel avenir devant soi; au moyen de quelques transformations, il a concu l’espoir, raisonnable de se concilier la sympathie populair. C’est déjà ce qui est arrivé en Angleterre, où la gravure a si prodigieusement multiplié ses productions.’ Anonymous, ‘Salon de 1836. Gravure et lithographie’, L’Artiste (1836) xi,

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p.182. See also: L’Artiste in (1839): ‘Pourtant, ‘Les graveurs francais du xviie siecle euxmalgré tous les obstacles, la gravure au burin mêmes nous ont-ils laissé des planches plus a fait d’immenses progrès. Elle a su parfois largement et plus finement traitées tout égaler ou surpasser même les tableaux qu’elle ensemble que l’Hemicyle du Palais des Beauxreproduisait. Aujourd’hui, nous pouvons citer, Arts, le Strafford, et le Moïse exposé sur le Nil parmi les graveurs, des artistes d’un remard’après Paul Delaroche, que l’admirable prépaquable talent, d’une grande reputation’, see: F. ration à l’eau forte des Pèlerins d’Emmaüs Lecler and L. Noel, ‘Revue des Editions illusd’apres Paul Véronèse, et que le portrait de M. trées, des Gravures et des Lithographies’, Bertin d’après Ingres!’ see: Delaborde 1882, L’Artiste 1839, i, p.141. p.284. In a similar vein Charles Blanc stressed that contemporary engravers were not infeBeraldi 1885-1892, p.78. V. Schoelcker wrote of the print in L’Artiste of the same year: ‘c’est un rior to their illustrious seventeenth-century oeuvre, belle, grande, puissante; un de ces predecessors; C. Blanc, ‘L’Hémicycle de Paul ouvrages de longe haleine qui sont un pas Delaroche. Gravé par Henriquel Dupont’, dans l’art que la postérité juge, et qui inserivGazette des Beaux-Arts (1860) ii, p.360. 103 Delaborde 1882, p.288. See also: Hind 1967, ent le nom de leur auteur dans les fastes des p.374. As engraving flourished in France in nations. M. Henriquel-Dupont. Vient populariser Gustave Wasa, et il n’est pas un salon de the 1830s, other techniques also began to femme de goût, pas in cabinet d’amateur qui thrive and even the typically English mezzopuisse se passer maintenant de sa nouvelle tint became popular. Several mezzotint engravers who played a role in this regard planche, V Schoelcker V., ‘Apercu des Publicawere Maile, Girard, Sixdeniers and Rollet, see: tions’, L’Artiste (1831) 2, p.145. F. Lecler and L. Noel, ‘Revue des Editions ‘A la même epoque, M. Henriquel-Dupont, que illustrées, des Gravures et des Lithographies’, nous aurions cité le premier, sans doute, si L’Artiste 1839, i, p.142. See also: F. Lecler and L. nous avions voulu procéder par ordre de talent, achevait sa magnifique planche de Noel, ‘Revue des Editions illustrées, des Gustave Wasa, ouvrait une voie nouvelle, et se Gravures et des Lithographies’, L’Artiste 1839 i, constituait le chef d’une brillante école.’, F. p.229. However, the English mezzotint continLecler and L. Noel, ‘Revue des Editions illusued to be regarded as superior, even by the trées, des Gravures et des Lithographies’, French: ‘Les Anglais, qui sont restés supérieurs à nous dans la gravure en manière L’Artiste 1839, i, p.142. Charles Blanc, ‘La noire, continuent dignement la belle école Joconde de Leonard de Vinci. Gravée par Calamatta’, Gazette des Beaux-Arts (1859) i, qu’ils ont établie, et donc les commencements p.164. ont été si heureux. La mort de Reynolds a laissé un grand vide, sans doute. Mais Cousins For Henriquel-Dupont’s print after Lord Strafford, see: Janin J., ‘Salon de 1840’, L’Artiste est assez fort pour soutenir à lui seul le poids de leur réputation commune’, see: F. Lecler (1840) v, p.301 and: Anonymous, ‘Gravures. and L. Noel, ‘Revue des Editions illustrées, des Strafford allant au suplice.- La retraite de Gravures et des Lithographies’, L’Artiste (1839) Constantine’ L’Artiste 1840 vi, pp.218-219. i, p.230. The popularity of the mezzotint For an extensive discussion of this print see: C. Blanc, ‘L’Hémicycle de Paul Delaroche. technique in this period is illustrated by Gravé par Henriquel Dupont’, Gazette des experiments which endeavoured to produce Beaux-Arts (1860) ii, pp.354-361. Although prints resembling mezzotints using lithograDupont mainly owed his reputation to his phy, see: Anonymous, ‘Lithographie à la engravings, he also produced etchings, lithomanière noire’, L’Artiste (1831), pp.213-214. See graphs and prints in the crayon manner and also the letter on the subject of the lithograaquatint technique, see: Beraldi 1885-1892, pher Charles Motte in: L’Artiste (1831), pp.238pp.80-81. 239. The aquatint technique was much used Beraldi, viii 1889, p.77. Delaborde declared: for the reproduction of drawings, particularly

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by the French printmaker Jazet who gained a 27. Janssen 2001, pp.109-116 and Lente 2001, reputation with various aquatint prints, see: pp.117-138 and De Zoete 2001, pp.139-152. P.D., ‘Enfans surpris par un loup, gravure a 115 It was no accident that the school, founded in 1840, had as its director an English wood l’aqua-tinta, par M. Jazet, d’après le tableau de engraver, Henry Brown, described by De M. Grenier’, L’Artiste, vii 1834, pp.53-54. Aquatint prints were sometimes regarded as Kunstkronijk as ‘the most capable wood carver of our age’. The four-year course of training an inexpensive alternative for people who could not afford engravings. was free and pupils’ work was to be purchased by the Maatschappij van Schoone Kunsten Y, ‘Beaux-Arts. Gravures de Victor Desclaux: (Society for Fine Arts). De Kunstkronijk was the Les Pècheurs de l’Adriatique, Les Moissonjournal of this society and thus provided an neurs’, L’Artiste 4 series 1845, iii, p.141. Clement de Ris, ‘Salon de 1859. Gravure et immediate podium for young Dutch wood lithographie’, L’Artiste 7 (1859), p.98. In 1861 engravers, see: Anonymous, ‘Houtsnee-school. De heer Brown’, De Kunstkronijk 1840-41, Vol 1, Philippe Burty wrote in a similar vein on the p.7. De Kunstkronijk wrote hopefully of the subject of French engraving: ‘Le burin est un school: ‘If this school answers to the purposes art essentiellement national.’ […] Aujourd’hui of its establishment, then – as one reads in encore notre école de gravure proteste contre this speech – we must prepare for the time in la froideur des Allemands et l’habilité prawhich, as of old, the names of meritorious tique des Anglais, par le respect de la forme, le choix des travaux et la coloration discrète.’, Netherlanders will also be mentioned with honour on the rolls of European masters in P. Burty, ‘La gravure et la lithographie a wood carving’, see: Anonymous ‘De houtsneel’exposition de 1861’, Gazette des Beaux-Arts (1861), p.172. However, Beraldi would later school te ’s Gravenhage’, De Kunstkronijk 1842emphasise the value of renowned English 43, p.15. As in other countries Dutch wood engravers such as Woollett and Raimbach and engraving was stimulated by the rise of their influence on the work of Henriquelillustrated journals, such as De Kunstkronijk. Nevertheless, the technique was only pracDupont, Beraldi 1885-1892, p.79. Engen 1995, p.20. tised on a modest scale in the Netherlands, compared with elsewhere, and the same Anonymous, ‘Reviews’ The Art Journal (1858), p.192. This is a review of prints after E. Landquality was not yet being achieved, although seer by T.L. Atkinson, T. Landseer, S. Cousins, there was progress, according to De Kunstkroand J. Faed , published by H Graves & Co in nijk. The journal drew attention to the imporLondon. In 1878, the firm of Agnew organised tance of employing a good printer, who had to an exhibition of Cousin’s complete work, understand the engraver: ‘in a word he must possess a certain degree of feeling for art’, see: comprising 182 plates, principally after Landseer paintings. Cousins would later Anonymous, ‘Proeve van houtgravure’, De Kunstkronijk 1847, vol.8, p.65. I shall return to produce prints after works by Hogarth, Millais and Leighton too well, see: Anonythe subject of this journal at length, confinmous, The Art Journal (1878), p.62. See also: ing myself here to the observation that such Engen 1995, p.58. publications made their own contribution to the revival of Dutch wood engraving in the Engen 1995, pp.39-68. Staly 1995, p.13. 1840s. De Kunstkronijk, for example, offered a Wax 1990, pp.113-116. podium for the work of young wood engravers. The role played by the publishers BeijerFor the transition from line engraving to mezzotint see: Engen 1995, p.23. inck (who had previously promoted steel Anonymous, ‘Eene gravure van den heer engraving) and Fuhri should also be acknowlSluijter.’De Kunstkronijk (1840-41), vol 1, p.57. edged: ‘Since the beginning of the past month an Illustrated Gazette has been issued every Janssen 2001, p.113. De Wit 1993, pp.35-69 and Hemels 2001, pp.15week by Messrs. G.J.A. Beijerinck of Amster-

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dam and K. Fuhri of The Hague, in part also intended to encourage wood graving in our fatherland, for which well-meaning endeavour we recommend it to all art lovers and promoters’, see: Anonymous, ‘Berichten’, De Kunstkronijk 1844-45, vol.5, p.8. In 1843 the publisher Fuhri had taken over the school of wood engraving, but the institution was finally forced to shut its doors in 1849. The publisher Sijthoff subsequently made several attempts to keep the training course going but to no avail. A major reason for the school’s failure was the availability of many, much cheaper, ready-to-print matrices; the introduction of stereotypes and electrotypes had created a lively trade in ‘secondhand’ matrices, see: De Zoete 2001, pp.141-143. According to L’Artiste in 1845: ‘le résultat est beaucoup plus satisfaisant encore pour les artistes, puisque les finesses les plus exquises du modèle se trouvent rendues avec une fidélités que la fonte coulante ne peut atteindre, et qui permettra souvent de se passer du ciseleur’, see: xx, ‘La Galvanoplastie appliquée aux arts’, L’Artiste (1845) iv, p.61. De Zoete 2001, p.145. Gabriel Laviron, ‘M. Philippe de Rouen. Application de la galvanoplasitque a la reproduction des planches gravées a l’eau-fortes et au burin’, L’Artiste (1846) vii, p.211. See also: Anonymous, ‘A process of hardening engraved copper plates’, The Art Journal (1858), p.356. ‘This will be the fourth great Art-auxiliary which may be almost said to signalize the former half of the present century – we mean lithography – the hardening of the steel plate, photography, and, fourthly, this method of multiplying copper-plate engravings.’ Anonymous, ‘A process of hardening engraved copper plates’, The Art Journal (1858), p.356. Anatole de Démidoff, ‘Notice sur le procédé de galvanoplastique’, L’Artiste (1840) vi, p.7. See: letter by Boquillon, ‘Le Galvanoplastique’, L’Artiste, 6 (1840), pp.55-57. xx, ‘La Galvanoplastie appliquée aux arts’, L’Artiste 4 e (1845) iv, p.61. Ibid. xx, ‘La Galvanoplastie appliquée aux arts’, L’Artiste 4 e (1845) iv, p.62.

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125 126

127 128

129 130

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(1844-45), p.71. A year earlier, De Kunstkronijk had already pointed out the importance of this process in the reproduction of sculpture, see: Anonymous, ‘Berichten’, De Kunstkronijk 4 (1843-44), p.7. Anonymous, ‘Glypographie.’, De Kunstkronijk 11 (1850), p.48. Naturally the stereotype and electroplating processes were not the only innovations. The industry also adopted new printing presses, such as steam-powered cylinder presses, while there were improvements to ink and paper as well, see: Gaskell 1985, p.260. Merlot 1996, p.10. Hamber 1996, p.40. Around 1813 the small town of Bath briefly became the centre of English lithography; after 1815 the most important developments in this area occurred in London. In France, the tone was set by Paris. In 1839, of the 300 lithographic printers in France, 100 were based in the capital, Twyman 1970, pp.160-162. Anonymous, ‘Gravures et illustrations’, L’Artiste 6 (1840), vi p.413. ‘C’est aux artistes francais que la lithographie doit ses progrès le plus remarquables; aussi s’est-elle popularisée chez nous avec une merveilleuse rapidité’, see: S.-C., ‘La Chapelle Sixtine, lithographie, par M.Sudre, d’après M. Ingres’, L’Artiste (1834), p.1. A critic in L’Artiste, for example, complained of the lithographs at the Salon of 1836: ‘elle a été employée à de si mauvais usages, qu’elle a fini par y prendre un assez maivais renom. Ses productions n’ont plus offert à l’attention des gens de goût que quelque rares croquis d’artistes, et elle a dû se contenter, pour ses ouvrages finis, des sympathies les plus vulgaires et les plus ignorantes’, Anonymous, ‘Salon de 1836. Gravure et lithographie’, L´Artiste (1836) xi p.184. Anonymous, ’De la Lithographie’, L’Artiste (1837) xiii, p.15. Anonymous, ‘L’atelier de Miéris. Lithographie de Léon Noel pour l’ouvrage lithographié de la galerie de Dresde, Publié a Leipsick’, L´Artiste, xiv (1837), p.227. Beraldi 1885-1892 i, p.67.

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raphie’, L´Artiste (1836) xi pp.181-184, and: Anonymous, ‘Société des Amis des Arts de la Ville d’Amiens. Le Roi René, Lithographie par Aubry-Lecomte, d‘après Saint-Èvre’, L´Artiste, xii (1836), p.325. For Léon Noël see also: Anonymous, ‘Variétés’, L’Artiste 1833, p.303, and: Anonymous, ‘Gravure et lithographie’, L’Artiste vii (1834), pp.158-159. Anonymous, ‘Salon de 1835. Gravures et Lithographies’, L’Artiste (1835) ix, p.193-194, see: Beraldi 11851892, pp.200-217. Mechanisation of the printing process allowed print runs of 8000 copies a day to be achieved for various forms of illustrative material, such as posters and advertisements. However, reproducing art works by old and living masters required a great deal more care and attention, which reduced the volume of output, see: R. Hunt, ‘Lithography, and other novelties in printing’, The Art Journal 1854, pp.1-3. Lithographic reproductions, both of old and contemporary masters, were now available on a large scale. For example, large volumes of lithographic prints after works by Franz Xavier Winterhalter (1805-1873), William Mulready (1786-1863) and George Clarkson Stansfield (1828-1878) were distributed, see: Hamber 1996, p.40. Twyman 1970, p.176. Twyman 1970, p.199. Developments in lithography abroad were also quickly noticed in the Netherlands. In its first year of publication (1840-1841), for example, De Kunstkronijk reported on improvements to the medium made by the publisher Hullmandel, who had managed to apply colours to the lithographic stone with a brush and then print these: ‘The invention is undeniably the most important, with the relation to the reproductive arts, since the invention of lithography itself. The painter has now been furnished with a means of duplicating the original sketch, so as this has been made on paper, without changing anything in its manner.’ Every nuance and tone could now be applied to the stone: ‘in a word, the lithograph has now become for the painter that what it was until today only for the draughts-

140

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man,’ Anonymous, ‘Mengelwerk’, De Kunstkronijk 1 (1840-41), pp.63-64. The Landschap studien were republished several times and proved highly successful in the popular genre of specimen books for young painters. Other series of lithographs after Koekkoek were Album lithographiques de 1830 and the topographical series Vues Pittoresques du Royaume des Pay-Bas, see: exhib.cat. Dordrecht 1997, p.83-88. Other works include Het Album peintres Hollandais et belges, La Haye, A.A. Weimar 1844,   De Nederlandsche Teekenportefeuille, Verzameling van oorspronkelijke Teeken-studien, door Nederlandsche schilders op steen getekend. The Hague, C.W. Mieling 1846 and the Album der schoone kunsten, published in Haarlem between 1800 and 1854, see: De Steurs 1929, p.5. It is known that the lithographer Mouilleron was in regular contact with Israëls during this period, although it is not clear whether Allebé had already met Mouilleron by this time, see: De Steurs 1929, p.45. See also: W. Loos, ‘Het lithografisch oeuvre van August Allebé’, in: W. Loos, ‘Waarde heer Allebé’. Leven en werk van August Allebe (1838-1927), Zwolle 1988, pp.145149. De Steurs 1929, pp.47-53. He also made various portraits, with Multatuli, O.G.Heldring and the animal painter W. Verschuur amongst his sitters. After accepting his appointment as director of the Rijksakademie voor Beeldende Kunsten in Amsterdam in 1880, Allebé seems to have had little opportunity for making lithographs, given his limited production in this period. One of his last prints is probably a lithograph after a work by Jacob van Looy, see: Steurs 1929, pp.71-84. Anonymous, ‘Gedachten over kunst en volksleven’, De Kunstkronijk 7 (1865), pp.73-74. One of the productive printmakers associated with this journal was Celestin Nanteuil (18131873), see: Beraldi 1885-1892, p.164-188. As a rule, lithographs were made after existing compositions by other artists. C.C.A. Last, J.M. Bogman, W. de Koning, A.C. Nunnink, A. C. Kramer, F.W. Waanders, F.H. Weissenbruch, H.A.C. Dekker and J.J. Mesker made many

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reproductions after modern Dutch art. De Kunstkronijk also published original lithographs by painters such as Schelfhout, Bosboom, Rochussen and Koekkoek. Quoted in: Harrison Wood Gaiger 2000, p.1049. This does not alter the fact that many efforts were made to create a colour printing technique during the eighteenth century, see: Gray 1937, pp.43-56. After this he published individual prints of works by old masters, see: Hamber 1996, p. 41. G. von Groschwitz, ‘The significance of xix Color Lithography’, Gazette des Beaux Arts (1954), p.248 Twyman 1970, pp.160-162. See also: Delecluze, ‘La Chromolithographie’, L’Artiste (1839), pp.186-188. New processes were extensively discussed in the journal Le Lithograph, published monthly between 1837 and 1848. Engelmann’s colour lithographic technique was widely used in France during the 1840s, see: Anonymous, ‘Impression en couleur’, L’Artiste 1847 ix, pp.207-208. R. Hunt, ‘Lithography, and other novelties in printing’, The Art Journal 1854, p.2. Exclusive publications by Day were Digby Wyatt’s, Industrial Arts of the Nineteenth Century (Day & Sons, London 1851-1853) and John Burley Waring’s, Art Treasures of the United Kingdom from the Art Treasures Exhibition, Manchester (London 1858), see: Hamber 1996, p.42. Anonymous, ‘Chromolithography’, The Art Journal 1856, p.95. For graphic imitations of watercolours by the firm of Rowney see: Anonymous, ‘Chromo-lithography. The gallery of Messrs. Rowney’, The Art Journal (1859), p.367. Anonymous, ‘Chromo-lithography. The gallery of Messrs. Rowney’, The Art Journal (1859), p.367. R. Hunt, ‘Lithography, and other novelties in printing’, The Art Journal 1854, p.2. The firm of Rowney also developed a colour printing technique for the reproduction of watercolours that was closer to wood engraving. The Art Journal wrote enthusiastically of prints produced using this technique: they approach so nearly to original drawings that they may

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easily be mistaken for them.[…] It is highly to the credit of Messrs Rowney that they have been among the first to exhibit the capabilities of this ‘new Art’, Anonymous, ‘WaterColour Engravings’, The Art Journal, 1850, p.234. For prints by the firm of Day & Sons see also: Anonymous, ‘The Publications of Messrs. Day and Sons’, The Art Journal (1856), p.320. Anonymous, ‘Reviews’, The Art Journal (1856), p.324. Anonymous, ‘Kunstnieuws’, De Kunstkronijk (1867), vol.9, p.55. For this sale at Sotheby’s see: NRC Handelsblad 10-1-02. In her study Industrial Madness, McCauly cites several early photographs from 1827 – a portrait of the Cardinal de Amboise, a landscape by Claude Lorraine and a depiction of the Holy Family – as the first examples of photographic reproductions of art works, see: McCauly 1994, p.266. For the first experiments by Nièpce and his collaboration with Daguerre see also: Bann 2001, pp.98-103. At the time of writing, the 1825 photograph by Nièpce is currently regarded as the earliestknown example of a photograph. Even during the nineteenth century, however, it was not considered impossible that the history of photography might date from much earlier. In 1862 Georges Wallis of the South Kensington Museum was asked to examine a couple of exceptional images on paper, whose appearance seemed to suggest they were the product of a photographic process. The paper works were accompanied by two small silver plates bearing vague images that strongly resembled daguerreotypes. One of the images included a building that looked as it had done in 1790! So, were these eighteenth-century photographs? The matter was taken very seriously and even brought to the attention of the Royal Photographic Society. Eventually the images proved to be aquatint prints, see: G. Wallis, ‘The Ghost of an Art-Process, practised at Soho, near Birmingham about 1770 to 1780, errononeously supposed to have been photography’, The Art Journal (1866), pp.251-255. It is interesting to note that during the nineteenth century the possibility that photography may

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have existed in the eighteenth century was taken seriously. And why not? The chemical and technical knowledge required to make photographs was largely available in that century. A.-Z., ‘Revue de la Semaine’, L’Artiste (1839) ii, p.116. J. Janin, ‘Le Daguerrotype’, L’Artiste (1839) ii, p.147. For the daguerrotype see also: Anonymous, ‘Gravure de la présente livraison. Vue de Saint-Jean-L’Acre-Mode de calque de   Daguerréotype’, L’Artiste (1840), vi, p.276. Hamber 1996, p.56. Hamber 1996, pp.52-53. Nièpce is known to have been in contact with the leading English publisher R. Ackermann as early as the late 1820s. After a hesitant start, the new process began to produce a stream of images in the Netherlands, mostly fed by travelling photographers from abroad. Major developments in the field of photography occurred outside the Netherlands. Some of these quickly became known, such as Daguerre’s invention, others only after several years, such as the Calotype which was used later in the century, see: H.M. Mensonides, ‘Een nieuwe kunst in Den Haag. Encyclopedisch overzicht van de eerste Haagse fotografen’, Die Haghe jaarboek 1977, pp.48-49. Algemeene Konst en Letterbode 1839 i, 359-364, quoted in: exhib.cat.The Hague 1978, pp.66-67. For the introduction of photography in the Victorian age see: G.H. Martin and D. Francis, ‘The Camera’s Eye’, in The Victorian City, pp.227-245. Hamber 1996, p.69 Hamber 1996, p.59. Frizot 1998, p.62. After The Pencil of Nature Fox Talbot and his colleague Hennemann published other albums such as Sun Pictures of Scotland (1845) and the well-known Annals of the Artists of Spain (1847-1848), which was illustrated with images of sculptures, paintings, drawings and buildings. To obtain his images of the paintings, Fox Talbot used engraved reproductions. Problems with rendering colours and tones meant that early reproduction photography

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tended to concentrate on reproducing sculpture, see: McCauly 1994, p.268. P. Maynard, ‘Talbot’s Technologies: Photographic Depiction, Detection and Reproduction’, in: The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 47 (1989) 3, pp.263-276. For French photography from the 1850s see: E. Homberger, ‘The model’s unwashed feet: French photography in the 1850’s’, P. Collier and R. Lethbridge (eds.), Artistic Relations. Literature and Visual Arts in Nineteenth-Century France, London 1994, pp.130-143. McCauley 1994, pp.269-270, Boom 1996,   pp.98-90 and Frizot 1998, p.68 In this connection see: Hamber 1996,   pp.78-81. For improved prints at lower cost, see: R. Hunt, ‘Photogalvanography; or engravings by light and electricity’, The Art Journal (1856), pp.215-216. Anonymous, ‘The Process of Photography. Photo-lithography. Photographic pictures etched on metalplates’, The Art Journal (1853), p.181-183 and: Anonymous, ‘Litho-Photography’, The Art Journal (1866), p.226. For the development of photomechanical techniques, see: J. Rosen, ‘The Printed Photograph and the Logic of Progress in Nineteenth-Century France’, Art Journal (1987), pp.305-311 and E. Ostroff, ‘Etching, Engraving & Photography: History of Photomechanical Reproduction’, The Journal of Photographic Science 17 (1969), pp.65-80, E. Ostroff, ‘Photography and Photogravure: History of Photomechanical Reproduction’, The Journal of Photographic Science 17 (1969), pp.101-115. Anonymous, ‘The Process of Photography. Photo-lithography. Photographic pictures etched on metalplates’, The Art Journal (1853), p.182. A year later The Art Journal wrote: ‘we doubt not but in a few years the combination of these two Arts will place us in possesion of copies from Nature in all that beauty and correctness of detail which belongs to the process of sunpainting, and which can be so successfully multiplied by stone printings’, see: R. Hunt, ‘Lithography, and other novelties in printing’, R. Hunt, ‘Lithography, and other novelties in printing’, The Art Journal 1854, p.2. For variations on the combination photogra-

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phy-lithography developed by the firm of Bullock Brothers of Leamington, of which The Art Journal wrote: ‘The chief, perhaps we should add the only, advantage desirable from the process, [litho-photography, rv] so far as we can see, is cheapness of reproduction’, see Anonymous, ‘Litho-Photography’, The Art Journal (1866), p.226; for the the firm of Southwell, see: Anonymous, ‘Lithography an auxiliary to photographic portraiture’, The Art Journal (1866), p.250. For the combination of lithography with photography, see also:   J. Rosen, ‘Lithophotography: An Art of Imitation’, in: Intersections. Lithography, Photography and the Traditions of Printmaking, Albuquerque 1998, pp.25-40. Rouillé 1989, pp.190-191. xx, ‘La Galvanoplastie appliquée aux arts’, L’Artiste 4 e (1845) iv, p.61. R. Hunt, ‘Photogalvanography; or engraving by light and electricity, The Art Journal (1856), p.216. The experiments conducted by Nièpce, de Saint Victor and Fox Talbot, which combined photographic techniques with steel plates, were part of this, see: Anonymous, ‘The Process of Photography. Photo-lithography. Photographic pictures etched on metalplates’, The Art Journal (1853), pp.181-183. Frizot 1998, p.80. For various contributions on this subject, see: Rouillé 1989, p.298-309. For this petition, see also: P. Renié, ‘The Battle for a Market: Art Reproductions in Print and Photography from 1850-1880, in: Intersections. Lithography, Photography and the Traditions of Printmaking, Albuquerque 1998, pp.44-45. P. Burty, ‘La gravure et la lithographie. Salon de 1863’, Gazette des Beaux-Arts (1863), p.147. Gautier had initially stressed that the latest medium was a welcome addition to the world of art reproduction and of service to art in general, see: T.Gautier ‘Exposition Phothographique’, L’Artiste (1857) iii, p.194. In 1864 he observed: ‘Il est évident que le burin est de plus en plus délaissé’, see:   P. Burty, ‘La gravure au salon de 1864’, Gazette des Beaux-Arts (1864), p.564. P. Burty, ‘La Gravure la lithographie et la

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191 192

193 194 195 196

photographie au Salon de 1865’, Gazette des Beaux-Arts (1865), p.80. See also: Burty, ‘La Gravure et la Photographie en 1867’, Gazette des Beaux Arts (1867), p.252. In October 1865 he took stock of the situation: ‘Voilà deux siècle et demi, si je compte bien, que la gravure en France, j’entends la gravure savante et d’apparat, fait hausse route; voilà deux siècle et demi qu’on lui en fait gloire’, see: M. de Saint-Santin, ‘De Quelques arts qui s’en vont’, Gazette des Beaux-Arts 1865 Oct, p.305 and also: ‘Pour vous comme pour moi, l’illusion n’est point possible la maladie dont souffrent aujourd’hui la gravure au burin, la lithographie et la miniature, est une maladie mortelle’, M. de Saint-Santin, ‘De Quelques arts qui s’en vont’, Gazette des Beaux Arts (1865) Oct, p.316. Wax 1990, p.138. Anonymous, ‘Autography of John Burnet’, The Art Journal (1850), p.276. For Burnet’s autobiographical novel The Progress of a Painter see also: Anonymous, ‘The progress of a painter’, The Art Journal (1854), pp.87-88. Looking back over half a century of English graphic art, Burnet pointed to talented modern engravers such as Doo, Watt and Pye, although he claimed they could not compete with famous English engravers of the past, such as Woolett and Strange, see: Anonymous, ‘Autography of John Burnet’, The Art Journal (1850), pp.275-277. Anonymous, ‘Line-engraving’, The Art Journal (1864), p.354. Anonymous, ‘Line-engraving’, The Art Journal (1864), p.354. See also: Anonymous, ‘Line engraving’, The Art Journal (1866), p.158. Anonymous, ‘Reviews’, The Art Journal (1868), p.59. Anonymous, ‘Minor topics of the month’, The Art Journal (1864), p.347. Anonymous, ‘Reviews’, The Art Journal (1868), p.59. The Art Journal had a similar aim with its policy of using engraving for reproductions as a matter of principle. I shall return to the subject of this journal below. During the 1870s state commissions were issued in Germany, see: Clarke 2000, pp.29-32.

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197 ‘Nous applaudissons à ces encouragements.

198 199

200 201 202 203

204 205

206

207 208

Nous voudrions même que la Chalcographie entreprît sur une plus large échelle, et avec une intention plus marquée de dévouement patriotique, l’histoire de l’École francaise ancienne et comtemporaine’, see: P. Burty,   ‘La Gravure et la Photographie en 1867’, Gazette des Beaux Arts (1867), p.255. P. Burty, ‘La Gravure et la Photographie en 1867’, Gazette des Beaux Arts (1867), p.256. P. Burty, ‘La Gravure le bois et la lithographie au Salon de 1868’, Gazette des Beaux Arts (1868), p.108. P. Burty, ‘Salon de 1869. La Gravure’, Gazette des Beaux Arts (1869), p.158. Quoted in: P. Burty, ‘Salon de 1869. La Gravure’, Gazette des Beaux Arts (1869), p.159. R. Ménard, ‘La Gravure au Salon’, Gazette des Beaux Arts (1872), p.121. H. Beraldi 1885-1892, p.255. For a similar revival in etching in Germany, see: Clarke 2000, pp.29-35. See also: H. Beraldi 1885-1892, p.157. Landau Parchall 1994, p.323. Initially the technique was little used for the reproduction of art works. Although Frans Floris and Bartholomeus Spranger used etching to reproduce existing works of art, the total number of reproduction etchings remained limited in the sixteenth century, see: Hind 1967, p.115; and: C.S. Ackley ‘Printmaking in the Age of Rembrandt: The Quest for Printed Tone’, in C. S.Ackley, Printmaking in the Age of Rembrandt, Boston 1981, pp.xxi-xxiii. Publication of Bosse’s treatise Traicté des maniere de graver en taille-douce sur l’airin in 1645 proved a major stimulus in increasing use of the etching technique, see: Wuestman 1998, pp.121-124. Hellman 1913, pp.7-8. L’Artiste observed in 1834: ‘Remarquez d’ailleurs que les graveurs emploient souvent aujourd’hui dans la même planche des procédés divers qu’on n’avait pas encore réunis, le burin a l’aqua-tinta, la maniere noire; et par-là ils rendent beaucoup plus complet l’effet de leurs ouvrages.’, see: Anonymous, ‘Le bon dévot, gravé par Prévost, d’apres Charlet’, L’Artiste 1834 vii, p.187. For

209 210

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etching compared with engraving and lithography, see: F. Villot, ‘De la gravure a l’eauforte’, L’Artiste (1834) viii, pp.310-303. Wax 1990, p.100. For the differences between etching and engraving in the nineteenth century see:   W.M. Ivins ‘Preparatory note for an exhibition of nineteenth-century etchings and engravings’, in: W.M. Ivins, Prints and Books, New York 1969, pp.169-176. P. Burty, ‘La gravure et la lithographie’ Salon de 1863, Gazette des Beaux Arts (1863), pp.149150. Burty drew attention to the rise of etching as early as 1861, pointing out the technique’s suitability for reproducing art works, see: P. Burty, ‘La gravure et la Lithographie a l’exposition de 1861’, Gazette des Beaux Arts (1861) ii, pp.164-165. See also: Burty: ‘L’eauforte, traitée par des peintres et de jeunes artistes pleins de goût et de séve donné des oeuvres dignes d’un réel intérêt. A nos yeux,   il n’est point de genre inférieur, et tout ce qui est sincère et original est digne d’être noté. Mais il est évident que l’eau-forte est un moyen rapide et que ses porduits sont d’un placement facile, tandis que le burin est d’une élaboration plus lente’, see: P. Burty, ‘La gravure au salon de 1864’, Gazette des Beaux Arts (1864), p.565. P. Burty, ‘La Gravure la lithographie et la photographie au Salon de 1865’, Gazette des Beaux-Arts (1865), p.84. P. Burty, ‘La gravure au Salon de 1866’, Gazette des Beaux Arts (1866), p.184. A year later he drew attention to engraving’s impending demise: ‘Rien ne démontre mieux la fin prochaine et irréparable de l’art de la gravure qu’une visite dans les galeries de Beaux-Arts à l’Exposition Universelle’, P. Burty, ‘La Gravure et la Photographie en 1867’, Gazette des BeauxArts (1867), p.252. Beraldi 1885-1892, p.157-167. Wickenden 1916, p.416. Hamerton quoted in: Wickenden 1916, p.430431. Like Burty in France the English critic P. G. Hamerton encouraged the use of etching in England, inspired by the work of Haden, Lalanne, Whistler and above all Rembrandt:

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220

221 222

223 224 225

‘Of the old etchers, Rembrandt, as all acknowledge, is the sovereign prince’. Hamerton regarded Rembrandt’s etchings as the best etchings ever made: ‘The student ought to have, at least, a few photographs of the best of them’, see: P.G. Hamerton, ‘Etching’, The Art Journal 1866, p.294. Ganz 1991, p.9. Anonymous, ‘Minor topics of the month’, The Art Journal (1880), p.253. In 1662 Abraham Bosse’s work, Traicté des maniere de graver en taille-douce sur l’airin, was published in Dutch. However, this did not mean that etching had acquired the same status as traditional engraving, see: Wuestman 1998, p.121. Quote from the Nederlandsche Spectator 12 February, p.50 in: Anonymous, ‘De etsen van William Unger’, De Kunstkronijk 12 (1870), p.47. A year later the editor of De Kunstkronijk proudly wrote: ‘William Unger is coming to the Netherlands’. The purpose of Unger’s visit was to etch works in the Stedelijk Museum in Haarlem, in particular the works of Frans Hals: ‘Etchings after Frans Hals by William Unger could become an event in the field of art in the Netherlands,’ see: Anonymous, ‘De redactie vraagt het woord’, De Kunstkronijk 13 (1871), p.7. Vervoorn 1983, p.15. The popularity of the etching as a reproductive technique prompted Carel L. Dake to found De Distel in 1886, which produced three albums largely filled with etched reproductions. For Philip Zilcken see: P.A. Haaxman, ‘Philip Zilcken’, Elsevier’s Geillustreerd Maandschrift 6 (1896) 12, pp.1-21. Ganz 1991, pp.3-24. Zilcken quoted in: Haaxman 1896, p.15. During the 1850s Daubigny made various etched reproductions, often on commissions gained when he won medals at the Salon, see: Fidell-Beaufort Bailly-Herzberg 1975, pp.38-47. His etchings after works in the Louvre were subsequently sold there, including prints after Ruysdael’s Le Buisson of which Vincent van Gogh later wrote: ‘A work I would enormously like to have is the large etching by Daubigny after Ruysdael, Le Buisson, which

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226 227

228

229 230 231 232 233 234

235 236

237 238

239 240

they sell at the print cabinet in the Louvre’, letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, 20 August 1880, reproduced in: Van Crimpen Berends-Albert 1990, no.155. Fidell-Beaufort Bailly-Herzberg 1975, p.53. An artist who constant sought to achieve new graphic effects with etching was Félix Buhot, see: C. Baxter, ‘Painting on Copper: Félix Buhot’s Approach to Etching’, in: J. McKean, C. Baxter, Félix Buhot, Peintre-Graveur, Prints, Drawings and Paintings, Baltimore Museum of Art 1983, pp.39-52 The popularity of this technique is illustrated by the many etching associations founded in the final decades of the nineteenth century. In addition to these clubs a number of peintregraveur associations were also established in various European countries and in America during the 1870s and 1880s, see: Ganz 1991, p.12. Merlot 1996, p.49. Cate 1991, p.10. Exhib.cat. Amsterdam 1993, p.35. Merlot 1996, p.49. Merlot 1996, p.39. L. Clement de Ris, ‘Salon 1859. Gravure et lithographie’, L’Artiste (1859), t 7, p.100. For printmaking’s higher status than that of photography, see also: Lord Pilgrim, ‘De la lithographie et des imprimeurs. Les travaux de M. Bertauts’ L’Artiste (1860) ix, p.260. L. Clement de Ris, ‘Salon 1859. Gravure et lithographie’, L’Artiste (1859), vol.7, p.100. P. Burty, ‘La gravure et la lithographie a l’exposition de 1861’, Gazette des Beaux-Arts (1861), p.177. P. Burty, ‘La gravure et la lithographie. Salon de 1863’, Gazette des Beaux-Arts (1863), p.157. In 1865 Burty also wrote critically of lithographers: ’qui reproduisent froidement et sans esprit les oeuvres des autres, see: P. Burty, ‘La Gravure la lithographie et la photographie au Salon de 1865’, Gazette des Beaux-Arts (1865), p.88. P. Burty, ‘La gravure au Salon de 1866’, Gazette des Beaux-Arts (1866), p.190. P. Burty, ‘La gravure et la lithographie. Salon de 1863’, Gazette des Beaux-Arts (1863), p.144. In this regard see also: P. Burty, ‘Salon de 1869.

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244

245 246 247 248 249

250

251 252

La Gravure’, Gazette des Beaux-Arts (1869), p.166. Merlot 1996, p.59. Exhib.cat. Amsterdam, 1994. Merlot 1996, p.261. See also Groschwitz 1954, p.246 et seq. and P. Leprieur, ‘Le Centenaire de la lithographie’, Gazette des Beaux Arts (1896), pp.161-162. H.de Chennevières, ‘La gravure du siècle’, Gazette des Beaux Arts (1889), p.482. Merlot 1996, pp.267-272. H. Beraldi, ‘Exposition de la lithographie’, Gazette des Beaux Arts (1891), p.482. J. Huizinga 1927, p.40-41. Bijl de Vroe 1987, pp.53-57. J. Giltay 1976, p.100. The changing status of lithography is also reflected in wood engraving, a technique also much used for reproducing art works but changed in character when eclipsed in this application by photographic alternatives. As Roland Holst declared: ‘The development and perfection of chemical graphic techniques has caused wood engraving to regain its full independence. As a medium for reproduction it is now completely outdated, as such it is plainly finished.’[…] ‘The mechanical massproduct did not kill the wood engraving, but ejected it from the flow of modern developments, and this is precisely what has allowed a new, much finer and more independent life for wood engraving to commence’, R.N. Roland Holst, ‘Bij de reeds vijf en twintig jaar oude houtsneden van de Bazel en Lauweriks’, in R.N. Roland Holst, Over Kunst en kunstenaars. Beschouwingen en herdenkingen, Amsterdam 1923, pp.48, 51. Letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo, 8 August 1888, included in Van Crimpen Berends-Albert 1990, no.661. McCauley 1994, p.271. In this regard see also: Scharf 1969, p.158. In the mid 1850s the well-known firms of Alinari, Anderson and MacPherson began to specialise in reproductions of Italian masters on a large scale, see: Scharf 1969, p.158. Attention should be drawn in this connection to the sculptor Francois Willème who started to specialise in photographing sculpture in the

253

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256 257

258 259 260 261

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1860s, using his own photosculpture method, see: M. Bogart, ‘Photosculpture’, Art History 4 (1985) 1, p.54-65. For Burty’s admiration for the photographer Bingham see: P. Burty, ‘La Gravure la lithographie et la photographie au salon de 1865’, Gazette des Beaux Arts, (1865), p.93. T. Gautier also rated Bingham’s photographs highly, see: T. Gautier, ‘L’oeuvre de Paul Delaroche photographiée’, L’Artiste (1858), p.153-155. Zie uitvoerig over deze fotograaf: L. Boyer, ‘Robert J. Bingham, photographe du monde de l’art sous le Second Empire’, Études Photographiques 12 (2002), pp.126-147. McCauley also cites other unknown photographers who photographed artworks: Baldus, Bisson, Fierlants, Gaillaird, Nègre, Marville, Michelez, Le Gray, Aguado, Robert and Richebourg, see: McCauley 1994, p.271. S. Asser and R.M. Verhoogt, ‘Photogrammen in roode omslagen’, in: N. Bartelings, A.W.A. Boschloo, B. de Klerck, H. Rooseboom (eds.), Beelden in veelvoud. De vermenigvuldiging van het beeld in prentkunst en fotografie. Leids Kunsthistorisch Jaarboek, Leiden 2002, pp.339-369. Anonymous, ‘The Autotype’, The Art Journal (1868), p.142. F. Roubiliac Conder, ‘Heliography’, The Art Journal, (1870), p.326. See also: Anonymous, ‘Autotype Fine Art Company’, The Art Journal (1872), p.125. In England the Autotype Company was also the only agent for photographs in Braun’s technique. Braun held the patent for this technique in France, see: Anonymous, ‘Autotype and its relation to art’, The Art Journal (1878), pp.89-90. From 1868 the Autotype Company held the patent for Swan in England, see: Hamber 1996, p.166. Anonymous, ‘The Autotype process’, The Art Journal (1878), p.184. Anonymous, ‘Art-Publications’, The Art Journal (1878), p.223. Quoted in Giltay 1976, p.98. The first imperfect products of this process had previously been distributed by Nièpce, see: Frizot 1998, p.228. De Kunstkronijk wrote: ‘There is much talk nowadays of an invention by the photographer Baldus and called heliogravure by him.

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263 264 265 266 267 268 269 270

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272 273

274 275 276 277 278

Orignal engravings are copied onto copper through means of photography and etched, after which prints are made from these plates. The trials with engravings taken from Marc Antoine, appear to have succeeded well. It remains to be seen whether this will also be the case with prints, less stern and arid and executed in a painterly manner’, J.A. Alberdinkh Thijm, ‘-’, De Kunstkronijk, 10 (1868), p.23. Anonymous, ‘Kunstnieuws’, De Kunstkronijk, 14 (1872), p.16. Renié 1994, pp.104-107. Engen 1995, pp.72-73. Wax 1990, p.138. J.S. Hodson, ‘Modern Processes of Automatic Engraving’, The Art Journal (1885), p.59. Dake 1915, p.278. For the painting of photographs see: Henisch 1993, pp.93-116. Attempts were also made in the Netherlands to develop colour photography. In 1879 De Kunstkronijk reported: ‘Chromophotography is the name of an invention by Mister G De Jong, photographer of Groningen, and, as the name indicates, entailing the making of photographic portraits, which have the appearance of oil portraits’, Anonymous, ‘Kunstnieuws’, De Kunstkronijk 1 (1879), p.23. For more information on colour photography see: Hamber 1996, pp.87-91. Illustrated by the colour photography process invented by Leon Vidal (1834-1906) in 1875, based on the Woodburytype and chromolithography. For extensive information on this photographer,see: Ranke 1977. H. Wilson, ‘Modern processes of reproduction’, The Art Journal (1880), p.270. Stieglitz quoted in: Whelan 2000, p.198. Previously published as ‘The New Color Photography – A Bit of History’, Camera Work 20 (October 1907), pp.20-25. Dake 1915, p.139. J.S. Hodson, ‘Fifty years’ development of the graphic arts’, The Art Journal (1887), p.210. A. de Lostalot, ‘Le Salon de gravure’, Gazette des Beaux Arts (1882), pp.53-54. See also: Renié Albuquerque 1998, pp.41-53. J.S. Hodson, ‘Fifty years’ development of the

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graphic arts’, The Art Journal (1887), p.214. 279 Heilbroner 2000, p.67. 280 Whitehead quoted in: Goudzwaard 1982,

pp.109-110. 281 Rebel 1981, p.131. 282 See also: C. Rosen and H. Zerner, ‘The Repro-

283 284 285

286 287 288 289

290 291

ductive Image and Photography’, in : C. Rosen and H. Zerner, Romanticism and Realism. The Mythology of Nineteenth Century Art, London/ Boston 1984, pp.99-110. A. de Lostalot, ‘La gravure au Salon’, Gazette des Beaux Arts (1888), pp.219-220. Anonymous, The Magazine of Art (1893), p.xii. Wax also points to the widespread use of ‘mixed method engraving’, which contributed to the loss of a great deal of knowledge and skill associated with traditional engraving. She also stresses the greater access to original artworks at exhibitions which she believes would have made reproductions unnecessary, although I believe this increased accessibility could have had an opposite effect, see: Wax 1990, pp.138-139. Dyson 1984, p.31. Dyson 1984, p.31-33. Quoted in: Dyson 1984, p.32. For this see: C. Ashwin, ‘Graphic Imagery 1837-1901: A Victorian Revolution’, Art History 1 (1978) 3, pp.360-370. J. Adeline 1893, p.1. J. Huizinga 1927, p.61.

chapter 3 p. ?

1 Raimbach 1843, p.115.



2 ‘The art of engraving […] is more a translation





of a picture than a copying; it is a process of difficult management.’ Burnet quoted in:   Pye 1836, p.18. See also: Dyson 1984,   pp.83-172. 3 Darnton 1990, pp.110-111. 4 For the concept of reproduction, the reproductive process and several key terms I refer the reader to chapter one ‘Pinxit et Sculpsit’. 5 Darnton was also conscious of differences in the book world but rightly stated: ‘[…]printed books generally pass through roughly the same life cycle’, see: Darnton 1990, pp.110-111.

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6 For extensive information on Turner’s Liber



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Studiorum see: Herrmann 1990, pp.24-71. Turner subsequently produced several smaller series of prints, such as the series sometimes known as the ‘Little Liber’, from the early 1820s, see: Forrester 1996, pp.10-20. For an extensive discussion of the Liber Studiorum, bibliography and catalogue of both the published and unpublished plates, see: Forrester 1996, pp.44-158, and: E.H. Richter, ‘Turner and his unpublished series of mezzotints’, The Print Collector’s Quarterly, 4 (1914), pp.303-324, and the reactions to this in: ‘Turner and his unpublished series of mezzotints’, The Print Collector’s Quarterly, 5 (1915), pp.363-365. The Liber Studiorum was followed by smaller series of prints after Turner compositions. Between 1823 and 1827 a series of mezzotints entitled Rivers of England was published, comprising sixteen Turner compositions plus four by Girtin. A related series is Rivers of France with line engravings after Turner, published between 1833 and 1835. We can only speculate as to why line engravings, rather than mezzotints, were chosen for the latter, although the status and popularity of line engraving in France may have played a part in this decision. Turner was notorious for his strict supervision of such projects, on which he collaborated with the most important engravers of his day, including William Cooke, Edward Goodall, Robert Brandard, James Armytage, John Pye, John Cousen and James Willmore. Working from original drawings by the master, the engravers etched Turner’s compositions into plates. Turner himself then subjected the proofs to intensive correction and the plates were worked up using the mezzotint technique, see: Gray 1937, pp.92-96. Letter from John Constable to David Lucas, 12 March 1830, in: Leslie 1995, pp.162-163. Inspired by Hogarth and his series of prints, David Wilkie was another artist who regularly took on the task of reproducing his own work, see: Cunningham 1843, p.138. Ternois 1999, p.195. Letter from Gustave Courbet to his parents, 13 May 1853, in: Ten Doesschate Chu 1996, pp.104-105. For Courbet’s collaboration with



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Bingham, see: Ten Doesschate Chu 1996, pp.214-215. McCauley 1994, p.290. See also: Hamber   1996, p.192 and note 25. Gérôme also worked with this well-known photographer. Other examples from this period of artists who had their work photographed are William Bouguereau, Friedrich Kaulbach, Antoine Wiertz and Lawrence Alma-Tadema. In England William Powell Frith was one of the first artists who made use of the reproductive opportunities offered by photographic   processes. For these examples see: Hamber 1996, pp.188-198. Van Tilborg 1993, p.31 and Van Uitert 19871988, p.36. However, Van Gogh’s interest in photographic reproduction of his work was tempered by the high costs associated with this. He wrote to Theo van Gogh regarding the type of photogravure used by Goupil & Cie: ‘When you were here, I asked you about the costs of reproducing with the G & Cie process. You said then I believe 100 francs. Well now, the old, nowadays so little valued, ordinary lithographic process is still – especially in Eindhoven perhaps – very much cheaper’, letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, circa 13 April 1885, in: Van Crimpen Berends-Albert 1990, no.496. Letter from H.W. Mesdag to F. Buffa & Zoon,   13 Oct 1874, in: Poort n.y., p.177. James Heath had previously bought The Dead Soldier from Joseph Wright, probably on condition that he would make a print of the work. In October 1795 Heath then wrote to   J.L. Philips: ‘I have sent one [proof, rv] to Wright, and asked him to paint a companion to it.’ Apparently satisfied with the print, the painter had agreed to Heath’s request: ’I have heard from Mr Wright, in which he says the effect of the picture is so well preserved and the parts which compose it so true that I have nothing but that I am well pleased with it. He says that he began to paint again about a week ago, and that he will, if his health returns, talk to me about a companion picture’, letter from James Heath to J.L. Philips, October 1795, quoted in: Morris 1932,   pp.110-112.

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15 Letter from James Heath to J. Wright, quoted

in: Morris 1932, p.112. 16 Letter from John Constable to John Fisher,   17 December 1824, quoted in: Leslie 1995, p.115, 121. The engraver Lucas, with whom Constable often collaborated, also made reproduction prints at his own expense, see: Leslie 1995, p.179. In his Memoirs the English engraver Abraham Raimbach wrote at length about his own initiatives: ‘I continued to occupy myself with occasionally repairing one or other of my old plates; when, after many unavailing suggestions had been made to the printsellers to pictures for engraving, the publisher, Moon, was induced to apply to me on the subject of making a print of rather a large size proof from that noble work Columbus, in the collection of Mr Holford. With much consultation with Wilkie and ample consideration of all circumstances, I gave in my estimate, which we both agreed was on a very moderate scale, and which indeed could not be objected to – nor was it on that score, when the time and labour required to execute a highly-finished line-engraving were taken into account. In the terms proposed, I had shown myself willing to make a large sacrifice in regard to price, from the desire to continue the series of prints, and my great admiration of the picture. Notwithstanding these efforts, it was found impossible to bring the trader to our way of thinking; and the negotiation finally terminated in his declaration of opinion that in the state of discouragement into which engraving had fallen of late years, he thought it would be imprudent to risk the adventure. He therefore felt compelled, as a commercial man, to decline that which, as a sincere lover of art, he was most anxious to promote.’ The terms under which the engraver had been willing to undertake the project are not known, so it is hard to assess the extent of his ‘large sacrifice’. However, the passage does offer a glimpse behind the scenes of the printmaker’s failed attempt to produce a line engraving. Raimbach also observed, somewhat tartly, that the painting was eventually published as a reproduction, made by another printmaker using a cheaper

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technique: ‘Columbus ultimately appeared as a mezzotint’, see: Raimbach 1843, p.140. Zilcken 1928, pp.43-44. Asser Verhoogt 2002, pp.339-340. Maas 1975, p.28. Friedman 1979, p.36. During the eighteenth century the production of prints in England was even shaped to a large degree by French printmakers, see: Lippincott 1983, p.128. Although Woolett had previously made an engraving for Boydell after Claude’s Temple of Apollo, the first success for English printmaking came with his print after Niobe by Richard Wilson, described by Friedman as: ‘the first English print to ever be in demand on the Continent’, see: Friedman 1979, p.39. Friedman 1979, pp.39-42. From 1778 the stock lists of the renowned Italian publishing house of Remondini also display a trend that points to the widespread popularity of English printmaking on the continent. For the role of English prints in the Remondini’s publishing business, see: Boschloo 1998, pp.126-144. Maas 1975, p.29. Other publishers, such as Agnew (founded in 1817) mainly circulated portrait prints, often commissioned by the sitter. Group portraits commemorating special events were also popular, see: Agnew 1967, pp.61-62. See also: Dyson 1984, pp.4-12, 22, Wax 1990, pp.105-106. These firms were mainly based in London, an exception being Agnew of Manchester which did not open a branch in the English capital until 1860, see: Maas 1975, pp.16-18. Quote from The Art Journal (1850), in: Maas 1975, p.30. J.E. Millais quoted in: Millais 1899 i, p.348. Anonymous, ‘Le bon dévot, gravé par Prévost, d’apres Charlet’, L’Artiste 1834 vii, p.187. Societé sous seing privé, enregistrée le 23 mars 1829, taken from: A.Bergeon, ‘Le temps ciselé’. Correspondances autour dúne oeuvre gravée: éditeurs, artistes, critques (1829-1859)’, in: Lafont-Couturier 1994, pp.38-39. In 1834 the firm moved from 12 Boulevard Montmartre to number 15, see: Bergeon 1994, p.39.

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31 In response to the death of Rittner, L’Artiste

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declared: ‘Goupil et [Rittner, rv] en étaient arrivés à publier les gravures les plus importantes de notre epoque, la Sainte Amélie, le Strafford, les Richelieu et les Mazarin, de M. Paul Delaroche; les tableax de Leopold Robert, la Vierge à l’oisseau, de Raphael, le Decaméron, de Winterhalter, les Enfants d’Edouard, etc.’ Anonymous, ‘Nécrologie M. Rittner’, L’Artiste (1840), p.399. L.B, ‘Gravures. Sainte Cécile. Gravée par M. Forster, d’après le tableau de M. Paul Delaroche’, L’Artiste (1841) vii, p.9. For a discussion of various prints being produced under Goupil’s aegis see: Anonymous, ‘Gravures Francais. État du travail dans les différents ateliers’, L’Artiste (1840) vi, pp.251-252. In this regard see also: ‘Les premières tentatives pour réhabiliter la gravure au burin ont été faites par la maison Rittner et Goupil.’[…] ‘en ramenant l’attention publique vers la belle gravure, elle a donné à de jeunes talents l’occasions et le désir de se développer.’ In addition to Ritter and Goupil the firm of Weitt et Hauser also played a major role in stimulating reproductions, see:. F. Lecler, L. Noël, ‘Revue des Editions illustrées, des Gravures et des Lithographies’, L’Artiste (1839), i, p.142. For example see the album published by Vollard with reproductions after work by Degas, Quarante-vingt-dix-huit reproductions signees par Degas (peinture, pastels, dessins et estampes) 1914, see: Kendall 1996, p.50. Hoogenboom 1993, pp.201-202. Letter from David Wilkie to Abraham Raimbach, 8 October 1816, in: Cunningham 1843 I, pp.447-448. Wilkie took some of his own prints with him to show on his travels. He wrote to his brother from Rome: ‘I make quite a show of my English engravings here, where they know nothing of what we can do in this line. They seem to raise their opinion of us greatly’, letter from David Wilkie to Thomas Wilkie, 25 January 1827 Rome, Cunningham ii 1843, p.395. When the artist had no prints with him in Madrid, he wrote to his brother: ‘Send me a proof of Blindman’s Buff, an etching of Distraining for Rent, a copy of my etchings, and a proof from Duncan Gray. […]



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as I wish to show them here’, letter from David Wilkie to Thomas Wilkie, 22 November 1827 Madrid, Cunningham 1843 ii, p..476. Anonymous, ‘Kunstberichten’, De Kunstkronijk 8 (1847), p.14. E.J. Potgieter, ‘Amsterdam te 1860’, De Gids 1860 (i), p.247. This discussed the first and second instalments of Amsterdam te 1860, with text by W.J. Hofdijk and plates by J. Hilverdink, published in 1860 by F.C. Buhrmann. Heijbroek 1999, pp.13-16. Anonymous, ‘Gedachten over kunst en volksleven’, De Kunstkronijk 7 (1865), pp.73-74. For extensive information on the art dealer De Bois, see: Heijbroek 1993 Rosen 1989, p.41. Lafont-Couturier 1994, p.83. Anonymous, ‘De la gravure’, L’Artiste (1837) xiv, pp.287-289. L’Artiste wrote several years later: ‘Rien n’est plus pénible a voir combien cet art, dont l’extension commerciale prend un développement effrayant, est en poie aux fluctuations d’une mode toujours capricieuse’, see: Anonymous, ‘Gravures et lithographies’, L’Artiste (1843) iv, p.122. Anonymous, ‘Gravures et lithographies’, L’Artiste (1843) iv, p.122. These contributions regarded the rise of the print trade during the 1830s as a blessing rather than a threat to engraving’s continued existence. In 1835 an anonymous author remarked in L’Artiste: ‘Je sais que, sous prétexte de servir les intérêts du producteur et du consommateur (pour parler le language de l’économie politique), il ne fait d’ordinaire qu’exploiter les besoins de l’un et de l’autre à son propre profit’, see: A.J., ‘Simples réflections sur l’art et les artistes’, L’Artiste 1835, p.236. Such writers were influenced by the concept of ‘economie politique’, the theories of Adam Smith, David Ricardo and, particularly in France, J.B. Say and B. Constant, whose principal objective was a free market economy with minimal government restrictions. Instead of viewing the market as a threat to society, they believed that competition could offer advantages both to producers and consumers: ‘chaque fois qu’un nouveau

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magasin s’est ouvert, il nous semble que les artistes doivent s’en applaudir. La rivalité qui s’établit entre toutes ces maisons où l’on spécule sur leurs ouvrages ne peut que tourner à leur profit’, see: A.J., ‘Simples réflections sur l’art et les artistes’, L’Artiste (1835), p.238. Articles with a positive attitude to the free market did not condemn individual publishers as commercial despots solely bent on profit and sometimes praised them for their vision and entrepreneurial courage. Hind 1967, p.198. See also: H. de Chennevières, ‘Exposition Universelle de 1889. La gravure du siecle au Champ Mars’, Gazette des Beaux Arts (1889), p.483, and: McCauley 1994, p.279. Although engraving was initially the technique of choice for such commissions, etching was subsequently employed as well. The French state also encouraged printmaking indirectly, through organisations such as the Sociéte d’Encouragement pour l’industrie. This agency, founded by Napoleon along English lines, was intended to promote French technology, trade and industry. It used such methods as competitions and medals to stimulate the development of the applied arts and new techniques such as lithography, see: Rosen 1989, p.41. Anonymous, ‘Minor topics of the month’, The Art Journal (1862), p.88. Of the foreign engravers who worked on The Art Journal’s ‘Selected Pictures’, three had received a commission to make reproductions from the states of Belgium and France. The engraver M. Devaschez made a print of Sebastiane del Piombo’s ‘Visitation’ for the French state and Rubens’ ‘Christ Crucified’ for the Belgian state. In the Louvre, M. de Mare copied Giorgione’s ‘Holy Family’ and M. Thevenin Titian’s portrait of Alphonsus d’Avalos, both for the French state. Pye 1836, p.38. Luiten van Zanden Van Riel, 2000, pp.209-235. For this see: Pots 2000, pp.89-95. Unlike the highly centralised French state, the Netherlands had traditionally been characterised by a strong degree of decentralisation, imposed by its cities and provinces. These vestiges of its Republican past had barely been erased in the nineteenth century,

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when local authorities were still responsible for art education, see: Pots 2000, p.66. For Thorbecke in this connection see also: Thorbecke: Zimmerman 1870, p.140. For extensive information on Art Unions, see: L. Saunders King, The Industrialization of Taste. Victorian England and the Art Union of London, Studies in the Fine Arts: Art Patronage, no.6 Michigan 1985; R. Smith, ‘The Rise and Fall of the Art-Union Print’, Print Quarterly 3 (1986), 2, pp.95-108 and: J. Sperling. ‘“Art, Cheap and Good”: The Art-Union in England and the United States’, 1840-1860’, Nineteenth-Century Art Worldwide: Spring 2002, p.1-29. Heij 1989, pp.112-113. This society was mainly interested in the reproduction of modern art. More specialist organisations, such as the Arundel Society in England, concentrated on the reproduction of old Italian masters, see: R. Cooper, ‘The Popularization of Renaissance Art in Victorian England. The Arundel Society.’ Art History 1 (1978) 3, pp.263.-292. Letter from David Wilkie to Thomas Wilkie, 7 May 1827 Florence, in: Cunningham 1843 (ii), p.416. Maas 1975, p.30. Grosheide 1986, p.49. Woodmansee 1994, p.45. Birn 1983, pp.145-171 and J.P. Feather, ‘From Censorship to Copyright: Aspects of Government’s Role in the English Book Trade 16951775’, in: K.E. Carpenter (ed.) Books and Society in History, Boston, New York, London 1983, pp.173-248. Government censorship persisted even after the privilege system had been replaced by copyright law. In France in particular censorship continued to play a significant role, in areas such as caricature. For extensive information on this see: R.J. Goldstein, ‘The Debate over Censorship of Caricature in Nineteenth-Century France’, Art Journal (1989), pp.9-15. Grosheide 1986, p.53. In 1516 Charles v granted the first privilege in the Netherlands to Die Cronyke van Hollandt, Zeelandt en Vriesland, beginnende van Adams Tiden tot de jare 1517. After Philip ii the States of the Seven United Provinces granted such

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privileges. The period for which a privilege was valid varied; in the eighteenth century this was usually 15 years. Enforcement generally comprised the seizure of illegally printed works in combination with the imposition of a fine. The renowned Antwerp publishing house of Plantijn even received support from Rome with regard to its major edition of the Bible from 1569-72, for which it had secured the privileges for various countries: every Catholic who copied the work within 20 years of its publication was excommunicated by Pope Pius v. Generally speaking, however, illegal reprinting was a widespread practice. The authorities publicly condemned illegal reprints, not in the interests of the author, but prompted by an economic need to prevent unfair competition. This is illustrated by the fact that privileges were also granted for reprints (particularly for foreign works), see: De Beaufort 1909, pp.4-37. During the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries there was a liberal political climate in the Netherlands, which allowed the publication of many works subject to censorship in France. Critical spirits such as John Locke and Voltaire repeatedly looked to the Low Countries for the distribution of their work. As a result the Netherlands evolved into the publishing house of Europe. The country was responsible for the distribution of new publications and the reprinting of many works, generally foreign in origin. The seventeenthand eighteenth-century book world in the Netherlands was shaped by publishers who resisted reprinting for many years, in the belief that this would create unfair competition. Outside the publishing world the phenomenon of reprinting continued well into the eighteenth century, for the public perception was that this did indeed stimulate competition (albeit unfair) between publishers and keep prices low. It was even believed that the state had a duty to promote the reprinting of foreign works as much as possible, see: Woodmansee 1994, pp.49-50. Zigrosser 1956, pp.46-47. De Beaufort 1909, pp.10-11. Privileges were generally granted in connec-



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tion with new editions. Exceptionally it was also possible to agree protection for a specific subject. On 28 June 1603, for example, Baltasar Florisz secured the right ‘for four years solely to be allowed to print the entry of the gentlemen of the States General of the United Netherlands into Flanders’. The peintregraveur P. Holsteyn similarly applied for the privilege to publish prints of the portraits of the delegates at the conclusion of the Peace of Munster. Privileges were usually granted for prints after paintings, or occasionally for prints after sculptures or items of applied art, see: De Beaufort 1909, pp.12-13. The role of the privilege system in printmaking has barely been researched. An exception in this regard is Peter Fuhring, see: P. Fuhring, ‘The Print Privilege in EighteenthCentury France-I’, Print Quarterly 2 (1985), pp.175-193, and: P. Fuhring, ‘The Print Privilege in Eighteenth-Century France-II’, Print Quarterly 3 (1986), pp.19-33. For the contrast between these two traditions in authorship rights, see: Grosheide 1986, pp.153-157 and Dommering 2000, pp.441-443. Scholten 1974, p.12. I confine myself here to the relationship between art and law in the field of authorship rights. For a more general theoretical discussion of art and law, see: C. Douzinas, L. Nead (eds.), Law and the Image. The Authority of Art and the Aesthetics of Law, Chicago London, 1999 and C. Douzinas, ‘Whistler v. Ruskin: Law’s Fear of Images’, Art History 19 (1996) 3, pp.353369. Gambart 1975, p.21. Act 8 Anne, c.19. Act 8 Geo.2, c.13. Article v makes a remarkable exception to this rule for the engraver John Pine, who wished to produce and publish prints after a number of tapestries in the House of Lords and the king’s clothing. With regard to these royal prints the law declared: ‘[…] John Pine shall be entitled to the benefit of this Act, to all intents and purposes whatsoever, in the same manner as if the said John Pine had been the inventor and designer of the said prints’, Phillips, 1863, p.vii.

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produced just a modest fine and confiscation the prints had to be handed over to the person of the photographer’s camera. ‘This may be with legal title to the original work, together law, but certainly is not justice’, Anonymous, with a fine of five shillings for every illegal ‘Copyright in art’, The Art Journal 1862, p.241. print found. In the event of the plate being Maas 1975, p.271. sold, prints from these did not constitute an 90 The differences in protection of authorship rights was partly responsible for the fact that infringement. 7 Geo. iii. c.38. production of photographic reproductions in England and trade in the same was far behind In order to increase the protection provided that in France during this period, see: Hamby legislation, a 1777 amendment offered the ber 1996, p.194, 227. victims of illegal reproductions an opportu 91 Phillips 1863, pp.210-211. nity to recover lost income from defendants: 17 Geo iii. c57. 92 The judge proclaimed: ‘a photographic copy J. Farrington quoted in: Friedman 1976, p.35. may represent to the mind exactly the same R. Godson, The Art Union vol.8 (1846), p.72 idea as the original, and so spoil the sale of Phillips 1863, p.218. the engraver’s prints’, from: Phillips 1863, p.211. With his reproduction of Holman Anonymous, ‘Property in art’, The Art Journal (1849), p.133. For authorship rights in sculpHunt’s The Light of thee World Gambart had ture, see: Anonymous, ‘Photo-Sculpture’, The earned about 10,000 pounds in his first year, Art Journal 1863, p.59. ‘a tolerably succesfull speculation’ according to The Art Journal . Over the two years prior to Anonymous, ‘Reviews’, The Art Journal (1849), p.263. the lawsuit, however, sales of his reproducAnonymous, ‘Property in art’, The Art Journal tion had collapsed, as a result of illegal photographs after the print of the painting, see: (1849), p.133. Anonymous, ‘Infringement of Copyright’, The ‘It is hereby declared that the provisions of Art Journal (1863), p.103. Gambart was critical the said Acts are intended to include prints of the many illegal reproductions made by taken by lithography, or any other mechanilithographers and photographers: ‘Lithogracal process by which or impressions of drawphy has rendered it easy to produce at small ings or designs are capable of being multiplied indefinitely, and the said Acts shall be expense copies of engravings, conveying an idea of the subject represented. Such copies, construed accordingly.’ See: 15 Vict.c.12 art. produced with rapidity, caused, at first, great xiv in: Phillips 1863, p.lxxvii. Holman Hunt 1905 (2), p.96. disturbance amongst holders of copyrights, who found their property imperilled and Gambart 1863, p.4. For Gambart’s commitimpaired’, see: Gambart 1863, p.5. Germany in ment to authorship rights, see: Anonymous, particular produced a flood of lithographs, ‘Copyright in Sculpture’, The Art Journal (1863), p.59, and: Anonymous, ‘Reviews’, The Art illegally made after English and French Journal (1863), p.128. prints. The international print trade ensured that such ‘false’ reproductions penetrated the Anonymous, ‘Copyright in art’, The Art Journal English market on a large scale. Photography (1862), p.241; Anonymous, ‘Infringement of in particular was widely used for the illegal Copyright’, The Art Journal (1863), p.103, Anonmanuafacture of reproductions, as Gambart ymous, ‘Infringement of Copyright’, The Art pointed out: ‘When it is considered that Journal (1863), pp.210-211, and: Hamber 1996, almost anyone having a camera can repropp.12-13. However, it was difficult to obtain a conviction as the plaintiff had to prove that duce, unassisted, and in the privacy of his the photographer was aware of any copyright “studio,” an engraving , especially one in line, on the work in question, and that he had of any size, and in so perfect manner, that the deliberately acted in an illegal manner, an generality of the public might take the photoalmost impossible task. A conviction often graphic copy for the original impression from

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the copperplate, it will be seen what mischief to the skilled artist, who has executed that plate, and the publisher who commissioned him, a fraudulent photographer can do’, Gambart 1863, p.7. Millais 1899, p.298. Act 25 & 26 Vict. c.68, art.i. 25 & 26 Vict. c.68., art.vi 25 & 26 Vict. c.68, art.vii. Infringement of authorship rights was now subject to a fine set at double the value of the unlawful reproductions, to a maximum of ten pounds, an extremely modest sum, and transfer of all illegal prints [art vii]. 25 & 26 Vict. c.68, art.i. Putnam 1891, p.233. For extensive information on this work, see: J. Maas, Holman Hunt and The Light of the World, London 1987. The prospect of the prints being distributed abroad made the painter especially critical. William Henry Simmons (1811-1882) was ultimately chosen to engrave the painting and the print was completed in 1860, see: Engen 1995, pp.43-45. Anonymous, ‘Infringement of Copyright’, The Art Journal (1863), p.103. For The Derby Day the artist William Powell Frith received 1500 pounds, for the rights of reproduction for a planned edition of 5025 prints, 2250 pounds, see: Treuherz 1993, p.125. See also: Anonymous, ‘Reviews’, The Art Journal (1849), p.263; Anonymous, ‘Minor topics of the month’, The Art Journal (1860), p.182; and: Stephens 1874, p.6. For the artist Landseer, see: Maas 1975, p.20. For Lawrence, see also: Anonymous, ‘Reviews’, The Art Journal (1849), p.263. Anonymous, ‘Autobiography of John Burnet’, The Art Journal (1850), p.275. Raimbach declared: ‘[a] very important cause for the change that had come over the fortunes of the good old legitimate art of lineengraving should not pass unnoticed; namely the enormous sums now for the first time exacted by the painters under the claim of copyright; a claim, however founded, hitherto left in abeyance at least, if not considered altogether abandoned. The printsellers, in

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yielding to these claims, sought to indemnify themselves by adopting a more expenditious and lower-priced mode of engraving (mezzotinto), and which, being also executed on steel, enabled them by printing much longer numbers than copperplates will produce to obtain their regular profits’, Raimbach 1843, p.139. Letter from John Everett Millais to Thomas Combe, quoted in: Millais 1899 (1), pp.100-1. See also: Engen 1995, p.54 Anonymous, ‘Artist’s copyright’, The Art Journal (1879), p.82. Gambart quoted in: Hamber 1996, p.212. This declaration was shaped by the ideas propounded by the philosophers John Locke (Two Treatises of Civil Government, 1690) and Jean-Jacques Rousseau, as well as the American Bill of Rights. See also: Eikema-Hommes 1981, p.138, and: Gerbenzon Algra 1987, pp.182-183. Decret des 19-24 juillet 1793 (an ii de la République), art.1. A previous decree from January 1791 guaranteed the author’s supervision and income with regard to the production of their plays. See: decret des 13-19 janvier 1791, art.3: ‘Les ouvrages des auteurs vivants ne pourront être représentés sur aucun théâtre public, dans toute l’étendue de la France, sans le consemtement formel et par écrit des auteurs, sous peine de confiscation du produit total des représentations au profit des auteurs.’ Decret des 19-24 juillet 1793 (an ii de la République), art.3: ‘Les officiers de paix seront tenus de faire confisquer, à la réquisitions et au profit des auteurs, compositeurs, peintres ou dessinateurs et autres, leurs héritiers ou cessionaires, tous les exemplaires des éditions imprimées ou gravées sans la permission formelle et par écrit des auteurs.’ For this decree of 1793 see also: A.L. Schroder, ‘Reversals of Power: Artistic Property, Counterfeiture, and the 1793 French Copyright Act’, Visual Resources xvi (2000), pp.143-154. Decret du 5 février 1810 art.40. Decret du 5 février 1810 art.39. Anonymous, ‘regtzaken’, De Kunstkronijk (18421843), p.42. Curiously enough, the Court made no distinc-

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tion between private individuals collecting Code Penal were soon introduced into the art as a pastime and professional buyers of Netherlands. The introduction of these new art, such as art dealers. codes unleased a wave of codification in Europe. Old laws relating to many fields were Vernet 1841, p.8. abandoned and replaced by new legislation, It should be remarked that in addition to the artist’s consent, it was often necessary to laid down in code books. In the sphere of intellectual property too, ad hoc privileges obtain permission to reproduce a work from made way for new laws and rules. For this see: the organisers of an exhibition or from a museum, although this was mainly dictated Gerbenzon Algra 1987, pp.194-204. by organisational and commercial considera- 129 On 31 July 1803 the first steps were taken towards protecting author’s rights, although tions, rather than legal ones. For the photothis legislation continued to focus largely on graphing of works at Salon exhibitions and in publishers’ rights. The law only remained in the Louvre, see: McCauley 1994, pp.282-287. force for several years. De Vries points out This was decided in the well-known case of that strictly speaking the interests of the Mayer and Pierson versus Thiebault, Betbeder writer played no role in the legislator’s considand Schwabbé. McCauley 1994, p.30-34. erations and stresses that the law of 1803 F. Lecler and Léon Noel, ‘Revue des editions illustrées, des gravures et des lithographies’, should not, therefore, be regarded as the first L’Artiste (1839) i, p.142. incidence of a law protecting author’s rights, Vernet 1841, p.8. see: J.A. de Vries, ‘Enige beschouwingen over het 19 e eeuwse auteursrecht tegen de achterLetter from H. de Toulouse-Lautrec to Léon Deschamps, 14 November 1895, in: Goldgrond van het incident Douwes Dekker/Van Lennep, Informatierecht / AMI 1996 November schmidt Schimmel 1969, p.285. Dyson 1984, pp.64-65. no.9, pp.180-184. For French legislation in the ‘Je recois une demande de M. Roques, directNetherlands, see: De Beaufort 1909, pp.41-42. eur du Courrier Francais, me demandant â 130 The conflict between Eduard Douwes Dekker and Jacob van Lennep over the publication of reproduire mon affiche Jane Avril; comme vous êtes le premier auquel cette reproducMax Havelaar illustrates that the law was still mainly preoccupied with publisher’s rights, tion, je lui ai fait dire de s’entendre paraissent see: De Vries 1996, pp.182-184. In the transisimultanement afin de ne pas déflorer la chose. Cette lettre vous donne pleins poutional period which followed, however, some laws remained in force. French legislation in voirs, de telle sorte que si le Courrier vous faisait une saleté, nous piussions taper sur les this area was rendered invalid by the Sovereign Decree of 24 January 1814 No.1 (Stb.no.17); doigts de son directeur, vous, moi et Kleinon the book trade and the intellectual ownermann’, letter from H. de Toulouse-Lautrec to Firmin Javal, 25 June 1893, in: Goldschmidt ship of literary works, see: De Beaufort 1909, Schimmel 1969, pp.279-280. Nevertheless, the pp.43-44. Despite progress in the protection of print Jane Avril au Jardin de Paris did appear in authors, there were a number of drawbacks Le Courrier Francais on 2 July 1893 and in L’Art associated with this law. In the first place the concepts of literary work and artwork reFrancais on 29 July 1893. E. Cantrel, ‘Critique. Étude sur la propriété mained vague and ill-defined. Sculpture littéraire et artistique, par M. Gustave de received no protection at all, while there was Champagnac; De la propriété littéraire au dixa similar lack of provision for music and huitième siècle, par MM. Laboulaye et drama performances. Implementation of the Guiffrey’, L’Artiste (1860), x, p.15. law was also inadequate. Although in theory infringements could be punished with fines See for the history of Dutch intellectual ranging from 10 to 10,000 guilders, confiscaproperty law: C. Schriks 2004. tion of the illegal reprints, and damages to De Beaufort 1909, pp.39-40. The French Code Civil, Code Commerce and the value of 2000 copies of the reprinted work

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– such claims could produce considerable profits – in practice there were few legal instruments to enforce these. Payment of damages was only obligatory after criminal prosecution and conviction. Moreover, fines were collected ‘for the good of the general poor in the piratical publishers’ place of residence’, see: De Beaufort 1909, p.45. J.A. Alberdingk Thijm, ‘Kopijrecht’, De Dietsche Warande (1864), p.75. Letter from E. Douwes Dekker to Jacop van Lennep, 12 October 1860, in: Brandt Corstius 1990, p.93. Letter from E. Douwes Dekker to G.L. Funke, 16 August 1871, in: Brandt Corstius 1990, p.115. For the history of this bill I have made grateful use of Anette Ligtenstein’s postgraduate thesis which is devoted to the subject, see also: A. Ligtenstein, ‘Het ontwerp van wet tot regeling van het auteursrecht op werken van beeldende kunst. Meer dan kunstenaars alleen…’, Pro Memorie (2005), pp.297-308. Schedules to the procedures of the Dutch Lower House 1878-1879, pp.903-904. See also Kabel 1991, p.67. The artists’ initiative seems to have been inspired by an earlier German attempt, in 1866, to establish a Denkschrift im Namen der Deutschen Kunstgenossenschaft to promote legal protection of authorship rights in the field of visual art. Vosmaer, C., ‘Het adres der kunstenaars over het eigendomsrecht van hunne werken’, De Nederlandsche Spectator (1879), p.113. Ibid. Wet 1881, art.1. For the reference to German legislation, see: Handelingen tk 1876/1877, no. 202. See for more about the law of 1881: M. Reinsma 2006. Wet 1881, art.13. In the event that the author lived beyond this period and did not transfer this right, he retained it until his death. There was criticism that acknowledgement of authorship rights in law would make literature unattainable. According to Minister Modderman, however, such criticism was unfounded; modern literature was offset by classic literature that was free of authorship rights and thus an attractive alternative, see: hierover Kuitert 1993, p.124.

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1884, see: the M.v.T and the M.v.A. for the law of 1882, and: Handelingen Tweede Kamer 1883-1884, appendix 166. Architecture was explicitly omitted from its provisions. In 1909 H.L. de Beaufort advocated the inclusion of photography amongst the visual arts. For the draft of this provision see: De Beaufort, appendix ii. For the tension between art. 1 and art. 4 in the field of photography, see: De Beaufort 1909, p.227. Handelingen Tweede Kamer Staten-Generaal 1876 -1877, appendix no.202, p.4. For this see the report of 25 March 1885: Handelingen Tweede Kamer Staten-Generaal 1884-1885, appendix 72 no.3. Handelingen Tweede Kamer Staten-Generaal 1884-1885, appendix 72 no.4. Photography too was not protected by intellectual property law in the Netherlands: see Rooseboom 2006, pp.194-213. De Beaufort 1912, p.132. Both contracts of Kaiser and Buffa in relation to The Nightwatch and The Schuttersmaalt by Van der Helst are in the collection of the Rijksprentenkabinet Amsterdam. I would like to thank Mr Robert-Jan te Rijdt who showed me these interesting contracts. Hamber 1996, p.12. The French law of 19 July 1793 protected paintings, prints, sculpture, literature and musical compositions against every form of reproduction. The level of protection afforded by French law is illustrated by the fact that it was customary for printmakers and publishers to pay artists the standard copyright rate of 100 francs per work borrowed, see: Anonymous, ‘Foreign lithographes’, The Art Journal 1851, pp.173-174. In his legal survey of 1891 Putnam also observed: ‘On a contrast of the terms of copyright granted by the chief nations of continental Europe with those granted by Great Britain and the United States, it will be seen that the English-speaking race, which was the first to make the change from privilege to copyright, and was thus the foremost in the protection of the author, now lags sadly behind’, see: Putnam 1891, pp.23-24. On the subject of authorship rights in France, L’Artiste was

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ted. The result was a convoluted situation, in already stressing the importance of sound legal regulation in the field of art education which it was unclear where and how works as early as 1835: ‘[…] pour placer les artistes à enjoyed protection, see: De Beaufort 1909, leur rang dans la société, il est nécessaire de pp.54-55. 152 The general need for uniformity in the protecrégler les conditions auxquelles ils obtiention of authorship rights clearly emerged at dront ce que nous appellerons, si l’on veut, leur brevet ou leur diplôme; il est nécessaire various international congresses, see: De de créer non pas un système d’études équivaBeaufort 1909, p.56. These included the major international congresses held in Brussels lent pour eux à celui qui esxiste pour les aspir(1859) and Antwerp (1861) where authorship ans au titre de médecin ou d’avocat dans les rights were high on the agenda. Such events Facultés de médicine et de droit, mais une were attended by many authorities from autorité équivalente pour les arts à celle des international art circles in various countries, Facultés des sciences, qui les revête authenincluding the Netherlands, see: Anonymous, tiquement et légalement du caractère ‘Kunstberichten’, De Kunstkronijk 3 (1861), p.40 d’artistes’, see: A.P.-R., ‘Nécessité et moyen de and Anonymous, ‘The Belgian Artistic Confixer légalement la condition des artistes’, gress’, The Art Journal 1861, pp.304-305 and L’Artiste (1835) x, pp.21-22. Weekblad van het regt 33 (1861) 2272, p.4. For 149 Gambart pointed accusingly to German publishers whose widespread distribution of international measures to protect authorship large volumes of illegal reproductions not rights see: Anonymous, ‘Foreign Copyright’, only had negative effects in other European The Art Journal (1850), p.94; and: Anonymous, ‘Copyright in Foreign Art’, The Art Journal countries but also in Germany itself, see: 1854, pp.299-300. At the Exposition UniGambart 1863, p.17. verselle of 1878 in Paris, artists discussed the 150 Anonymous, ‘International Art Copyright’, The Art Journal 1858, p.369: ‘Brussels, it is said, need to protect their work and founded the supplies as many copies of a high-class EngAssociation Literaire et Artistique Internationale (alai), see: Grosheide 1986, pp.275-276. lish book as the London bookseller:- New York considerably more’. In 1876 and 1877 congresses were held in 151 In 1852 France signed a treaty with England, Bremen and again in Antwerp. followed by treaties with Spain (1853), the 153 In 1855 the Netherlands concluded a treaty Netherlands (1855), Denmark (1858), Russia with France, three years later with Belgium. In 1860 further agreement was reached with (1861), Prussia (1862) and Austria (1866). The German states had already reached mutual France regarding French anthologies. For the agreement on the protection of intellectual treaty with France see: kb 16-8-1855, Stb.176; products in 1827. The first treaty between two for the treaty with Belgium see: Wet 28 Dedifferent nations (who also spoke different cember 1858, Stb.119 and kb 4 March, Stb.11. For the additional agreement with France of languages) was concluded in 1840 between 22 May 1860, see: Stb.19. For many decades Austria and Sardinia. The Netherlands and Dutch acknowledgement of international Belgium signed a treaty in 1858. The basic principle established by these diverse treaties authorship rights did not extend beyond the Netherlands’ agremeent with France and was that an author in country x also enjoyed protection in country y and vice versa. NaBelgium, which was confined to works of science and literature anyway. Between 1862 tional legislation was unaffected by such and 1882 the Netherlands had varying agreetreaties, and the various treatment of authorship rights in different countries made interments with Spain, see: De Beaufort 1909, national agreements a complex affair. In one pp.65-66. A major reason was the strong and country the prime factor was the country of continuing opposition to the acknowledgepublication, in another the author’s nationalment of translation rights in the Netherlands. A long tradition of translating foreign works ity or the place where a breach was commit-

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was defended for many years using legal arguments, thereby impeding further development of international cooperation with countries where this right had been acknowledged. The Convention of Berne was also a step too far for the Netherlands, although it did attend the initial conferences associated with this treaty in the mid-1880s; the Dutch delegation even signed the treaty, but The Hague’s refusal to ratify this deprived the international agreement of its validity in the Netherlands. No Dutch delegation attended the 1896 evaluation in Paris and the Netherlands became increasingly isolated in the field of international protection of authorship rights. However, there were voices raised in support of joining the union in the near future, for example see: L.J. Plemp van Duiveland, ‘Nederland en de Berner Conventie i’, De Gids 1896 (i), pp.385-410. In the same year, however, the lawyer J.D. Veegens pointed out the drawbacks to Dutch participation in the treaty, see: J.D. Veegens, ‘Nederland en de Berner Conventie ii’, De Gids 1896 (i), pp.411427. For this see: Handerlingen Tweede Kamer Staten-Generaal 1905-1906, p.1070. Prompted by the revision of the Convention of Berne, the lawyer H. Robbers once more stressed the woefully isolated position still occupied by the Netherlands in the field of international authorship rights, see: H. Robbers, ‘De Berner Conventie, te Berlijn herzien’, De Gids 1908 (ii) pp.541-576. 154 Robbers 1910, p.180. 155 The publisher A.W. Sijthoff, who was certainly no fan of authorship rights, admitted in a letter dated 11 December 1912 that he was not sufficiently conversant with the Convention of Berne, see: letter from A.W. Sijthoff to Albert Frentzen dated 11-12-1912, quoted in: Hemels 2001 p.101. 156 Modern international authorship rights are still regulated by the Convention of Berne, together with the Universal Copyright Convention (1952), which was inspired by this treaty and concluded under the aegis of Unesco, and specific European Union regulations concerning authorship rights in an international perspective. For extensive

157 158

159

160

161 162 163

164

165 166

167 168 169

170 171

information on international authorship rights see: Spoor 1993, pp.525-544. Vernet 1841, p.6. Vernet 1841, p.8. For this see also: E. Blanc, ‘De la Propriété en matière d’art. a M. le directeur de l’artiste’, L’Artiste (1841) vii, pp.131-133. In this connection see also, E. Blanc, ‘De la propriété en matière d’art’, L’Artiste (1841) vii, pp.131-133. Anonymous, ‘Artistic Copyright’, The Art Journal 1858, p.205-209. For the Artistic Copyrights Committee see: Anonymous, ‘Minor topics of the month’, The Art Journal 1861, p.62. For the Royal Academy’s recommendations see: Anonymous, ‘Artistic Copyright’, The Art Journal (1879), p.58. Appendix to Handelingen Tweede Kamer Staten-Generaal 1878-1879, pp.903-904. Gerbenzon Algra 1987, p.183. In the eighteenth century Immanuel Kant and his follower Otto von Gierke had made significant contributions with regard to bridging the gulf between the interests of the author on the one hand, and the owner on the other, see: Grosheide 1986, p.157. Anonymous, ‘Copyrights in pictures and other works of art’, The Art Journal 1858, pp.5354. Anonymous, ‘Minor topics of the month’, The Art Journal 1861, p.62. Anonymous, ‘Art-Copyrights’, The Art Journal 1861, p.88. See also: R.C.F., Anonymous, ‘Artists’ Copyrights’, The Art Journal 1879, pp.81-82. Raimbach 1843, pp.139-140. Raimbach 1843, p.140. In the event that an artist sold a work he was required to make explicit reservation of the copyright before or during the sale. If he forgot to do so, this right ceased to exist and he could no longer claim it. However, in the event that the buyer (such as an art dealer or publisher) wished to secure this right, he had to reach explicit agreement with artist, see: 25 & 26 vict. C.68, art.i. For this affair, see: Millais 1899 (2), pp.186-191. For his refusal to allow several watercolours to be reproduced see G.A. Lucas, 23 November 1879 and 28 January 1880, in: Randall 1979,

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172 173

174

175

176

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p.485, p.489. The interests of artists and owners were not always at odds, for owners, especially wealthy collectors, saw the advantages of reproducing their property: prints not only spread the name of the artist but also of the collector. A long tradition preceded the many collectors who had their collections reproduced as prints during the nineteenth century, a practice later adopted by museums. The new factor, however was that authorship rights could form a serious threat to owners’ undisturbed possession of their exclusive artworks. For this see: exhib.cat. Bordeaux 2000, p.78. Letter from Gustave Courbet to the Comte de Morny, 13 May 1853, in: Ten Doesschate Chu 1996, p.104. Gambart, however, paid 130 pounds to the owner of The Light of the World, to compensate for loss of viewing pleasure during the painting’s exhibition. In the Netherlands the regulation of authorship rights was exceedingly summary and exhibition rights were not even mentioned in legislation. Nevertheless, ideas did exist regarding what would later become known as exhibition rights. For example, the exhibitors’ programme for the 1844 exhibition organised by the painters’ society of Rotterdam stated that ‘[…] works of art, appertaining to others in property, accompanied by the written permission of the artist, will be admitted […]’, see: art 5 of the programme for the 1844 exhibition by the painters’ society of Rotterdam, quoted in: Anonymous, ‘Programma der tentoonstelling voor 1844, door het Schilderkunstig genootschap, te Rotterdam’, De Kunstkronijk 4 (1843-44), p.72. Letter from J.A. McNeill Whistler to Theodore Watts-Dunton, 2 February 1878, in: Thorp 1994, p.50. Letter from J.A. McNeill Whistler to Henry S. Theobald, 25 April 1888, in: Thorp 1994, pp.111-112. Even in the twentieth century it took a long time before this separation between the property rights and the authorship rights pertaining to an artwork became familiar to artists, as Marten Kingma observed in 1955:

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180 181

182 183 184 185 186 187

‘Many in the field of the visual arts are barely aware that the reproduction rights to their work (can) represent a separate value, alongside the value of the artwork itself’, see: Kingma 1955, p.9. Raimbach 1843, p.112. The engraver spent 16 months working on the print, producing 250 proofs and 24 proofs before letters. It was agreed that Wilkie would take 1/3 of the profits and the engraver 2/3, a ratio later amended to ¼ for the painter and ¾ for the engraver, see: Raimbach pp.114-115. Holman Hunt 1905, p.96. The painting The Derby Day by W.P. Frith was engraved by M. Francois and The Railway Station by A. Blanchard, see: Anonymous, ‘Reviews’, The Art Journal (1868), p.59. The Afterglow in Egypt, which was the pendant to The Light of the World by Holman Hunt, one of the most famous prints of the nineteenth century, was also entrusted to a French engraver. The Art Journal disappointedly wrote: ‘It may, or may not be, a fancy of the owner to have the work done abroad; but it seems as if line-engraving was at a low ebb in this country, when preference is given to a foreigner. Our line-engravers are not so burdened with work as to compel them to refuse commissions’, Anonymous, ‘Minor topics of the month’, The Art Journal (1864), p.347. This disappointment was partially provoked by the fact that English engravers were barely admitted to the French market, see: Anonymous, ‘Reviews’, The Art Journal (1868), p.59. There was a long tradition of French printmakers in England and vice versa. Raimbach also emphasised the differences between the English and French print worlds, such as social status, and the cordial relations between French and English printmakers: Raimondi himself was on friendly terms with the Henriquel-Dupont school. Bann 2000, p.714. Hartnoll 1988, p.8 Holman Hunt quoted in: Engen 1995, p.45. Holman Hunt quoted in: Engen 1995, p.45. Hartnoll 1988, p.9. Edwin Landseer quoted in: Engen 1995, p.22. For the importance of family relationships in

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188 189

190

191 192 193 194

195

art reproduction, see: Engen 1995, p.21. However, Edwin Landseer did not entrust the reproduction of his work exclusively to his brother: a survey of reproductions after his work reveals that the well-known engravers S. Cousins, C. Heath and W.H. Simmons also made prints after his work, see: Stephens 1874, pp.175-184. Herrmann 1990, p.249. For Lucas’ prints after Constable, see: Hind 1967, pp.285-287 and C. Hartley, ‘Constable and his Prints’, Print Quarterly, x (1993), 3, pp.290-294 F. Lecler et Léon Noel, ‘Revue des editions illustrées, des gravures et des lithographies’, L’Artiste (1839) i, p.142. H. Maclean, Photography for Artists, Bradford London 1896, pp.139-148. Dyson 1984, pp.58-59. De Steurs 1929, p.60. Dyson 1984, p.62. It is probably no accident that Goupil’s first contract with the engraver Mercuri, in 1832, is very different in nature from their second contract with him in 1835, by which time he had enjoyed some successes at the Salon. The most important difference between the two contracts is that in the first the engraver was only to receive a fixed amount for work to be supplied, while in the second he is on a more equal footing with the publisher and is to participate in the publication of the print. This contract has been published in Bergeon 1994, pp.43-44. The publisher was to set the firm’s mark on the agreed number of prints (avant la lettre). For a more general insight into the relationship between publisher and printmaker, Bergeon draws attention to another interesting contract between Goupil and Mercuri from 1835. The structure of the contract provides an idea of the elements on which agreement had to be reached. At the beginning of the contract mention is already made of the technique to be used, ‘gravure au burin sur cuivre’. Although the engraved plate was to be the joint property of the printmaker and publisher, the publisher Rittner & Goupil had the sole right to publish and sell prints from this. It was also agreed

196 197 198 199 200 201 202 203 204 205 206 207

that no prints would be made from the plate without the agreement of both parties. Every print would be given a stamp, first by the engraver, then by the publisher. The plate would be entrusted to the management of the printer, or be transferred with great care to one of the two parties. The engraver was expected to guarantee 800 prints and pay for any reworking of the worn plate. After the agreed number of prints had been produced, the cost of reworking the plate would be shared by the publisher and the engraver. Joint ownership of the plate also meant that if one party appropriated a number of states (épreuves d’artiste), the other party was entitled to deduct the same number from the print run. Finally, agreement was reached concerning the period for which the contract would apply. Once this had elapsed, the plate and the remaining prints would be sold to the highest bidder of the two parties, see: Bergeon 1994, pp.48-50. Dyson 1984, pp.60-61. Contract quoted in: Engen 1995, pp.50-51. Verhoogt and Asser, 2002, pp.351-354. Holman Hunt 1905, pp.187-188. Engen 1995, pp.48-49. Gambart quoted in Maas 1975, pp.131-132. Holman Hunt 1905, p.193. This Morelli has not been identified. J.E. Millais quoted in: Holman Hunt 1905, p.193. Engen 1995, p.48. Maas 1975, pp.117-120. Even more tragic is the fate of the Buffa archive, of which nothing has survived. The 1832 conflict between L’Artiste and the painter Leopold Robert regarding the reproduction of his painting Moissonneurs was partly caused by the unclear verbal agreements made by the two parties. For this conflict and L’Artiste see more below. For commerical relationships in the art trade, see also: D. Dekkers, ‘Zeer verkoopbaar’. Zakelijke afspraken tussen de hollandse schilder en zijn kunsthandelaar (1860-1915)’, in: J.L. de Jong, E.A. Koster, Onverwacht bijeengebracht. Opstellen voor Ed Taverne en Lyckle de Vries ter gelegenheid van hun 25-jarige jubileum in dienst van de Rijksu-

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208

209

210

211 212 213 214

215 216 217

218 219 220 221 222 223 224 225

niversiteit Groningen, Groningen 1996,   pp.33-39. For this reason it is still hard to establish whether such agreements between painters and publishers are similar to the contracts entered into by writers and publishers. Gaskell distinguishes five types of contract: complete sale of reproduction rights, partial sale of reproduction rights, agreement to share in the proceeds from publications, royalties from copies sold, publication on commission, see: Gaskell 1985, pp.298-300. See: Letter from Henry Raeburn to William Walker, 1 March 1821, quoted in: Sanderson 1925, pp.134-136. David Wilkie also asked the Earl of Mansfield’s permission to be allowed to reproduce his well-known painting The Village People, see: letter from David Wilkie to the Earl of Mansfield, 24 April 1812, quoted in: Cunningham 1843 i, p.348-349. Regarding another work Wilkie solemnly approached the King of Bavaria for permission to reproduce this, see: letter from D. Wilkie to Brook Taylor, 14 February 1821, quoted in: Cunningham 1843 ii, pp.40-41. Letter from David Wilkie to Samuel Dobree, 13 October 1821, quoted in: Cunningham 1843 ii, p.63. Zilcken 1928, p.109. Dyson 1984, p.38. McCauley, pp.38-55. Letter from Henry Raeburn to William Walker, 22 May 1821, quoted in: Sanderson 1925, p.136. Dyson 1984, p.72. Zilcken 1928, pp.111-112. The previously cited contract between Holman Hunt and Agnew provided for the supply of a copy, see: Engen 1995, pp.50-51. Lafont-Couturier 1996, pp.63-67. Quoted in: Maas 1975, p.158. Scott 1999, p.62. Anonymous, ‘Variétés’, L’Artiste, (1837) xiii, p.351. Perrot 1984, p.19. Dyson 1984, pp.42-44. McCauley, pp.38-55. Perrot 1984, p.19-23. The engraver’s rich range of instruments is also evident in C.E. Taurel’s

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226

227 228

229

230 231 232

233

inventory, see: auction catalogue Taurel: L.51897, 27 June-1 July 1918 Amsterdam, pp.6264; see also: Dyson 1984, pp.83-93. The Dutch etcher Zilcken owned A. Bosse Algemeen middel tot de practijck der doorzichtkunde op tafereelen, of regel-lose buytengedaenten. Amsterdam 1664. He probably did not refer a great deal to his Portuguese translation by   J.J. Viegas Menezes of A. Bosse, Tratato da gravura a agua forte, a buril, e em maneira negra com o modo de construir as frensas modernas e de imprimir em talho doce. Lisbon 1801. He also owned Martial, Nouveau traité de la gravure à l’eau-forte pour les peintres et les dessinateurs, Paris 1873; M. Henrici, Die Kupferstechkunst und die Stahlstich, Leipzig 1838; and A. Fokke Sz., De Graveur, behelzende eene beknopte Handleiding tot de daktylioglyphia of graveerkunst in edele gesteente; het stempelsnijden; het graveeren in hout en koper; het etsen; het graveeren in zwarte kunst, of in mezzo tinto enz. Benevens beschrijving en af beelding der werktuigen tot deze kunsten gebezigd wordende, Dordrecht 1796. See: auction.cat. Zilcken, 13-15 May, The Hague, nos.559-563 L.60191. For a concise bibliography of works on techniques see: Hind, pp.395-397. For an extensive description of the traditional process see: Dyson 1984, pp.31-55, 113-144. In his handbook for the printmaker, Perrot wrote: ‘Les premières études du graveur sont les mêmes que celles qui conviennent au dessinateur, au peintre et au sculptuer. Il doit dessiner avec une grande justesse, avec goût et facilité; il est très-peu de graveurs célèbres qui n’aient été d’excellents dessinateurs’, Perrot 1984, p.15. There were various methods for this. Fielding describes a technique whereby the moistened drawing was impressed onto a wax-coated plate. For this see also: Perrot 1984, pp.62-67, and: Roller n.y., pp.45-48. Wax 1990, p.67. Ruskin 1907, p.31. Alongside hand engraving into the plate, new techniques were constantly invented during the nineteenth century to increase the speed with which incisions could be made, see: Dyson 1984, p.130. One example is the print by James Henry Watt

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after The Highland Drovers: Scene in the Grampians by Edwin Landseer, see: Lambert 1987, pp.52-53. Anthony van Dyke had often worked in a diametrically opposed fashion, starting with detailed faces, a procedure that probably became less common in the nineteenth century. 234 ‘It is necessary as I mentioned to you once before that Lord Hopetoun’s portrait should be varnished before it is entirely out of my hand and I wish to take this opportunity to put it into our Exhibition which opens next week – I mean it must be in next week – I suppose you can be going on with the background in the time – or you can bring up the background to a certain length on one of the impressions so as to enable you to go on. I send you Mr. Alison’s portrait – I will write you again what time I want over Lord Hopetoun’s picture’, letter from Henry Raeburn to William Walker, 1 March 1821, quoted in: Sanderson 1925, pp.134-136. 235 In a review of Rudolf Stang’s engraving after the Sposalizio, the marriage of Joseph and Mary, by Raphael, the engraver’s efforts to accurately represent the original were much admired. After Stang had made a faithful drawing of the painting in Milan in 1865, he then spent seven years working on the plate. De Kunstkronijk praised the merits of Stang: ‘that he denied himself in the face of the original, that he renounced all virtuosity and desire to show off with the engraving style, that strictly and soberly he had nothing else in mind than faithfully to give back the painting in its own character. The nicety of its forms, the correct proportion of tone and light and brown, the fervour of the painter’s sentiment, all this has been rendered in masterly fashion. The plate is approximately half as large as the original. The outstanding engraver received the title of professor immediately after the publication of his work’, Anonymous, ‘Kunstnieuws’, De Kunstkronijk 1874, jrg16, pp.23-24. The printmaker’s efforts to obtain an accurate reproduction of the work were also admired by Johan Gram in his discussion of the work of the lithographer J.J. Mesker, see: J. Gram, ‘Schilderij en lithogra-

phie’, Kunstkronijk 17 (1875), pp.50-51. 236 Fawcett 1986, p.204. 237 Renié 1998, pp.46-47. 238 Zilcken 1928, p.50. 239 Letter from G. Courbet to his parents, 13 May

1853, in: Ten Doesschate Chu 1996, pp.104-105. 240 Letter from A. Bredius to the director of the

241 242

243 244

245 246

247

248 249 250 251

252

253

254 255

Rijksmuseum, 28 December 1881, The Hague rma163, no.78. McCauley 1994, pp.66-68. See, for example, Whistler with his preference for the lithographic printer Thomas Way, as evinced in his letter to David Croal Thompson, 21 July 1894 (date of receipt), in: Thorp 1994, pp.142-144. Dyson 1984, pp.43-55. Letter from J.M.W. Turner to W. Miller, 22 October 1841, quoted in: Harrison Wood Gaiger, pp.257-258. Zilken 1928, p.51b. According to Zilcken in his foreword to H.W. Mesdag. The Painter of the North Sea. With etchings and descriptive text by Philip Zilcken, London Paris Melbourne 1896. Letter from E. Ancourt to Arnould, signed by H. de Toulouse-Lautrec, 18 March 1896, quoted in: Goldschmidt Schimmel 1969, p.301. Another example is Whistler who wished to assess photographs of his work before these were published, see: Thorp 1994, p.131. Griffiths 1996, p.137. For example see: Lucas, 23 March 1888, in: Randall 1979, p.666. Letter from D.G. Rossetti to Shields, 7 February 1877, quoted in: Faxon 1995, p.328. Letter from J.A. McNeill Whistler to David Croal Thompson, April 1892, in: Thorp 1994, p.131. Letter from A. Mauve to Tripp & Arnold, Laren 12 July 1886, Fondation Custodia Paris, Inv. 1982 A 84. Letter from A. Allebé to H.P. Bremmer, 13 August 1903, Bremmer Archive Gemeentearchief The Hague. With thanks to Hildelies Balk who drew my attention to this letter. Raimbach 1843, p.115. Letter from A. Allebé to H.P. Bremmer, 13 August 1903, Bremmer Archive, Gemeentearchief The Hague.

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256 Gambart quoted in: Dyson 1984, p.66. 257 Dyson 1984, pp.60-61. 258 Raimbach, p.134.

274

259 Diary of G.A. Lucas, 31 March 1887, in: Randall

1979, p.647. 260 Letter from Whistler to David Croal Thomp-

261 262 263 264 265 266 267

268 269 270

271

272

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son, 13 May 1893 [received], in: Thorp 1994, p.137. Zilcken 1928, pp.43-44. Millais 1899 (ii), p.245. Zilcken 1928, pp.108-109. Parkes 1850, p.19. Memorandum of the Printsellers’ Association, art.3, in: Friend 1883, p.1. Articles of Association, art.4, in: Friend 1883, p.4. Maas 1975, p.39. Despite the interests of this organisation not all prints were registered. Cheap prints sold for less than 1 ½ guineas were not covered by its stipulations, nor were lithographs. So the organisation only reflects the more expensive and exclusive sector of the print market, and not prints associated with the middle or lower classes. See also: Hamber 1996, p.37. Engen 1995, p.25. Parkes 1850, pp.10-11. Parkes 1850, pp.26-29. Parkes admiringly refers to Gambart’s obstinacy in the face of allegations that he had misused the psa’s stamp on non-registered prints. The stock lists issued by the firm of Goupil are part of a long tradition. The first known example of a print publisher’s stock list dates from 1572, and was published in Rome by Antonio Lafréry, see: A. Griffiths, ‘A Checklist of Catalogues of British Print Publishers c. 1650-1830’, Print Collector’s Quarterly 1 (1984) 1, pp.4-22. It is unclear whether the firm of Goupil used different stock lists in each branch, although this is probably not the case. There are no stock lists known from other branches in either the Goupil archives in Bordeaux or in Paris. Moreover, to date I know of no other firm that used different stock lists in their various branches. Extrait du Catalogue General de Goupil & Cie, Gravures Imprimeurs et Éditeurs, Photogravures

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277 278

279

Lithographies et Photographies, Janvier 1877 Paris [1878] In 1869 Goupil established its own photographic workshop in Asnières, for the production of photographic reproductions, see; Renié 1994, p.107. The reason for this is technical. Unlike manual techniques, such as engraving and lithography, photography does not incorporate a principal of ‘states’. Nevertheless, the phenomenon of states does seem to have played a role in photography, for it is reflected, to some degree, in the various photographic series which produced different photographic versions of specific artworks. The later ‘vintage print’, a photograph printed by the photographer in person or in his presence, is also affiliated with the use of states in printmaking, and derives from a demand for a ‘unique’ copy of a print, produced in a technique capable of multiplying an image. In terms of subject the stock list largely reflects the popularity of portraits, genre scenes, landscapes and subjects that today tend to fall outside the spotlight of art history, such as waggons and coaches. For the popularity of prints after works depicting coaches and other means of transport, see: F. C. Daniell, ‘Coaching prints after James Pollard’, The Print Collector’s Quarterly 17 (1930), pp.169-195 and R.B. Fellows, ‘Early Railway Prints’, The Print Collector’s Quarterly 18 (1931), pp.305-329. For the studio of Henriquel Dupont, see: Beraldi viii, 1889, p.85. In the table of contents the stock list explicitly states: ‘Les sujets se faisant pendants ou collections sont groupés en lignes serrées; les sujets isolés sont interlignés.’ Extrait du Catalogue General de Goupil & Cie, Gravures Imprimeurs et Éditeurs, Photogravures Lithographies et Photographies, January 1877 Paris [1878]. Peintures Decoratives du Grand Foyer de L’Opéra par Paul Baudry, Les chefs-d’oeuvre de la sculpture au musee du Louvre, Galeries Modernes, included in: Extrait du Catalogue General de Goupil & Cie, Gravures Imprimeurs et Éditeurs, Photogravures Lithographies et Photographies, January 1877 Paris [1878], p.25-26, 32-34. There were also

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281

282

283 284

285 286 287

diverse illustrated publications for the amateur artist see: Extrait pp.39-44. Extrait du Catalogue General de Goupil & Cie, Gravures Imprimeurs et Éditeurs, Photogravures Lithographies et Photographies, January 1877 Paris [1878], pp.88-91. Zilcken 1928, p.50. Zilcken also made various etchings after works by Jozef Israëls, Matthijs and Willem Maris and Anton Mauve, which were usually published by the Amsterdam firms of Buffa and Schalekamp. Extrait du Catalogue General de Goupil & Cie, Gravures Imprimeurs et Éditeurs, Photogravures Lithographies et Photographies, January 1877 Paris [1878], p.90. Exhib.cat. Bordeaux 2000, p.89. In English, French and Dutch handbooks aspiring printmakers were largely taught the same methods for producing handmade reproductions. There was considerable international movement amongst printmakers. In the early nineteenth century, for example, various Italian printmakers went to Paris; during the Franco-Prussian War various French printmakers went to England. The etcher Philip Zilcken owned a modern translation of the handbook, while Roller cited Bosse in his own contemporary handbook, see: Roller n.y., pp.31-32. For the Industrial Revolution in this connection see: Burke 1978 , p.245. In this connection see also: Dyson 1984, p.84. In the Netherlands, for example, typeface continued to be set and printed in the traditional way for many years, even during the age of industrialisation, see: Janssen 2001, p.111

chapter 4 p. ?



1 Letter from David Wilkie to Thomas Wilkie,

12 September 1827 Lyons, in: Cunningham 1843 (ii), p.455. 2 For the importance of publicity in the art world see, for example: R. Jensen, Marketing Modernism in the Fin-de-Siecle Europe, Princeton 1996; M.C. Fitzgerald, Making Modernism. Picasso and the creation of the market for twenti-

eth-century, Berkeley/Los Angeles/London 1996; and: A. Pullan, ‘For Publicity and Profit’, in   M. Rosenthal, C. Payne, S. Wilcox (ed.) Prospects for the Nation: Recent Essays in British Landscape. Studies in British Art 4, New Haven/ London 1997, pp.261-284. 3 When reviewing a print by C.W. Wass after The Judgement of Paris by W. Etty RA, published by Gambart, the editors of The Art Journal had an opportunity to assess a proof from this plate. Gambart had probably sent this to them in order to advertise the new publication through the journal’s review section, see: Anonymous, ‘Reviews’, The Art Journal, volume xii (1850), p.36. 4 Millais 1899, p.304. 5 Anonymous, ‘Minor topics of the month’, The Art Journal (1852), p.232. 6 For this approach to publishing, see: Anonymous, ‘Foreign lithographs’, The Art Journal (1851), pp.173-174. The Art Journal wrote with regard to the new prints of Derby Day: ‘The etching is commenced, and a portion of it has been printed, the custom in France being different from that usually adopted in this country. There, a work is produced ‘piecemeal’; here an impression is rarely taken until the whole of the subject has been etched. Reports speak in very high terms, and so does the artist most interested, in the thus far production of M. Blanchard’, Anonymous, The Art Journal (1859), p.194. In 1868 The Art Journal published a similar ‘detail reproduction’ after the work Startlet by Edwin Landseer, in which only the centre of the image had been worked up. The Art Journal stressed ‘The picture engraved here is simply a sketch’[…] ‘We introduce the engraving more as an interesting pictorial “curiosity” than as an example of finished Art’, Anonymous, ‘-‘, The Art Journal (1868), p.216. 7 The publication of ancillary material can also be cited in this connection, and is also illustrated by Gambart. After the painter Holman Hunt had checked the print The Light of the World, he wrote a letter to Gambart in which he expressed his admiration for the reproduction. The publisher immediately recognised the commercial value of this letter and dis-

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tributed hundreds of copies as an advertisement for the print, see: Maas 1987, p.72. Quote from: Friedman 1979, p.47. Anonymous, ‘Minor topics of the month’, The Art Journal (1858), p.112. The works in question were two pictures by Franz Xavier Winterhalter, a group portrait of the French empress painted for the Paris exhibition, a threequarter portrait of the English princess in her bridal gown and a work by Barker, Evacuation of Kars. Maas 1987, p.xi, 73. Engen 1995, p.46. These were photogravures in various formats, in print and proof form. For extensive information on this remarkable tour, see: Maas 1987, pp.114-203. The international dimension of such painting tours requires further study. However, it is clear that paintings regularly visited the Netherlands, where they could be viewed by the public and reproductions purchased, as will be seen in the chapter on Lawrence Alma-Tadema. Pullan 1997, pp.272-273. Hamerton quoted in Holt 1981, p.413. Anonymous, ‘Destruction of engraved plates’, The Art Journal (1855), p.314-315, and: Anonymous, ‘Reviews’, The Art Journal (1856), p.32. See also: Anonymous, ‘Kronijk’, De Kunstkronijk, 17 (1856), p.52. Letter from J.A. McNeill Whistler to The Pall Mall Gazette, 1 August, in: Thorp 1994, pp.124125. The etcher Semour Haden also destroyed his own etching plates, see: Merlot 1996, pp.88, 40. This was later followed by a print in an even smaller format, see: Anonymous, ‘Review. The Publications of Messrs. Pilgeram and Lefevre’, The Art Journal (1872), p.175-176. The popular print by C.G. Lewis after Edwin Landseer’s Coming Events Cast Their Shadows Before, published by Graves, was also published in a reduced version after some time, see: Anonymous, ‘Reviews’, The Art Journal (1853), p.68. However, it was more common for plates to be sold, causing ‘market pollution’. The firm of Day & Sons was known for buying up plates from renowned publishers such as Francis Moon, Ernest Gambart and Thomas Agnew,

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21

and then selling prints from these at knockdown prices, see: Day W., ‘Correspondance’, The Art Journal 1855, pp.241-242, and: Anonymous, ‘Action at law. Martin v. Day’, The Art Journal (1855), p.265. During the eighteenth century John Boydell was already in the habit of publishing several reproductions after the same painting; this practice was continued in the nineteenth century by Gambart and Goupil, see: Friedman 1979, p.46. David Wilkie quoted in: Cunningham 1843 i, p.423. David Wilkie quoted in: Cunningham, 1843 i, p.429. Letter from David Wilkie to Abraham Raimbach, 8 October 1816, in: Cunningham 1843 (i), pp.447-448. Wilkie also took prints with him to show on his travels. From Rome he wrote to his brother Thomas: ‘I make quite a show of my English engravings here, where they know nothing of what we can do in this line. They seem to raise their opinion of us greatly’, letter from David Wilkie to Thomas Wilkie, 25 January 1827 Rome, in: Cunningham 1843 (ii), p.395. When Wilkie did not have prints with him in Madrid he wrote to Thomas: ‘Send me a proof of Blindman’s Buff, an etching of Distraining for Rent, a copy of my etchings, and a proof from Duncan Gray. […] as I wish to show them here’, letter from David Wilkie to Thomas Wilkie, 22 November 1827 Madrid, in: Cunningham 1843 (ii), p.476. At a much later date Henri de ToulouseLautrec arranged for unsold prints to be returned to his publisher: ‘Le 30 courant, mon imprimeur Stern passera chez vous, et je vous prie de faire préparer pour les lui livres tous les exemplaires en dépôt chez vous non vendus. Je vous prie également de vouloir bien lui régler ceux qui le sont. Il vous délivrera un reçu en signé de moi,’ letter from ToulouseLautrec to Gustave Pellet, 15 November 1898, included in: Goldschmidt Schimmel 1969, pp.288-289. Gaskell 1995, p.297 et seq. For the distribution of printed matter in France, see: F. Barbier, ‘The Publishing Industry and Printed Output in Nineteenth-Century France’, in: K.E. Carpenter (ed.), Books and Society in History, Bos-

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ton/New York/London 1983, pp.199-230.

22 Maas 1975, p.31.



23 Lafont-Couturier 1994, p.39. See also: exhib.



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cat. Bordeaux 2000, pp.164-167. For Goupil in The Hague see also: B. Boon, ‘Jacob Maris en kunsthandel Goupil’, Jong Holland 15 (1999) 3, pp.15-27. Letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, 19 November 1873, in: Van Crimpen Berends-Albert 1990, no.15. Work by C. Brochart was reproduced on a considerable scale. Van Gogh is also referring here to the print by S.F.B. Morse (1791-1872) after Venus Anadyomène by Ingres, whose épreuves d’artiste sold for 100 francs apiece, see: Extrait du Catalogue Général de Goupil & Cie. imprimeurs et editeurs Paris 1877, p.2. Several months previously Vincent van Gogh had been transferred from Goupil’s branch in The Hague, managed by H.G. Tersteeg, to the firm’s London establishment where he would work from 13 June 1873 to 15 May 1875. The trainee art dealer found the London branch to be very different from Goupil’s establishment in The Hague, for there was no ‘shop’ of the kind run by Tersteeg and the branch mainly functioned as a wholesale operation, supplying local dealers. The emphasis lay on the sale of reproductions in the form of engravings, etchings and photographs, and initially much less on paintings, see: Hulsker 1985, p.43. Lafont-Couturier 1994, p.30. Quote from: Dekkers 1996, p.55. See also: exhib.cat. Bordeaux 2000, pp.31-43. Quoted in: exhib.cat. Bordeaux 2000, p.31. Dekkers 1996, pp.54-61 and Lafont-Couturier 1994, p.33. During the 1850s the publishing house of Dixon & Ross did increasing business in the American market, see: Dyson 1984, p.24. Fidell Beaufort Kleinfield Welcher 1979. Josua, ‘Iets over Photographie’, De Gids 1856 (ii), pp.207-208. In addition to collaborating with colleagues in the publishing field, publishers sometimes acted as agents for companies in related sectors. From 1855, for example, A.W. Sijthoff was a printing press representative for the German engineering works Reichenbach,



32



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35



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37

while his fellow publisher G.J. Thieme was an agent for the German steam press factory Klein, Forst & Bohn, see: Van Lente 2001, p.123. Dekkers 1996, pp.54-61, and: Lafont-Couturier 1994, p.33. In this connection see also: Dyson 1984, p.22. In Amsterdam David Wilkie saw that Buffa was also selling prints after his work published by Boydell, plus various Goupil publications. In 1838, for example, Goupil’s reproductions by Leopold Robert could be obtained at Buffa’s, see: Notice sur la vie et les ouvrages de Leopold Robert, par E.J. Delecluze, Paris Rittner et Goupil, see note in: Anonymous, ‘De Maaiers en de visschers van Leopold Robert’, De Gids 1838 (ii), p.412. Fisher 1999, pp.11-23. Maas 1975, p.35. In 1850 the engraver John Burnet drew attention in The Art Journal to the detrimental effects produced by the reduction in import duties on lithographs, which had allowed the English market to become flooded with French lithographs, see: Anonymous, ‘Autography of John Burnet’, The Art Journal (1850), p.276. see also: Anonymous, ‘Foreign lithographes’, The Art Journal (1851), p.173-174. The Art Journal’s stance reveals the tension between the principle of free trade on the one hand and the protection of a part of national cultural heritage, such as domestic lithographic production, on the other. In accordance with the dominant liberal political morality of the time, the editors of The Art Journal were in favour of free trade. However, the English market was being flooded with cheap lithographs from France, Germany and Switzerland, making it virtually impossible to find English lithographs. Although inspiration through cultural exchange was a good thing, the journal declared, there was a danger of losing national identity, which would lead to to the present and and future print amateur purely basing his judgement on foreign products: ‘and thus he has learned to judge of British Art by a French, German, or Swiss standard ’. There was a danger that this development ‘will denationalize [sic]’, and

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that the English production of reproductions would thereby lose its own qualities; since it was impossible for the English mind to become entirely French or German, this mind would lose its own character and English prints would be no more than secondhand imitations. ‘We shall have hybrid painters and hybrid appreciators’, proclaimed the editors of The Art Journal in 1851. Faced with this vigorous international competition, English lithographers would no longer be in a position to build up their own tradition, thereby endangering their own professional sector. In order to escape from this impasse The Art Journal stressed that it would be pointless to close borders, deeming it wiser to face foreign art and even adopt certain of its ideas. As a bridge between the liberal international trade in prints and technology on the one hand and the preservation of national culture on the other, The Art Journal cited the improvement of copyright, considered in greater detail below. However, the situation in English lithography was illustrated by the fact that the art dealer Ernest Gambart was having lithographs after English artworks, destined for the the English market, produced in Paris. Although this was a snub to English lithographers, The Art Journal tried to view this development in a positive light: ‘It may be accepted as a proof that English Art is Acquiring a favourable position abroad, when we find French artists engaged on the reproduction of the works of our painters’, Anonymous, ‘Reviews’, The Art Journal (1857), p.200. The same Gambart went to court to combat the (illegal) import of German lithographs, see: Maas 1975, pp.111-112. See the commentary in: Catalogus van Schalekamp’s Photographie en kunsthandel, J.M. Schalekamp Buiksloot Amsterdam 1900. Millais 1899 (ii), p.52-55 Millais 1899 (ii), p.122-123. The engraver C.E. Taurel, for example, sold his own prints after Israëls, on which more below. For the small-scale distribution of photographs see: McCauley 1994, p.98. Vincent van Gogh asked his brother Theo van Gogh for Paul Daubigny’s etching after Ruys-

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dael’s Le Buisson ‘which they sell at the printroom in the Louvre’, letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, 20 August 1880, in: Van Crimpen Berends-Albert 1990, no.155. Societies of artists also distributed presentation plates, discussed in the previous chapter. Although there must have been (many?) more prints in circulation, only 18 copies are known, see: Van Tilborg 1993, p.100. Letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, late September 1884, in: Van Crimpen Berends-Albert 1990, no.465. See also: Ten Berge Meedendorp Vergeest Verhoogt 2003, p.61 Millais, too, sometimes sent reproductions to friends and acquaintances, as can be seen from Jan van Beers’ letter of thanks to the painter for an engraving, see: Millais 1899 (i), p.424. For the importance of periodicals in the distribution of reproductions, see: Ivins 1996, p.107, Hyatt Mayor 1971, no.638 and Van Lente De Wit 1993, pp.87-88, 92-93. Johannes 1995, p.7. In this connection see also the flowering of book illustration during the 1830s in: S. Le Men, ‘Book illustration’, in:   P. Collier, R. Lethbridge (ed.), Artistic Relations. Literature and Visual Arts in Nineteenth-Century France, London 1994, pp.94-110. Anonymous, ‘Preface’ (18 December 1832), The Penny Magazine, 1 (1833), p.iii. Ibid. Ibid. For the stereotype technique see: Van der Linden 1990, p.88. Anonymous, ‘The Commercial history of a Penny Magazine ii’, The Penny Magazine 2 (1833), p.421. Anonymous, ‘The Commercial history of a Penny Magazine ii’, The Penny Magazine 2 (1833), pp.420-421. ‘By the adaptation of wood-engraving to the necessities of rapid printing, the impressions of a cut like this can be produced (and we think it will bear comparison with many specimens of wood-engraving printed with the most expensive care) at the rate of eight hundred an hour or ten thousand a day; and thus a fine specimen of art can be placed within the reach of thousands, instead of

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being confined to the cabinets of a few, as the print of Raphael Morghen is, from which it is copied’, Anonymous, ‘The Commercial history of a Penny Magazine ii’, The Penny Magazine 2 (1833), pp. 420-421. Death of General Wolfe by Benjamin West in: The Penny Magazine vii (1838), p.25. Anonymous, ‘Gratuitous Exhibitions of Pictures’, The Penny Magazine x (1841), p.12. Anonymous, ‘Hogarth and his works no.ix’, The Penny Magazine 4 (1835), p.13. For the popularity of Hogarth prints, see: Bindman 1997, pp.29-32. Anonymous, ‘The Commercial history of a Penny Magazine i’, The Penny Magazine 2 (1833), p.378. Anonymous, ‘Preface’ (18 December 1832), The Penny Magazine, volume 1 (1833), p.iii. See also: C. Cohen (introduction), Paper & Printing: The New Technology of the 1830s Taken from the Monthly Supplement of The Penny Magazine of the Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge August to December 1833, Oxford 1982, n.p. ‘Those […] who attempt to persuade the public that cheap books must essentially be bad books, are very shallow, or very prejudiced reasoners. The complete reverse is the truth. The cheapness ensures a very large number of purchasers; and the larger the number the greater the power of commercially realizing the means for a liberal outlay upon those matters in which the excellence of a book chiefly consists - its text, and its illustrations.[…] In cheap publications, the great object to be aimed at, is certainty of sale; and that certainty can only be attained by carrying the principle of excellence as far as can be compatible with commercial advantage. The first element of this certainty is an adequate demand,’ see: Anonymous, ‘The Commercial history of a Penny Magazine i’, The Penny Magazine 2 (1833), p.378. Anonymous, ‘Preface’ (18 December 1832), The Penny Magazine, volume 1 (1833), p.iv. Cohen 1982, n.p. Cohen 1982, n.p. Anonymous, ‘Preface’ (18 december 1832), The Penny Magazine, volume 1 (1833), p.iv. Ibid.



65 Cohen 1982, n.p.



66 Anonymous, ‘The Commercial history of a



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Penny Magazine i’, The Penny Magazine 2 (1833), p.378. Anonymous, ‘The Commercial history of a Penny Magazine ii’, The Penny Magazine 2 (1833), p.421. The sale of such stereos was an important source of income for the publisher Charles Knight. Stereos of entire pages (comprising both text and illustration) were sold on a wide scale to American publishers. Stereos of individual illustrations were also sold on a large scale, mainly to similar publications, see: Cohen 1982, n.p. Barnes 1983, p.236. Hamber 1996, p.105. Anonymous, ‘Printing in the fifteenth and in the nineteenth centuries’, The Penny Magazine vi (1837), p.507. Like many readers Vincent van Gogh greatly admired the countless wood engraving prints in this English publication and collected many of them. After acquiring some new prints he wrote enthusiastically to his brother Theo van Gogh: ‘And what’s more I’ve acquired another ornament for my studio, I’ve had an amazing bargain in splendid woodcuts from the Graphic, partial prints not from the cliches but from the blocks themselves. Precisely the things I’ve been longing for for years. The drawings by Herkomer, Frank Holl, Walker and others. I bought them from Blok the book Jew and had the pick of what was best for five guilders from an enormous pile of Graphics & London News. There are things among them that are superb, including the Houseless and homeless by Fildes (poor folk waiting in front of a night house) and two large Herkomers and many small ones and the Irish emigrants by Frank Holl and the ‘Old gate’ by Walker, and above all a girls’ school by Frank Holl and then that large Herkomer, The invalids. Enfin, it’s just the stuff that I need’, letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, 5 January 1882, in: Van Crimpen Berends-Albert 1990, no.198. Wolff Fox 1973, p.575. Merlot 1996, p.82. Johannes 1995, p.55. For the range of Dutch

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periodicals on sale in the second half of the nineteenth century, see: Maas 1986, pp.40-48. It has been estimated that around 20 million copies in total were sold, but this seems on the low side, given the circulation per week, see: Cohen 1982, n.p. De Kunstkronijk wrote on this subject: ‘They ply a kind of reportership with the drawing pen and should couple with a real artistic talen the indispensable qualities, that characterise a true journalist: a gift for observation, readiness, a multifaceted constitution, a great sense of timeliness and the rare gift of being everywhere at the same time’, Anonymous, ‘De Geïllustreerde pers’, De Kunstkronijk (1875), p.68. Van der Linden 1990, p.45-49. The Art Journal wrote this with regard to The Illustrated London News, see: Anonymous, ‘Autography of John Burnet’, The Art Journal (1850), pp.275-277. Anonymous, ‘De Geïllustreerde pers’, De Kunstkronijk (1875), p.69. Anonymous, ‘L’artiste’, L’Artiste (1832), p.1. ‘Toutes les productions d’architecture, de peinture, de sculpture, de gravure, de musique et de littérature de Paris, de la France et de l’étranger, seront jugées, par notre journal, aussitôt leur apparition, avec sévérité, mais aussi avec conscience. L’Artiste s’occupera de toutes les expositions d’objets d’art ayant lieu ou dans la capitale, ou dans les départements de la France, où dans les principales villes d’Europe’, Anonymous, ‘A nos lecteurs’, L’Artiste (1838) xv, p.149. Anonymous, ‘A nos lecteurs’, L’Artiste (1838) xv, p.149. In 1838 the price of a three-month subscription was 15 francs for residents of Paris; subscribers in the provinces paid 17 francs, owing to the higher mailing costs, see: Anonymous, ‘A nos lecteurs’, L’Artiste (1838) xv, p.151. For L’Artiste see also: Anonymous, ‘L’Artiste’, L’Artiste (1838) xv, pp.169-170. See also: Delaunay, ‘A nos abonnés’, L’Artiste (1839) iv, p.300 and A.-H. Delaunay, ‘A nos lecteurs’, L’Artiste (1841) viii, p.122-124. See: N. Ann Roth, ‘“L’Artiste” and “L’Art pour L’Art: The New Cultural Journalism in the July Monarchy’, The Art Journal (1989), p.35-39.

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Dutch art-criticism in general: Ouwerkerk 2003, pp.134-142. Anonymous, ‘The Art Journal’, The Art Journal 1856, p.357. In terms of its character and content The Art Journal fell between publications concerned with general cultural issues, such as The Illustrated London News, and specialist art journals such as The Athenaeum, see: Hamber 1996, p.109. For the use of these two techniques in journal illustrations see: J. de Zoete, ‘Illustratie en druktechnek in de negentiende eeuw’, De negentiende eeuw, 20 (1996), pp.35-47. Anonymous, ‘A nos lecteurs’, L’Artiste (1838) xv, p.149. The academy, for 24 pupils, was founded in 1840, under the supervision of the Commissioner for Art J.C. Elink Sterk. C. Rochussen made the majority of the drawings engraved by the pupils. Amongst the pupils were E.L. Verveer, J.H. van Hove, J.W.F. Kachel, J. Weissenbruch and J.F. Stam. In addition to K. Fuhri and A.W. Sijthoff, the well-known publisher G.J.A.Beijerinck also undertook to support the art of wood engraving. Instruction at the academy was free and the Maatschappij ter Bevordering van de Beeldende Kunsten undertook to purchase pupils’ work. The society was additionally involved in the foundation of a school for lithography, although it is unclear whether such a school ever existed. After K. Fuhri, the well-known publisher, had supported the school for several years, the institution finally closed its doors in 1849. Efforts by A.W. Sijthoff, the Leiden-based publisher, to found a school for wood engraving for three years also came to nothing. For the wood engraving school, see: Anonymous, ‘Houtsnee-school de heer Brown’, De Kunstkronijk (1840-41), vol. 1, p.7; Anonymous, ‘De Houtsneê-school te ‘s Gravenhage’, De Kunstkronijk (1842-43), vol. 3, pp.15-16; Anonymous, ‘De houtsneêschool’, De Kunstkronijk (1843-44), vol.4, p.80; Anonymous, ‘Kunstberigten’, De Kunstkronijk (1844-45), vol.5, p.8. Anonymous, ‘Proeve van houtgravure’, De Kunstkronijk (1847), vol.8, p.65. Although the technique not considered to be of the same

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standard as in neighbouring countries, there confided in us - by procuring such engravings was progress. Special attention was drawn to as shall worthily represent the original works. We owe it to Mr. Vernon, to the Trustees, to the importance of a good printer, who should the several Artists, and to the Public, to understand the engraver: ‘in a word he should possess a certain artistic sense’. See also: Van perform this task rightly; but it is obviously Lente 1995, p.25. The tradition of reusing our interest to procure such engravings as shall satisfy all parties – looking to the Public images was as long as the tradition of printing for that recompense which is never withheld itself, see: J.H. Landwehr, ‘Hergebruik van where it is deserved. We shall do our utmost illustraties in de Lage Landen’, De Boekenwereld to effect this object - upon faith in which the 14 (1997-1998) 2, pp.70-77, and: T. Jacobi, ‘Made boon was granted: we have thus far the in Holland? Een toelichting op de illustraties testimony of Mr Vernon that the engravings in De Gids’, De Boekenwereld 14 (1997-1998) 4, now finished meet with his entire approval: pp.166-178. in a communication with the engravers who Anonymous, ‘Mengelwerk’, De Kunstkronijk are executing the works, Mr Vernon has said, (1840-41), vol.1, p.4. “I am exceedingly glad that an opportunity Anonymous, ‘The progress of a painter’, The has been afforded me of examining the proofs Art Journal (1854), pp.87-88. which have been taken from the Engravings The Art Journal’s sensitivity to the issue is now finished. They appear to me te be most revealed by its critical response to an article beautifully executed; I trust that when pubin The Times regarding line engraving’s adverse situation in England. Although the lished in the Art Journal, they will be apprecieditors of The Art Journal shared the opinion ated by the Public, and by their diffusion at so moderate a cost, improve and increase the expressed by the author of the article, they taste for the productions of our native Artpointed out somewhat irritatedly that the journal had never flagged in its support for ists.” Testimonials of the Artists, generally, to this technique. Although no more than half a a similar effect, have been supplied to us with dozen prints were under development at the the finished plates: these testimonials we time of writing, The Art Journal had endeavshall print with the Engravings as they appear. We trust, therefore, we may be permitoured for many years to publish some 24 prints in line engraving every year, see: ted to say that we shall materially aid the Anonymous, ‘Line engraving’, The Art Journal progress of Art by the publication of this series of Engravings: bringing them within (1866), p.158. the reach of many to whom they would be Anonymous, ‘Reviews’, The Art Journal (1868), otherwise be inaccessible; while extending p.59. the renown of the Painters, giving effect to Sometimes previously published reproducthe lessons inculcated by their genius, and tions were used. The lithograph after Kruseexhibiting the supremacy of British Art for man, for example, had already appeared in the appreciation and estimation of the World’, L’Artiste, see: Anonymous, ‘Album der kunstkronijk’, De Kunstkronijk (1842-43), vol.3, Anonymous, The Art Journal (1849). pp.31-32. 96 The editors of the journal were entrusted The Art Journal introduced the engraving by with the selection of works from this collection, which mainly comprised old masters, W.H. Mote of Robert Vernon’s portrait by W. Pickersgill R.A. as follows: ‘Although this plus some pieces by living masters. In the case of the latter, the Royal Family stipulated that boon cannot fail to be greatly advantageous to the proprietors of this Journal – such as we the painter should check the prints before are authorised to state Mr Vernon intended it publication, see: Anonymous, ‘The Art-Jourto be - we may presume to add that its publicanal’, The Art Journal (1854), p.349. tion will be of value also to the Public: pro 97 Anonymous, ‘The Art Journal’, The Art Journal (1856), p.357. The majority of prints in The Art vided always, that we duly discharge the trust

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Journal traditionally consisted of paintings van Trigt. Since it was impossible to have this and drawings, supplemented by prints after redrawn as the Presentation Plate for the 19 th volume in so short a time, the Landscape with sculptures and reliefs. In 1847 many lithographs after old masters in cattle by the renowned Rotterdam painter, the Mauritshuis were published in De Kunwhich once formed a jewel of the grand art collection of the late King Willem ii, and stkronijk. Baron H. Steengracht van Oosterland also loaned his old masters for reproduction, whose beauties have been represented with see: Anonymous, De Kunstkronijk 18 (1857), care and talent by the eminently qualified p.95. draughtsman, will indubitably have compenAccording to the editors of De Kunstkronijk in sated holders of the Kunstkronijk lot amply its second year of publication, 1841-42. for the delay, the disagreeable nature of De Kunstkronijk generally featured works by which the publisher has already comprehendDutch masters, see: Anonymous, De Kunstkroed, yet which with the best will he could in no nijk 7 (1866), p.48. way alter,’ see: Anonymous, ‘Kunstnieuws’, De Kunstkronijk 20 (1859), p.48. Sometimes things went wrong during the reproductive process. In 1859, for example, De 102 Letter from Robert to L’Artiste, quoted in: Kunstkronijk published the following anAnonymous, ‘Procès entre M. Léopold Robert, nouncement: ‘The undersigned hereby deauteur du tableau des Moissonneurs, et M. Ricourt, directeur de L’Artiste’, L’Artiste clare that the lithograph after the painting by H.A. van Trigt, representing: Moses abaniv(1832), pp.257-259. doned, and intended as the presentation plate 103 For this affair in L’Artiste v(1833), p.313   and the review of Robert’s Les moissoneurs   for the nineteenth volume of the Kunstkronijk , through circumstances independent of see: Anonymous, ‘La Madonne de l’arc et   les Moissonneurs’, L’Artiste (1839) ii,   their will and despite the efforts of publisher pp.157-158. and editor of the aforesaid monthly, after it had been completed on the stone, during 104 ‘After the above declaration by Messrs. Weisprinting became unfit for the specified pursenbruch and Steuerwald, the publisher and editorial staff of the Kunstkronijk do not have pose.’ F.H. Weissenbruch; J.D. Steuerwald: De Kunstkronijk added: ‘After the above declarato assure, that the delay, which the subscribtion by Messrs. Weissenbruch en Steuerwald, ers have experienced in the reception of the the publisher and editor of the Kunstkronijk Presentation Plate, is entirely through no need not assure that the delay, which the fault of theirs. Deploring the disappointment, subscribers have experienced in the reception which their subscribers and they themselves of the Presentation Plate, is entirely through have experienced thereby, they offer the no fault of theirs. Deploring the disappointassurance, that everything possible is being ment, which both their subscribers and they done by them to make up for that disappointment as quickly as is feasible’, Anonymous, themselves have experienced thereby, they ‘Album der Kunstkronijk’, De Kunstkronijk 20 offer the assurance that everything possible is (1859), p.32. The editorial staff quickly found being done by them to make up for that disappointment as speedily as is feasible’, an alternative print: ‘With the publication of Anonymous, ‘Album der Kunstkronijk’, De this instalment our subscribers will for the Kunstkronijk 20 (1859), p.32. Fortunately the most part have already received the fine and excellent lithograph by J.J. Van der Maaten journal was soon able to announce: ‘With the after J. Kobell, which the publisher has manpublication of this instalment our subscribers will for the most part have already received aged to secure instead of the so untimely the fine and excellent lithograph by J.J. Van miscarried lithograph after H.A. van Trigt. der Maaten after J. Kobell, which the publishSince it was impossible to have this redrawn er has managed to secure instead of the so as the Presentation Plate for the 19th volume untimely miscarried lithograph after H.A. in so short a time, the Landscape with cattle

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by the renowned Rotterdam painter, which once formed a jewel of the grand art collection of the late King Willem ii, and whose beauties have been represented with care and talent by the eminently qualified draughtsman, will indubitably have compensated holders of the Kunstkronijk lot amply for the delay, whose unpleasantness the publisher has well comprehended, yet which with the best will he could in no way alter,’ Anonymous, ‘Kunstnieuws’, De Kunstkronijk 20 (1859), p.48. Letter from J.A. McNeill Whistler to David Croal Thompson, 21 July 1894 [received], in Thorp 1994, p.144. For extensive information on the reproductions in this French art journal see: J. Lieure, ‘La Gazette des BeauxArts et la Gravure’, Gazette des Beaux-Arts 75 (1933) 2, pp. 351-364. Letter from J.A. McNeill Whistler to David Croal Thompson, 21 July 1894 [received], in: Thorp 1994, pp.142-143. For example, P.K. Drossaart of Vlaardingen loaned a painting by Matthijs Maris for reproduction by F.H. Weissenbruch. After the painter had extensively retouched the lithograph, the editor commented that the reproduction was now very different from the original painting by M. Maris, Voor ‘t naar school gaan (Before going to school). De Kunstkronijk wrote: ‘Before going to school is the subject, chosen by Mr M. Maris and well expressed too, in his own particular handling of the scene, of which Mr F.H.Weissenbruch had drawn a lithograph for issue 8, heavily retouched by the painter himself. Mr P.K. Drossaart of Vlaardingen owns a sketchily handled little painting of the same subject by Mr M. Maris, that is magnificent in tone and effect and that he kindly surrendered to us to make the lithograph from. Through the willing cooperation of the painter, which we requested, however, this has again turned out very differently from the small painting’, Anonymous, ‘Kunstnieuws’, De Kunstkronijk 8 (1866), p.56. Millais 1899 (ii), p.121. Wolff Fox 1973, p.577. The Dutch journal De Kunstkronijk quickly

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achieved a circulation of 1200, see: Kruseman 1886 (i), p.184. Anonymous, ‘Minor topics of the month’, The Art Journal vi (1860), p.36. In 1852 visitors of the Amsterdam Society for the Arts: Arti et Amicitiae could find at the reading tables: De Kunstkronijk, L’Illustration, L’Artiste, The Illustrated London News, The Art Journal, Punch and the Deutsches Kunstblatt, see: Ouwerkerk 2003, p.152. Letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, early April 1882, in: Van Crimpen Berends-Albert 1990, no.213. For the programme for the 14th volume, see: Anonymous, ‘Kronijk’, De Kunstkronijk 14 (1853), p.96. For this see also: Kruseman 1886 (i), p.184. The number of subscribers to The Art Journal was in 1860 circa 15,000. The following list gives the numbers for subscribers outside the British Isles: Holland 44, Australia 535, China 70, France 10, America 502, Venezuela 46, East Indies 108, New Zealand 77, Spain 34, Canada 56, Portugal 30, West Indies 185, Bermuda 5. Anonymous, ‘Minor topics of the month’, The Art Journal vi (1860), p.36. Anonymous, ‘Minor topics of the month’, The Art Journal (1863), p. 231. There were also limits to the number of prints that could effectively be produced from a lithograph. Delaunay, the director of L’Artiste, drew attention to the problem of loss of quality during large print runs from lithographic reproductions, see: A.-H. Delaunay, ‘A nos abonnés’, L’Artiste (1840) vi, p.424. As can be seen from the copies of this journal in the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam. With thanks to Hans Rooseboom who drew my attention to this discrepancy. In this respect L’Artiste forms part of a wider development in illustrated journals, in which increasing use was made of photographs during the 1850s, particularly of daguerrotypes, as the basis for reproductions, see: McCauley, p.281. For the use of photograph in the Katholieke Illustratie, see: M. Altena, ‘Verslaggeving of verbeelding? Fotografie als bron bij de houtgravures in de Katholieke Illustratie (1867-

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1900)’, Jaarboek voor Nederlandse boekgeExposition Universelle of 1855, which differed from its predecessor, however, in that exhibischiedenis 3 (1996), pp.111-124. tors had to pay a considerable sum for incluDuring the journal’s fifth year of publication (1844/5) the editor already announced that sion. The Art Journal wrote of this new cataetchings would be included, in order to logue, quoting its French colleagues :‘“a page introduce variety and stimulate this art form. in this book must be a place of honour, which Nevertheless, it was not until the 1870s that every man must be desirous to occupy” but the honour will be somewhat costly.’ The Art etchings regularly appeared in the publicaJournal had borne all the costs for its 1851 tion, which had previously featured Unger’s well-known work. catalogue, see: Anonymous, ‘Paris Illustrated Catalogue’, The Art Journal (1855), p.131. The Anonymous, ‘Our Illustrations’, The Art Journal (1881), p.28. International London Exhibition of 1862 was also accompanied by a two-volume publicaIn 1886 De Kunstkronijk published its first photograph (opposite p.84), a Goupil photogration under the editorship of The Art Journal, of vure after a work by Jozef Israëls. which 50,000 copies were produced. RegardJournal editors were particularly interested in ing the general significance of the catalogue, other publications in the market. In 1858, for The Art Journal wrote: ‘I will be a commercial example, De Kunstkronijk received encourageloss – as it ought to be’, see: Anonymous, ‘Minor topics of the month’, The Art Journal ment from De Dietsche Warande: ‘We hope that the “Kunstkronijk” may continue, also (1862), p.176. Both the exhibition and the catalogue were lambasted in the press, see: through the collaboration of Mr C. Vosmaer […] to make its contribution to the promotion Anonymous, ‘The Official Illustrated Cataof art education, through cultivation of the logue’, The Art Journal (1862), p.208. The editors art history of the Netherlands.’ Anonymous, acknowledged that the exhibition’s organisaDe Dietsche Warande (1858), p.596. For a review tion and associated publicity left much to be of De Kunstkronijk, see also: W.D-s, ‘Het orgaan desired, breathed a sigh of relief when it closed and vowed never again to become der kunst ten onzent’, De Gids (1861) ii, pp.528involved in a large exhibition of this kind, 575. For example De Kunstkronijk wrote admiringly see: Anonymous, ‘Minor topics of the month’, of the ‘brilliant journal’ L’Art: Kunstkronijk 18 The Art Journal (1862), p.226. (1876), p.47. In this connection see also: Anon- 129 Various publications managed to survive in ymous, ‘Nieuwe Boeken’, De Kunstkronijk this way for decades. Although L’Artiste dated (1875), pp.16, 63, 80. from a time dominated by Delacroix and The Dutch publication De Nederlandse Spectator Turner, it was still being published when drew attention to the reproduction of a Picasso was experimenting with abstraction. painting by Hendrik W. Mesdag in the journal De Kunstkronijk and The Art Journal similarly survived many an artist whose work they L’Art, see: Anonymous, De Nederlandsche Spectadiscussed or reproduced. In this respect the tor (1878), p.1. French art journal Gazette des Beaux-Arts is Millais 1899 (ii), p.280. perhaps the most remarkable specimen: In addition to its regular monthly issues, The Art Journal also published special, illustrated founded in 1859 by Charles Blanc, before catalogues, generally to accompany imporManet had painted his controversial pictures, it is still continuing to imform readers about tant exhibitions, such as the Great Exhibition developments in the field of visual art, of 1851. The catalogue for this, ‘a real bibliothrough articles and razor-sharp photographgraphical monument’, was received with ic reproductions. admiration on all sides and formed an impor 130 S. Gorter, ‘Over de jongste tentoonstelling in tant stimulus in the development of exhibiArti et Amicitiae. Tentoonstelling van tion catalogues in general. In France this publication was copied by a catalogue for the schilderijen enz. van levende meesters in Arti

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et Amicitiae te Amsterdam, De Gids 1870 (i), p.33. Goupil’s establishment in The Hague, run by Tersteeg, continued life in the early 1880s under the name Boussod & Valadon Cie: Tersteeg 1910, p.8. In The Hague there was also H.J. van Wisselingh, while the principal printsellers in Amsterdam were C.M. van Gogh and Buffa, see: Dekkers 1995, p.22-36. The best-known London street for art was New Bond Street with windows full of prints, paintings and sculptures, see: Denney 1996, p.11. Altick 1978, pp.412-413. Johan Gram quoted in: exhib.cat. The Hague 1990, p.149. ‘[….] the best means is what I have observed in several academies abroad and in several palaces; that is to have a public room set apart for the exhibition of works of engraving, such as are considerd fine specimens of fine art. Now, if a room in the National Gallery was appropriated for the exhibition of fine engravings of the English school, it would be of advantage to the student, and to give the public a better knowledge of fine engravings’, see: Burnet in Pye, Evidence relating to the art of engraving, p.21. For this see: E.G. Holt, The Triumph of Art for the Public 1785-1848. The Emerging Role of Exhibitions and Critics, Princeton 1979; P. Mainardi, ‘The Double Exhibition in Nineteenth-Century France’, Art Journal (1989), pp.23-28. Anonymous, ‘The Exhibition generale of 1855, and its close’, The Art Journal (1856), p.17. During the 1867 Exposition Universelle in Paris, the firm of Buffa in Amsterdam displayed and offered for sale a proof of Kaiser’s print after The Nightwatch, see: Anonymous, ‘Kunstnieuws’, De Kunstkronijk 9 (1867), p.47. McCauley 1994, pp.86-93. H. de Chennevières, ‘Exposition Universelle de 1889, La gravure du siecle au champ de mars’, Gazette des Beaux-arts (1889), pp.478-486. At the 1845 exhibition in Munich there were also lithographs on display, which was not the case at exhibitions held by the French and English academies. The most important reason for lithography’s absence from such

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events was that during this period it was still regarded as a ‘technique’ rather than an ‘art’; examples of lithography were thus to be found only in association with the applied arts, see: Holt 1983, p.416. Anonymous, The Art Journal (1853), p174. Merlot 1996, p.47. For photography at the Salon, see: P. Burty, ‘La gravure, la lithographie et la photographie au salon de 1865’, Gazette des Beaux-arts (1865), pp.90-95. P. Burty, ‘La gravure et la lithographie a l’exposition de 1861’, Gazette des Beaux-arts (1861) ii, p.172. When a separate gallery was fitted out for engravings in 1863, the Salon exhibition was still not a great success, see:   P. Burty, ‘Salon de 1863. La gravure et la lithographie’, Gazette de Beaux-arts (1863), p.148. The problematic position of printed art at the Salon appears to have been a structural issue. As early as 1835 L’Artiste had drawn attention to printed art’s inferior status: ‘C’est pas notre faute si nous n’avons pas parlé plus tôt de la gravure: car la gravure est celui des arts qui tient le moins de place dans nos expositions, et auquel aussi on ne songe qu’en dernier lieu’, Anonymous, ‘Salon de 1835. Gravures et lithographies’, L’Artiste ix (1835), p.193. For the 1836 Salon see also: ‘La gravure est, sans contredit, l’art auquel les expositions sont le moins nécessaires et qui en tire le moins d’honneur et de profit. Les ordonnateurs du Salon, persuadés de cette vérité, traitent la gravure en consequence. […] Déchiffre qui pourra les cadres condamnés à cette obscurité, les curieux qui ne seraient pas satifaits ont la ressources d’aller examiner dans le plus prochain magasin d’estampes la planche qu’ils n’ont pu bien voir au Louvre.’ Anonymous, ‘Salon de 1836. Gravure et lithographie’, L’Artiste xi (1836), p.181. Rappard-Boon 1993, p.8. His etching after Rubens’ The Tournament was also displayed here. Manet was represented with paintings and prints both at the Salon and the Salon des Refusés, see: Merlot 1996, p.56-58. In response to the uncertainty surrounding admission, the poor display of work and large-scale character of Salon exhibitions, the impressionists organised their own exhibition in

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1874, held in the studio of the photographer Felix Nadar, at which reproductions were also displayed. Bracquemond submitted 32 prints, which included his adaptions of works by Manet, Rubens, Ingres Leys and Turner, plus two states of his print after Holbein’s portrait of Erasmus, see: Melot 1996, p.116. In order to stress prints’ status as artworks in their own right, paintings, pastels, drawings, watercolours and prints were hung together at the first impressionist exhibition, where it was even stipulated that the ratio of paintings and drawings to print-based works should be no more than 1 to 3, see: Melot 1996, p.200. Melot 1996, p.70. Anonymous, ‘Works of Art in Black and White. Dudley Gallery, Egyptian hall, Picadilly’, The Art Journal 1872, p.212. Paul Rajon specialised in reproductions after Meissonier, Gerome, Alma-Tadema and old masters. For Rajon’s contribution to printmaking, see: F.R., ‘Paul Rajon’s etchings’, The Art Journal (1876), p.331-332. For this kind of exhibition, see: Anonymous, ‘The Black-and-White Exhibition’, The Art Journal (1875), p.278-279. The Royal Academy organised similar black-andwhite exhibitions, see: Anonymous, ‘Minor topics’, The Art Journal (1880), p.253. Melot 1996, p.133. In 1873 P. Leroi had already pointed out the importance of such exhibitions which he declared should be imitated in France, see: P. Leroi, ‘La gravure au Salon’, Gazette des Beaux-Arts (1873), p.150. Exposition de gravures du siècle, Galerie Georges Petit, Paris 1887, published in T. Reff (sel), Exhibitions of Modern Prints, New York London 1981. In the introduction to the exhibition Burty wrote: ‘La pensée qui préside à l’Exposition des Peintres-Graveurs est donc en ce moment dans tous les cervaux; il faut donner plus d’importance que jamais à la personalité de la gravure originale. Aucune reproduction de l’oeuvre d’autrui, par quelque procédé que ce soit, n’est admise à cette Exposition’, Burty quoted in: Rappard-Boon 1993, p.23. In England the Watercolour Society had long organised various exhibitions devoted to watercolour works.

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of lithographs in colour and black-and-white, see: Anonymous, ‘Minor topics of the month’, The Art Journal (1854), p.57. Centenaire de la Lithographie 1795-1895. An extensive exhibition of lithography had also been organised several years previously, see: Exposition Générale de La Lithographie, au bénéfice de l’oeuvre l’Union Francaise pour le Sauvetage de l’Enfance, Paris 1891. Both catalogues are incorporated in: Reff 1981. For these exhibitions see: H. Beraldi, ‘Exposition de la lithographie’, Gazette des Beaux-Arts (1891), p.479-496; and:. En P. Leprieur, ‘Le Centenaire de la Lithographie’, Gazette des Beaux-Arts (1896), pp.45-57, 147-162. Hamber 1996, p.253, 268, 272. During the 1850s the percentage of art reproductions was around thirty per cent Hamber 1996, p.276. Specialised photographic exhibitions were also held in the Netherlands, see: Boom 1996, p.93. Altick 1978, p.408 and Holt 1983, p.121. David Wilkie wrote to his friend and patron Sir George Beaumont: ‘The intention I once had of making an exhibition of all my own pictures I have again revived.[…] I shall be glad when you come to town, in order that I may consult you about the various parts of my plan.[…] I have already engaged a very handsome room in Pall Mall, nearly opposite the British Gallery, which, from its size and entrance, is particularly adapted for my purpose, and, from its situation, as highly respectable as any in London.[…] All the […] pictures that are within my reach I am now about to apply for.[…] In the management of every thing, and indeed in the notion of having the exhibition at all, I have been more regulated by the opinion of my friends than by my own judgement.[…] It is not yet known to many people, but after all the pictures have been secured, I intend to advertise it publicly.’ Letter from David Wilkie to Sir George Beaumont 10 March 1812, in: Cunningham 1843 (i) , pp.341-343. During the preparations for this exhibition a few weeks later Wilkie wrote to his sister: ‘I have got so far with my plan, that I have already advertised it in all the newspa­

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pers; and from the attention it has already excited, I think it will make a great noise. I am in hopes of getting the Prince Regent and the Duke of Gloucester to the private view. The exhibition requires me to lay out a great deal of money; and I have to go to town on my pony almost every day. I expect it to open some time in April, and it will continue to open for near two months.’ Private exhibitions of this kind were an irritation for established exhibition institutions, such as the Royal Academy, as Wilkie continued: ‘It is giving great offence to some of my brethren of the Royal Academy, which I am doing all that I can to pacify, although I cannot entirely remove their dissatisfaction’, letter from David Wilkie to Miss Wilkie, 29 March 1812, in: Cunningham 1943, (i), p.346. For this see: letter from Jules Champfleury to George Sand, in: Holt 1981, p.157. Altick 1978, p.408 and Holt 1983, p.121. Anonymous, ‘Exhibition of the Works of Paul Delaroche’, The Art Journal (1857), p.220. The exhibition of prints by Thomas Landseer, in the galleries of the firms Graves and McLean, offer a survey of his graphic works from the previous sixty years, see: Anonymous, ‘The engraved works of the late Thomas Landseer, A.R.A.’ The Art Journal (1880), p.232. The exhibition of work by Cousins presented 182 prints after artists that included Edward Landseer, William Hogarth, John Everett Millais and Frederick Leighton, see: Anonymous, ‘Minor topics’, The Art Journal (1878), p.62. Altick 1978, p.408. The engraver Abraham Raimbach maintained that David was probably one of the earliest artists to exhibit a single work in this manner, his painting The Rape of the Sabines: ‘[it] was, I believe, the first instance of many being received for admission to the view of a picture. On that score a great deal clamour was raised against him by the Parisians, very unjustly in my opinion, while the painting itself was lauded by them to the skies, very unjustly also, as I think’, Raimbach 1843, p.54. After the painting had been displayed in Paris and Rome, it then travelled to London where it was also pub-

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lished in print. The popularity of panorama paintings should also noted in this context. Holt 1983, pp.207-208. Altick 1978, p.412. The London dealer Flatow bought William Powell Frith’s The Railway Station from the artist, including the copyright, for 4500 pounds; he paid a further 750 pounds for the exhibition rights. For this kind of exhibition see: Maas 1975, p.49. During the eighteenth century the English print publisher John Boydell had already spotted the attraction of displaying an original work with its adaptation in 1771, when he exhibited prints together with their original drawings, see: Friedman 1979, p.47. He developed this idea in his well-known Shakespeare Gallery, which displayed reproductions as well as paintings on familiar themes from the famous author’s work. Although the enterprise was not a great financial success, the exhibition of paintings and prints became a familiar part of the London art world. Once Boydell’s project had folded, the Gallery became the headquarters of the British Institution, one of the key organisations in the British art world, and from 1806 regularly hosted exhibitions of art, see: Altick 1978, pp.404-405. Anonymous, ‘Minor topics of the month’, The Art Journal (1858), iv, p.112. ‘It is the very highest effort that lithography can achieve. True to the picture, it is itself an independent creation. This lithograph is exhibited both as it leaves the stone and coloured. The colouring, executed in Paris, is very clever, but we prefer the lithograph pure and simple. This fine engraving will be sure to command an extended sale in this country; and its reception amongst us will not fail, we trust, to be regarded as a graceful expression of our goodwill towards both the French people and the Emperor Louis Napoleon’, see: Anonymous, ‘Minor topics of the month’, The Art Journal (1858), iv, p.112. Anonymous, ‘Minor topics of the month’, The Art Journal (1860), p.222. At an exhibition of The Prison Window and Luff Boy by Phillip and Hook in Jennings’ gallery, various states of

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the reproduction were displayed alongside these original works. The print after Luff Boy was being engraved by Simmons and was not yet finished; the print after The Prison Window, a line engraving by Barlow, was already finished. Both prints were being published by Ernest Gambart. Anonymous, ‘Minor topics’, The Art Journal (1878), p.157. I know of no comparable examples in the Netherlands. 168 Forbes Robertson, ‘The Vienna International exhibition of graphic arts’, The Art Journal (1883), p.405. 169 Letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, 5 January 1882, in: Van Crimpen Berends-Albert 1990, no.198. 170 Burke 1978, p.253. 171 Hoogenboom 1993, p.147. 172 McCauley 1994, pp.85-93. New (photographic) reproduction techniques were also displayed at industrial exhibitions and exhibitions of applied art, see: McCauley 1994, pp.86, 92. At exhibitions of applied art in the Netherlands new reproduction techniques were seldom to be seen as they were in England and France. For submissions to exhibitions of applied art in the Netherlands see: Eliëns 1990, pp.161207. 173 Émile Zola quoted in: Hemmings Robert Niess 1959, p.112. 174 Hamber 1996, p.283 175 Hamber 1996, p.269. 176 Holt 1981, p.12. 177 Whitman 1903, p.2. 178 Whitman 1903, p.5. 179 Whitman 1903, pp.3-17. 180 W.G. Rawlinson, ‘Hints to collectors. Turner’s “Liber Studiorum”’, The Art Journal (1881), pp.100-102. Art Journal (1881), pp.100-102. 181 Pearce 1995, p.21. 182 Nevill 1908, p.83. 183 Link 1995, p.361. Peter Gay stated in Pleasure Wars: ‘Any rapid outline of the nineteenthcentury bourgeoisie can be no more than a charcoal sketch that neglects finer shadings’, see: Gay 1998, pp.5-6. 184 Gay 1998, p.6. 185 Gay 1998, p.55. 186 ‘One can collect fine engravings for all sorts

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of varied purposes: the one collects because he loves everything that serves pomp; another, though an extensive and costly collection, hopes to attain the reputation of a connoisseur and benefactor of the arts; yet another as a pastime and amusement; and finally, the few sensible ones collect to enrich their insights, and to train and develop their taste’, quoted in: Link 1995, p.364. This is also illustrated by the fact that the young Goethe was advised by his father to specialise in prints by contemporary masters. This preference for living masters may also have been influenced by fear of forgery, as work by old masters was often forged and only connoisseurs were able to identify such fakes. This situation gradually changed around 1880 when a new trend for eighteenth-century graphic reproduction emerged in France, see: exhib.cat., Memoires du xviiie siècle, Bordeaux/ Visille (Musee Goupil/Musée de la Revolution Francaise) 1998. Link 1995, p.374. In 1881, for example, W.G. Rawlinson wrote a series of articles with hints for collectors, see: W.G. Rawlinson, ‘Hints to collectors. Turner’s “Liber Studiorum”’, The Art Journal (1881), pp.100-102, 129-133, 301-303. The nature of the journal is illustrated by an article during its first year of publication: F. Bullard, ‘The awakening of the young printcollector to a sense of beauty’, The Print Collector’s Quarterly 1 (1911), pp.573-586. Frederik Muller quoted in: Heijbroek 1981, p.14. See Rijnders 1993, p.131, and: exhib.cat. Amsterdam 1992, p.9. A well-known example is the seventeenth-century atlas by Laurens van der Hem. During the sixteenth and seventeenth century, prints, including reproductions, formed part of the cabinet of curiosities, alongside other works of man and nature, see: Rijnders 1993, p.27. The emphasis often lay on the acquisition of knowledge and the amazement factor, rather than aesthetic pleasure. This is shown by the common tendency to classify prints according to subject rather than artist or school, as these

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were primarily regarded as illustrations of historical figures or events. Alongside this historical classification, however, in the   early seventeenth century there were   already several collections in which the   prints were arranged according to artist, attesting to an eye for the qualities of the   individual artist and print, see: Robinson 1981, p.xxxiii. 194 The largest collection in the seventeenth century, assembled by Abbé de Marolles, was based on both principles of classification. He arranged many prints according to artist, with reproductions after Raphael, Michel­ angelo, Titian de Carraci and Rubens, plus original graphic works by artists such as Dürer and Callot. This huge collection of 234 albums was acquired by Louis xiv and subsequently formed part of the Royal Library, see: Robinson 1981, pp.xxxvii-xxxix. For many years the historical structure of an atlas collection determined the layout of traditional print collections, which were sorted into different categories. Writing in the Mercure de France in June 1727, Dézallier d’Argenville declared that, ideally, every print collection should contain a number of the same prints; three or four prints were required to do justice to the painter’s historical context, the printmaker and the subject. Although the writer’s primary interest was portrait prints, this approach could also apply to graphic reproductions in general and illustrates the various aspects of a reproduction which were combined in a single print. See for more about the structure of eighteenth-century print collections: I.R. Vermeulen, Picturing Art History. The Rise of the Illustrated History of Art in the Eighteenth Century, (diss. Vrije Universiteit) Amsterdam 2006. 195 For the atlas of Bodel Nijenhuis, see: R.E.O. Ekkart, ‘De verzameling portretprenten van Bodel Nijenhuis’, Het Leidse prentenkabinet. De geschiedenis van de verzamelingen (Leids Kunsthistorisch Jaarboek 9), Baarn 1994, pp.311322. 196 Robinson 1981, p.xli. This ‘artistic’ approach to prints was also elaborated in print-related literature from the late seventeenth and

197 198 199

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eighteenth centuries, see: De Jong Luijten 1997, p.24. Exhib.cat. London 1978, p.37. Josua, ‘Iets over Photographie’, De Gids (1856) ii, p.214. For Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema’s photographic collection see: exhib.cat. Amsterdam 1996, p.111. See a letter from Van Gogh to his brother Theo van Gogh of 19 May 1877: ‘Hereby something for your portfolio, namely a lithograph after J. Maris, which one could caption: ‘a poor man in the Kingdom of God’, and a lithograph after Mollinger; have you ever seen this before , I hadn’t yet. Had an opportunity with a book Jew, who supplies me with Latin and Greek books that I need, to pick out prints from a large pile and it wasn’t expensive, 13 pieces for 70 cents. Thought, I wanted to get a few more for my room, that will bring some mood into it and that’s needed in order to have and renew ideas. I’ll now mention what it is, so you’ll know how it looks and what’s hanging there.1 after Jamin (that’s also hanging in your room), one after M. Maris: that little boy that’s going to school. 5 pieces after Bosboom. Van der Maaten, Funeral in the corn. Israels, a poor man on the road in winter with snow, and Ostade, Studio. Also Alleb, a little old woman who’s fetched water and fire on a wintery morning, when the snow’s on the ground, that one I’ll send to Cor on his birthday. The book Jew had many more fine things, but I can’t afford anything else and though I’ll hang it all up, I’m not going to collect’, letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, 19 May 1877, included in: Van Crimpen Berends-Albert 1990, no.114. For this see: auction cat., the sale of property of A. Raimbach (18-19 May 1888, Sotheby’s London, Lugt no.47426; auction cat. for the estate of C.E. Taurel, (27 June-1 July 1893 Amsterdam, Lugt no.51897); auction cat. for the estate of Paul Rajon (15 July 1889 London, Lugt no.48426); auction cat. for the estate of W. Unger (16-18 November 1908, Vienna, Lugt no.66907); sale auction cat. for the estate of Ph. Zilcken (13-15 May 1902, The Hague Nijhoff De Vries, Lugt no.60191). Also the sale of

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204 205

206 207 208

209 210

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prints from the collections owned by the the Netherlands followed France’s example, engravers Luigi Calamatta (20-22 December see: Reynaerts 2001 and Pots 2000, p.43. 1871, Paris, Lugt no.32799), Thomas Landseer 218 Marres-Schretlen 2001, pp.207-208. (14-16 April 1880 London Christie’s, Lugt 219 On 11 February 1885 Jacobus van Looy (1855no.40082), and C.L. Dake (29 July-2 August, 1930) arrived in Rome for the start of his Prix Lugt no.79295). de Rome travels that would extend until 1887. During this trip, which took in Rome, Venice, The exhibition Spiegel van Alledag also highlighted this wider use of prints, see: De Jong Genoa and Madrid, he corresponded intensively with his teacher and director of the Luijten 1997, p.21-24. Rijksacademie, Auguste Allebé, see: F.P. In his study on Remondini’s printing house Huygens, Jacobus van Looy, Wie dronk toen water! A.W.A. Boschloo points to the difference Bloemlezing uit de briefwisseling met August Allebé between the finished ‘stampe fini,’ intended for the social middle classes, and the simple gedurende zijn Prix de Rome-reis 1885-1887, Amsterdam 1975. The photographs in ques‘stampe ordinarie’, see: Boschloo 1998, p.162 et. tion were not only intended to serve as study seq. material but also as references for the copies Schroder 1997, p.83. that Van Looy made of original artworks on Anonymous, ‘Passages de Chailles, Vue des Échelles en Savoie, deux lithographies, par M. his travels, see: Huygens 1975, pp. 199-201, Allebé wrote to Van Looy on 22 July 1886: Champin, d’après Storelli’, L’Artiste (1834) vii, “Thanks for the speedy specification of the p.91. photographs to be purchased. I hope to find Gombrich 1999, p.130; cf also: Gay 1998, p.55. Quoted in: Lambert 1987, p.183. more money for the ones that you specify, for purchase at the end of the year and in so Franken, Handbuch des guten Tones und der doing be able to exhibit Velasquez’ and Murilfeinen Sitten, 23ed 1900; ed. 1977, p.50, quoted in: Gay 1998 ii, p.289. lo’s most important works in the Prado MuWilliam Hazlitt quoted in: Fawcett 1986, seum as photographs alongside the copies”. p.185. He added in a footnote: “That is truly didactic, truly schoolmasterish in intent, but one shall For extensive information on the consumpbe the better for it as compendium and the tion of art and culture, see: M. Berg, H. Clifford (ed.), Consumers and Luxury. Consumer ensemble should look fine. Moreover it will Culture in Europe 1650-1850, Manchester New thereby be impossible for reporters to say: ‘this is in pencil, this is in’ etc. etc.” Allebé York 1999. continued: “In the first place the Academy Research into print culture in the eighteenth century has shown that prints were also really needs the numbers you specify to complete its collection, and thereby shall the owned by members of the elite, see: Hyatt Mayor 1971, il.596. entire public, at least to some extent, be able to judge whether or not the choice is felicitous.” Stephens quoted in: Engen 1995, p.8. Regarding the purchase of a reproduction Anonymous, ‘Minor topic of the month’, The after Velazquez, Allebé wrote to Van Looy on Art Journal (1856), p.29. 12 May 1886 Looy:‘[…] I am going to order the Robinson 1981, p.xxxvii-.xxxix Hilanderas [Velazquez’ Las Hilanderas: the Pots 2000, pp.53-54. Little is yet known about the nature, size and spinners] for the Academy, the Braun photograph, I mean. […] I saw a copy of the same influence of libraries. For the role of lending size at the Ecole des Beaux Arts and do not libraries in the Netherlands between 1700need to tell you, whether I hold it to be some1850 see: P. Hoftijzer, ‘Leesonderzoek in Nederland over de periode 1700-1850. Een thing extremely uncommon. Nevertheless I thought I should propose the Borrachos stand van zaken’, in Bladeren in andermans [Velazquez’ Los Borrachos: the drinkers] as a hoofd. Over lezers en leescultuur 1996, pp.164-182 more academic nude and thus for a school of Duro 2000, pp.133-149. In this respect also,

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226 227 228 229 230

still greater value to possess a good copy. And it was the little study that caught Mr Verwey’s eye, which told me that you would do it excellently. ‘La note’, which is more vehement, in the little piece, made me hope and expect that the tone of the Drinkers would be entirely to your taste. Although I must agree with you that the most accepted masterpieces are not always the finest and highest works of the masters, I am of the opinion that at this instant the Weavers would still be too special for our academy and the choice of the other does not yet grieve me. I still welcome your thoughts in this area.” Quote from: Huygens 1975, pp. 172-173. On 5 June 1886 Allebé informed Van Looy that he had ordered the photograph in question from Theo van Gogh in The Hague, see: Huygens 1975, p.183. Huygens 1975, p.186. Huygens 1975, p.186. The Dutch writer Frans Erens studied at the Ecole the Beaux Arts, where he followed the classes of the influential critic Hyppolyte Taine and wrote in his memoirs: ‘After the lessons he used to show the reproductions of the paintings, of which he had spoken, and we discussed about them’, Erens 1989, pp.169170. Rijnders 1993, p.331. Koschatzky Strobl 1969, pp.38-44. For extensive information on the British Museum’s print collecting activities, see: Griffiths 1996. Pots 2000, p.65. Tholen 1994, pp.14-17. Whitman 1903, p.141 Rijnders 1993, p.346. Anonymous, ‘The Collection of Engravings at the South Kensington Museum’, The Art Journal (1857), p.262. From its inception the South Kensington Museum planned to create a print collection. See also: Anonymous, ‘Minor topics of the month’, The Art Journal (1858), p.373. The success of the Great Exhibition in 1851 led to the foundation of the South Kensington Museum, accommodating an extremely diverse collection of art and applied art. The foundation for the print collection was laid by the gift of the Sheepshank

231 232 233 234 235

collection, which contained many reproductions after old and living masters. The museum thus occupied a middle ground between the National Gallery ( which specialised in painting), on the one hand, and the British Museum on the other; although the latter operated in a wider field than the visual arts – and owned a substantial print collection – it mainly focused on historical artefacts. The South Kensington Museum’s position determined the creation and composition of it collections: the institution not only employed a broader concept of ‘art’ in its collecting policy – the applied arts were included in its remit – but was also educational in character and aimed at the general public, see: Denike Kahsnitz 1977, p.88-104. The British Museum’s enormous collection made this institution less accessible to the general public, see: Hamber 1996, p.394. Whitman 1903, p.137. Tholen 1994, p.17. V.de Stuers, ‘Holland op zijn Smalst’, De Gids (1873) iv, p.347. Pots 2000, pp.140-141; see also note 120 on p.488. See, for example: mus.cat.‘Teyler’ 1778-1978. Studies en bijdragen over Teylers Stichting naar aanleiding van het tweede eeuwfeest, Haarlem 1978, p.19. A remarkable public print collection was the ‘Circulating Collection’ in England, which was a collection without a museum. Devised by Henry Cole and established in 1852, the collection travelled to many museums and institutions. It consisted of original works of art and reproductions after both old and living masters, and provided the Ministry of Science and Art with an important instrument for exposing the public to art, see: Hamber 1996, p.433. For this circulating collection, see: Cripps, ‘The Reproductions of Foreign Art in the South Kensington Museum’, The Art Journal (1888), pp.171-176. Further study should offer insight into the question of which artists profited, and to what degree, from this government-sponsored collection of reproductions. From the 1860s onwards, the South Kensington Museum also made a significant contribution to

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this collection, see: Hamber 1996, p.393. The museum also received considerable subsidies to produce and distribute photographs of works from its own collection, see: Hamber 1996, p.428. In-house photographer Thurston Thompson was facilitated in this task by a well-equipped photographic studio especially designed for reproducing artworks, which produced a stream of high-quality, affordable photographs. Thompson was also involved in the commercial reproduction of artworks: during the 1860s he collaborated with Ernest Gambart on the reproduction of well-known pieces by Rosa Bonheur and William Powell Frith, see: Hamber 1996, p.416. In the late nineteenth century the idealistic torch was taken up by Whitechapel Picture Exhibitions, which organised art exhibitions accompanied by catalogues with high-quality reproductions for people of limited means, see: Sherman Rogoff 1994, p.43. Whitman 1903, pp.133-142. Prints were sometimes pasted into special art books. Albums were classified according to a collector’s preference, by subject, artist or technique. It is extremely rare to find these early print collections from the sixteenth and seventeenth century in their original form, for they have mostly been split up by dealers who can make more money by selling the prints individually. Traditional albums have also been sacrificed in favour of a more modern classification systems. Albums were regularly kept in special cabinets until the early eighteenth century, when these were replaced by ‘art cabinets’, specially designed for storing many albums with prints. For this see: Van Berge-Gerbaud Menalda Plomp Van Tuyll van Serooskerken 2001 p.95. For collector’s cabinets see also: Fock 2001, p.282. For similar developments in the collection of prints in Germany and Austria see: Reisenfeld D’Alessandro 1992, pp.19-31. Letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, 3 June 1882, in: Van Crimpen BerendsAlbert 1990, no.235. Van Gogh actually regarded his collection as the property of his brother. ‘I should also tell you that it’s going well with my collection of woodcuts just now,

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which I regard as belonging to you, while having usufruct of this’, letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, 1 or 2 June 1882, in: Van Crimpen Berends-Albert 1990, no.233. A likely explanation for this is that Van Gogh’s prints were so important to him that he wanted them to be regarded as Theo’s property if he went bankrupt. Later in the painter’s career he also designated his sketches as his brother’s property, for the same reason, see: letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, 25 or 26 July 1883, in: Van Crimpen Berends-Albert 1990, no.370. Boom 1996, p.96. Anonymous, ‘Een schuld die niet verjaren mag’, De Kunstkronijk 7 (1865), pp.93-95. De Kunstkronijk also mentioned an album published by Robert Binger of Haarlem with photographs of sketches and drawings by living masters ‘[…] destined in its deluxe portfolio to become a showpiece in our salons. Nicely executed and chosen with care, this collection deserves to meet with the widest sympathy’, Anonymous, ‘Kunstnieuws’, De Kunstkronijk (1866), vol.7, p.16. ‘Binger’s deluxe album belongs in the salon of every civilised Dutch citizen’, Anonymous, ‘Een schuld die niet verjaren mag’, De Kunstkronijk 7 (1865), pp.93-95. Letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, c. 25-29 January 1883, in: Van Crimpen Berends-Albert 1990, no.306. Anonymous, ‘Minor topics of the month’, The Art Journal (1868), p.195. A fine specimen in Biedermeier style can be seen in a watercolour by H.F.C. Ten Cate of Queen Sophie’s writing room, see: Fock 2001, p.309. H.P.G. Quack, ‘Belvedere in Weenen. Met etsen van Unger’, De Gids (1879) iv, p.379. From early inventories we know that prints were regularly pasted onto panels on the wall. Some paintings also show prints hanging on the wall, sometimes in frames, see: De Jong Luijten 1997, p.21. Drawings had a much longer history of being framed and hung in this way, see: Lambert 1987, pp.180-183. A possible explanation is that drawings were regarded as a unique work of art and thus had another status in the interior than prints. The

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use of prints as wall decorations was extremely popular from the early eighteenth century onwards. When glass became cheaper, prints, like drawings and paintings, were also framed behind glass. From circa 1730 a desired for greater uniformity in the interior made it customary to frame prints, drawings and paintings behind glass, see: Mitchell Roberts 1996, pp.43-44. Lambert 1987, p.183. This form of interior decoration spread from France to England. During the 1760s a mania developed for ‘printrooms’, in which the walls, and sometimes even the ceiling, were covered from top to bottom in prints, together with grotesques and other kinds of ornament, occasionally arranged symmetrically. An exceptional interior is the ‘Raphael Room’ in Charlottenburg Castle, furnished with prints by the renowned engraver Giovanni Volpato. During the second half of the eighteenth century these printrooms inspired wallpaper with print-based designs, see: Mitchell Roberts 1996, p.66. See: Théophile Gautier, ‘Salon de 1841’, in: E.G. Holt The Triumph of Art for the Public. 1785-1848. The Emerging Role of Exhibitions and Critics, New Jersey 1983, p.372. Anonymous, ‘Van der Helst’. De Gids (1857), p.565. Anonymous, ‘The recent publications of Messrs. Rowney in Chromolithography’, The Art Journal 1869, p.84; see also: Anonymous, ‘Minor topics of the month’, The Art Journal 1855, p.308. Lafont-Couturier 1994, p.96. C.Vosmaer, De kunst in het daaglijksch leven. Vrij naar het Engelsch van Lewis Foreman Day. Tweede vermeerderde uitgaaf, The Hague 1886 (first edition 1884), see also: Maas 1989, p.138 and C.L. Eastlake, Hints on household taste in furniture, upholstery and other details, London 1872. Vosmaer 1886, pp. 164-165. W.G. Rawlinson, ‘Hints to collectors. Turner’s “Liber Studiorum”’, The Art Journal (1881), pp.100-102. Anonymous, ‘Picture-Frames in Fictile Wood’, The Art Journal (1871), p.94. Fock 2001, p.430.

256 J. Janin, ‘Le Salon de 1840’, L’Artiste 1840 v,

p.302. 257 Fock 2001, p.458. 258 Letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van

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260 261

262 263 264

265 266

267

Gogh, 22 July 1878, in: Van Crimpen BerendsAlbert 1990, no.144. W.G. Rawlinson, ‘Hints to collectors. Turner’s “Liber Studiorum”’, The Art Journal (1881), pp.100-102. L.F. Day, ‘How to hang pictures’, The Magazine of Art 5 (1882), pp.58-60. Diary of Anne Frank, 11 July 1942, from: A. Frank, The diary of a young girl, London 2001, p.26 Anonymous, ‘…’De Gids, (1870) (iii, iv), pp.138139. Nevill 1908, p.87. Vincent van Gogh wrote to Theo van Gogh: ‘Talking of woodcuts, this week I found some fine ones, from l’illustration, it’s a series by Paul Renouard, Les prisons de Paris; what fine things there are amongst them. When I can’t sleep at night, which often overcomes me, I always rifle with pleasure through the woodcuts’, Letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, 9 September 1882, in: Van Crimpen Berends-Albert 1990, no.262. Bremmer 1906, p.217. With thanks to Hildelies Balk who drew my attention to this. For example, his involvement in the reproduction of work by Van Gogh, see: Hammacher in: De la Faille 1970, p.24. ‘In order to inform ourselves of the qualities of these frescoes even at a distance we still own reproductions of the original drawings, faithfully rendered by Marcantonio Raimondi, who has often given us opportunity and reason to refresh our memory and to note our observations’, Oranje W. (trans.) Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Italiaanse reis, Amsterdam 1999, p.476. In 1825 Goethe wrote in similar vein to his good friend Eckermann:   ‘I read every year several plays of Moliere,   just as from time to time I look at engravings after the great Italians masters. We petty beings are not capable of preserving within   us the greatness of such productions, and   we must, therefore, return to them again   and again, in order to refresh our impres-

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sions’, see: Pollak 1914, pp.248-251. 268 Anonymous, ‘Un vieux soldat, par Léon Noel,

d’après Charlet’, L’Artiste (1835) x, p.98. The photographic reproductions of sketches and drawings by living masters were lauded for ‘the faithful and accurate way in which the character of the masters’ conception and execution is represented’, and Binger’s album was described as ‘a good souvenir of the Dutch art of our age.’ Anonymous, ‘Kunstnieuws’, De Kunstkronijk (1866), vol.8, p. 71. The new reproductive techniques allowed many people to see and even own an image of an unattainable original, as Wilson indicated in The Art Journal: ‘But even to the enthousiasts for Art the modern mechanical abridgment of labour is not an unmixed evil, for it offers many compensations by spreading the refinements of life. Not the least certainly of such compensations is the means of bringing large numbers of people under the elevating influences of Art, by multiplying excellent copies of the highest works of human genius with cheapness which brings them within the reach of thousands who can rarely see, and never possess, originals of the higher merit; for these must ever be too costly for any but the wealthiest to acquire.’, H. Wilson, ‘Modern Processes of reproduction’, The Art Journal (1880), p.270. 269 Letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, circa 9 July 1889, in: Van Crimpen Berends-Albert 1990, no.792. 270 According to E.H. Gombrich in his study The Use of Images, on eighteenth-century reproductions: ‘I believe there is a subtle but important change here in the function of the picture on the wall’, see: Gombrich 1999, pp.128-129. 271 ‘There is one admirable work which would be an invaluable possession to me. It is by Cornelius Galle, after Rubens, and represents four Fathers of the Church discussing some weighty ecclesiastical doctrine. I have Ruben’s original sepia drawing. The engraving is of the same size and gives a clear idea of that profound and most carefully elaborately composition. I need not tell a friend and art critic like yourself how two such productions, laid side by side, add to each other’s value, the

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one showing us what the painter intended to do and what he accomplished, and the other how the engraver, in transferring and translating the painter’s thought, proved worthy of so high a task. Indeed, one may say that each can only be thoroughly known in the light of the other, and that only in this way becomes possession truly valuable’, letter from Goethe to J.F. von Rochlitz in Leipzig, quoted in: Pollak 1914, pp.270-271. Even during the seventeenth century, reproduction by an engraver was not regarded as a purely mechanical or slavish activity, for there was always room for the the printmaker’s own interpretation of an original work, see: Robinson 1981, p.xliv. For this approach to reproductions, see also: Oscar Wilde in his dialogue The Critic as Artist: ‘The etcher of a picture robs the painting of its fair colours, but shows us by the use of a new material its true colour-quality, its tones and values, and the relations of its masses, and so is, in his way, a critic of it, for the critic is he who exhibits to us a work of art in a form different from that of the work itself, and the employment of a new material is a critical as well as a creative element’, Wilde 1997, p.990. Gautier quoted in De Gids (1857) i, pp.563-564. The Dutch translation of this quotation had previously appeared in: A.J. Bull, ‘Van der Helst-Kaiser 1648-1848’, De Kunstkronijk 17 (1856), pp.59-60. Letter van Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, c. 9 June 1889, in: Van Crimpen Berends-Albert 1990, no.781. From: Henry Josi’s Two Papers on the Classification and Cataloguing of the Print Collection, 1840, quoted in: Griffith 1996, p.289. For this see: Griffith 1996, p.289. ‘People like to see the pictures which live again in engravings; they like to compare the engraving with the original, and thus the engraving attains to a peculiar interest through the power of association.’ Anonymous, ‘Minor topics of the month’, The Art Journal (1858) .iv, p.112. Anonymous, ‘..’De Gids (1842) i, p.64. Anonymous, ‘Reviews’, The Art Journal (1851), p.36. For the career differences between

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painter and engraver see: T.T. Greg, ‘The engravings of Richard Earlom’, The Art Journal (1886), p.241. Anonymous, ‘Reviews’, The Art Journal (1858), p.192: discussion of prints after E. Landseer by T.L. Atkinson, T. Landseer, S. Cousins and J. Faed, published by H Graves & Co in London. This plate (Titiana and Bottom, Fairies attending: a scene from ‘A Midsummer Nights Dream’) was by Samuel Cousins who had worked on it for four years. The graphic rendering of colour remained a problem during the nineteenth century. Various attempts were made to achieve this. Once Newton had unravelled the laws of light and colour, numerous experiments were conducted to reproduce colour in graphic media. The experiments of J.C. Le Blon in the early eighteenth century are a well-known example. Efforts continued during the nineteenth century, although results often remained experimental and only rarely led to the introduction of successful graphic techniques, while the challenge of capturing the wealth of colour in paintings remained undiminished in magnitude. For example, see the review of Kaiser’s engraving after a painting by David Bles in the Aurora-Almanak for the year 1858: ‘[…]the point of painted wit lies in applied colours, which are impossible to render in the engraving. If one had wished to insert a plate after the fine painting, one should have made an exception to the custom, and should have provided a fine coloured print.’ De Gids (1858) i, p.489. The Art Journal was also critical about a print by Simmons after a painting by E.M. Ward, God Save the Queen; although the translation of shadows and highlights was poor, ‘still the subject is sufficiently popular in its character to bring success to the print’, Anonymous, ‘Reviews’, The Art Journal (1860), p160: discussion of a print by Simmons after ‘God save the queen’ by E.M. Ward, published by the Lloyd Brothers, London. Regarding F. Weissenbruch’s lithographic reproduction after A. Dillens, De Kunstkronijk wrote: ‘The able lithographer has very felicitously succeeded in conquering the great diffi-

284 285 286

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culties, which always occur, where the rendering of the many colours in a painting through the sole means of black and white, and light and brown, has to be expressed only through his scale of tones between black and white. In the painting the varying objects easily detach themselves from each other through varying colours; the lithographer – and the engraver likewise – have to avail themselves of all kinds of different processes, altering the relationship of tones here and there, in order to obtain the same effect. As regards all this, and equally the witty expression of the heads, the lithograph is most felicitous. We hope that the prints are similarly successful, to which end the precision of the drawing and Mister Steuerwald’s press offer the best guarantees’, Anonymous, ‘Kunstberigten’, De Kunstkronijk (1859), vol.1, p.88. Link 1995, p.368. Quoted in: Lambert 1987, p.78. Anonymous, ‘Het Hemicycle van Paul Delaroche gegraveerd door Henriquel Dupont’, De Kunstkronijk (1861), vol.3, pp.9-11. ‘The composition falls as it were into two parts: a light and a dark part. In fact the work consists of two scenes which the critic believes could not be surveyed by the eye in one go. This difference is even more obvious in the print than in the painting as the use of colour was able to conceal the problem somewhat’, see: Anonymous, ‘Reviews’, The Art Journal (1859), p.95. The print was by C.W. Sharpe. ‘They carried their art as far as it can go: to reach Turner by such a process is impossible, and we confess to entertain a greater love for the engraver’s copies of the master, than for the colour-printer’s: the mind and the eye are not distracted by black and white: both are disturbed by such positive hues as are here,’ Anonymous, ‘Reviews’, The Art Journal, (1858), p.128. ‘Stopped in at Williams & Stevens & bought two imitation water colour drawings, imitated in the printing. Subjects L’Allegro & Il Penseroso. Artist-Absalon-England. Price $5 the pair’, journal of G.A. Lucas, 26 November

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nieuws’, De Kunstkronijk (1874), vol.16, pp.23-24.

1852, quoted in: Randall 1979, p.4. 290 Although commercial considerations also

played a role in such reviews, critics were critical towards subject or execution in other instances. 291 Anonymous, ‘Reviews’, The Art Journal (1854), p.60: discussion of the lithograph The Highland Gillie by V. Brooks after R. Ansdell, published by Lloyd Brothers of London. At a later date The Art Journal wrote of Rowney’s colour lithographs: ‘such as are desirable acquisitions in homes where works really excellent are coveted, but in which costly originals are not attainable. And as means of intellectual enjoyment the accurate copies are quite as good’, Anonymous, ‘Reviews’, The Art Journal (1876), p.223. 292 Letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, October 1885, in: Van Crimpen Berends-Albert 1990, no.538. 293 Ivins 1996, p.122 et seq. For this see also: Alophe,‘L’Avenir de la Photographie’, L’Artiste 1861 xii, pp.61-63; see also: D. Diderot, ‘De la gravure et des amateurs d’estampes’, L’Artiste (1865), pp.151-152. 294 The critic Henri Delaborde, quoted in: Renié 1998, p.46. 295 T. Gautier, ‘L’oeuvre de Paul Délaroche photographieé, L’Artiste (1858), p.153-155. 296 Bremmer 1906, p.219. 297 Bremmer 1906, p.220. 298 Bremmer 1906, p.222. 299 Bremmer 1906, p.223. 300 The format of the original was sometimes inscribed in the margin of the print, informing the observant viewer of the image’s original size. 301 See, for example, the report on the Mandel engraving after Raphael’s Madonna della Sedia: ‘For the coppper plate of his engraving after the Madonna della Sedia, Prof. Mandel has commanded 11,000 thalers from the publisher, together with the right to 1,000 prints (to the value of 10,000 thalers), together thus 21,000 thalers. Incidentally the artist spent eight years on this work’, Anonymous, ‘Kunstnieuws’, De Kunstkronijk (1865), vol.7, p.64. The engraver Stang spent seven years on his print after Raphael, see: Anonymous, ‘Kunst-

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works by Wilhelm von Kaulbach, for example, see: Anonymous, ‘De Goethe galerij. Goethe’s vrouwen naar teekeningen van Wilhelm von Kaulbach’, De Kunstkronijk (1861), vol., pp.25-27. T.Gautier, ‘L’oeuvre de Paul Délaroche photographiée’, L’Artiste (1858), p.155. For the evaluation of large-format reproductions in the journal L’Art, see, for example: Anonymous, ‘Nieuwe Uitgaven’, De Kunstkronijk (1875), vol.7, pp.63, 80. Discussing the lithograph by F.H. Weissenbruch after Voor het naar school gaan (Before going to school) by Matthijs Maris De Kunstkronijk emphasised the painter’s own contribution to the reproduction, see: Anonymous, ‘Album der Kunstkronijk’, De Kunstkronijk 8 (1866), p.56. ‘The Picture being just finished, is fresh, clear, and perfect; the Master, who painted it, upon the Spot, and anxious for his Reputation (which in some Measure, is to stand or fall by this Criterion) and consequently is both able and willing to give the Engraver all the necessary Advice and Assistance he can require, to forward him in the Execution of his Work; an inestimable Advantage to an Engraver, an Advantage which he can never have in following the Work of an Old Master, perhaps a Copy’, John Boydell in: Alexander 1983, p.53. P. Burty, ‘La gravure et la lithographie. Salon de 1863’, Gazette des Beaux-Arts (1863), p.159160. Philip Zilcken was also advised by the experienced printmaker Charles Waltner to etch contemporary art, rather than reproduce old masters, see: Haaxman 1896, p.15. This is not to say, however, that an artist always guided the reproductive process in the direction of a facsimile of the original work. It is conceivable that his aim, too, was not so much to replicate the original work but rather to produce a new interpretation of this. In the following chapters I shall return to the artist’s involvement in the reproductive process. Anonymous, ‘Reviews’, The Art Journal (1851), p.36. The prints, after works by C. Lance, were made by M.L. Graf and J.W. Giles, and published by Gambart.

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309 Mitchell Roberts 1996, p.70. For the impor-

310 311

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tance of frames to the Pre-Raphaelites, see: Roberts 1995, pp.57-86. Lambert 1987, p.191. For prints after works from the Vernon Collection, see the introduction in the first issue of The Art Journal, i, (1849). As Wilson declared in 1880: ‘[…]we believe the possesion of a few first-rate copies of first-rate originals, to be brought out at home as a real recreation and relief from the engrossing business of life, to be known and conned with the relish with which we examine and reexamine only a favourite possession, is likely to do more to engender and foster a real love of Art than any amount of wearing and tiring “doing” of Art galleries is like to accomplish. We may congratulate ourselves that this rapid diffusion of Art works is advanced beyond the region of desirability, and is already an accomplished and growing reality’, H. Wilson, ‘Modern processes of reproduction’, The Art Journal (1880), p.270. In 1859 Baudelaire made an interesting observation: ‘There exists in this world, even in the world of artists, people who go to the Louvre, … and settle down dreamily in front of one of the paintings most widely popularised in print, a Titian or a Raphael; later, they leave, satisfied, often murmuring to themselves: I know my museum’, see: Merlot 1996, p.11. Anonymous, ‘De tentoonstelling te ’s Gravenhage, voor den jare 1853’, De Kunstkronijk (1854), vol.5, p.11. Gombrich 1993, p.251. Gombrich 1993, pp.4-5. Bremmer 1906, pp.218-219. Johan Gram quoted in: exhib.cat. The Hague 1990, p.149.

chapter 5 p. ?

1 Thoré quoted in: exhib.cat. Dordrecht 1995,



2 Ewals 1985, pp.271-293. For extensive informa-

p.11. tion on the life and work of Ary Scheffer, see: Grote, Memoirs of the life of Ary Scheffer, London

1860; H. & C.Vosmaer, Ary Scheffer’s leven naar het Engelsch van Mevr. Grote. Door H. Met ene opgave van Scheffer’s werk naar tijdsorde, door mr. C. Vosmaer, Amsterdam 1861; M. Kolb, Ary Scheffer et son temps 1795-1858, Paris 1937; and: L.J.I. Ewals, Ary Scheffer. Sa vie et son oeuvre, Nijmegen 1987. 3 Beraldi 1885-1892 [xii], pp.14-15. 4 Exhib.cat Dordrecht 1995, p.23. The subject is a 1794 battle between the English and the French, with an explicitly liberal and republican flavour. Although Scheffer was himself a confirmed liberal, it is not known if this print was made and distributed at his behest. It is also conceivable that the initiative came from the printmaker De Lasteyrie, as he also belonged to the liberal opposition during the repressive Restoration period and may have used the new medium of lithography as a tool for disseminating liberal and republican ideas. After De Lasteyrie’s death Scheffer painted a portrait of this leading liberal and lithographer. In addition to this early print the collection also contains various lithographs made during the 1820s and later. In 1826, for example, the lithographer Antoine Maurin (1793-1860) produced a lithograph after Scheffer’s painting Griekse meisjes die tijdens een veldslag de Heilige Maagd om beschreming smeken (Greek girls imploring the Holy Virgin for protection during a battle), which the Duchess of Orleans had given to her husband LouisPhilippe. This work also reflects Scheffer’s political leanings, through its reference to the contemporary Greek struggle for independence, a cause supported by the liberal Duke of Orleans. Another early reproduction is a lithograph by Marin Lavigne after Scheffer’s 1828 history painting Anna koningin van Oostenrijk weigert Broussel vrij te laten (Anne Queen of Austria refusing to release Broussel), a work, commissioned for the picture gallery at the Palais Royal, and subsequently lost during the 1848 Revolution, see: exhib.cat. Dordrecht 1995, pp.24-25. In the 1830s various prints were made by renowned lithographers such as H. Garnier (1802-1855), after Scheffer’s portrait of Theodore Gericault, and L. Noël, after Le Roi de Thulé and after portraits of

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Rossini and Liszt. Scheffer’s pupil, M. Fajans also produced a lithograph after Le Giaour. An early engraving after Scheffer’s work is an 1825 print by Alfred Johannot after the 1823 painting Les Orphelins. In De Kunstkonijk the print was attributed to Tony Johannot, who worked for various publishers in Paris: ‘Finally he chose two works to his own taste, the Orphans and Lost Children by our Scheffer, and both these engravings procured him a place above a number of mediocrities’, Anonymous, ‘Tony Johannot’, De Kunstkronijk (1854), p.91. Although Henriquel-Dupont’s renown largely rested on his engravings, he also practised other graphic techniques and produced such works as a lithograph after the painting Marie d’Orleans assise dans son atelier (1838). By the engraver A. Louis (1815-1852) there is a print after Scheffer’s Mignon regrettant sa partie and Mignon aspirant au ciel; Francois produced engravings of Marguerite a l’Eglise and Mignon et le vieux joeur de harpe. Prévost had worked with Henriquel-Dupont in the studio run by the renowned engraver Charles Bervic, see: Beraldi 1885-1892[xi], p.44-47. An Italian by birth, he made his name chiefly in France, with prints after Ingres and old masters. He had moved to Paris on the advice of the French engraver C.E. Taurel and soon became a familiar figure in the circle of Ingres, George Sand and Scheffer. In 1836 his pupil Luigi Calamatta was appointed professor of engraving at the École des Beaux-Arts in Brussels. Another relevant printmaker in this connection is the English engraver G.T. Doe, one of the few engravers to belong to the Royal Academy. Doe, who also bore the title ‘Historical engraver to the Queen’, made a print after Scheffer’s portrait of Madame Hollond. In 1830 Francois Girard adopted the faster technique which he had mastered in England. Beraldi observed in this regard: ‘Il a eu peu d’imitateurs: la vraie manière noire n’a jamais pu arriver à être un genre francais, et à détrôner l’aquatinte’, see: Beraldi 1885-1892 [vii], p.146. On the advice of publishers, the lithographer H. Garnier also specialised in the mezzotint technique and produced,

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amongst other works, a print in this technique after a painting by Scheffer. Beraldi mentions two well-known prints after Scheffer, Armand Carrel and Odilon Barrot en costume de professeur, see: Beraldi 1887 [vii], p.222. In addition to these mezzotints there are several aquatints by the printmakers Jazet and Eichens after Scheffer’s Faust dans son cabinet and Marguerite au rouet. As early as 1834 an etching by Adele Ethiou after Scheffer’s portrait of P.L.Courier was published. However, the pure etching technique seems to have been used only sparingly for the reproduction of Scheffer’s work. Several exceptions are the prints by Paul Rajon after Marguerite à l’Eglise and Faust au sabbath apercoit le fantome de Marguerite, produced in the 1870s, long after Scheffer’s death, during a period in which the etching technique had become highly popular for art reproduction. Letter from Ary Scheffer to A.J. Lamme, January 1845, Dordrecht Museum. In the 1830s, for example, Goupil was already buying the reproduction rights to popular paintings, including the rights to a work by the popular painter Franz Xavier Winterhalter, which the firm acquired in 1837, see: Anonymous, ‘Variétes’, L’Artiste, (1837), xiii p.128. See: Anonymous, ‘Resumé de nos travaux en 1844 et 1845’, L’Artiste (1846) vi, p.143. The engraving was made by Keller and published by Goupil. A.-M. de Brem in: exhib.cat. Paris 1991, pp.5355. The revenue in question only derives from the last ten years of his life. It should be noted that such replicas were certainly not the most valuable works in Scheffer’s oeuvre. During the final period of his life, for example, sums between 15,000 and 20,000 francs were paid for his largest paintings. Although reproduction rights only produced a limited portion of his income, the amounts involved must have been substantial. Letter from Ary Scheffer to an anonymous lady, 17 June 1838-1840, Fondation Custodia Paris. The work in question was Faust au Sabbath or Marguerite sortant au l’eglise.

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the Louvre[?], 6 April 1846, with thanks to Mr Leo Ewals who drew my attention to this. Henriquel-Dupont’s engraving after Christus Consolator, in the collection of the Musée Goupil in Bordeaux, inv.93-i-2-1173. Procès MM Delaroche, Mme veuve Vernet, Mme Marjolin-Scheffer contre MM Goupil et Cie, editeurs. Tribunal civil de la Seine, première chambre, Présidence de M.Aubépin 1878. With the help of drawings by his brother,   A.J. Couwenberg, he produced a series of 12 landscapes featuring the countryside around Arnhem, see: Vervoorn 1983, p.47. Exhib.cat. Dordrecht 1995, pp.194-196. Letter from Couwenberg quoted in: Heij 2002, p.297. Anonymous, ‘Kunstberigten’, De Kunstkronijk (1843-44), vol. 4, p.64. Heij 2002, p.298. Couwenberg’s mentor André Taurel also knew the problematic drawing and had witnessed Couwenberg’s disappointment in person: ‘One should have seen the disappointment of our artist, when he received the drawing from Paris, from which he was supposed to make his engraving; and yet the drawing had been made by an able hand and under the eye of the painter: but in no way did it match the recollections of the original piece that had remained with him.[…] In the original the expression, drawing, the light and dark areas were powerful and charming; yet here everything was black, opaque and the figures represented as stiffly as if they were of wood. What had happened to the young girl’s charms? And the old man, the old man in particular, what a difference! What had become of that sorrowful and impressive face, that decrepit body consumed by remorse, that clear, resolute eye fixed on the future? All that was marred, and our friend in despair because of this, for what was he supposed to do, far from the original painting and with such a drawing?’ see: J.J.F. Noordziek, ‘Couwenberg’, De Kunstkronijk 10 (1849), p.70. This drawing was also of lesser quality that the works which Couwenberg had used for the reproduction of Van der



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Helst’s The Celebration of the Peace of Munster and Gerad Dou’s Evening School, drawings that had been so finely finished that Taurel even asserted that they would be able to uphold the fame of their originals if these were destroyed. J.J.F. Noordziek, ‘Couwenberg’, De Kunstkronijk 10 (1849), p.70. J.J.F. Noordziek, ‘Couwenberg’, De Kunstkronijk 10 (1849), p.70. See the reports concerning etchings by Unger after works in the Kassel Museum, heliogravures after old masters at Goupil’s and the sale of artworks from the estate of Luigi Calamatta, including drawings after Scheffer, in: Anonymous, ‘Kunstnieuws’, De Kunstkronijk (1872), vol.14, p.16. J.J.F. Noordziek, ‘Couwenberg’, De Kunstkronijk 10 (1849), p.70. Exhib.cat. Dordrecht 1995, p.49. Although Scheffer often signed and dated replicas, he usually did not sign and date copies. Copies of his paintings are generally identical to the original, while the replicas often display small variations. A replica may be considered a new work when these variations are great. For Scheffer’s studio see: exhib.cat. L’Atelier d’Ary Scheffer, Paris (Musée de la Vie Romantique) 1991. Quoted in: Heij 2002, p.300. Raimbach 1843, p.57. Letter from Henriquel-Dupont to Paul Chenay, postmarked 27 September 1856, Fondation Custodia inv.2000-A.221. Thieme-Becker 1907-1950, pp.368-369. Heij 2002, p.302. Mignon et son pere. Gravure au burin par Couwenberg et Alphonse Francois d’apres le tableau original de Ary Scheffer. Appartenant à S. M. la Reine d’Angleterre, Goupil, Vibert et Cie, p.3. Mignon et son pere. Gravure au burin par Couwenberg et Alphonse Francois d’apres le tableau original de Ary Scheffer. Appartenant à S. M. la Reine d’Angleterre, Goupil, Vibert et Cie, p.12. Heij 2002, pp.295-307. De Staatscourant, no.178 (1-8-1849). Anonymous, ‘Necrologie’, De Kunstkronijk (1859), p.16. Taurel himself had produced various portraits, including one of Tollens,

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was an influential engraver and one of the founders of Arti et Amicitiae, together with J.W. Pieneman, J.A. Kruseman, L. Roijer, and M.G. Tetar van Elven, see: W. ‘Bij het portret van A.B.B. Taurel’, De Kunstkronijk (1865), p.56. See the portrait of Taurel by Ingres, reproduced in De Kunstkronijk of 1865. He commemorated Couwenberg’s death with a special portrait print, on the subject of which De Kunstkronijk declared: ‘A subscription list has been opened for the portrait of the worthy engraver, the late H.W Couwenberg. The execution of the plate has been entrusted to the talent of Mister A.B.B. Taurel, director of the engraving class at the Koninklijke Akademie van Beeldende Kunsten in Amsterdam. Mister C. van Beveren has surrendered his painting to this end. The publication is being effected entirely for the benefit of the widow and children of the deeply mourned artist. Participation has been extremely substantial from the outset and prompts the expectation of a most favourable result from this partly artistic partly charitable enterprise’, see: Anonymous, ‘Kunstberigten’, De Kunstkronijk (1845-46), vol.6, pp.55-56. For Taurel see also: H.E. van Gelder, ‘Ingres en de familie Taurel’, Maandblad voor Beeldende Kunsten 26 (1950), pp.2-10. J.J.F. Noordziek, ‘Couwenberg’, De Kunstkronijk 10 (1849), pp.69-71 and De Spectator. Kritiesch en historiesch kunstblad, vol. 9 (1850), pp.413-419. Quoted in: Heij 2002, p.303. For this see the minutes for 2 July, 16 July and 13 August 1849 in: Notulenboek v, pp. 224, 225 and 230: Archive of the Vierde Klasse of the Koninklijk Nederlandsch Instituut, Rijksarchief NoordHolland, Haarlem. J.J.F. Noordziek, ‘Couwenberg’, De Kunstkronijk 10 (1849), p.69. J.J.F. Noordziek, ‘Couwenberg’, De Kunstkronijk 10 (1849), p.70. Ibid. J.J.F. Noordziek, ‘Couwenberg’, De Kunstkronijk 10 (1849), p.71. J.J.F. Noordziek, ‘Couwenberg’, De Kunstkronijk 10 (1849), p.71. Ibid. ‘from observation of the interest, which both

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artworks, both at home and abroad, are deserving and shall also excite, [De Kunstkronijk has resolved] to publish this report, the more so because it [De Kunstkronijk] deems it as its duty, with the publication of its verdict on this, to uphold the honour of the deserving Dutch artist Couwenberg, since with regard to the said plate, on account of the small number of prints and the impossibility of presently being able to expect more, the labour furnished by him shall become less generally known, and therefore a comparison between the plate laid out by Couwenberg and the engraving completed by Francois shall also less readily be able to take place’, see: J.J.F. Noordziek, ‘Couwenberg’, De Kunstkronijk 10 (1849), p.71. An exhibition of foreign contemporary masters in the Odéon in Amsterdam included a proof of Couwenberg’s engraving after Scheffer’s Mignon en haar vader, see: Anonymous, ‘Kronijk’, De Kunstkronijk (1849), vol.10, p.63. Journal de Eugène Delacroix, 25 January 1857, in: Delacroix 1932 iii, pp.30-31. The reproduction after Mignon et son pere underwent the same process employed in the making of reproductions after works by from Scheffer’s circle, such as Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres and Paul Délaroche, see: Bann 1999, pp.200-220; P.-L. Renié, ‘Délaroche par Goupil: portrait du peintre en artiste populair’, in: exhib.cat., Paul Délaroche. Un peintre dans l’Histoire, Nantes/Montpellier (Musée de Beaux-Arts/Musée Fabre) 1999, p.173-199; and: P.-L. Renié, P.-L, ‘Oeuvre de Paul Délaroche reproduites en éditées par la maison Goupil’, in: tent.cat., Paul Délaroche. Un peintre dans l’Histoire, Nantes/Montpellier (Musée de Beaux-Arts/Musée Fabre) 1999, pp.200-218. Exhib.cat. Dordrecht 1995, p.196. See also: Morris 1985, pp.308, 313. Lafont-Couturier 1996, p.60. In 1838 Goupil issued a list of new publications in which no prints after Scheffer appear, see : Liste de gravures nouvelles, qui paraitront successivement chez Rittner et Goupil et de celles qui ont paru ‘viceminent’, 1838. The firm grew considerably during the 1830s and increasingly made its name with its ‘own’ publica-

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tions. In the 1830s it seems probable that no new prints after Scheffer were issued by Goupil et Rittner. For Goupil see: F.Lecler et Léon Noel, ‘Revue des editions illustrées, des gravures et des lithographies’, L’Artiste (1839) i, p.142. Bann 2000, p.708. It should be noted that a supplement’s publication date does not always exactly reflect a print’s date of completion: supplements were generally published twice a year, so if a print was completed just after a supplement had been published, it would be included in the following publication, a few months later. However, these were only available in two states, lettered prints on Chinese paper (15 francs) and épreuves d’artiste (40 francs), see: Premier Supplement au catalogue de Goupil, Vibert et Cie. A Paris, 15 Boulevard Montmartre et 10 Rue d’Enghien, maison A Londres et New York, 1847. Thevenin’s print after Rossini’s portrait was available ‘with’ and ‘without the letterr’ on ordinary paper for 10 francs and 20 francs respectively, and on Chinese paper for 15 francs and 30 francs; the épreuve d’artiste cost 60 francs, see: Catalogue au fonds de Goupil et Cie, editeurs d’estampes commissionairs imprimeurs 1848. The stock list also included a lithograph by Raunheim after Jezus chez Marthe et Marie by Henri Scheffer, both in colour, for 16 francs, and in black-and-white, for 8 francs. Although the relevant supplement is lacking the stock summary for 1857 does list the engraving. The prints on ordinary paper could be purchased for 20 and 40 francs respectively, while those on Chinese paper cost 30 and 60 francs, and the épreuve d’artist 120 francs, see: Deuxième partie du catalogu de la mainson Goupil et Companie. Comprenant les supplements publiées du 1er janvier 1848 au 1er janvier 1857 [no.1-17]. The work was displayed in 1851 in the gallery of Art et Amicitiae in Amsterdam. For an extensive description see: A.J. Bull, ‘Ary Scheffers Chistus als vergelder’, De Kunstkronijk (1851), vol.12, pp.5-10. On ordinary paper for 30 and 60 francs, and



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on Chinese paper for 40 and 80 francs, with the épreuve d’artiste retailing for 160 francs, see: Publications Nouvelles de la maison Goupil et Compagnie, supplement May 1851. The print was available on ordinary paper for 15 francs ‘with the letter’ and on Chinese paper ‘with’ and ‘without the letter’ for 20 francs and 30 francs respectively; the épreuve d’artiste was 40 francs, see: Publications Nouvelles de la maison Goupil et Compagnie, supplement, May 1853. The print was availaible on ordinary paper for 25 and 50 francs, and on Chinese paper for 30 and 60 francs; the épreuve d’artiste was 120 francs, see: Publications Nouvelles de la maison Goupil et Compagnie, supplement June 1854. Keller’s print was available on ordinary paper for 20 francs and 40 francs, and on Chinese paper for 25 francs and 50 francs, while the épreuve d’artiste cost 100 francs. Marie Leroux’s engraving was only available ‘with the letter’ on ordinary paper for 12 francs, see: Publications Nouvelles de la maison Goupil et Compagnie, 14th supplement July 1855. The print could be bought on ordinary paper for 20 francs and 40 francs, and on Chinese paper for 25 francs and 40 francs; the épreuve d’artiste cost 100 francs, see: Publications Nouvelles de la maison Goupil et Compagnie, 15th supplement, January 1856. The print was available on ordinary paper for four francs and eight francs, the épreuve d’artiste cost eights francs, see: Publications Nouvelles de la maison Goupil et Compagnie, 18 th supplement July 1857. Unfortunately supplements 16 and 17 are missing. In May 1853 Goupil published the first photographic reproductions in a work devoted to the renowned engraver Marcantonio Raimondi: B. Delessert, Notice sur la vie de MarcAntoine Raimondi avec reproductions photographique de ses principales estampes. Publications Nouvelles de la maison Goupil et Compagnie, 10 th supplement May 1853. When Eugène Delacroix saw these photographs, he felt no admiration for them, see: Delacroix in: Wellington 1995, p.221. Six months later Goupil stressed in its supplement: ‘Indépendamment des ouvrages ci-dessus, qui se

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continuent régulierement, on trouve chez MM Goupil et Cie tout ce qui a été fait de remarquable en photographies de tous genres; vue d’Italie, de Suissse, d’Espagne, études des paysages, d’architecture, de figure etc; par les artistes le splus distingues. Chague feuille photographique se vend séparément; les prix varient de 2 à 25 fr., suivant la grandeur et l’importance du sujet’, Publications Nouvelles de la maison Goupil et Compagnie, 11th supplement October 1853. The print was only available on Chinese paper, for 10 francs and 20 francs (‘with’ and ‘without the letter’), and as an épreuve d’artiste, for 30 francs, see: Publications Nouvelles de la maison Goupil et Compagnie, 21 st supplement January 1859. At the same time the firm also published an engraving by the printmaker Paul Leprix after Medora; prints on ordinary paper ‘with the letter’ were sold for 10 francs, on Chinese paper ‘before the letter’ for 20 francs, and the épreuve d’artiste for 30 francs. See: Publications Nouvelles de la maison Goupil et Compagnie, 22 nd supplement July 1859. In a note that accompanied this publication the publisher stated ‘Cette planche remplace no. 25 du catalogue, dont l’etat d’usure ne permet plus de tirer d’épreuves’, see: Publications Nouvelles de la maison Goupil et Compagnie, 23 rd supplement January 1860. The print by Alphonse Francois on ordinary paper cost 30 francs and 60 francs, on Chinese paper 40 francs and 80 francs, and the épreuve d’artiste 160 francs; the engraving by Jules Francois sold for 20 francs and 40 francs on ordinary paper, and 25 frans and 50 francs on Chinese paper, while the épreuve d’artiste cost 100 francs, see: Publications Nouvelles de la maison Goupil et Compagnie, 25th supplement January 1861. In January 1863 Goupil issued a further two engravings, a print by E. Rousseau after Le Christ et St Jean and a print by Chevron after Le Baiser de Judas. On ordinary paper Rousseau’s print cost 10 francs and 20 francs, on Chinese paper 15 francs and 30 francs, while the épreuve d’artiste sold for 60 francs. Chevron’s engraving was available in the same versions for the same prices, see:

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Publications Nouvelles de la maison Goupil et Compagnie, 29 th supplement, January 1863. This engraving by Jules Francois cost 25 francs and 50 francs on ordinary paper, 30 francs and 60 francs on Chinese paper and 120 francs as an épreuve d’artiste, see: Publications Nouvelles de la maison Goupil et Compagnie, 32 nd supplement July 1864. The print by Lurat was only available on ordinary paper ‘with the letter’ for 12 francs and as an épreuve d’artiste for 24 francs, see: Publications Nouvelles de la maison Goupil et Compagnie, 33 nd supplement October 1864. The first photograph was 22 cm high by 14 cm wide, the second, after Le roi de Thulé, was 29 cm high by 19 cm wide, see: Publications Nouvelles de la maison Goupil et Compagnie, 23 rd supplement, January 1860 and Publications Nouvelles de la maison Goupil et Compagnie, 24 th supplement, July 1860. See: Photographies. Publications Nouvelles de la maison Goupil et Compagnie, 1 st supplement October 1860. Six months later the engravings of the brothers Francois of the same works were published. See: Goupil & Cie. editeurs, imprimeurs estampes fransaises et etranges [published before 1864, dated from the range of photographs listed]. In January 1865 the first photographs after Le Christ consolateur and Le Christ remunerateur were published, in a new series, Album de Photographies. Although these photographs were in a reasonably large format (17 by 14 cm), similar to that found in the series Galerie Photographie, they were much cheaper, at only two francs apiece. In the late 1860s this photographic series was paralleled by a series of lithographs, by the printmakers E. Lasalle, Lafosse et al., see: Grandes etudes choisies lithographiées au deux crayons, which also included a print after Le Dante et Beatrice in various versions: black and white (2 francs), highlighted (3.5 francs), in colour on a white ground (5.5 francs) and in colour on a black ground (7.5 francs), see: Publications Nouvelles de la maison Goupil et Compagnie, 39 th supplement, October 1867. As previously observed, Goupil was not the first firm to experiment with photographic

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series: during the 1850s the photographer André Disderi had already ‘invented’ the carte-de-visite format. For the rise and decline of Disderi see: Nadar 2000, pp.138-142. Compare: McCauley 1994, p.271. In 1873 Goupil introduced its own version of the photogravure, which would become one of the most successful reproductive techniques, although the firm did not use this for Scheffer’s work, see: Publications Nouvelles de la maison Goupil et Compagnie, 49 th supplement, October 1873. See: Extrait du Catalogue Génénal de Goupil & Cie. Gravures lithographies et photographies, Paris January 1874. In April 1886 the new series Estampes Miniatures (20 by 26 cm, for one franc) included images of Le Christ et St Jean and Foi et Esperance, see: Publications Nouvelles de la maison Goupil et Compagnie, April 1886. Publications Nouvelles de la maison Goupil et Compagnie, October 1894. Catalogue General de la maison Boussod, Valadon & Cie, successeurs de Goupil et Cie, Paris January 1894. Catalogue des photographies de la maison Goupil & cie Manzi, Joyant, 1904 and Catalogue de la maison Goupil & Cie, Manzi, Joyant & Cie, gravures, photogravures, lithographies, typogravures, albums et collections, Paris 1909. The Jules Francois engraving was available on ordinary paper for 20 francs and 40 francs, on Chinese paper for 25 francs and 50 francs, and as épreuve d’artiste for 100 francs, see: Publications Nouvelles de la maison Goupil et Compagnie, 25th supplement January 1861. Such combinations were explicately designated as such in the Goupil stock list: ‘Les sujets se faisant pendants ou formant collections sont groupés en lignes serrées; les sujets isolés sont interlignés’, stressed the list for 1878. In practice such time differences often paralleled differences in the originals’ date of completion. Maas 1975, p.26. In 1854 Gambart first exhibited Scheffer’s renowned Francesca di Rimini here. On 5 February 1847 Gambart was also present at the first meeting of the Printsellers’ Asso-



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ciation, see: Maas 1975, p.39. It was agreed that all new engravings should be registered, and that entries in the register should specify the subject, format, price, technique, date of publication and number of copies, these being the copies registered, not the amount actually sold. No numbers were registered for the cheapest states, so any figures in the register can only provide a rough indication of the copies associated with the various prints. Friend 1886, p.145. Friend 1886, p.36. Friend 1886, p.71. The print was issued in a minimum edition of 275. The print Ruth and Naomi was issued in a minimum edition of 417 and the print Jacob and Rachel in a mimimum edition of 413, Friend 1886, p.199, 112. Friend 1886, p.36. Anonymous, ‘The Art-Publications of   mm. Goupil, of Paris’, The Art Journal (1856), pp.7-8. ‘to be electrotyped after all proofs taken’, Friend 1886, p.36. In contrast with this technique for multiplying prints, the entry for works such as Doo’s engraving to Raphael’s Il Christo Giovanile explicitly states that after printing the plate would be destroyed to prevent any subsequent copies being printed from it, see: Friend 1886, p.36. 372 copies in various states were registered for Chevron’s print, 373 copies for Rousseau’s engraving, whose entry was accompanied by the observation that the plate would be steeled after the proofs had been printed, see: Friend 1886, pp.117, 34. Friend 1886, p.227. The print was issued in a minimum edition of 425. Friend 1886, p.98. The print was issued in a minimum edition of 474. It is also revealing that Blanchard’s engraving after Christus Remunerator was published simultaneously in England and France, in 1851. Friend 1886, p.163. Lafont-Couturier 1994, p.30. Exhib.cat. Bordeaux 2000, pp.31-43. ‘At the sale of the Duchess of Orleans’ art cabinet, the following paintings were some of

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105 106 107

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the works that fetched onsiderable somes of money: the Stratonice, by Ingres 63,000 francs, the death of the duke of Guise, by P. Délaroche 52,500 francs, Christus Consolator, by Ary Scheffer, 52,500 francs to Mister Fodor of Amsterdam’, Anonymous, ‘Kronijk’, De Kunstkronijk 14 (1853), p.65. So the famous work became part of the collection owned by the renowned Dutch collector C.J. Fodor. In 1859 The Art Journal reported the sale of Scheffer’s Christus Consolator by Fodor for 2400 pounds and also recalled its reproduction in the publication several years earlier, see: Anonymous, ‘Minor topics of the month’, The Art Journal (1859), p.112. Letter from Ary Scheffer to A.J. Lamme, in: Vosmaer 1861, pp.191-192. See L.R. Beijnen, ‘Eene kunstbijdrage over Ary Scheffers Christus Consolator’, Kunstkronijk 1850, vol.11, pp.89-93. Beijen’s article had previously been published in the 11 September issue of the journal Christoterpe. It was decided in consultation with the author that his article also deserved a place in the popular art journal, see note on p.89. Vosmaer 1861, p.182. Ewals 1979-1980, p.21. C.P. Landon, Annales du Musée et de l’École moderne des beaux-arts. Salon de 1817, Paris 1817, p.40. His painting St Thomas Aquinas preaching in the storm, from 1823, appeared as an engraving by A.Reveil in: C.P. Landon, Annales du Musée et de lÉcole moderne des beaux-arts. Salon de 1824, Paris 1824, illustration 12. For Landon’s publications see: Weissert 1999, p.144-146. See the lithograph of this work by Frémy & Normand in: A Béraud, Annales de l’école francaise des beaux-arts. Pour servir de suite et de complément aux Salons de 1808 à 1824, publié par feu C.P. Landon Salon de 1827, Paris 1828, illustration 55. We can point in this connection to the reproductions after L’Ensevelissement du Christ, exhibited at the 1846 salon and reproduced in Le Salon Caricatural (1846, p18), and Saint Augustin et Sainte Monique (1845, on p.17.) Alongside illustrated exhibition catalogues, reproductions of Scheffer’s work also found

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their way into publications associated with special art collections. The prestigious refurbishment of the palace of Versailles prompted the publication, in 1844, of the illustrated Le Musée de Versaille, which included a Girardet engraving after Scheffer’s painting of Napoleon’s retreat from Russia in 1812, see:   T. Burette, Le Musée de Versailles, Paris 1844, p.239. For Scheffer and his contribution to the decoration of Versailles by Louis-Philippe see: L. Ewals, ‘De gebroeders Scheffer en het Versailles van Louis-Phillippe’, De Negentiende eeuw 1979, pp.212-234. Publications with works of contemporary art also included reproductions of paintings by Scheffer, one example being Les Artistes contemporains (1842) with an engraving after Marguerite a l’Eglise.   In this connection see an engraving by A. Bellenger in a similar publication of later date: V. Fournel, Les Artistes contemporain, Tours 1884, p.105. Published in: Le Globe, (20 June 1829), p.389. Published in: L’Artiste (1833), opposite p.168. Two years later, in 1835, the journal published a lithograph by Frey after Scheffer’s Francois de Rimini L’Artiste 1835. Published in: L’Artiste (1844), p.95. Published in: L’Atriste (1848), p.79. Published in; L’Artiste, (1856), p.196 and L’Artiste, (1857), pp.225-227 Print by Ed. Girardet in: L’Artiste (1857),   p.157. Charivari reproduced a portait of Arago from 1837 and a lithograph after Le Roi de Thulé (1838) d’apres le Faust de Goethe (circa 1844). In 1849 (vol. vii, p. 120) L’Illustration published a wood engraving of L’Enfant Charitable (1840) d’apres Goetz de Berlichtingen de Goethe, and on 20 November 1859 a woodcut by Marc after Scheffer’s portrait of Calvin. Le Magasin Pittoresk (vol. xxx, January 1862, p.1) reproduced a wood engraving after Saint Augustin et Sainte Monique. Wood engraving by Piaud in La Gazette des beaux Arts (1859), p.49 and also in: Blanc 1865. The critic Charles Blanc wanted to included a reproduction of this in his newly founded Gazette des beaux-arts; as a result of Scheffer’s death this was not published in the journal

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until a year later, see: exhib.cat. Dordrecht 1995, p.322. Morris 1985, p.299. For the engraving by T.S. Engleheart in The New Years Gift and Juvenile Souvenir London 1832, see p.175; for the print after Les Orphelins see p. 54. On page 92 there was also an engraving by W. Greatbatch after Le Sommeil du grand-père (1827). For an engraving by Charles Rolls after Une Scène d’inondation see: The Literary Souvenir 1832, p.199. For Watts publications with wood engravings see: Anonymous, ‘Variétés’, L’Artiste (1834) viii, p.270. The Art Journal remarked of the painter: ‘he stands eminently forward among the modern painters in his exposition of Christian Art after the manner of some of the old Italian masters, who made colour subsidiary to expression’, thereby qualifying Ruskin’s robust attack on the artist: ‘These imperfect religious painters, headed and misguided by Ary Scheffer, are all just like Naaman; they think they cannot worship rightly unless “there be given to thy servant two mules burden of earth”’, Anonymous, ‘Selected Pictures. Christ and St John. Ary Scheffer painter E. Rousseau, engraver’, The Art Journal (1869), p.52. See also: Anonymous, ‘Selected Pictures. The Kiss of Judas. Ary Scheffer, painter - Chevron, engraver’, The Art Journal (1869), p.76. Friend 1886, p.199 The print was published in an edition of a minimum 417 copies, see: Anonymous, ‘Ruth and Naomi. Ary Scheffer, painter J. Levasseur, engraver’, The Art Journal (1878), p.212. The print reproduces a biblical scene from Ruth 1. The explanatory text mainly offers a brief description of this Scheffer image. This is also illustrated by a print after Scheffer’s drawing, Adoration, which was in the publisher’s possession. The print, made by the well-known English engraver J.C. Armytage, reproduces a pen and ink sketch. In the explanatory text the publisher emphasised that the printmaker endeavoured to create a facsimile of the original drawing: ‘The engraver has aimed to imitate the original, so far as the means at his command would

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enable him to do,’ see: Anonymous, ‘.’The Art Journal (1879), p.8. Reproductions of Scheffer’s work also appeared in other English journals. In 1888, for example, an engraving by J.W. Johnstone after Scheffer’s portrait of Dickens (1855) appeared in The Magazine of Art (1888), p.288. See a lithograph by H.J. Backer in: J.P. Heije, ‘Nagevolgde liederen.xi De koning van Thule’, De Gids 1840, pp.214-215. Anonymous, ‘Album der Kunstkronijk’, De Kunstkronijk (1845-46), vol. 6, p.16. See also the discussion of The Three Kings by A.L.G. Toussaint in: A.L.G. Toussaint, ‘Ary Scheffer. Drie Koningen’, De Kunstkronijk (1845-1846), vol. 6, p.25. When the painting was exhibited in the William ii’s Koninklijke Kunstzaal De Kunstkronijk wrote in a lyrical vein: ‘All that our imagination had superlatively dreamed concerning this new work of art by the poetic painter par excellence, was in reality a thousand times surpassed. What a lofty simplicity in the compositions and the colouring, and, at the same time, what a wealth of thought, which these harmoniously unite to express’, Anonymous, ‘Een nieuwe schilderij van Ary Scheffer’, De Kunstkronijk (1843-44), vol..4, pp.95-96. The image of the three kings symbolised the three intellectual forces through the persons of the warrior king, the priest king and legislator king paying tribute to the newborn Christ. Lithograph by F.B.Waanders, printed by the lithographer C.W. Mieling in De Kunstkronijk (1846), opposite p. 74. Lithograph by Scheffer after L’Enfant Charitable (1840), printed by the lithographer C.W. Mieling in De Kunstkronijk (1850), opposite p.56. See also the lithograph by Scheffer after Mignon et le vieux joeur de harpe (1844) in De Kunstkronijk (1851), opposite p.58. De Kunstkronijk of 1850 had previously published a lithograph by Scheffer after his self-portrait of 1838. See the engraving by Tetar van Elven after Charité (from 1828?) in: Vergeet mij niet, Muzenalmanak voor 1849. See the lithograph of the portrait by Scheffer (1838) in: Nederlandsche Volks-Almanak voor

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1853, Schiedam 1852. Engraving by Tetar van Elven after Le Christ Remunerateur (1848) in: Almanak voor het Schoone en het Goede Amsterdam 1852 and engraving by D.J. Sluyter after Saint Augustin et Sainte Monique (1845) in: Almanak voor het Schone en het Goede, Amsterdam 1855. Engraving by D.J. Sluyter after Les simples de coeur (1846) in: Aurora 1852, with a poem by Nicolaas Beets. Engraving by D.J. Sluyter after Les Rois Images (1844), published in: Aurora Haarlem 1854. That same year the Holland Almanak (1854) published an engraving by W.F. Wehmeier after Mignon aspirant au ciel (1839). Engraving by D.J. Sluyter after Sainte Madeleine ou La Madeleine au tombeau ou Madeleine en extace apres la resurrection du Christ (1854) in: Magdalena, evangelische jaarboekje, 9 th year (1861), opposite p.142. Examples of later reproductions are the engraving by C.L. van Kesteren after Ruth et Noémi (1855) in: Magdalena Amsterdam 1880 and a small engraving by D.J. Sluyter after Madeleine au pied de la croix, (1845), reproduced in vignette form in various issues of the Magdalena almanac during the 1880s. Reproductions after Scheffer also appeared in other religious publications, including an engraving by J.A. Allgayer after Le Christ Remunerateur (1848) in: J.J.L. ten Kate, Een Harptoon, Haarlem 1852, and an engraving by C.L. van Kesteren after Le Christ sur la montagne ou la Tentation de Christ (1856) in: Christelijk Album, Haarlem 1866. Anonymous, ‘Binnen- en buitenlandsch kunstnieuws’, De Kunstkronijk (1858), vol. 20, p.56. The following individuals had promised to contribute to the publication: Mrs. Bosboom-Toussaint and Dr L.R. Beijnen, Dr J.J. van Oosterzee, Prof. W. Moll, Mr C. Vosmaer and W.J. Hofdijk. Enschede 1899 (i), pp.465-466. Enschede 1899 (i), p.466. Letter from Van Westhreene to A.C. Kruseman, 22 January 1859, quoted in: Enschede (i) 1899, p.466. Westhreene in the essay which accompanied Mignon: A.J. Bull (et al.), Scheffer-album, Haarlem 1859, p.2.

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140 141

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Haarlem 1859, p.2. Apparently Leon Noël’s lithograph after Le roi de Thulé was unknown in the Netherlands. In 1862 Goupil would publish a print by Edouard Eichens after Faust. Enschede (i) 1899, p.466, plus note 2. W. Moll in the essay which accompanied Augustus et Dante in: A.J. Bull (e.a.), Schefferalbum, Haarlem 1859, p.8. W.F. Hofdijk in the essay which accompanied the portrait of Calvin in: A.J. Bull (e.a.), Schefferalbum, Haarlem 1859, p.12. Bosboom-Toussaint in the essay which accompanied Comte Ebenhard in: A.J. Bull (e.a.), Scheffer-album, Haarlem 1859, p.1. A reference to her article about the Les rois mages, published in De Kunstkronijk in 1845. Anonymous, ‘Kunstberigten’, Kunstkronijk (1859), vol. 1, NS, p.88. Enschede (i) 1899, p.467. Catalogus der schilderijen, teekeningen, prenten, etsen, photographien enz, enz. kosteloos bijeengebracht voor de te houden Verloting ten voordele van het op te richten standbeeld ter nagedachtenis van den beroemden kunstschilder Ary Scheffer 1860, p.27. Zie voor de te verloten prenten: Catalogus der schilderijen, teekeningen, prenten, etsen, photographien enz, enz. kosteloos bijeengebracht voor de te houden Verloting ten voordele van het op te richten standbeeld ter nagedachtenis van den beroemden kunstschilder Ary Scheffer 1860, pp.17-25. For the Scheffer statue see: exhib.cat. Dordrecht 1995, pp.17-20. Publication Nouvelles de la maison Goupil & Cie, 23 rd supplement January 1860. For this publication see: Boyer 2002, p.133. The following supplement, published in July 1860, listed the album without qualification: Publication Nouvelles de la maison Goupil & Cie, 24 June 1860. Vitet’s essay had previously appeared in: Revue des Deux Mondes: L.Vitet, ‘Peintres Modernes de la France. Ary Scheffer.’ Extrait de la Revue des deux mondes, livraison du 1e octobre 1858, p.7. Vitet was a close friend of Scheffer. In this album see: no.20 (Le Christ Consolateur) no.33 (La Madeleine au pied de la croix), no.34 (Le Christ portant sa croix), no.36 (Le Christ Remu-

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observation in the completion of this work. nerateur), no.39 (Faust & Marguerite), no.42 For this reason I take the liberty of requesting (Hebé), no.50 (Le baiser de Judes), no.51 (Le Christ Your Honour most cordially for an interview, & Saint Jean). for which purpose next Monday (the 10th of 151 For the advertisement for this album see: Catalogue des photographies par la maison Goupil this month) I shall hasten to your abode at the & Cie, Paris [between 1858-1860]. The album Badhuis in Scheveningen. Humbly requesting still features in the stock list for 1878: Extrait that Your Honour be willing to answer me with a single word [...]’ Letter from J.W. Kaiser de Catalogue Général de Goupil & Cie, Paris, to Ary Scheffer, 7 July 1854, in: Heij 1984, January 1878. Goupil’s stocklist for 1874 also mentions a considerably more modest album p.115. In the collection of documents, donated by Kaiser’s grand-grandchild to the Rijksprenof reproductions after Scheffer, entitled Oeuvres Choisies and comprising 30 previously tenkabinet we find Scheffer’s answer to Kaiser, written two days later on 9 July 1854: published photographic reproductions. This alternative was available in Musée Goupil ‘Monsieur, En revenant ce matin d’une course format for 60 francs and Carte de visite format à Anvers j’ai trouvé votre lettre, qui me defor 35 francs: Extrait du Catalogue Général de mande un rendez-vous pour demain lundi a Goupil & Cie, Paris, January 1874. In addition to Scheveningen. Je ne sais ci une réponse vous arrivera en temps, dans tous les cas vous me the Scheffer album other albums dedicated to Raphael, Délaroche, Horace Vernet and J.-L. trouverais ici demain lundi et apres demain Gérôme could also be obtained. mardi, a l’Hotel des Bains, ci vous voulez bien 152 Couwenberg’s death prevented him from me faire l’honneur de venir de diner avec moi un de ces deux jours à 5 heures et demi, je finishing his engraving of Scheffer’s Mignon and Van der Helst’s De Schuttersmaaltijd (The serai heureux de faire faire à ma famille le Celebration of the Peace of Munster). However, he connaissance d’un artiste dont j’apprecie et had made his own drawing of the latter work admir le talent. Votre gravure Monsieur est to serve as the basis for his reproduction, fort belle, elle reproduire dignement un des chef d’œuvre de l’art Hollandais. Je serai fier about which De Kunstkronijk wrote: ‘Through his engraving Kaiser has erected a monument de la montrer à Paris comme l’œuvre d’un to himself and to the art of the fatherland’, A. compatriote. Recevez monsieur l’assurance de J. Bull, ‘Van der Helst-Kaiser. 1648-1848’, mes sentiment les plus distingues, Ary SchefKunstkronijk (1856), vol.17, p.60. De Schuttersfer Scheveningen, dimanche 9.’ The young maltijd (The Celebration of the Peace of Munster, 18 talented engraver probably dined wth the june 1648 in the Headquarters of the Bowman’s famous painter. Unfortunately, we don’t know Civi) was also favourably discussed in Frankwhat they discussed. This letter of Scheffer is today part of the collection of the Rijksprenrijk by Cm L. Clement de Ris: L. Clement de tenkabinet in Amsterdam. I would like to Ris,‘Mouvements des art’, L’Artiste (1856), thank Robert-Jan te Rijdt for this reference. p.265. Buffa informed Kaiser of Scheffer’s interest in his print; the engraver was hon 153 Catalogue de tableaux anciens et modernes des diverses ecoles. De dessins & de gravures livres a oured to hear that the famous painter was figures etc. de provenant de l’atelier M. Ary Schefinterested in his work and was eager to know his opinion of it: ‘The good tiding imparted to fer, Hotel des Commissaires-Priseurs, 15 and 16 March 1859. me by Messrs. F. Buffa and Son, that Your Honour has seen my engraving after the The 154 See nos.32-120 in: Catalogue de tableaux anciens et modernes des diverses ecoles. De dessins & de Celebration of the Peace of Munster at their premises and has honoured the subscription gravures livres a figures etc. de provenant de l’atelier M. Ary Scheffer, pp.22-28. list with Your Honour’s signature, has quickened the desire in me to be permitted to learn 155 See numbers 43 and 1-7 (supplement) Catalogue de tableaux anciens et modernes des diverses your judgement of this and to be permitted to ecoles. De dessins & de gravures livres a figures etc. make use of Your Honour’s counsel and

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de provenant de l’atelier M. Ary Scheffer, p.22, 28. This may have been the lithograph made by Scheffer’s pupil M. Fajans. For these interiors see: E. Reitsma, Het huis van de kunstenaar. Herinneringen aan een leven, Amsterdam 2001, pp.22-29, 36-41, 166-171. Exhib.cat. Dordrecht 1995, p.91 The portrait of this baron, councillor and influential liberal was displayed at the 1822 Salon. General Lafayette was famous for his role in the American War of Independence and a member of the liberal elite to which Baron de Schonen and Scheffer also belonged. Letter from Ary Scheffer to A.L.C. Coquerel, 10 May 1842, published in: Kolb 1937, p.212. Letter from Ary Scheffer to Alard Delphin, [..]Fondation Custodia Paris, inv.1994- A 485. The letter is undated but must have been written after May 1851, the month in which the last of the two prints mentioned was published. Letter from Ary Scheffer to Prof. Vrolik, July 1854[?], with thanks to dr. Leo Ewals, who drew my attention to this letter. Letter quoted in: Morris 1985, p.294. Morris 1985, p.295. L. Ewals, ‘Beroemde tijdgenoten van Scheffer (4) Augustin Thierry (1795-1856) en iets over het realisme van Scheffer’, Dordrechts Museum Bulletin (1985) p.4; see also: Kolb 1937, p.164. After the death of William ii the work was sold at auction and acquired by Princess SaynWittgenstein, who was then Liszt’s lover, see: L. Ewals, ‘Beroemde tijdgenoten van Scheffer (6) Frans Liszt (1811-1886)’, Dordrechts Museum Bulletin 1986 5/6, p.23. Anonymous, ‘Gravure francaise.État du travail dans les différents ateliers’, L’Artiste (1840) vi, p.251. Anonymous, ‘The Art-Publications of   mm Goupil, of Paris’, The Art Journal (1856), pp.7-8. Morris 1985, p.303. Anonymous, ‘The Art-Publications of   mm Goupil, of Paris’, The Art Journal (1856), p.8. That the flood of French prints into England provoked suspicion is somewhat understandable: during the 1840s and 1850s, the majority of line engravings in the English market came

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from the continent, with Goupil as the chief supplier, see also: Maas 1975, p.35. Goupil’s contribution to the distribution of art via prints was acknowledged on many occasions by official awards; the many prints with military subjects published by the firm even won Adolphe Goupil a medal for patriotism. There was also a political aspect to the publication and distribution of prints, see: LafontCouturier 1994, pp.14, 19-20. Anonymous, ‘Reviews’, The Art Journal (1864), p.348: discussion of three new prints published by the firm of Goupil: The Christening, engraved by the painting by Louis Knaus; Marguerite at Church, engraved by A. Francois after the painting by Ary Scheffer; The Christian Martyr, engraved by J. Demannez after the painting by Ernest Slingeneyer, published in London, Paris etc. Holman Hunt 1905, pp.187-188 Hofstede de Groot 1872, p.7, 20. Anonymous, ‘Kunstberigten’, De Kunstkronijk (1842-43), vol.3, p.61. Anonymous, ‘Kronijk’, De Kunstkronijk (1849), vol.10, p.63. L. Clément de Ris, ‘Salon de 1859. Gravure et lithographie’, L’Artiste (1859), p.97. Anonymous, ‘-’ Gazette de Beaux Arts 1860, pp.319-320/377-378. W. Francken Az, Ary Scheffer’s Christus remunerator als type des verheerlijking des christendoms door de kunst, Rotterdam 1855. L.Vitet, ‘Peintres Modernes de la France. Ary Scheffer.’ Extrait de la Revue des deux mondes, livraison du 1e octobre 1858, p.7. T. van Westrheene, ‘Ary Scheffer’, De Kunstkronijk (1858) vol. 20, p.45. Vincent van Gogh wrote in a letter to Theo van Gogh: ‘I am writing below the names of several painters whom I particularly love. Scheffer, Délaroche, Hebert…Millais, Thys Maris, Millet, Israels’, Letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, January 1874, included in: Van Crimpen Berends-Albert 1990, no.17. For extensive information on this subject see: exhib.cat. Ary Scheffer bewonderd door Vincent van Gogh. Tentoonstelling bij gelegenheid van het honderdste sterfjaar van Vincent van Gogh,

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Dordrecht 1990. For Vincent van Gogh’s taste in art see also: H. Luijten, ‘Scharrelen in de houtsneden- Vincent van Gogh en de prentkunst’, in: exhib.cat. De keuze van Vincent. Van Goghs Musée imaginaire, Amsterdam (Van Gogh Museum) 2003, pp.99-112. Exhib.cat. Amsterdam 1990, p.27. Van Gogh thus entered employment with a firm that bore his name: ‘Ancienne maison Vincent van Gogh, Goupil & Cie, successeurs. Estampes et tableaux modernes. Fournisseur des Cabinet de LL.MM. le Roi et la Reine. Plaats no.14 a la Haye.’ From 1 January 1873 Vincent’s brother Theo van Gogh had also entered employment with the firm of Goupil, but he worked at the Brussels branch. For extensive information on Theo’s career at Goupil see: exhib.cat. Amsterdam 1999 and: J. Rewald, ‘Theo van Gogh, Goupil and the Impressionists’, in: Gazette des Beaux-Arts lxxxi (1973), pp.1-108. Vincent once wrote to Theo van Gogh, his brother and ‘colleague’: ‘Ask Schmidt what the ‘Album Corot, lithographies par Emile Vernier’ cost. We were asked for it in the shop & I know that it’s in stock in Brussels’, letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, January 1873, in: Van Crimpen Berends-Albert 1990, no.3. In a subsequent letter Vincent returned to the subject of this request: ‘The album whose title you gave me, is not the one I mean; that is only lithographs [-] after Corot. However, I thank you for the trouble you’ve taken’, letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, 28 January 1873, included in: Van Crimpen Berends-Albert 1990, no.4. Hulsker 1985, p.43. For this see also: Van Gogh in England in: exhib.cat. London 1992, pp.3032 Letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, 19 November 1873, in: Van Crimpen Berends-Albert 1990, no.15. However, the publication of reproductions after paintings by old and living masters remained an important activity, see: D. Dekkers, ‘Goupil en de internationale verspreiding van Nederlandse eigentijdse kunst’, Jong Holland 11 (1995) 4, pp.22-36. For the combination of art dealing and print selling

see: Verhoogt 1999, pp.22-29. 186 Letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van

187 188

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Gogh, 10 August 1874, in: Van Crimpen Berends-Albert 1990, no.28. Bailey 1998, pp.17-19. Letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, 6 July 1875, in: Van Crimpen BerendsAlbert 1990, no.37. Vincent had the following prints on his walls: Ruysdael, Le Buisson, Blanchisseries; Rembrandt, Lecture de la bible; Ph. De Champaigne, Portrait d’une dame; Corot, Soir; Bodmer, Fontainebleau; Bonington, Une Route; Troyon, Le matin; Jules Dupré, Le Soir (la halte); Maris, Blanchisseuse, Un baptême; Millet, Les heures de la journée (gravures sur bois 4 pve); Van der Maaten, Enterrement dans les blés; Daubigny L’aurore (coq chantant); Charlet L’hospitalité, Ferme entourée de sapins, l’hiver dans la nuit, Un paysan & un soldat devant la porte; Ed. Frère, Couturieres, Un tonnelier. Vincent van Gogh returned to this subject in a subsequent letter and mentioned several prints he had previously omitted: N. Maes, La nativité; Hamon, ‘Si j’etais l’hiver sombre’; Ed. Frère, Les couturieres, Un tonnelier (apparently he had forgotten mentioning these prints by Frère in his previous letter); Francais, Dernier beau jour; Ruyperez, L’imitation de Jésus Christ; Bosboom, Cantabimus & Psallemus. He added: ‘I am doing my best to find another Rembrandt engraving, Lecture de la bible for you, so I may send it to you yet in the first case of paintings. Have I sent you a lithograph of Troyon, Effet de matin? Francais, Derniers beaux jours? If not, write and tell me; I have two of them’, letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh,13 August 1875, in: Van Crimpen Berends-Albert 1990, no.40. Letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, 30 September 1875, in: Van Crimpen Berends-Albert 1990, no.52. Letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, c. 13 October 1883, in: Van Crimpen Berends-Albert 1990, no.398; and: letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, 5 December 1883, in: Van Crimpen Berends-Albert 1990, no.411. After his dismissal he retained his interest in reproductions: ‘It was at Durand Ruel that I

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saw all those paintings; there must be 25 etchings after Millet there and the same number after Michel and masses after Dupre and Corot and all other artists to be had for   1 franc apiece. That is tempting, I could not resist a couple after Millet, I bought the last   3 that were to be had of l’Angelus du Soir, and my brother will naturally receive one of these when the occasion rises’, letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, 28 March 1876, in: Van Crimpen Berends-Albert 1990, no.72. Letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, 5 July 1876, in: Van Crimpen BerendsAlbert 1990, no.83. Letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, 8 July 1876, in: Van Crimpen BerendsAlbert 1990, no.84. Letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, early September 1876, in: Van Crimpen Berends-Albert 1990, no.90. Bailey 1998, p.13-15. Letter from Vincent van Gogh to his parents, 17 and 18 November 1876, in: Van Crimpen Berends-Albert 1990, no.98. Letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, 21 January 1877, in: Van Crimpen Berends-Albert 1990, no.101; see also: Letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh,   7 or 8 February 1877, in: Van Crimpen Berends-Albert 1990, no.102. Letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, 26 February 1877, in: Van Crimpen Berends-Albert 1990, no.103. Letter from Vincent van Gogh to his uncle Cor, 8 March 1877, in: Van Crimpen BerendsAlbert 1990, no.107. A month later he was back in the museum; letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, 23 April 1877, in: Van Crimpen Berends-Albert 1990, no.112. Letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, 21 May 1877, in: Van Crimpen BerendsAlbert 1990, no.115. Letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, 28 May 1877, in: Van Crimpen BerendsAlbert 1990, no.116. Letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, 9 December 1877, in: Van Crimpen Berends-Albert 1990, no.136. Letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van

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Gogh, 21 October 1877, in: Van Crimpen Berends-Albert 1990, no.131. 204 Letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, 27 July 1877, in: Van Crimpen BerendsAlbert 1990, no.123. 205 ‘Hereby something for your portfolio, namely a lithograph after J. Maris, which one could caption: ‘a poor man in the Kingdom of God’, and a lithograph after Mollinger; have you ever seen this before, I hadn’t yet. Had an opportunity with a book Jew, who supplies me with Latin and Greek books that I need, to pick out prints from a large pile and it wasn’t expensive, 13 items for 70 cents. Thought, I wanted to get a few more for my room, that will bring some mood into it and that’s needed in order to have and renew ideas. I’ll now mention what it is, so you’ll know how it looks and what’s hanging there.1 after Jamin (that’s also hanging in your room), one after M. Maris: that little boy that’s going to school. 5 pieces after Bosboom. Van der Maaten, Funeral in the corn. Israels, a poor man on the road in winter with snow, and Ostade, Studio. Also Allebé, a little old woman who’s fetched water and fire on a wintery morning, when the snow’s on the ground, that one I’ll send to Cor on his birthday. The book Jew had many more fine things, but I can’t afford anything else and though I’ll hang it all up, I’m not going to collect’, letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, 19 May 1877, in: Van Crimpen Berends-Albert 1990, no.114, see also: letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, 21 October 1877, in: Van Crimpen Berends-Albert 1990, no.131. Although Van Gogh’s financial situation did not allow him to purchase prints on a larger scale, this cannot be the only reason why he did not make a more thorough collection; after all,   he did buy prints for his brother, albeit cheap lithographs. At some point Theo van Gogh seems to have advised his brother that his precarious financial situation did not allow him to keep buying such gifts, for this may possibly be inferred from Van Gogh’s critical undertone when he wrote: ‘and I shall write again soon lad, for I think of you so often and sometimes long for you and every morning

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the prints on the wall of my study, Christus consolator and pendant[-]., that woodcut after Van Goyen, Dordrecht, the portrait of D. Heldring, Le four by Th. Rousseau etc., remind me of you. For I’ve had them all from you and so the pot was calling the kettle black when you wrote, it was so wrong of me to give you a print for your room now and then, when I find something that suits what you already have. So enough about this, I say in my turn’, letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, 18 February 1878, included in: Van Crimpen Berends-Albert 1990, no.140. Letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, 7 or 8 February 1877, in: Van Crimpen Berends-Albert 1990, no.102, see also: letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, 18 February 1878, in: Van Crimpen BerendsAlbert 1990, no.140. Letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, 6 July 1882, in: Van Crimpen BerendsAlbert 1990, no.245. Verhuell 1859, p.93. Anonymous, ‘Le Salon de 1837’, L’Artiste (1837) xiii, pp.82-83. For Scheffer and Béranger see: Psichari 1901, pp. 269-270. Once political relations had changed in the wake of the July Revolution the print was published in 1834 in an illustrated edition of chansons by Béranger, which also included various illustrations by artists such as Bonnington, Delacroix, Isabey, Decamps and Scheffer. Scheffer illustrated the chanson The censor, in a wood engraving reproduced by Frilley, and already completed in 1829, see: exhib.cat. Dordrecht 1995, p.131. ‘Why don’t they say that engravings and drawings are meaningless because they have no colour?’, the colourist Delacroix wondered in his Journal , see: Delacroix in Wellington 1995, p.78. L.R. Beijnen in het Scheffer-Album, Haarlem 1859. In his essay on Scheffer’s Faust, Prof. Opzoomer responded to this frequent criticism of Scheffer and endeavoured to defend the painter’s use of colour, see: Opzoomer, Bull, A.J. (et al.), Scheffer-album, Haarlem 1859, pp.2-4. C. Baudelaire, ‘Salon 1846 de M. Ary Scheffer

214 215 216

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et des singes du sentiment’, in: C. Baudelaire, Critique d’Art suivi de Critique musicale (C. Pichois ed.) Paris 1998, p.134. Anonymous, ‘Ary Scheffer’, The Art Journal (1859), p.210. Vosmaer 1861, pp.123-124. Anonymous, ‘Reviews’, The Art Journal (1861), p.31: discussion of the print after Ary Scheffer’s The Temptation, engraved by A. Francois, published by Goupil in London and Paris. Letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, 3 September 1888, in: Van Crimpen Berends-Albert 1990, no. 677. Letter from A.L.G. Bosboom-Toussaint to Potgieter and W. van Ulsen, 7 November 1853, in: Reeser 1985, p.47. Boime 1980, pp.40-52; see also: A. Boime, ‘Going to Extremes over the Construction of the Juste Milieu’, in: P. ten-Doesschate Chu, G.P. Weisberg, The Popularization of Images. Visual Culture under the July Monarchy, Princeton 1994, pp.213-235. For an extensive discussion of this smooth painting technique see: C. Rosen, H. Zerner, ‘The Ideology of the licked surface: Official Art’, in: C. Rosen, H. Zerner, Romanticism and Realism. The Mythology of Nineteenth Century Art, Boston/London 1984, pp.205-232. T. Gautier, ‘Ary Scheffer’, L’Artiste (1858), p.99. A.J. de Bull in: A.J. Bull (e.a.), Scheffer-album, Haarlem 1859, p.2. For more extensive information on the combination of art dealing and publishing activities at the firms of Goupil and Gambart, see: Verhoogt 1999, pp.22-29. Beraldi (xii) 1892, pp.14-15. Exhib.cat. Bordeaux 2000, p.14. Anonymous, ‘Het Hemicycle van Paul Délaroche, gegraveerd door Henriquel Dupont’, De Kunstkronijk (1861), p.9. Quote by Thoré in: exhib.cat. Dordrecht 1995, p.11..

chapter 6 p. ?

1 Israëls quoted in: Dekkers 1994, p.29.



2 ‘Who has never felt with us a sigh of regret

well up at the thought, that such a talent is

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compelled to gain his daily bread outside the borders of his native land, because at home a leaden hand still weighs upon the Art of Engraving, preventing her from spreading her wings to their full extent and taking the same heavenwards flight, which her sisters, the other visual Arts, see open to them in an increasingly hopeful future?’ G., ‘Gravure’,   De Kunstkronijk (1843-44), vol.4, p.36. He had previously produced the print after Scheffer’s Faust en Margaretha, see: Anonymous, ‘Kunstberigten’, De Kunstkronijk (1842-43), vol.3, p10. For the beginning of Israëls’ career see: Dekkers 1994, p.26-34; and: exhib.cat. Groningen 1999, pp.17-21. Verveer’s lithograph after Aaron en zijn zonen (Aaron and His Sons) appeared in De Kunstkronijk (1849), opposite page 70. See: Bijlagen bij de handelingen der Tweede Kamer 1878-1879, pp.903-904. See also: Kabel 1991, p.67 and C.V. ‘Het adres der kunstenaars over het eigendomsrecht van hunne werken’, De Nederlandsche Spectator (1878), p.113. The law died a silent death, creating a curious situation in which prints were protected but paintings, drawings and sculptures were not. Thus a reproduction was protected, while its original was not, as had once been the case in England. It took until 1912 before artists were recognised as authors by convincing legal provisions. For this law see: De Beaufort 1912, p.132. See also about the Dutch Copyright Act of 1881 and the special additional law for the visual arts of 1884: Reinsma (intro.) Auteurswet 1881. Parlementaire geschiedenis wet 1881 – ontwerp 1884, Zutphen 2006. Letter from J. Israëls to A.C. Kruseman 1857, ltk 1795, xiii No. 140 Universiteit Leiden. Dekkers 1994, p.120. Copy book with notes by Jan Veth (part ii) p.46, A.S. Kok Archive rkd The Hague. Letter from J. Israëls to A.C. Kruseman, ltk1390, No.2 Universiteit Leiden. Sillevis 1988, p.156. Sillevis 1988, p.157. Letter from J. Israëls to A. Plasschaert, The Hague 26 February 1907, A.S. Kok Archive rkd The Hague. Letter from J. Israëls to H.G. Tersteeg, 24 April

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1883. This letter (copied by A.S. Kok) is incorporated in an unpublished work on Israëls by A.S. Kok. For more on Kok and Israëls see below. This nephew was a well-known lawyer and journalist, had been fiercely involved in the notorious Dreyfus affair (which obliged him to leave France) and had his own legal column in De Telegraaf. When the etcher Philippe Zilcken had to deal with a forged signature, he sought advice from Carel Vosmaer ‘one of our best and most art-loving lawyers’ and from his friend Mr Louis Israëls. Both lawyers admitted they could do little about this. According to Zilcken, Louis Israels was attached to the Bureau voor Auteursrecht (Office for Authorship Rights), Zilcken n.y, pp.108-109. For Herman Louis Israëls see also: exhib.cat. Groningen 1999, p.174. W. Loos, ‘De kleine burgemeester’ en andere Amsterdamse impressies van Adolphe Mouilleron (1820-1881)’, Nederlands Kunsthistorisch Jaarboek 38 (1987), p.201 and note 2 on page 211. For copying and reproducing in the Rijksmuseum see: P.J.J. Thiel, ‘Het Rijksmuseum in het Trippenhuis, 1814-1885 (iv): Kopiisten en photografen’, Bulletin van het Rijksmuseum 30 (1982) , pp.63-86. A century after Israël’s birth Jan Veth wrote an essay on the painter, see: J. Veth, ‘Jozef Israëls’, Die Haghe. Jaarboek 1924, The Hague 1924, pp.6269. For Mouilleron’s visits see: P. Mantz, L’Artiste (1857), p.87. J. Veth quoted in: Loos 1987, p.202. Letter from J. Israëls to A.C. Kruseman 1857, ltk 1795, xiii No 140, Universiteit Leiden. The painting Eerste Liefde (First Love) was displayed at the exhibition of Living Masters held in Rotterdam in 1856. ’When the painting Eerste Liefde was complete, Mouilleron made a lithograph of it; when Israëls painted De Wieg the Frenchman even drew with him from the model in the studio’, Veth quoted in Loos 1987, p.202. A genre scene was reproduced in Magasin Pittoreske (1857), p.280. However, these works had not yet been noticed. In 1861 Israëls submitted several other works to the Salon which did receive attention, establishing his

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name in France, see: Dekkers 1994, pp.92-93.

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28 For Ferdinand Leenhoff see: J. de Loos-Haax-

21 For the firm of Buffa see: Stolwijk 1998,

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pp.305-306. See: Anonymous, ‘Kunst en letteren. Jozef Israëls’, Algemeen Handelsblad, 18 January 1894. Allebé was given an introduction to Mouilleron by Israëls. In addition to Israëls and Allebé, the art collector Daniel Franken was an important link between Mouilleron and Amsterdam. This passionate collector and amateur of lithography was a close friend of the renowned French lithographer; he owned a substantial collection of prints from Mouilleron’s time in Holland and produced a tribute to his friend in the exclusive publication A. Mouilleron. Souveniers de Hollande. Dessins et croquis tires des collection du comte Andre Mniszech à Paris et de D. Franken Dz au Vesinet et offerts par eux aux amis de leur ami Mouilleron 1897. Reproductions de la Maison Joan Berg à Paris. Tire à 100 exemplaires. Non mis dans le commerce. There is a copy of this in the Rijksprentenkabinet. Franken’s love of lithography is also evident in his virtually complete collection of lithographs after the work of Allebé. For Allebé’s lithograph Adagio con Espressione see: Fondscatalogus van A.W. Sijthoff. Boekdrukker en uitgever te Leiden 1851-1899, Leiden 1899, p.1. Adagio con Espressione. La denier pensee musicale de Weber. Naar Jos. Israëls, geteekend door Aug. Allebé. Groote lithographie f.2,50; Fondscatalogus van A.W. Sijthoff. Boekdrukker en uitgever te Leiden 1851-1899, Leiden 1899, p.1. A.S. Kok owned a copy of this print (height 34 cm, width 26 ½ cm), which was also on general sale. For a collotype of this see: De Gids, no.185. The lithographer Allebé received 100 guilders for this, see: De Steurs 1929, pp.57-60. Letter from Jan Veth to A. Allebé, 16 April 1889, quoted in: Huizinga 1827, pp.40-41. For Veth and Allebé see: Loos 1988, pp.144-145. Huizinga 1827, p.41. Veth also devoted a publication to Allebé’s lithographs, see: J. Veth, Steenteekeningen van Aug. Allebé, Jaarboekje van de Vereeniging tot Bevordering der Grafische Kunst, 1917. For this see: Catalogue Francois Buffa & Fils. Exposition permanente, n.p. and n.y. [1910]



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man, ‘Ferdinand Leenhoff in The Hague’, in: Vereniging ‘Die Haghe’ Jaarboek 1962, ‘s- Gravenhage 1962, pp.158-163. Dake 1911, pp.32-35. Dake’s prints date from 1894 and 1909 respectively. The replica may have been exhibited at the gallery of Scholtens & Zoon in Groningen in 1893, see: review in Nieuwe Rotterdamsche Courant, 4 March 1893. The engravings after In het Katwijkse weeshuis (In the Katwijk orphanage) were made after a a watercolour. Engraving after a drawing by Israëls, reproduced Eigen Haard, 1876, p.433 and in The Magazine of Art, 5 (1882), p.484. Both reproductions were after a watercolour, see: Dekkers 1994, p.260. Zilcken’s Herinneringen recalls: ‘When I showed a state of an etching to Jacob Maris, he immediately took charcoal and white chalk and managed to bring peace and harmony to such a proof in a minimum of time. I still possess a few of these states, some of which have been worked on with much love, as well as several treated in the same fashion by J. Israëls. When I had subsequently made the improvements, I again went to the artist, until he declared that I needed to do nothing more to my plate’, see: Zilcken 1928, p.51b. In the catalogue of Zilcken’s work A. Pit mentions seven etchings after works by Israëls nos. 85, 97, 141, 310, 315, 405 and 453, see: A. Pit, Catalogue descriptif des Eaux-Fortes de Ph. Zilcken, Amsterdam 1918. Zilcken also made many etchings after painters associated with the Hague School. He especially produced many reproductions of work by Jacob and Mathijs Maris. Letter from J. Israëls to L. Löwenstam, 25 April 1879, The Hague, Inv. 9161 (b) Fondation Custodia Paris. Letter from J. Israëls to A.C. Kruseman, 1855, ltk 1795, xi No.181, Universiteit Leiden. Letter from J. Israëls to A.C. Kruseman, 1855, ltk 1795, xi No.182, Universiteit Leiden. Around 200 photographs by Asser are known. These were made using various processes, and are mainly portraits, plus street scenes in Amsterdam. Asser also took photographs of

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various art works, including Israëls’ Mijmering (Reverie), see: Boom 1998, p.26, plus illustrations no.183 and 184. Exhib.cat. Groningen 1999, pp.128-129. See: Boom 1998, p.12 For example, Asser took a photograph of a print after a painting by N. Pieneman, depicting Rembrandt checking an etching proof, for which he probably used the lithograph which Mouilleron had made of this painting in 1852; the photographer and the renowned lithographer were close friends, see: Boom 1998 under no.189. Letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, 21 December 1882, in: Van Crimpen Berends-Albert 1990, no.296.; see also: Stolwijk 1999, p.95. Lafont-Couturier 1994, p.39 and D. Dekkers, ‘Goupil en de internationale verspreiding van Nederlandse eigenstijdse kunst’, in: Jong Holland 11 (1995) 4, pp.22-36; see also: Tersteeg 1910, p.8. From 1884 onwards the firm of Goupil operated under the name Boussod & Valadon Cie. Another art dealer in The Hague was H.J. van Wisselingh; in Amsterdam the principal dealers were C.M. van Gogh and Buffa. Goupil’s status in the field of reproductions is illustrated by the fact that Philip Zilcken had to reliquish 70 per cent of the income from his album of etchings after Jacob Maris to the firm, although he himself bore all the costs of this: ‘This was countered by the suggestion, that I should be glad, that such an important firm was distributing my work over the world, which could do my name nothing but good’, Zilcken 1928, p.50. Stolwijk 2001, p.211. The format of the card prints was 60 x 46 cm, the price 1.5 guilders; the same photographs were also available ‘sur cartons panel’, in the format 32 x 23 cm, for 1.5 guilders; the cabinet format cost 25 cents; ‘La collection format cabinet se vend aussi sur verre opal (blanc) au prix de f.0,50 le no’. The series also included many photographs after works by Apol, Henkes, Eerelman, Mauve, E. Verveer, Vrolijk, plus others after Mesdag, see: Catalogue illustre de Pulications Artistique, J.M. Schalekamp Amsterdam 1892, pp.16-21.

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tableaux et des dessins de Maitres Hollandais Modernes. ‘Photos ca 430 cm, sur panel cartons prix f.0,60 La collection format cabinet se vend aussi sur verre opal (blanc) au prix de f.1,50 chaque no.’ Catalogue illustre de Pulications Artistique, J.M. Schalekamp Amsterdam 1892, pp.23-24. In 1900 photographs of La Couturière, Un fils du vieux peuple, Comment on s‘amuse, Interieur de Pêcheur, La garde malade were made available, in two formats, 24 x 30 cm, and the smaller cabinet format, for 80 cents and 25 cents respectively, see: Catalogus van Schalekamp’s photographie en kunsthandel, Buiksloot 1900, p.34. Moreover, Le Marquillier et sa femme, Le pecheur de Zandvoort, La prie de la Mere, Le dernier jour, Seul au monde, Des ténèbres à la lumière, Près du feu and Le pot au feu were available in an intermediate format, 24 x 18 cm, for 50 cents, as were La Couturière, Interieur de pêcheur (2 x) and La Garde malade, see: Catalogus van Schalekamp’s photographie en kunsthandel, Buiksloot 1900, p.36. These prints were published in large format, 80 x 60 cm paper size, 30 x 40 cm plate size, see: Catalogus van Schalekamp’s photographie en kunsthandel, Buiksloot 1900, p.17. In 1905 Schalekamp also brought coloured prints onto the market, see: Geïllustreerde catalogus uitgave van J.M. Schalekamp Buiksloot 1905, p.41. Available in the format 30 x 24 cm, unmounted, for 60 cents, see: Catalogus van Schalekamp’s photographie en kunsthandel, Buiksloot 1900, pp.22-23. The photogravure after Jan Veths’ painted portrait of Israëls was similarly available in the format 60 x 80 cm, for 5 guilders, and handcoloured for 7.5 francs, see: Geïllustreerde catalogus uitgaven van J.M. Schalekamp, Buiksloot 1905, p.34-43 (nr.23). The Dordrecht series also included a photograph after Alma-Tadema’s Venantius Fortunatus. Works by Ary Scheffer are curiously absent. Geïllustreerde catalogus uitgaven van J.M. Schalekamp, Buiksloot 1905, p.15; see also: Geïllustreerde Catalogus van Schalekamp’s photographie en kunsthandel, Amsterdam 1916, pp.43-46. Catalogus van Schalekamp’s photographie en kunsthandel, Buiksloot 1900, pp.59-60. Such

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postcards could also be obtained in special folders, containing 12 cards, for 50 cents a folder; ‘watercolour postcards’ were similarly sold in folders, at double the price. Naturally Israëls was also represented in these folder series, with postcards of popular works, such as Langs moeders graf (Passing Mother’s Grave), Een zoon van het oude volk (A Son of the Ancient People), Alleen op de wereld (Alone in the World) and Van duisternis tot licht (From Darkness into Light), handcoloured copies of which were also sold in 1905, see: Geïllustreerde catalogus uitgave van J.M. Schalekamp, Buiksloot 1905, p.41. See also: Geïllustreerde Catalogus van Schalekamp’s photographie en kunsthandel, Amsterdam 1916, pp.12-22. Catalogus van Schalekamp’s photographie en kunsthandel, Buiksloot 1900, p.51. In addition wall calendars were sold for the same price, 90 cents, with reproductions of works by Mauve, Van de Sande Bakhuisen, Rembrandt, Pieter de Hoogh and Jan Steen. In 1899 the firm of Lankhout published a calendar with a lithograph after Israëls’ Landman op het veld (Countryman in the Field). The firm of Mouton in The Hague also published a calendar which included an autotype after Kinderen der Zee (Children of the Sea). Dekkers 1994, pp.110-111. Dekkers 1994, p.337. Israëls’ journal, 22 December 1903. In the   A.S. Kok Archive (rkd The Hague) is the beginning of a journal kept by Israëls, which only covers several months, from late 1903 to early 1904. Israëls’ journal, 16 January 1904. This may be the same print as the photogravure after Israëls’ self-portrait of circa 1900, in A.S. Kok’s possession. These prints were published in larger format, 80 x 60 cm paper size, 30 x 40 cm plate size, see: Catalogus van Schalekamp’s photographie en kunsthandel, Buiksloot 1900, p.17. De Nederlandsche Spectator 1894, p.38. Dekkers 1994, pp.105-109. See: Catalogue Francois Buffa & Fils. Exposition permanente, n.p. and n.d. [1910]. After Buffa had been taken over by J. Slagmulder in 1895, Israëls kept in contact with the firm, see Israëls’ journals, 22



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December 1903 and 16 January 1904, A.S. Kok Archive rkd The Hague. For the firm of Buffa in the Dutch art trade in the late nineteenth century see: Bionda 1991, pp.53-74. Liquidatie van den voorraad etchingen, engravings, lithograph’s, prenten van de firma Frans Buffa & Zonen, Amsterdam, sale 21-22 November 1934, International antiquariat, Amsterdam. From the early 1870s Israëls also used Buffa to sell his own etchings. Although the painter regularly had these prints printed by Salmon in Paris, he was not always enthusiastic about the results, see: letter from J. Israëls to Buffa, November 1875, rpk Amsterdam No.93 Buffa. Moreover, Israëls collaborated with several foreign publishers, such as the Paris-based art dealers and publishers Arnold & Tripp, see: J. Sillevis, ‘Lettres de Jozef Israëls à Arnold et Tripp marchands de tableaux a Paris (18811892)’, Archives de l’Art Francais, n.p. xxix (1988), p.141-162. If he did not like the results, he regularly encouraged the publisher to retrieve the plates from the printer, see: letter from   J. Israëls to F. Buffa, No.97a-b Buffa, 10-iv-1876, rpk Amsterdam. For the editions of Anxious Moments, Passing Mother’s Grave, Watching, Sunshine and Shadow, Dawn and Nothing Left see: register of the Printseller’s Association; see also: Friend 1886, pp.6, 171, 246, 223, 48, 161, The Groningen firm of Scholtens also collaborated with this English publisher on the prints of J.M. Graadt van Roggen after Wachtende op het duin (Waiting on the Dune) and Boerin wiedend (Peasant Woman Weeding). Heij 1989, pp.112-117. Examples are: Na de storm (Anxious Moments), engraving by H. Sluyter Junior from circa 1870, presentation publication with Cremer’s Romantische werken and De schipbreukeling (The Shipwrecked Mariner), engraving by J.H. Rennefeld from 1864, edition by George Funke, Amsterdam. Een zoon van het oude volk (A Son of the Ancient People) (1889, Stedelijk Museum Amsterdam), engraving by C.Ed. Taurel from circa1890, published Oud en Nieuw op het gebied van Kunst en KunstNijverheid in Holland en Belgie, C.Ed. Taurel ed.,

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Amsterdam/ Rotterdam/ Groningen/ Haarlem 1889-1891. A wood engraving by an anonymous artist after this painting was also published in issue 6 of the Album van Nederlandsche Kunst (Premie-album voor Inteekenaren op Eigen Haard), Haarlem [1891], see: Dekkers 1994, p.119. In this connection see also: Kunst Laaft 1981, cat. nos.24, 26, 36, and 45. J. ten Brink en J. Bosboom (ed.), HollandKrakatau, onder bescherming van Z.K.H. Alexander der Nederlanden, Prins van Oranje, uitgegeven ten voordeele der slachtoffers van de ramp op Java, met medewerking van onze eerste schilders en letterkundigen, The Hague 1883. Album met six photogravures after work by Jozef Israëls in Dutch collections, with text by Ed. Karsen, see: Heij 1989, p.156. De Nederlandsche Spectator (3 August 1878), p.261. In 1850 Israëls gained his first successes with works such as Mijmering (Reverie) and De laatste gedachte van Weber (Weber’s last thought ,also known as Adagio con espressione, see: Dekkers 1994, p.31. Between 1820 and 1870 there was a rich range of almanacs in the Netherlands, see: Sitvast 1987, pp.20-21. See also: P. van Zonneveld, M. van Noort, ‘Lijst van nederlandse almanakken 1830-1839’, in: De Negentiende Eeuw 2 (1978),   pp .14-46; and: P. van Zonneveld, R. van Wingerden, ‘Lijst van Nederlandse almanakken 1840-1849’, in: De Negentiende Eeuw 3 (1979), p.2-38. For competition between the almanacs see: Kruseman 1899 (i) p.198. Holland. Almanak (1852), t.o. p.170. For the Aurora-Almanak see: Enschede 1899 (i), p.142 and Sitvast 1987, pp.23, 27. For this see also: Jacobi 1984, pp.192-193. J. Israëls’ letters to the publisher A.C. Kruseman are kept in the Kruseman Archive in the University Library of Leiden. The earliest known letter in which Israëls refers to reproductions dates from 30 May 1855, although the content indicates that the painter had already been involved in the reproduction   of his work prior to this, see: Letter from   J. Israëls to A.C. Kruseman, postmarked 30.5.1855, ltk 1795, xi No.180 Universiteit

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Leiden. For this correspondence see:   D.Dekkers, ‘Kinderen der Zee. De samen­ werking tussen Jozef Israëls en Nicolaas Beets’, Jong Holland, 2 (1986), no.1, pp.36-52. ‘For the engraver this will be a sufficient beginning and I can afterwards finish off the drawing and effect a little more on proofs’, letter from J. Israëls aan A.C. Kruseman, 1855, ltk 1795, xi No.181 Universiteit Leiden. ‘I shall send what I have in the way of photography for the engraving and will leave it at that. Libre à vous, to have another and better photograph taken. I shall always be entirely willing to make the drawing available for this. I believe in the meantime that with a little thought the engraver will have enough with the existing [photograph]’, letter from   J. Israëls to A.C. Kruseman, 1855, ltk 1795,   xi No.182 Universiteit Leiden. Dekkers believes that Israëls’ stay in Zandvoort dates to 1855, despite the fact that the correspondence associated with this is filed in the folder for 1854, see: Dekkers 1994, p.40. For this see also: M. Eisler, ‘Zandvoort 1855’, Elseviers Geïllustreerd Maandschrift 21 (1911) vol.17, p.266-285. Letter from J. Israëls to A.C. Kruseman, 1854, ltk 1795 x No.191 Universiteit Leiden. Letter from J. Israëls to A.C. Kruseman, 1854, ltk 1795 x No 192 Universiteit Leiden. Letter from J. Israëls to A.C. Kruseman 1857, ltk 1795, xiii No 140, Universiteit Leiden. Israëls was referring here to the following engravers: A.B.B. Taurel (1794-1859) and his son C.Ed. Taurel (1824-1892), J.W. Kaiser (18131900), W. Steelink (1826-1913) and D.J. Sluyter (1811-1886). Various portraits of the renowned painter Tollens were in circulation, see: Rooseboom 1994, p.236. Letter from J. Israëls to A.C. Kruseman, 4 April 1857 Amsterdam ltk 1795, xiii No 45, University Library of Leiden. For the steel engraving after Langs het kerkhof (Passing Mother’s Grave) by Steelink, see: Thrasybulus, ‘Langs het kerkhof (met eene plaat)’, Aurora-Almanak 1858, opposite p.9 (reprinted in Hollandse Muze, 1868); photograph with poem ‘Langs het kerkhof’ by J.J.L. ten Kate, in: Neerland’s nieuwe

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79 Enschede 1899 (i), p.398.



80 Letter from Da Costa to A.C. Kruseman 8



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December 1857, quoted in: Enschede 1899 (i), p.398. Reply from A.C. Kruseman quoted in: Enschede 1899 (i), p.400. Dekkers 1994, p.204. Enschede 1899 (i), p.142. Sitvast 1987, pp.26-27. Enschede 1899 (i), p.146. Sitvast 1987, pp.25, 29-31. In the early 1860s the Aurora-Almanak’s circulation also declined slowly but surely, see: Enschede 1899 (i), pp.143-146. The lithograph by Verveer after Aaron en zijn zonen (Aaron and His Sons) appeared in De Kunstkronijk (1849), opposite page 70. The lithograph after De laatste brief van Oldenbarnevelt appeared in De Kunstkronijk in 1853. The lithograph by H.C.A. Dekker after Levenswinter(The evening of life) and the lithograph by A.P. Felix after Kleren verstellen (Mending Clothes) apeared in De Kunstkronijk in 1863. The lithograph De Muze (The Muse) appeared in De Kunstkronijk in 1867, opposite p.10; the lithograph after Hanna in de Tempel (Hannah in the Temple) appeared in De Kunstkronijk in 1879, opposite p.94. The engraving by J.H. Rennefeld after Thomas à Kempis appeared in De Kunstkronijk in 1870, opposite p.2. The etching by L. Löwenstam after Moeder Jobje bij de Haard (Mother Jacob by the Hearth) appeared in De Kunstkronijk in 1871, opposite p.2. The lithograph by J.J. Mesker after Een huiselijk tafereel (A Domestic Scene) appeared in De Kunstkronijk in 1875, opposite p.18. The photogravure of the peasant interior appeared in De Kunstkronijk in 1886, opposite page 84. The photogravure of De Naaischool te Katwijk (The Sewing Class at Katwijk) appeared in De Kunstkronijk in 1888, opposite p. 28. In 1863 the Nederlands Magazijn published a wood engraving by J. Hemeleer, after Eerste Liefde/Sympthome d’Amour (First Love), on p.65.   A wood engraving of Na de Storm (Anxious Moments) by P. Krey appeared in De Katholieke Illustratie in 1884-85, on p.180. The engraving by Rennefeld after a drawing of the work



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Wachten (Waiting), previously included in the album Kinderen der Zee (Children of the Sea), later appeared in De Katholieke Illustratie in 1883-1885, on p.384 and in De Huisvriend in 1882, on p.137. In 1882 De Huisvriend also published a wood engraving by F. Tegetmeyer after De Wieg (The Cradle), on p.444. Published in l’Art in 1879, between pages 322 and 323, republished by Magasin Pittoresque in 1879, on p.165, and by Eigen Haard in 1879, on p.291. In 1880 this work was owned by Buffa. The drypoint etching, Les travailleurs de la mer/ Het uitzetten van het anker/Ankerdragers (Anchor Bearers) was published in: Gazette des BeauxArts 31 (1889), vol.2, opposite p.374. For a similar reproduction, possibly after a watercolour, see: De Katholieke Illustratie, 26 (189293), p.360. Kloek Mijnhard 1990, p.115. Letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, 14 August 1882, in; Van Crimpen Berends-Albert 1990, no.258. Van Gogh was writing about an exhibition in The Hague organised by the Holland drawing society, which displayed a portrait of Weissenbruch by Israëls, plus work by Anton Mauve, Jacob Maris, Neuhuys and Hendrik W. Mesdag. Zilcken described this affair in his Herinneringen: ‘On this occasion I made the acquaintance of Mr Launette, a Parisian publisher of extremely fine books, who was engaged at that time on a deluxe work, “Grands Peintres Francais et Etrangers”, illustrated with photogravures, partly printed between the text. For some reason, I know not what, Meissonier had been dropped, so Launette asked me, as it entailed the letter M, to write a “Mesdag” for his publication; when I pointed out to him that Mesdag could not be included in the series without Israëls, he assented, that I also wrote an “Israëls” ….’ see: Zilcken 1928, pp.3233. Neerland’s Nieuwe Kunst. Photographien naar J.W. Bilders, J. Bosboom, Hein J. Burgers, Jozef Israëls, C. Rochussen en W. Roelofs. Met oorspronkelijke gedichten van N. Beets, J.P. Hasebroek, J.J.L. ten Kate, E. Laurillard, Amsterdam 1871, opposite title page with poem ‘Langs het kerkhof’ by J. J.L. ten Kate, pp.39-42. Several years later his

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work could be found in Chefs-d’oeuvre des peintres anciens et modernes. École Hollandaise en oléographie, met tekst van de schrijver W.J. Hofdijk (1816-1888), published in parts from 1874. Dekkers 1994, p.122. Zilcken wrote of this: ‘On the occasion of the exhibition in Antwerp, an Italian sculptor Biondi, made a series of drawings after Dutch and Belgian paintings, under the title “l’Arte del Nord”. In this large-format album there were Israëls’ “Als men oud wordt”, a group “ Gele rijders” by Breitner, a “Scheveningsche vrouwenkop” by van der Maarel, “De Brug” by J. Maris and my “Oude visscher”(Old Fisher man); also several Belgians, Courtens, van Leemputten, etc. This endeavour by an en­ thusiastic artist was well intentioned, but an exact reproduction still remains of more documentary, - and sometimes, artistic, importance’, see: Zilcken 1928, p.44. Israëls monumental painting Als men oud wordt (When One Grows Old) was included in this album, see: exhib.cat. Groningen 1999, p.206. Zilcken 1928, pp.45-47. See: A Memorial Catalogue of the French and Dutch Loan Collection, Edinburgh International Exhibition 1886, Note on Romanticism, Biographies and Description of the Pictures by William Ernest Henley Edinburgh 1888, William Ernest Henley (1849-1903). Zilcken 1928, pp.48-49. Zilcken 1928, p.82. A noteworthy album on which Zilcken collaborated was a commemorative publication entitled Scheveningen-Constantinopel, to benefit the victims of a storm surge and an earthquake. Israëls was one of the various Dutch painters to contribute to this publication. When Zilcken was involved with the paper Gazette de Hollande in 1911 and the publication was doing badly, he suggested to the director that he should gain more publicity by producing an issue about the same earthquake in Constantinople, see. See: Zilcken 1928, p.197. Zilcken 1928, p.68. This work was also published abroad, with great success according to Zilcken, see: Zilcken 1928, p.86. Letter from J. Israëls to Schalekamp, published in: Ph. Zilcken, Peintre Hollandais Modernes, avec facsimiles d’apres des oeuvres de ces

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107 108 109 110

111 112 113 114

115

116 117 118

119 120 121

werking tussen Jozef Israëls en Nicolaas Beets’, Jong Holland 2 (1986) 1, pp.36-52. Dekkers 1994, p.120. Copybook with notes by Jan Veth (part ii) p.46, A.S. Kok Archive the rkd, The Hague. Enschede 1899 (i), p.572 ‘I have the pleasure of informing you that I have wound up the business with Buffa and thus defer to that which you have said of the matter in question, namely that you would purchase them for 800. […] The matter of the album in entirely with the fore-knowledge and approval of the Buffas’, letter from J. Israëls to A.C. Kruseman, ltk1390, no.2 Universiteit Leiden. Letter from J. Israëls to A.C. Kruseman, April, ltk1390, no.3 Universiteit Leiden. See: Jacobi 1984, p.193. Letter from J. Israëls to A.C. Kruseman, April ltk1390, no.3 Universiteit Leiden. Letter from J. Israëls to Kruseman, Amsterdam April 1860, ltk1390, nr.4 Universiteit Leiden, quoted in: Dekkers 1986, p.39. Letter from J. Israëls to A.C. Kruseman, ltk1390 No.4 Universiteit Leiden. Beets wrote enthusiastically to Kruseman some time later: ‘I am in raptures about “Kleine jan”, letter from N. Beets to A.C. Kruseman, 1 August 1860, ltk1390 no.7 Universiteit Leiden. Letter from J. Israëls to A.C. Kruseman, ltk1390 no.5 Universiteit Leiden. Dekkers 1986, p.42. Letter from J. Israëls to A.C. Kruseman, Amsterdam 7 July 1860, ltk1390 no.6 Universiteit Leiden. Letter from J. Israëls to A.C. Kruseman, 1861, ltk1390 no.11 Universiteit Leiden. Ibid. Letter from N. Beets to A.C. Kruseman, 11 May 1861, ltk1390 no.14 Universiteit Leiden. Possibly Israëls was referring to his work Les enfants de la mer, exhibited at the Salon in Paris in 1857, see: exhib.cat. Paris Salon de 1857, cat.no.1400. Israëls was involved in both the illustrations and the text, advising the poet Beets on his field of expertise. For this see: letter from N. Beets to A.C. Kruseman, 24

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on modern Dutch artists, devoted one instalment to Jozef Israëls. These publications Letter from A.C. Kruseman to N. Beets, Haarfeatured text by Carel Vosmaer. The series was lem 27 April 61, Beets Archive 3/1/1. quoted in: published in two batches of 12 instalments, Dekkers 1986, p.40. dedicated to contemporary Dutch artists, and was illustrated with several photolithographLetter from J. Israëls to A.C. Kruseman, Auic reproductions and a fine Woodburytype gust 1861, ltk1390 no.18 Universiteit Leiden. Dekkers 1994, p.120. with a portrait of the master in question. For this series see: H. Rooseboom, ‘Een fondsveilEnschede 1899 (i), p.573. Enschede 1899 (i), p.573. ing in 1884. De portretten van Onze Hedendaagsche schilders’, in : Nieuwsbrief Dekkers 1986, pp.38-41. See also the poem Nederlands Photographgenootschap 13 (1996) , reproduced here and the observation made by p.13-15. 1889 saw the publication of the album J.A. Alberdingk Thijm. See also: Jacobi 1984, p.193. Juweeltjes. Gravuren van Joseph Israëls. Text by Nic. Beets, B. Ter Haar, J.J. L. ten Kate and C. Van der Meulen 1891, p.153. From the late 1890s into the first decade of the twentieth Vosmaer with eight sketches after well-known paintings by Israëls from the period 1862century, advertisements for both Kinderen der 1880. Zee and Juweeltjes (Little Jewels) regularly appeared in the illustrated catalogues produced 132 Nieuwe Rotterdamsche Courant, 9 April 1889, in: Catalogus van Schalekamp’s photographie en by the publisher A.W. Sijthoff. For example kunsthandel, Buiksloot 1900, p.8 see: Catalogus van Prachtwerken en feestgeschenk 133 Steelink made prints after 1 Le repas, 2 De en uitgeven bij Sijthoff. Verkrijgbaar bij elke l’obscurité vers la lumière (after Van duisternis tot boekhandel [1896]; Catalogus van Prachtwerken en Feestgeschenken uitgegeven bij A.W. Sijthoff te licht, 1871), 3 Le canal, 4 Les enfants de la mer, 5 Le Leiden [1898]; Catalogus van Prachtwerken en naufragé (after De schipbreukeling, 1861), 6 l’Allée Feestgeschenken uitgegeven bij A.W. Sijthoff te le long du cimetière (after Langs moeders graf, Leiden [1899]; Prachtwerken en feestgeschenken, 1856), 7 Comment on s’amuse, 8 Réverie, 9 Un fils uitgegeven door Sijthoff’s uitg.-Maatschappij te du vieux peuple (after De zoon van het oude volk, Leiden [1904], Prachtwerken en feestgeschenken 1889), 10 Un rafraichissement (after De verkwikking, 1887) en 11 Seul au monde (Alleen op de uitgegeven door A.W. Sijthoff te Leiden [1905]; Prachtwerken en feestgeschenken uitgegeven door wereld). In 1895 the prints could also be purA.W. Sijthoff te Leiden [1906]; Memorandum 1907. chased separately: Catalogue de publications Catalogus der uitgaven van A.W. Sijthoff, te Leiden. Artistique illustre, J.M. Schalekamp Amsterdam Feestgeschenken, pracht- en technische werken, enz. 1895, p.22. In 1900 the album was only availIn the Catalogus van Prachtwerken en Feestgeable in a deluxe version for 60 guilders: Catalogus van Schalekamp’s photographie en schenken, uitgegeven door A.W. Sijthoff’s uitgeverskunsthandel J.M. Schalekamp, Buiksloot AmsterMaatschappij te Leiden [1911] there are no more dam 1900, p.14. In 1905 the price had dropped advertisements for albums after Israëls. A typical work is the album produced in 1889 to 30 guilders, Geillustreerde catalogus uitgaven van J.M. Schalekamp, Buiksloot 1905, p.9. The by the Leiden publisher A.W. Sijthoff, Justock list for 1916 again included a numbered weeltjes. Gravuren van Joseph Israëls. Text by N. Beets, B. Ter Haar, J.J. L. ten Kate and C. Vosprint on Japanese paper, avant la lettre, for 120 guilders, Geillustreerde Catalogus van Schalemaer with eight sketches after well-known paintings by Israëls from the period 1862kamp’s photographie en kunsthandel, Amsterdam 1916, p.7. 1880. However, there was now little connection between the words and the images, see: 134 Jozef Israëls. L’Homme et L’Artiste. Onze eauxfortes par Wm Steelink et une eaux-forte originale Dekkers 1986, p.41. inédite, texte par Fr. Netcher et Ph. Zilcken, illustré During this period a series of monographic de nombreux facsimilés de croquis et de dessins et studies entitled Onze Hedendaagsche schilders, June 1861 ltk1390 no.17 Universiteit Leiden.

122 Dekkers 1986, p.40. 123

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un essai de catalogue descriptif des eaux-fortes du maitre, available in the format 46 x 67 cm, Catalogue illustré de Publications Artistique, J.M. Schalekamp Amsterdam 1892, p.4. 135 Catalogue illustré de Publications Artistique, J.M. Schalekamp, Amsterdam 1892, pp.6-10. 136 Catalogus van Schalekamp’s Photographie en kunsthandel, J.M. Schalekamp, Buiksloot Amsterdam 1900. 137 Catalogus van Schalekamp’s photographie en kunsthandel J.M. Schalekamp, Buiksloot Amsterdam 1900, pp.8-9. It should be noted that this list of positive foreign reviews was adduced by the publisher. 138 No. doc13 rpk Amsterdam (text of a review of Jozef Israëls, L’Homme et l’artiste). See also: Zilcken 1928, p.57. In the same year Schalekamp published a similar ‘deluxe work’ dedicated to Anton Mauve, with etched reproductions by Philip Zilcken 1928, p.57. 139 No. doc13 rpk Amsterdam (text of a review   of Jozef Israëls, L’Homme et l’artiste). 140 Dake was not the only author who wrote about the painter from his own experience. Israëls’ good friend, the painter Max Liebermann, had already published articles on the painter in the German journal Zeitschrift fur Bildende Kunst. These articles were collected together and published in 1901 under the title Jozef Israëls. Kritische studie von Max Liebermann. Mit einer radierung und dreizehn zum teil ganzseitigen abbildungen. The publication also incorporated 13 collotypes and an original etching by the painter’s own hand. It was published by the famous Berlin art dealer Bruno Cassirer, with whom Israëls himself regularly did business. Although Liebermann’s text had been previously published, the illustrations were new, as explicitly pointed out: ‘Sonderabdruk aus der “Zeitschrift fuer bildende kunst” mit beifuegung nuer illustrationen’, Jozef Israëls, Kritische studie von Max Liebermann, Berlin 1901, n. p. The illustrations comprised 13 collotypes of paintings, chalk sketches and a single etching. On the inside of the cover there was also a print of an original etching, Kind in de wieg (Child in the Cradle) by Israëls himself. The publication offered Liebermann’s personal

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view of Israëls, based on his many encounters with the Dutch painter. For example, he referred to a conversation with Israëls in which they had discussed art criticism, and Israëls had declared: ‘Wie uber Degas sollten Sie mal uber mich schreiben’, Israëls quoted in: Liebermann 1901, p.1. Israëls was referring here to Liebermann’s study of Degas, published some time previously. Liebermann’ study of Israëls was published in 1901 by the famous art dealer Bruno Cassirer of Berlin; the publication was reprinted several times. The fourth impression appeared in 1911, the year of Israëls’ death; by 1922 the album was already into its seventh impression. It is not known whether more impressions were produced. Israëls’ years of working with Goupil also resulted in a monograph, Een halve eeuw met Jozef Israëls (A Half Century with Jozef Israëls) (Boussod, Valadon & Cie), The Hague 1910, illustrated with 18 collotypes of various well-known paintings, by the master himself and his studio. Of note is a photograph of a self-portrait drawing, signed and dated 1908, which was specially drawn for the publication according to its caption. The text provided an informal description of the renowned firm’s relationship with the renowned painter: ‘Neither does one see here the preamble to a study about Israëls. We want nothing other than to oblige with several remarks and recollections to accompany the reproductions after Israëls’ work, which we offer the readers in this book, and fifty years of collaboration is our guiding thought thereby’, see: Tersteeg 1910, p.8. The two illustrated publications by Liebermann and Boussod, Valadon & Cie both form a tribute to Israëls, in which the painter was himself more or less personally involved. Dake 1911, pp.32-35. Dake 1911, p.35. Dake 1911, p.61. Dake 1911, p.62. See the advertisement in: Dake 1911, p.82. Publishing in series was fairly common practice in the publishing world, see: L. Kuitert, Het ene boek in vele delen. De Uitgave van Literaire Series in Nederland 1850-1900, Amsterdam 1993.

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147 In this connection see also the artist and

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writer J. Veth’s study on J. Israëls: J.P. Veth, Jozef Israels en zijn kunst, Arnhem (Cohen) 1904. Veth was familiar with the painter and his work, and also made reproductions after his pictures. In 1852 De Kunstkronijk published an illustration entitled Het Koninkrijk der Nederlanden op de helft van de negentiende eeuw (The Kingdom of the Netherlands in the Mid-Nineteenth Century), designed by Jozef Israëls and A.F. Zurger. For George Elliot and her novel Adam Bede, see: Uglow 1995, pp.110-127. Enschede 1899 (i), p.490. In 1851 Kruseman had met the innovative preacher, who inspired him to produce more strictly scientific publications and works of modern theology, see: Keyser 1987, p.13. For Busken Huet’s ideas see: O. Praamstra, ‘Drie modernisten: Allard Pierson, Conrad Busken Huet en Carel Vosmaer’, in: De Negentiende Eeuw (1997), pp.83-98; O. Praamstra (ed.), Conrad Busken Huet. Een vastgeraakte lokomotief. Een portret in brieven, Amsterdam/ Antwerp 1997; and: G. Stuiveling, Cd. Busken Huet. Vernuft ontzondigt. Kritieken en beschouwingen, Amsterdam 1979. Praamstra 1997 (ii), p.265 (note 220). After this incident Busken Huet recalled another meeting with Israëls, in a letter to his good friend Potgieter, see: letter from Busken Huet to E.J. Potgieter, 18 December 1864, in: Praamstra 1997 ii, p.97. Letter from J. Israëls to A.C. Kruseman, 12 February 1860 ltk 1795, xvi no.37 Universiteit Leiden. Copybook with notes by Jan Veth (part ii), p.12, 21, A.S. Kok Archive rkd The Hague. In an undated letter the painter wrote to the publisher: ‘On Thursday if it is convenient for you Mister Rennefeld witll bring the drawings of Adam Bede and you can discuss one thing and another’, see: letter from J. Israëls to A.C. Kruseman, ltk1390, no.2 Universiteit Leiden. Letter from J. Israëls to A.C. Kruseman, February 1860 ltk 1795, xvi no.24 Universiteit Leiden. Letter from J. Israëls to A.C. Kruseman, ltk1390 no.5 Universiteit Leiden. Letter from C. Busken Huet to E.J. Potgieter,

Haarlem 16-4-1860, in: Smit 1972, p.34. 157 Letter from Mrs Israëls to A.S. Kok, Amster-

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dam 5 March 1871. In this letter she wrote enthusiastically about the renowned work French Revolution by the influential historian Thomas Carlyle: ‘Carlyle’s French Revolution is assuredly one of the most astonishing books ever written. One can almost imagine this history with one’s own eyes and ears’. She also read the correspondence between Lessing and his wife. In a letter from 31 January 1893 – one of her last, owing to the debilitating illness from when she eventually died, in early 1864, she wrote that she had recently written a study of Madame de Stael. Mrs Israëls was very interested in Madame de Stael’s work and asked Kok for information about further literature on this subject. During a visit to Switzerland with her husband, in the autumn of 1891, she read various publications on Madame de Stael and visited Coppet Castle on Lake Geneva where Madame de Stael had lived during her exile. In this letter Mrs Israëls also reports attending a poetry reading by Verlaine, during his stay in the Netherlands: ‘It was abominable, but he is a great poet’. Enschede 1899 (i), p.490. Jan Veth only refers briefly to this financial misunderstanding, for which see: copybook with notes by J. Veth (part ii), p.17, A.S. Kok Archive rkd The Hague. Letter from J. Israëls to A.C. Kruseman, 1 January 1862 ltk 1795, xviii no.1 Universiteit Leiden. On 5 May 1861 Israëls announced he was planning to visit Kruseman: ‘As I think I shall be in Haarlem tomorrow with the second train I am being so free as to inform you that I should wish to pay Your Honour a visit tomorrow Monday, on my arrival to discuss one thing and another’, letter from   J. Israëls to A.C. Kruseman, 5 May 1861 ltk 1795, xvii no. 55 Universiteit Leiden. They probably discussed the Adam Bede project, plus another important joint project, Kinderen der Zee. In this connection see: Stolwijk 1998, p.214. See also: Dekkers 1996, p.33. Letter from J. Israëls to A.C. Kruseman,  

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1 January 1862, ltk 1795, xviii no.1 Universiteit Leiden. Dake 1911, p.6. Moes 1961, p.153. Moes 1961, p.156. This is possibly illustrated by a letter written by Israëls on 9 November 1885 to the art dealer Buffa: ‘I [..], being so free as to request that you come and see my painting next Wednesday, when my wife will receive you with pleasure at the breakfast table’, letter from J. Israëls to F. Buffa, 9-xi1885, no.109 rpk Amsterdam. In this connection see also a letter to the art dealers Arnold & Tripp of Paris: Sillevis 1988, p.150. Little is yet known regarding the role played by artists’ wives in their husband’s careers. Another example is Mrs Maris’ management of the successful painter Jacob Maris. Just as macro-economy is sometimes described as state housekeeping, it would seem worthwhile to make a further study of the connection between economy and housekeeping with regard to artists in the nineteenth century. Letter from J. Israëls aan A.C. Kruseman, 1 January 1862 ltk 1795, xviii no.1 Universiteit Leiden. See: Alfred Lord Tennyson, Henoch Arden; in het Nederlandsch vertaald [uit het Engelsch] bewerkt door J.L. Wertheim; met teekening van Jozef Israëls, Amsterdam/The Hague 1882. The work by M.J. Brusse, Het nachtlicht van de zee; met een penteekening van Jozef Israels, Rotterdam 1907, was an adaptation of ‘Op het lichtschip Maas’, published in the spring of 1903 in the Nieuwe Rotterdamsche Courant (in the column ‘Onder de Menschen’). For these works in the A.S. Kok Archive see: inv. resp. A xi 1, A x 2, A xi 4, A xi 5. Letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, circa 21-22 April 1883, in: Van Crimpen Berends-Albert 1990, no.339. J. Israëls collected etchings before he started producing them himself. The firm of Buffa is known to have occasionally sent him etchings for his collection. In the summer of 1871 the painter wrote to Buffa that he was charmed by the prints which the firm had sent to him: ‘I thank you for the inspection of these etchings […], [they] are extremely fine. I am not

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however currently in a position to buy them and hope first to do something later’, letter from J. Israëls aan Buffa, 9-7-1871, no.86. Buffa rpk Amsterdam. Knowing of Israëls’ interest in prints, Buffa probably sent him etchings more often. For example, the painter wrote to the art dealer on 13 February 1873: ‘I am already in possession of Hamerton’s etchings’, letter from J. Israëls to F. Buffa, 13-ii-1873, no.88 Buffa rpk Amsterdam. Letter from J. Israëls to F. Buffa, 10-ix-1890, no.123a Buffa rpk Amsterdam. Letter from J. Israëls to F. Buffa, 16-iv-1872, no.87 Buffa rpk Amsterdam. During the 1850s and 1860s the engraver D.J. Sluiter produced various engravings, mainly for diverse almanacs. Israëls also gave away his own etchings on occasion, including ones to Victor de Steurs and, of course, his good friend Kok, see: letter from J. Israëls to Victor de Steurs   13 [?]July 1876; and: letter from J. Israëls to   A.S. Kok, The Hague, 12 December 1891,   A.S. Kok Archive rkd The Hague. Exhib.cat. Groningen 1999, pp.218-219. Letter from J. Israëls to F. Buffa, 1890, no.125 Buffa rpk Amsterdam. The format was 22.7 x 43.3 cm and the print was published by George Funke of Amsterdam in 1864. The etching by Löwenstam (after 1880) after Langs het kerkhof/Langs moeders graf (Passing Mother’s Grave) was listed in the 1890 exhibition catalogue Jozef Israëls exhibition, London (Hannover Gallery). Stott 1998, p.36. Letter from J. Israëls to A.S. Kok, 16 November 1894, A.S. Kok Archive rkd The Hague. Postcard from J. Israëls to A.S. Kok, 22 November 1894, A.S. Kok Archive rkd The Hague. Smit Kleine 1917, p.618. Smit Kleine 1917, p.618. Unfortunately the prints were scattered when the A.S. Kok Archive was sold at auction on 13 and 14 July, and a total of 577 reproductions in various techniques, divided amongst 11 portfolios and seven albums went under the hammer, bringing an end to this collection, see: auction catalogue for the.A.S. Kok Archive: Dessin et engravings topographie-moeurs et coutumes provenant en partie du Musee Kunstliefde a

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Utrecht; La Celebre collection sur Jozef Israëls. Provenant du M. le Dr A.S. Kok Dessins- eauxfortes- lettre autographes- reproductions- livres etc. Vente a Amsterdam, Mardi et mercredi le 13 et 14 juillet 1920, R.W.P. de Vries dans leur salle des ventes Singel 146, 10 et 12 juillet 1920. The index to Kok’s collection of reproductions and the list of portfolio contents have been preserved, however, and offer a fine insight into the nature and scale of his collection. Jozef Israëls and Abraham Seyne Kok (1831-1915) were close friends for more than half a century. The painter and the teacher, who was some six years younger, met for the first time circa 1855, when both were living in Amsterdam. Between 1855 and 1862 Kok regularly visited the painter at his studio on Rozengracht, which was also frequented by the French lithographer Adolphe Mouilleron, see: Smit Kleine 1917, p.618. Israëls and Kok’s friendship developed thanks to their mutual literary interest in the works of Shakespeare, Goethe and Heine, see: Smit Kleine 1917, pp.633-637. In the early 1860s Kok, who was now living and working as a teacher in Roermond, completed his translation of Dante’s Divinia Commedia. The work was published by Kruseman, a publisher familiar to both the friends. Dante’s Divina commedia/Dante Alighieri; metrische vert., voorzien van ophelderingen en af beeldigen door A.S. Kok. Deel 1 De hel; 2 De Louteringsberg; Deel 3 Het Paradijs, Haarlem 1863-1864. In addition to Dante’s Divinia Commedia Kok also translated various works that were published by Kruseman, see: J.W. Enschede, A.C. Kruseman, eerste deel 1818-1863, Amsterdam 1899, p.192. On 9 January 1867 the painter wrote on receiving Kok’s translation of Dante: ‘With truly great pleasure we received your so delightful gift and have already begun to read it. My wife actually wept at the Francesca passage, which I just about knew, it seems splendidly translated to me, but we hope to examine it word by word and later pay you our compliments’, letter from Israëls to A.S. Kok, 9 January 1867, quoted in: Smit Kleine 1917, p.670. Circa 1870 Kok was working on the translation of the play La vida es sueňo by the Spanish writer Calderon de la

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Barca; Israëls provided a portrait for this and Kok dedicated the translation to the painter, see: letter from J. Israëls to A.S. Kok, Amsterdam 11 October 1870, A.S. Kok Archive, rkd The Hague. Both Israëls and his wife were friends with Kok, for which see Mrs Israëls’ warm letters to A.S. Kok, Amsterdam, 5 March 1871 and 31 January 1893, the latter being one of the last letters she wrote during her long, ultimately fatal illness. A lithograph for De Nederlandsche Spectator prompted him to write to the editor, his friend Carel Vosmaer, that he found etching a troublesome activity and had often thought of developing a lithographic technique with etching’s character, see: Dekkers 1996, p.8. Letter from J. Israëls to A.S. Kok, 30 January 1870, A.S. Kok Archive rkd The Hague. A print from the first version found its way into Kok’s collection. Israëls made a second version, also via lithography, see: letter from J. Israëls to A.S. Kok, 15 April 1870, A.S. Kok Archive rkd The Hague. See: letter of thanks from J. Israëls to A.S. Kok, Amsterdam, 11 October 1870. Letter from J. Israëls to A.S. Kok, Amsterdam, 8 December 1870. In addition to expressing thanks for Kok’s translation of Calderon de la Barca’s play, the painter also revealed his proGerman views in his analysis of the FrancoPrussian War. In a letter written several days later, Aleida Israëls described the Calderon translation as ‘just as excellent as your Dante translation’, see: letter from Aleida Israëls to A.S. Kok 12 December 1870, quoted in: Smit Kleine 1917, p.650. Postcard from J. Israëls to A.S. Kok, 17 March 1873. For Kok’s Shakespeare translation, see: Enschede 1899 (i), p.521. The relationship between Kruseman and A.S. Kok deteriorated as a result of a disagreement concerning the fee for this translation, see: Enschede 1899 (ii), p.38. Letter from J. Israels to A.S. Kok, The Hague 10 May 1885. Ibid. Letter from J. Israëls to A.S. Kok, The Hague, 12 December 1891, Letter from J. Israëls to A.S. Kok, The Hague,

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12 December 1891, A.S. Kok Archive rkd. 189 Smit Kleine 1917, p.618. 190 Auction catalogue for the A.S. Kok Archive:

Dessin et engravings topographie-moeurs et coutumes provenant en partie du Musee Kunstliefde a Utrecht; La Celebre collection sur Jozef Israëls. Provenant du M. le Dr A.S. Kok Dessins- eaux-fortes- lettre autographes- reproductionslivres etc. Vente a Amsterdam, Mardi et mercredi le 13 et 14 juillet 1920, R.W.P. de Vries dans leur salle des ventes Singel 146, 10 et 12 juillet 1920, see p.30 (iii collection of reproductions). 191 As previously observed, Israëls also sent him diverse etchings: ‘I do not know if you have my etchings, if not I shall send you some of them.’ Israëls later sent Kok an approved print of every new etching, see: letter from J. Israëls to A.S. Kok, The Hague, 12 December 1891. 192 According to Kok an art dealer had given him a print of this first version which was not commercially available. Kok also acquired the first photograph after David en Saul (David and Saul) in this manner; this had initially been presented to Israëls. It is probable that the painter was presented with such ‘author’s copies’ more frequently, although I know of no specific instances of this. Israëls also gave Kok Dake’s Binnenhuis (Interior) and Graadt van Roggens De Zandschipper (The Sand Barge). 193 Kok’s collection furnished the raw materials for a book on the painter that has regrettably remained in manuscript form, see: Smit Kleine 1917, pp.649-652. For Kok’s letter collection see also: Smit Kleine 1917, pp.670671. 194 At the auction of Kok’s collection of reproductions the prints were classified according to his first system, in portfolios according to technique a] etchings: 1 C.L. Dake, Les enfants de la mer. Eau-forte avec l’adr. De Buffa gr. In. Fol. En large. Epr. Av. La lettre. Signee. Sur Japon; 2 C.L. Dake, Seul au Monde. Eau-forte av. L’adr. De Scheltema & Holkema. Impr. Roeloffzen & Hubner. Gr. In fol. En large. 1e epr d’essai sur velin. Signee; 3 Graadt van Roggen, Le batelier. Eau-forte impr chez Roeloffzen & Hubner. Epr. Av. La lettre Signee, sur Japon; 4 Graadt van Roggen, Jeune fille sur les dunes. Eauforte av. L’adr. De Roeloffzen & Hubner Epr.

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Av. La lettre Signee, sur Japon; 5 etchings by Dake, Koster, Steelink, Zilcken 19ff; b] Steel engravings 33ff; c] Wood engravings 17ff; d] Lithographs 62ff; e] Collotypes 195ff; f] Photographs 100ff; g] Photogravures 31ff; h] Colour prints 14ff; i] Reproductions in different processes 102ff: in total 577 reproductions in 11 portfolios and finally 7 albums with reproductions after Israëls. Loos 1987, p.201 and note 2 on page 211. Dekkers 1994, pp.31-63. ‘Painted my portrait for Slagmulder (Buffa). He says they like it very much. He is having an etching or a photogravure made after it. It will be difficult as the majority is in shadow’, see: Israëls’ journal, 22 December 1903. ‘The more the original artist’s work appears in the engraving, unobscured by the personality of the engraver – the more ‘brush marks’ there are and the fewer tool marks – the better is the effect produced’, quote in: Fawcett 1986, 204. Zilcken was once criticised by the writer Netscher for the fact that his etched reproductions bore too little evidence of his personal touch: ‘When I read this, I wrote a letter to Netscher, in which I said, that it was my opinion, that in ‘a translation’ one should not show one’s ‘self’, but primarily the character of the artist after which one has worked, and finally I quoted the words of Willem Smalt (in the R. Nieuwsblad), “ is not a silent homage paid to the designer, when people, looking around, forget his name, and that of Rembrandt or Stevens, Maris or Israëls and so many others is on their lip?” see: Zilcken 1928, p.50. Attention should be drawn in this connection to the colossal print by Henri Koetser after Israëls’ famous picture Als men oud wordt (When One Grows Old), a painting whose rough paint surface with deep brush traces was also interpreted by Koetser in his own personal manner. The print displays a range of graphic techniques, with aquatint supplementing etching in a ‘painterly’ manner, and was signed by the printmaker and painter. See: Jozef Israëls in the introduction to Jozef Israëls en zijn kunst. With text by Jan Veth,

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Arnhem/Nijmegen 1904. With thanks to the Hearth) after the painting Als men oud wordt Edward van Voolen who drew my attention to (When One Grows Old) (1883, Haags Gemeentemuseum) and the etching De twee slaapsters a copy in the collection of the Jewish Historical Museum in Amsterdam. (The Two Sleepers) after De slapers (The Sleepers) (1868, Aberdeen Art Gallery), see: Dekkers On 2 December 1910 Israëls wrote to H.E. van der Klei, regarding a pen drawing that was to 1996, p.28. be reproduced: ‘Following your last missive it 210 In this connection see also the similar work In occurs to me, that the enclosed pen drawing het hoekje van de haard (In the Corner of the is certainly suitable for a reproduction (…) Hearth), lithographed in mirror image by J.J. Mesker in De Kunstkronijk of 1876. Should it be used, I should very much like to see a proof reproduction of it (…)’, quoted 211 ‘I shall have a few more printed and then send them to you. I still want to think about having from: auction.cat. Books, Prints and Manuscipts, 29, 30 November and 1 December 2000, Bubb them printed by Salmon, as some lose to drypoint from time to time. I first want to Kuyper Haarlem, no.3840, p.372 (currently in the possession of the Fondation Custodia, proof them at home. I hope to send you sevParis). eral more next week. When it is convenient let me also know how the bill stands’, letter Letter from Jozef Israëls to H.E. van der Klei, 9 December 1910, quoted from: auction.cat. from J. Israëls to F. Buffa, November 1875, no.93 Buffa rpk Amsterdam. In the NetherBooks, Prints and Manuscipts, 29, 30 November lands Israëls’ etchings were generally puband 1 December 2000, Bubb Kuyper Haarlem, no.3840, p.372 (currently in the possession of lished by the Amsterdam firm of Buffa. The the Fondation Custodia, Paris). painter also worked with several foreign publishers. The Paris-based art dealer and The painting Als men oud wordt (When One Grows Old) is 101 x 160 cm, Koetser’s print 45.4 publisher Arnold & Tripp, for example, published several of his etchings, which had been x 70.5 cm (image) and 56.5 x 82.8 cm (paper), rpk Amsterdam. printed by the well-known firm of Salmon, De roker (The Smoker), 1882 (Dekkers 1996, no.27), Dekkers 1996, p.8. also published in England on 28 June 1882, Dekkers 1996, p.7. In her publication Really Artistic Etchings Dekker has already considered and Schelpenvisser (Shell Fisher), 1882 (Dekkers 1996 no.28). For these Israëls had sent the Jozef Israëls’ etchings at length, an important source being the painter’s correspondence etching plates to Arnold & Tripp who forwardwith the art dealer and publisher Buffa. I have ed them to Salmon. Israëls also endeavoured to keep a critical eye on things when working also consulted Israëls’ letters as part of my with foreign publishers, J. Sillevis, ‘Lettres de research, so I shall refer below to the original Jozef Israëls à Arnold et Tripp marchands de letters. tableaux a Paris (1881-1892)’, Archives de l’Art Dekkers 1996, p.16. The etching Schelpenvisser Francais, n.p. xxix (1988), pp.141-162. It is (Shell Fisher) (1882) is also a preliminary study difficult to ascertain the financial aspects of for the painting of the same year, completed such collaborations; possibly Israëls received a the following year, see: Dekkers 1996, p.28. set fee, while the art dealer bore the risks and Dake also contends that Israëls’ etching were pocketed any profits. In a letter to Arnold & generally preliminary studies or souvenirs of Tripp of 31 October 1882 Israëls showed underpaintings, rarely fully worked up studies for standing for the the fact that the firm did not display. One exception, he asserted, was the etching Kindje in den stoel (Child in the Chair) want to publish several etchings and promised to pay the printer’s bill, see: Sillevis 1988, which Israëls produced for De Kunstkronijk, see: Dake 1911, pp.27-28. p.147. 212 In this this connection see also an undated Dekkers 1996, p.14. letter to Frans Buffa: ‘In reply to yours it helps Dekkers 1996, p.15. Other examples are the that I have also thought this over again and etching Oude vrouw bij de haard (Old Woman by

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shall request you to send off my proofs again with my remarks written on every proof if they are willing to send another proof that would be highly suitable or else those twentyfive examples can be printed. If they should not please me for good. Can you then fetch them back for me. In any event I am sending you today the proofs with remarks which you will then send on’, letter from J. Israëls to F. Buffa, no.131 Buffa rpk Amsterdam. Another, undated missive is along similar lines: ‘As I have written to Your Honour I send enclosed the proofs with my notes – Perhaps you will consider them and send further proofs on Chinese and Dutch paper. In any case I ask you to let the commission proceed but I hope you will be willing to cooperate so that they become still better through the notes. When they are seen on large paper it is perhaps different as well. The sheets should be very big these little sheets are very small’, letter from J. Israëls from F. Buffa, no.132 Buffa rpk Amsterdam. 213 See: letter from J. Israëls to F. Buffa, 2-iv-1876, no.89a Buffa rpk Amsterdam. The painter’s critical letter to Buffa regarding several proofs from the presses of the well-known printer Salmon in Paris is also illustrative: ‘I thank you for sending the Salmon proofs. I have not found in your accompanying letter that you liked or admired these and that is my opinion too. I find them ugly, dirty and much too black, probably printed in great haste. As my request was to request the firm of Salmon to send the copper plates back to you I am willing to bear the costs incurred. I believe that I should be there in person when they are printed namely the first proofs and as it will be some travelling time I shall perhaps be here or there perhaps in Amsterdam at Brugman or at Felsing in Munich to have the proofs made in my presence then I can say in person what my intended effect is you will oblige me greatly by getting the copper plates into my possession as quickly as possible. I apologise for the trouble that I thereby cause you but I did not think that it would be such a burden, otherwise I would not have dared to charge you with it. Nevertheless it seems odd

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if I now do it myself and I hope therefore that you are once more willing to apply to the firm to get the plates sent back to me’, letter from J. Israëls to F. Buffa, 10-iv-1876, no.97a-b Buffa rpk Amsterdam. In 1885 he once again enquired about suitable printers when he sent his publisher a consignment of etchings: ‘also included are the large etching “children having fun” and five others all unpublished. The large one the playing children you can buy just like the others but I am not in truth able to quote the price for this. If you wish you can also state which examples you have sold of them. I ask that for each you have a few examples printed for me and keep the rest in your Art Gallery. Then we can always see later. They are all fine. I only need one of   two of the large a little more of the rest.   Can you get them well printed in Amsterdam? Or where? Salmon in Paris is best or do you have another?’ letter from J. Israëls to F. Buffa, 12-xi-1885, no.110a Buffa rpk Amsterdam. Letter from J. Israëls aan F. Buffa, 3-xi-1890, no.121 Buffa rpk Amsterdam. The French firm of art dealers Arnold & Tripp also urged the painter to sign his prints, see: Sillevis 1988, p.153. Dake 1911, pp.27-28. Dekkers 1996, p.27, published in Album van den Nederlandschen Spectator, Arnhem/The Hague s.a. [1876], no. 6. Dekkers 1996, p.28. These were Zittend meisje met mand op de rug/vissersmeisje aan het strand (Seated Girl with a Basket on Her Back / Fisher Girl on the Beach) (Hubert: xix; Dekkers, 22)and Twee kinderen met een scheepje spelend (Two Children Playing with a Boat) (Hubert: v; Dekkers 1996, no.12). Further to this, see also a letter from the etching collector H.J. Hubert to P. Haverkorn van Rijsewijk regarding the etchings published in L’Illustration: no.178a Hubert to Haverkorn, 29-x-1907. In this he requested two etchings which, according to Philip Zilcken, had been published by Alfred Cadart in L’Illustration. In 1878 Cadart published a catalogue of etchings in which Israëls’ prints were not mentioned. So these must have been published in the journal

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between 1878 and its final year of publication, 1881. Dekkers 1996, p.28. The Societé Internationale des Aquafortistes in Brussels also included two etchings in its portfolio. In the following year Israëls displayed eight etchings at the society’s exhibition, see: Dekkers 1996, p.8. Letter from Israëls to Victor de Steurs, 13 [?]July 1876, A.S. Kok Archve rkd The Hague. The painter regularly reserved a number of prints for himself, probably to give these as gifts to friends and acquaintances: ‘I have received the etching prints and am extremely obliged to you for your help in this; may I ask to order more from Salmon’s printing works, another 10 of each apart from the large one a further 5 of this are enough at first’, letter from J. Israëls to F. Buffa, 30-i-1886, no.113 Buffa rpk Amsterdam, See also the letter from J. Israëls to F. Buffa cited above: 12-xi1885, no.110a Buffa rpk Amsterdam. Israëls’ etchings were also collected by such individuals as his friend, the painter Salomon van Witsen (1833-1911) and D.A.C. Artz (1837-1890). Another important collector was H.J. Hubert whose estate was sold at auction where his prints were acquired by Israëls’s son Isaac, and the art dealers C.M. van Gogh, Buffa, Van Wisselingh and Goupil, amongst others. Much of his collection eventually found its way into the Stedelijk Museum, see: Dekkers 1996, pp.19-20. Letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, circa 6 March 1883, in; Van Crimpen Berends-Albert 1990, no.328. Available in the format 46 x 47 cm for the sum of 5 guilders, see: Catalogus van Schalekamp’s photographie en kunsthandel, Buiksloot 1900, p.16. In 1916 the etchings were sold for 3.75 guilders; several prints avant la lettre were also still available for 7.50 guilders, see: Geïllustreerde Catalogus van Schalekamp’s photographie en kunsthandel, Amsterdam 1916, p.33. Moreover, in 1892 an etching by Dake after La Couturière could also be supplied, in the format 32 x 45 cm for the sum of 1.50 guilders, see: Catalogue illustre de Publications Artistique, J.M. Schalekamp Amsterdam 1892, pp.13-14. Exhib.cat. Groningen 1999, pp.40-41.

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11-ii-1875, no.15, Vosmaer archive rpk. Parts of this chapter were included in my unpublished ma thesis, Tussen kunst en reproduction. Over de betekenis van reproductions voor het work van Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema (1836-1912), Vrije Universiteit (1996a), as well as in R.M.Verhoogt, ‘En nu nog een paar woorden business. Over reproductions naar Alma-Tadema’, Jong Holland 12 (1996b) 4, pp.22-33. Anonymous, ‘A propos van de exhibition van paintings van levende masters in Arti et Amicitiae’, De Kunstkronijk (1869), p.3. Anonymous, ‘A propos van de exhibition van paintings van levende masters in Arti et Amicitiae’, De Kunstkronijk (1869),p.4. For the reception of Alma-Tadema in the   Netherlands see: Meedendorp Pijl 1996,   pp.21-30. For the popularity of oriental subjects in the work of other artists see: De Leeuw 1985,   p.10-37. Barrow 2001, p. 56-57. For Gambart’s first meeting with AlmaTadema see: Swanson 1977, p.14-15; and: Meedendorp Pijl 1996, pp. 26-28. Maas 1975, p.171. Letter from Alma-Tadema to H.W. Mesdag,   6-6-1868, quoted in: Meedendorp Pijl 1996, p.28. Letter from Alma-Tadema to Gambart, 18 March 1902, inv.1990-A.987 Fondation Custodia Paris. It is one of the painter’s last letters to his renowned dealer, for Gambart died less than a month later, on 12 April 1902. Swanson 1977, p.8. For example the signature on the painter’s early self-portrait from 1852: L. Alma-Tadema fec et inv 1852 15/3, see: Swanson 1990, no.7. Zimmern 1886, p.2. For the friendship between Alma-Tadema and Carel Vosmaer see: Heijbroek 1989, pp.130147; for Carel Vosmaer see: Praamstra 1997, pp.83-98. Letter from Alma-Tadema to Carel Vosmaer, 26-x-1874, Vosmaer Archive no.11a, 11b rpk Amsterdam. Letter from Alma-Tadema to Carel Vosmaer,  

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3-v-1882, Vosmaer Archive no.63 rpk Amsterdam. On 1 July 1884 he published an engraving by the French engraver Auguste Blanchard. Swanson 1990, no.326. The Magazine of Art (1878). Maas 1975, p.30. Alma-Tadema quoted in: Swanson 1990, p.159. Letter from Alma-Tadema to Coquelin, 23-41892, Inv. 1992-A.420 Fondation Custo­dia Paris. The Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam owns an index of his library which includes Senate,S. 6330 A Bill to amend and consola­te the acts representing copyright, Washington 1906. Senate,- S.81 90 A Bill to constitute and revise the acts respecting copyright, Washington 1907. M. Routh, The Law of Artistic Copyright, Remington & Co, London 1881. In a critical review of this work the author Routh was reproached for taking the side of the artist too much and thereby doing an injustice to the buyer’s interests, see: Anonymous, The Art Journal (1881), p.256. Letter from Alma-Tadema to E. Burne-Jones, 27-4- 1897, i.9308c Fondation Custodia Paris. The committee comprised L. Alma-Tadema R.A. (painter), chairman; Frank Dicksee R.A (painter), treasurer; Edwin Bale R.I. (painter), secretary; Alfred East A.R.A., R.I. (painter); George Simonds (sculptor), W. Reynolds Stephens (sculptor/designer); G.A. Storey, A. R.A (painter); Solomon J. Solomon A.R.A. (painter); C.F.A. Voysey (archi­tect/designer); J. C. Webb (engraver); H.A. Voysey (legal advisor); from 28 February 1896 the committee met weekly for two and a half years, see: Edwin Bale, ‘The law of artistic copy­right: an exposition’, The Magazine of Art (1899), pp.262265. For example, the affair of John Everett Millais’ painting Bubbles (1885), which was used for an advertising poster by Pears, the well-known soap manufacturer, much to the artist’s horror, see: Millais 1899 (ii), p.186-191. For this affair and the legislation of English authorship rights see chapter 3. See: Heij 1989, p.154. The painting dated from 1864. In the same

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year, 1866, the firm of R. Bong and Hönem­ann published a large-format lithograph after Queen Fredegonda at the De­athbed of Bishop Praetexta­tus (1864 opus xx), which had been commissioned by the Vereniging van Schone Kunsten (Association of Fine Arts) in Ghent, see: Swanson 1990, p.133. Swanson 1990, no.98. According to Swanson the first work associated with Dupont’s photographs was The Armourer’s Shop in Ancient Rome (1866 xli). See: letter from Alma-Tadema to Carel Vosmaer, 28 May 1873, Leiden; see: Swanson 1990, no.98 The Mirror, 1868; see also on the painting: ‘A son ami J. Dupont, L. Alma-Tadema’ Letter from Alma-Tadema to Carel Vosmaer, 28-v-1873, no. 7, Vos­maer Archive rpk Amsterdam. Swanson 1990, no.122, (original) and no.130 (reduction). Anonymous, ‘Minor topics’, The Art Journal 10 (1871), p.147, 166. The painting The Derby Day largely owed its fame to Blanchard’s print, see: Engen 1975, p.49, Maas 1975, p.103-104, 112-113, 131-132 and Engen 1995, p.49-50. Swanson 1990, p.132. for other prints by Blanchard after Alma-Tadema, see: W. Armstrong, ‘Recent Engravings’, The Art Journal (1884), p.212. The Vintage Festival, A. Blanchard line engraving, Pilgeram and Lefèvre, 8 January 1874, see: Friend 1886, p.239. The Picture Gallery (Ancient Rome). Companion to “The Sculpture Gallery”, A. Blanchard line engraving, Pilgeram and Lefèvre, 24 December 1875, see: Friend 1886, p175; The Sculpture Gallery (Ancient Rome). Companion to “The Picture Gallery”, A. Blanchard line engraving, Pilgeram and Lefèvre, 24 December 1875, see: Friend 1886, 205; and also: Maas 1975, p.242. Letter from Alma-Tadema to Carel Vosmaer, 26-xii-1873, no.9, Vos­maer Archive rpk Amsterdam; see also: Swanson 1990, no.122 (original) and no.130 (reduction). Exhib.cat Amsterdam 1996, pp.186-187. Swanson 1990, no.164, 193. He supplied Löwenstam, for example, with a pencil drawing for the reproduction of Au-

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tumn (also known as A Halt, 1872, ci) (1879, ccix), see: Swanson 1990, p.166. A Bacchante, A. Blanchard line engraving, Pilgeram & Lefèvre, 24 December 1875, see; Friend 1886, p11; The Picture Gallery (Ancient Rome). Companion to “The Sculpture Gallery”, A. Blanchard line engraving, Pilgeram and Lefèvre, 24 December 1875, see: Friend 1886, p.75; The Sculpture Gallery (Ancient Rome). Companion to “The Picture Gallery”, A. Blanchard line engraving, Pilgeram and Lefèvre, 24 December 1875, see: Friend 1886, p.205. A Roman Emperor P. Rajon etching, Pilgeram and Lefèvre, 24 December 1875, see: Friend 1886, p.195. Anonymous, ‘Minor topics’, The Art Journal 16 (1877), p.160. Letter from Alma-Tadema to Carel Vosmaer, 1i-1877, no. 30, Vosmaer Archive rpk Amsterdam. Letter from Alma-Tadema to Carel Vosmaer, 24- i- 1875, no.13, Vosmaer Archive rpk Amsterdam. At the time of writing, the Leidenbased publisher Sijthoff was one of the most important publishers in the Netherlands with a substantial stock of illustrated publications. Moreover, in this period he was also responsible for De Kunstkronijk. It is not known why Sijthoff sought contact with Alma-Tadema, although it is conceivable that Carel Vosmaer, who was a close friend of both Alma-Tadema and Sijthoff, established the link between the two. Rajon partly had Felix Braquemond to thank for his renown in England, for in 1873 the distinguished etcher had recommended his younger talented colleague for an English publisher’s commission he was unable to complete himself, see: Beraldi, xi 1891, p.153. For the popularity of the etched reproduction see also chapter 2. Anonymous, The Art Journal 15 (1876), p.159. The First Whisper of Love. Companion to “In Confidence”, L. Löwenstam, Pilgeram and Lefèvre, 24 December 1875, see: Friend 1886, p.77; In Confidence. Companion to “The First Whisper of Love”, L. Löwenstam, etching Pilgeram and Lefèvre, 24 December 1875; see: Friend 1886, p.108.



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28-v-1873, no.7, Vos­maer Archive rpk Amsterdam. As with many museums there was a rich culture of copies at the Rijksmuseum. In addition to the many artists and amateurs who went there to copy old masters for practice, there were also many printmakers and photographers working in the museum with a view to publishing reproductions, see: P.J.J. van Thiel, ‘Het Rijksmuseum in het Trippenhuis, 1814-1885. Kopiisten en fotografen’, Rijksmuseum Bulletin 30 (1982), pp.63-86. Letter from Alma-Tadema to Carel Vosmaer, 11-ii-1875, no.15 (a-d), Vosmaer Archive rpk Amsterdam. On the Steps of the Capitol, P. Rajon etching,   E.S. Palmer, 9 May 1876, see: Friend 1886, p.164. Exceptionally the print was not published by Pilgeram & Lefèvre but by   E.S. Palmer. Swanson 1990, p.192. Cuypers, however, regards the watercolour as a replacement for the lost oil painting. Alma-Tadema had painted the picture Pleading as a ‘centrepiece’ for the earlier works In Confidence and The First Whisper of Love. The new etching was similarly published as a complement to Löwenstam’s previous etchings of these works, see: Pleading. As a centre to “In Confidence, “and “The First Whisper of Love”, L. Löwenstam etching, Pilgeram and Lefèvre, 24 June 1878, see: Friend 1886, p.177. Swanson 1990, no.226. See also two later etchings by the English etcher of reproductions C.O. Murray, after The Convalescent, 1896, and after The Ever Changing Horizons, 1904, both published by Virtue and Co, see: Swanson 1990, no.409, 420. The torch dance (Companion to “A Bacchante”), A. Blanchard line engraving, L.H. Lefèvre 20 March 1882, see; Friend 1886, p.231. In the Time of Constantine, A. Blanchard line engraving, L.H. Lefèvre, 24 January 1883, see: Friend 1886, p.109. The Parting Kiss, A. Blanchard line engraving, L.H. Lefèvre, 1 July 1884, see: Friend 1886, p.170 (1881,ccxxiv watercolour, 1882, ccxl oil) An Oleander, A. Blanchard line engraving  

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L.H. Lefèvre, 22 March 1886, see: Friend 1886, p.4. 1882, ccxliv); The Seasons (In Four Plates) – 1 Spring, 2 Summer, 3 Autumn, 4 Winter, A. Blanchard line engraving, Pilgeram & Lefèvre, 25 September 1879, see: Friend 1886, p.205. The series of paintings were reproduced as prints by Blanchard and also Löwenstam and the Italian printmaker Battista Maggi. Dolce far niente, A. Blanchard engraving, L.H. Lefèvre 22 January 1887, see: Friend 1886, p.21 (ccxliii first version versie watercolour, ccxliv second version oil on panel). The register of the Printsellers Association lists one of the first photogravures after a work by Alma-Tadema, a print after Settling a Difference, published by Goupil. The maker of this work was not the painter himself but his wife, Mrs Alma-Tadema, photogravure Goupil, The Fine Art Society (limited), 24 April 1884, see: Friend 1886, p.206. Swanson 1990, p.257. Swanson cites a letter from Alma-Tadema to Harry Quilter otherwise unknown to me. For the Berliner Fotogra­ fische Gesellschaft see: Exhib.cat. Berlin 1989, p.278. The Frigidarium, The Berliner Fotografische Gesellschaft photogravure, T. McLean, 11 June 1890, see: Friend 1886, p.99 (1890, cccii) Another example from this period is the photogravure after Compari­sons, published by Stephen Gooden & Fox in 1893, see: Swanson 1990, p.354. Cat. Maas: Arthur Tooth 1898 [see: Swanson 385. mentions photogravure by Berliner Fotografische Gesellschaft, 1897] Also interesting is The Conversion of Paula by S. Jerome ,1898, painted to commission for the publisher Arthur Tooth and reproduced as a photogravure, with extensive explanatory text by F.G. Stephens, also commissioned by the art dealer, see: Swanson, no. 387. In 1899 Tooth commissioned several more paintings from Alma-Tadema, which were also reproduced as photogravures within a year, including Hero, (1898, ccclii) and The Baths of Caracalla, (1899), see: cat. Maas: Hero, Arthur Tooth, 1899, The Baths of Caracalla, Arthur Tooth 1900. A fine example is the photogravure of Under

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the Roof of Blue Ionian Weather (1901 opus cclxxiii) published in 1901. Swanson mentions a 1901 photogravure by the Berliner Fotografische Gesellschaft, see: Swanson 1990, no.400. In 1905 Arthur Tooth published a photogravure after Among the Ruins (1902, ccclxxii), see: Swanson 1990, no.405. Swanson 1990, no.413. Neither does the register of the Printsellers Association list any lithographic reproductions after Alma-Tadema’s work. In the 1880s and 1890s various mezzotints after works by Alma-Tadema’s contemporary Frederic Leighton were published, however. These include Samuel Cousins’ print after Biondina (The Fine Art Society, 1881) and Miller’s print after Invocation (Arthur Tooth, 1893). The print by Leon Girardet (1857-1895) after The Queen of Sheba by Edward Poynter (Thomas McLean 1892) can also be cited. The much-used ‘mixed method’, a combination of engraving, etching and mezzotint, employed by printmakers such as W.H. Simmons, is also not represented in the range of reproductions after Alma-Tadema’s work. From 1864 to the beginning of the 1890s Alma-Tadema painted many works for Gambart and his successors. One of the last paintings commissioned by Lefèvre was Eloquent Silence (1890, ccci), reproduced by P.J. Arendzen, see: Swanson 1990, no.338. Swanson 1977 p.33. Swanson 1977, p.33. There is also an annotated proof of Löwenstam’s etching after He Loves Me He Loves Me Not (1887 opus cclxxx). A Favourite Author Löwenstam etching, L.H.Lefèvre, 14 May 1889, see: Friend 1886, p.73 Rose of All the Roses, Löwenstam etching, Stephen T.Gooden, 8 November 1889, see: Friend 1886, p.86. In the Rose Garden (Companion to A Favourite Author), Löwenstam etching, L.H. Lefèvre, 22 July 1890, see: Friend 1886, p.101. There is only a watercolour known with this title (1878 cxcvi). Unlike the previous examples, therefore, this watercolour did not serve as an alternative for an oil painting (previ-

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in the British Museum, see; exhib.cat. Amsterdam 1996, p.12 and note 10. In 1888 Alma-Tadema attended Rajon’s funeral in Paris. The Bath (Strigils and Sponges), P.Rajon, etching L.H. Lefèvre, 1 July 1880, p. 13, for this see: Anonymous, ‘Reviews’, The Art Journal (1881), p.31. Letter from J.P. Veth to A. Verwey, 11-12-1887 London, in: Schenkeveld Van der Wiel 1995, p.381. Waltner’s etched reproduction after Rembrandt’s Night Watch prompted Veth to express this opinion; Carel Vosmaer had proclaimed his admiration for this print in De Nederlandsche Spectator, Veth responded in De Nieuwe Gids: ‘In our time, in which one can obtain such perfect reproductions of paintings as the Braun photographs are, an assiduous but as such spiritless, so very cold in terms of in colour and thus deficient etching, has no reason to exist’, Giltay 1976, p.98. The works mentioned in the advertisment date this to the period 1887-1889, for it lists Auguste Blanchard’s engraving Dolce far niente (psa registration 22 January 1887) but not Leopold Löwenstams etching after A Favourite Author (psa registration 14 May 1889), see: Friend 1886, p.21, 73. At this time a pound was worth approximately 12 to 13 guilders, see. N.V. Postumus, De Nederlandse prijs­ge­schiedenis, 2 vols., 1943. Blanchards engraving of A Bacchante was available in four states: artist’s proofs (five pounds, five shillings), proofs before letters (three pounds, three shillings), India proofs (one pound, eleven shil1ings and sixpence) and prints on ordinary paper (15 shillings). His engraving of The torch dance was also availalbe in four states: artist’s proofs (five pounds, five pences), Proofs before letters (three pounds, three shillings), Indian proofs (one pound, eleven shillings) and ordinary prints (15 shillings). Blanchard’s engraving after Dolce far niente was sold as: artist’s proofs (four pounds, four shillings), India proofs (one pound, eleven shillings and sixpence) and



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prints on ordinary paper (15 shillings). His engraving after In the Time of Constantine was available in five states: artist’s proofs (six pounds, six shillings), proofs before letters (four pounds, four shillings), Indian proofs (three pounds, three shillings), India prints (one pound, eleven shillings and sixpences) and finally ordinary prints (one pound, one shilling). Blanchard’s engraving of An Oleander was sold in three states: artist’s proofs (six pounds, six shillings), Indian proofs (three pounds , three shillings) and ordinary prints (one pound, one shilling). The etcher Paul Rajon also made a portrait of Alma-Tadema. On 11 February 1875 the painter wrote to his friend Carel Vosmaer about its forthcoming reproduction: ‘[Rajon rv] is looking forward greatly to the project of etching my portrait. The portrait would not then be so isolated and its artistic value would be raised’, letter from Alma-Tadema to Carel Vosmaer 11-2-1875, no.15 a-d, Vosmaer Archive rpk Amsterdam. See the psa registration, 27 August 1883. Mezzotint, portrait 275 ‘Artists proofs’, 25 ‘Presentation proofs’ , 100 ‘lettered proof’, 400 prints, see: Friend 1886, p. 226. As previously observed, the English branch of Goupil initially operated as a wholesale business; retail facilities for passing print amateurs were not provided until later in its history, see chapter 4. Anonymous, ‘Nieuwe publications’, De Kunstkronijk (1876), p.96. The First Whisper of Love. Companion to “In Confidence”, L. Löwenstam, Pilgeram and Lefèvre, 24 December 1875, see: Friend 1886, p.77. In Confidence. Companion to “The First Whisper of Love”, L. Löwenstam, etching Pilgeram and Lefèvre, 24 December 1875, see: Friend 1886, p.108. Buffa publication of 25 July 1875, see: Swanson 1990, no.1­24. In response to Löwenstam’s death The Magazine of Art wrote: ‘soon aquired a reputation for his skill in translating the works of leading artists into etching’ (including. AlmaTadema, Stacey Marks, Dendy Sadler, E. Poynter) ‘His plates […] have done much to

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popularise both the artists and their works. He was awarded the highest honours for his etchings at London, Paris, Amsterdam, Sydney and other International Exhibtions’, The Magazine of Art (1898), p.576. 94 In 1881 Thomas McLean published two etchings by Löwenstam after The Dinner and Siesta from 1881 The Dinner L. Löwenstam, etching, T. McLean, 12 October 1881, see: Friend 1886, p.55; Siesta, Löwenstam etching, T. McLean,   12 October 1881, see: Friend 1886, p.211. See: Swanson 1990, no.154 The Siesta, 1873 (various versions) engraved by Löwenstam in 1880, who also engraved no.256 (1880 The Dinner) which is similar to this painting. See also nos.99 and 101, 1868. Several years later he issued etchings after An Apodyterium and The Secret. An Apodyterium Löwenstam etching, T. McLean, 3 November 1886, see: Friend 1886, p.18, (1886, cclxxiv); The Secret, Löwenstam etching, T.M. McLean, 9 September 1887, see: Friend 1886, p.34. (1887, cclxxvii) The wellknown firm of Tooth also published an in­ dependent reproduction after Alma-Tadema’s Welcome Footsteps. Welcome Footsteps, Löwenstam etching, Arthur Tooth & Sons, 1 September 1888, see: Friend, p.58 (1883 cclvii) Alongside the prints published by such well-known art dealers and publishers, reproductions were also issued by less commercial or­ ganisations, such as societies of artists and   art lovers who produced presentation plates, such as Löwenstam’s etching after Expectation, published by The Fine Art Society, A. Mongin’s etchings after The Death of the First Born and C.O. Murray’s print after Childish Affections, both published in 1883 by The British and Foreign Artists’ Association Expectations,   L. Löwenstam, etching The Fine Art Society,   6 November 1885, see: Friend 1886, p.68.  (1885, cclxvi).The Death of the First Born, A. Mongin, etching The British and Foreign Artists’ Association, 27 August 1883, see: Friend 1886, p.49. (1872, ciii). Childish Affections, C.O. Murray etching, The British and Foreign Artists’ Association, 3 September 1883, see: Friend 1886, p.33. (1882, ccxxxv Young Affections). 95 Letter from Alma-Tadema to H.W. Mesdag  

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6-6-1868, quoted in: exhib.cat. Amsterdam 1996, p.28. Letter from Alma-Tadema to Carel Vosmaer, 1i-1877, No.30, Vosmaer Archive rpk Amsterdam. Letter from Alma-Tadema to Carel Vosmaer, 24 March 1873, Vosmaer Archive rpk Amsterdam. C. Vosmaer, ‘Eene nieuwe gravure van Blanchard na Tadema’, De Nederlandsche Spectator, 27 July 1878, p.233. A Bacchante, A. Blanchard line engraving, Pilgeram & Lefèvre, 24 December 1875, see: Friend 1886, p.11; The Picture Gallery (Ancient Rome). Companion to “The Sculpture Gallery”,   A. Blanchard line engraving, Pilgeram & Lefèvre, 24 December 1875, see: Friend 1886, p.175; The Sculpture Gallery (Ancient Rome). Companion to “The Picture Gallery”, A. Blanchard line engraving, Pilgeram & Lefèvre, 24 December 1875, see: Friend 1886, p.205. Alma-Tadema quoted in Barrow 2001, p.127. Het Nederlands Magazijn (1862), p.313; see: Swanson 1990, p.129. This work was engraved by L. Lucas and P.J. Arendzen, and later published again in: J.F. van Someren, Moderne Kunst in Neder­land. etchings van P.J. Arendzen (1883), pl 107. Reproduction in: Gazette des Beaux Arts, xvi (1864), p.530. Reproduction in: The Art Journal (1874), p.100. Reproduction in: The Art Journal (1877), p.280. Alma-Tadema’s two daughters may also have been the subject of an etching after the painting Sisters by the painter’s wife Laura Tadema-Epps. The print was published in The Art Journal in 1883, p.350. See also the uncompleted work The Three Graces (1876), with left, Alice Search, Löwenstam’s future wife, and Alma-Tadema’s two daughters to the right and centre. Swanson 1990, no.221. Letter from Alma-Tadema to Carel Vosmaer, 26-xi-1877, no.36, Vosmaer Archive rpk Amsterdam. See: Swanson 1990, no.216. See also the reproduction of Phidias and the Frieze of the Parthenon (1868, lx) in The Art Journal (1875) Sappho and Alcaeus (1881) in The

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Art Journal (1883), p.68 and in The Art Journal (1886), p.231; Who Is It? (1884) in The Art Journal (1886); A Difficult Line from Horace (1881) in The Art Journal (1899), p.56; A Harvest Festival (1880), in The Art Journal (1909). 110 Examples are: Joseph, Overseer of Pharaoh’s Granaries (1874) in The Magazine of Art (1878), p.197; After the Dance (1875) in The Magazine of Art (1878), p.127; Balneatrix (1877) in The Magazine of Art (1879); Fredegonda and Galswintha: ad 566, (1878) in: The Magazine of Art (1880), p.280; Going Down to the River (1879) in The Magazine of Art (1880), p.140 illustration in situ at Vanderbilt mansion; On the Road to the Temple of Ceres (1879) in The Magazine of Art (1880), p.316; Sappho and Alcaeus (1881) in The Magazine of Art (1881), p.309; On the Way to the Temple (1882) in The Magazine of Art (1883), p.433; A Garden Altar (1879) in The Magazine of Art (1888), p.425; Portrait of the Singer George Henschel (1879) in The Magazine of Art (1889), p.270; Portrait of Myself at Forty-Seven Years Old (1883) in The Magazine of Art (1893), p.8-10; A Love Missile (1878), in The Magazine of Art (1895), p.165. 111 Reproduction in The Illustrated London News June 30 (1866), p.627, 645, reproduction engraved by W. Thomas, see: The Illustrated London News: ‘No artist has secured more antiquarian versimilitude in his works than M. Alma-Tadema. Drawing aside the veil from the past, he enables us, as it were to witness apparently the most vivid and minutely faithful reflections of incidents of domestic life in long forms of civilization.’ 112 The Illustrated London News (1877), p.67. Other examples are reproductions of Joseph, Overseer of Pharaoh’s Granaries (1874), included in The Illustrated London News (3 October 1874), p.328; An Audience at Agrippa’s (1875) in The Illustrated London News (10 June 1876), p.576, engraved by W. Biscombe-Gardner; Between Hope and Fear (1876) in The Illustrated London News (11 August 1877), pp.128-129; Sunday Morning, the Two Sisters, (1871, xcvi), in The Illustrated London News (9 November 1878), p.448; Going Down to the River (1879) in The Illustrated London News (18 October 1879), p.372, also in The Illustrated London News (27 November 1886), p.591; On the Road to the Temple of Ceres (1879), in The Illus-

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trated London News (1 May 1880), p.435; Sappho and Alcaeus (1881) in The Illustrated London News (23 July 1881), p.76; Portrait of Professor Giovanni Battista Amendola (1883) in The Illustrated London News (14 June 1884), p.583; Portrait of Myself at Forty-Seven Years Old (1883) in The Illustrated London News (27 November 1886), p.594; Entrance to a Roman Theatre (1866), reproduced in The Illustrated London News (November 27 1886), p.591; Ave Caesar! io Saturnalia! (1880), in The Illustrated London News (27 November 1886), p.591, also in The Illustrated London News (11 January 1913), Supplement, p.iv; The Meeting of Anthony and Cleopatra: 41 bc (1883) in The Illustrated London News (April 1887), p.457. See: The Illustrated London News (20 May 1876), p.498, etching by Paul Rajon; see also the letter on the back of the work which refers to Rajon’s etching. On the Steps of the Capitol, P. Rajon etching,   E.S. Palmer, 9 May 1876, see: Friend 1886, p.164. Autumn (1877) in Punch lxxiv, (29 June 1878), p.300; Fredegonda and Galswintha: ad 566 (1878), in Punch lxxviii, (10 April 1880), p.167; Sappho and Alcaeus (1881) in Punch lxxx (14 May 1881), p.226. See also the cartoon of A Picture Gallery in Rome (1874) in Fun Magazine (23 May 1874), p.17. Swanson 1990, no.257. en Barrow 2001, pp.108109. Reproduction in: Gazette des Beaux-Arts, xvi (1864), p.530. See: The Vintage Festival (1870) in: Gazette des Beaux-arts viii, (1873), p.41; Greek Wine (1872) reproduction in: Gazette des BeauxArts gba, viii September 1873, p.249; A Picture Gallery in Rome (1874) in Gazette des Beaux-Arts (1875), p.9; Winter, Autumn, Summer and Spring (1877) in Gazette des Beaux-Arts (1 September 1877), pp.290-291. La Chronique des Arts (apr. 28 1877), p.8. The print was etched by Paul Rajon. This work by Rajon had previously been published as an independent print by Pilgeram & Lefèvre, 24 December 1875, see: Friend 1886, p.195. The Vintage Festival (1870) in L’Art (1879), p.128; An Egyptian at His Doorway in Memphis (1865) in L’Art (1884), xi:191; A Love Missile (1878) in L’Art

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122

123 124 125

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127 128 129 130

(1885), p.101; A Well-Protected Slumber (1879) in L’Art ii (1890), p.181. Anonymous, ‘Alma-Tadema’, L’Art, 1885 ii, p.100. Het Nederlands Magazijn (1862), p.313; see: Swanson 1990, p.129. This work was engraved by L. Lucas and P.J. Arendzen and later published a second time in: J.F. van Someren, Moderne Kunst in Neder­land. etchings van P.J. Arendzen (1883), pl 107. The Protestant cultural magazine Eigen Haard also published various reproductions of his work: Tarquinius Superbus (1867) in Eigen Haard (1879), no.41; The Juggler (1870) in Eigen Haard (1895), fig 9; Shy (1883) in Eigen Haard (1896). See also Ave Caesar! io Saturnalia! (1880) in De Huisvriend (1883), p.333, p.336. Swanson 1990, p.170. This lithograph by J.J. Mesker was published in De Kunst­kronijk (1886), p.68. Maas 1986, pp.3-4. See illustration in the Album van den Nederlandschen Spectator no.12. Alma-Tadema has close connections with the painter Hendrik W. Mesdag, who was not only his cousin but also did business for the painter. When Alma-Tadema was to receive money from Vosmaer for several photographs he asked him to give the money to Mesdag: ‘As for the 42 Eng. shillings you can pay these when it suits to Mesdag as I always have more to settle up with him. Should my proposal not entirely please you I can always place my second copy elsewhere’, letter from AlmaTadema to Carel Vosmaer, 31-iii-1875, no.18, Vos­maer Archive rpk Amsterdam. For extensive information on the relationship between Alma-Tadema and Mesdag see: H. Pennock, ‘De levens van twee neven: Hendrik Willem Mesdag en Lourens Alma-Tadema’, Jong ­Holland 9 (1993) 1, pp.8-19. Letter from Alma-Tadema to Carel Vosmaer, 21-xii-1871, no. 4, Vosmaer Ar­chive rpk Amsterdam. C. Vosmaer, ‘Album no.12’, De Nederlandsche Spectator (1871), pp.338-339. N. Maas 1986, p.3-4. Heijbroek 1989, p.8. Letter from Alma-Tadema to Carel Vosmaer  

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134 135

136

137 138

139 140

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5-xi-1869, no. 2 a-b Vosmaer­ Ar­chive rpk Amsterdam. It is not clear what prompted Carel Vosmaer to ask for a lithograph. Letter from Alma-Tadema to Carel Vosmaer   4-ix-1873, no. 8a, Vosmaer Archive rpk Amsterdam. Letter from Alma-Tadema to Carel Vosmaer,   7-i-1875, no.12, Vos­maer Archive rpk Amsterdam. Letter from Alma-Tadema to Carel Vosmaer, 11-ii-1875, no.15, Vosmaer Archive rpk Amsterdam. Ibid. Letter from Alma-Tadema to Carel Vosmaer, 18-iii-1875, no.17, Vosmaer Archive rpk Amsterdam. Letter from Alma-Tadema to Carel Vosmaer, 18-iii-1875, no.17, Vosmaer Archive rpk Amsterdam. For more on these photomechanical techniques see chapter 2. Letter from Alma-Tadema to Carel Vosmaer,   4-vii-1876, no.20, Vosmaer Archive rpk Amsterdam C. Vosmaer, De Kunstkronijk (1876), p.11. As early as 1867 the Illustrierte Zeitung featured his Egyptian-inspired work Egyptian Chess Players (1865), reproduction in Illustrated Zeitung, December 7 (1867). See also his Balneatrix (1877) in Zeitschrift fur Bildende Kunst, (1879), p.269; A Question (1877) in Zeischrift fur Bildende Kunst xiv (1879), p.261 and in: Uber Land und Meer, AllgeMayne Illustrierte Zeitung xxiv (1881), p.17. The Departure (1880) in Neue Illustrierte Zeitung x, (1888), p.369 and in Die Kunst unserer Zeit 1893, opposite p.12. Other examples are reproductions in the popular American periodical Harper’s Magazine, which was admired by Vincent van Gogh, see: Winter (1877) in Harper’s Magazine (1897), p.54; Autumn, Summer, Spring (1877) in Harper’s Magazine, (1897), pp.111-112; Amo Te Ama Me (1881) in Harpers New Monthly Magazine xciv (New York 1897), p.562. De Kunstkronijk (1879), p.1. It is curious that this remark was published in De Kunstkronijk in 1879, while the etching in question had been published in The Art Journal two years previously, in 1877 p.280.

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142 111 The Pyrrhic Dance, 1869, reproduction in   143

144

145

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ra Illustrated, no 421 On the Road to the Temple of Ceres, 1879 in M. Goupil Salon 1881, p.159. Other examples are The Convalescent (1869) included in: E. Strahan, Masterpieces of the Centennial International Exposition 1876, p.69.; A Roman Emperor: ad 41 (1871) in: Edward Strahan, The Chefs-d’oeuvre d’art of the International Exhibition 1878, Philadelphia, 1878-1880, pp.115-116; Improvisatore (1872), in: W. Armstrong Celebrated Pictures Exhibition at the Glagow International Exhibition 1888, p.29 and in: W.E. Henley, A Century of Artists: A Memorial of the Glasgow International Exhibition 1888, 1889, p.2. Other examples are Spelevaren (The Embarkation) (1868), in: Zimmern 1886, p.281, lithographed by J.J. Mesker; The First Whisper of Love (1870), in: S.G.W. Benjamin, Contemporary Art in Europe, 1877, p.99; The Convalescent   (1869), in: Anonymous, British Painters of the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries 1880, p.138; The Education of the Children of Clotilde and Clovis (1868), in: Earl Shinn, Art Treasures of America I 1879, p.95; Sappho and Alcaeus (1881), in: R. Munther, The History of Modern Painting (London 1907) vol.3, p.354; Spring (1877), in: Louise M. Richter, Mayster de Farbe. Europaische Kunst der Gegenwart (1904), p.31 colour reproduction. His book on Egypt included two wood engravings after Joseph, Overseer of Pharaoh’s Granaries (1874) and An Egyptian at His Doorway in Memphis (1864) in G. Ebers, Egypt London 1880. The publication was adapted for the Netherlands by J. Margadant and published in 1886 by   H.D. Tjeenk Willink (Haarlem). The illustrations appear in the Dutch publication opposite pp.56 and 68, respectively. Another example is the reproduction of A Question (1877), in: August Mau, Ponpeii in Leben und Kunst 1908, pp. 429-430 fig.253. Letter from Alma-Tadema to Carel Vosmaer,   7-ii-1884, no.82, Vos­maer Archive rpk Amsterdam. The print appeared in J.F. van Someren, Moderne kunst in Neder­land, etchings van P.J. Arendzen, Amsterdam 1880. In this instance his irritation focused on the distinguished etcher P.J. Arend­zen (1846-1932), who had

147 148 149

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151 152 153 154

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156 157

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159 160

161 162

many etchings after Anton Mauve and Jozef Israëls to his name. Zimmern 1886, p.5. The Magazine of Art (1881), p.309, produced by C.O. Murray. Murray was regarded as a renowned etcher in England, reproducing works such as AlmaTadema’s Quiet Pets (1881 opus ccxxx), to the painter’s entire satisfaction. For a publication and discussion of Murray’s etched reproduction see: The Art Journal (1883), pp.16-17. The prints in this relatively cheap reproductive technique were produced by a number of wood engravers: R.S. Leuders, J.D. Cooper,   C. Dietrich, W. Hecht, J. Robert, J.P. Davis and A. Bellenger. Anonymous, The Art Journal (1883), p.35. English Illustrated Magazine (1884), frontispiece Published in Zimmern opposite pages 8, 20,   24 and 28 respectively. Van der Linden asserts that G. Maysenbach was the first to use such a method, in 1888, see: Van der Linden 1990, p.70. In 1902 a revised version of Helen Zimmern’s monograph was published. During AlmaTadema’s life, other monographs were published by G. Ebers, Lorenz Alma-Tadema: His Life and Works (1886), P.C. Standing, Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema, O.M., R.A. (1905), R. Dircks, The Later Works of Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema, O.M., R.A. (1910), see: Swanson 1977, pp.61-62. Letter from J. Perk to Carel Vosmaer, 21 December 1880, quoted in: Heijbroek 1989, p.131 Letter from Multatuli to G. Valette, printed in De Gids (1910) ii, p.388, quoted in Heijbroek 1989, p.133. L. van Deyssel, ‘Nieuw Holland’ in: Verzamelde opstellen, first collection. Second impression, Amsterdam 1899, p.19. quoted in Heijbroek 1989, p.133. Swanson 1990, no.273. Anonymous, Magazine of Art, (1884), p.xl.   A French translation was published and AlmaTadema’s good friend George Ebers commissioned a German translation. Swanson 1977, p.55. Lovett 1991, pp.82-83. The Rijksmuseum owns several etchings which Alma-Tadema produced as illustrations to the poems of  

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163 164 165 166

167

168 169

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W.B. Scott, see: Lady Janet, May Jean (Inv.no. A.3271); Woodstock Image (Inv.no.A.3266); Hiemshild’s Zyste (Inv.no.A.3270) To the Sphinx (Inv.no.A.3269). Muir 1971, pp.129-148. Engen 1995, pp.10-13, p.85-115. Exhib.cat. Amsterdam 1996, pp.142-143. Swanson identified these works. He suggests the 1871 version of the Merovingian painting, see; Swanson 1990, no.136. However, Mijn Atelier (My Studio) dates from 1867, so this must be the earlier version of Fredegonda and Praetextatus from 1864. See also Swanson 1990, no.85. Letter from Alma-Tadema to Carel Vosmaer, 24-iii-1873, no. 6, Vosmaer Archive rpk Amsterdam; see also: letter, 28-v-1873, no.7, and: letter, 4-ix-1873, no.8, Vos­maer Archive rpk Amsterdam. Bastet 1989, p.59. In 1879 Unger would also make an etching after A Questi­on (1877 opus clxxxv), see: Swanson 1990, no.226. Letter from Alma-Tadema to Carel Vosmaer, 31-iii-1875, n o.18, Vos­maer Archive rpk Amsterdam. Veiling van de Alma-Tadema, 9-13 en 16 June 1913, Londen, Lugt no.72906, p.47. Reproductions after his work are not explicitly mentioned in his wills, see: Cuypers 1986, pp.107-128. This collection of photographic reproductions must not be confused with Alma-Tadema’s enormous photograph collection which did not go under the hammer at this auction. His collection of 5000 photographs mainly comprised images of archaeological objects and buildings, and has been the previous subject of study, as a visual reference library for the painter’s compositions. For extensive information on this see: U. Pohlmann, ‘AlmaTadema en de fotografie’, in exhib.cat Amsterdam 1996, pp.111-124. Auction cat. Alma-Tadema, p.47-48, lot nos.698-730. It is known that his wife regularly appeared in traditional Greek clothing, see: F.A.L. ‘Fraaie kunsten. Mr en mrs Alma Tadema’, Ons Streven. Courant voor Nederlandsche Vrouwen 9 (1878) 32. With thanks to Lotte Jensen who

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drew my attention to this. 175 For Alma-Tadema, his life and rich social life

see: Barrow 2001, pp.114-127. 176 Letter from Alma-Tadema to Carel Vosmaer,

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180

181

182 183

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185 186

24-3-1873, no.4. Vosmaer Archive rpk Amsterdam. Alma-Tadema also tried to do Haverschmidt another service, by finding somewhere for the painter Therese Schwartze to exhibit her work in London. The painter informed Haverschmidt that, despite his membership of the Royal Academy and his efforts on behalf of ‘miss Schwartze’, he had not been able to find a venue for the exhibition; moreover he had lost sight of several of her works, thereby losing an opportunity for an exhibition in Grosvenor Gallery, see: letter from AlmaTadema to Francois Haverschmidt, no.1, 1872 ltk 1818, xi, written from Townshend House, North Gate Regents Park, Universiteit Leiden. Letter from Alma-Tadema to Francois Haverschmidt, 1872, ltk 1818, xi, no2. written from Townshend House, North Gate Regents Park, Universiteit Leiden. Letter from Alma-Tadema to Carel Vosmaer, 7i-1875, no.12, Vosmaer Archive rpk Amsterdam. Letter from Carel Vosmaer to Francois Haverschmidt, xi 25 February 18. ltk 1818, Universiteit Leiden. The photogravure was sold at auction in 2000 at Bubb Kuiper. The inscription reads: ‘to commemorate the 21st May 1894 in my /presented to the Lange A Capella Choir’, signed by the painter. See: auction cat. 2000 Bubb Kuiper Haarlem, 611. Ruskin 1907, p.270. C. Vosmaer, ‘L. Alma-Tadema in de Grosvenor Gallery’, De Neder­land­se Spectator 3 February no.5, (1883), p.37, 46. For reproductions after Rosa Bonheur see: Roger-Milès 1900, pp.180-182 and H. LafontCouturier, ‘La diffusion de l’oeuvre de Rosa Bonheur par la mainson Goupil’, in: exhib.cat. Rosa Bonheur, Bordeaux, Barbizon, New York, 1997-1998, p.137-144. The Magazine of Art (1894), p.xviii. Letter from Potgieter to Busken-Huet,   20 February 1873, part ii, br.539

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187 C. Vosmaer, ‘Rondreizende schilderijen van

Alma-Tadema’, De Specta­tor 25 (1879), pp.373374. 188 Anonymous, ‘Kunstberichten’, De Kunstkronijk (1879), p.22. 189 31-xii-1884 no.doc.1. Vosmaer Archive rpk Amsterdam. It is not known which work this was. 190 Letter from H.J. Scholten to [Buffa], 12-3-1874, rpk, collection artists’ letters (Scha-Slo books), with thanks to Hans Rooseboom who drew my attention to this letter. 191 Anonymous, ‘Reviews’, The Art Journal 13 (1874), p.223. 192 Anonymous, ‘Reviews’, The Art Journal (1883), p.240. 193 For a discussion of prints published by the art dealers Pilgeram & Lefèvre see: Anonymous, ‘Review. The Publications of messrs. Pilgeram and Lefèvre’, The Art Journal 11 (1872), pp.175176. 194 Anonymous, The Art Journal (1882), p.224. For a positive review of Blanchard’s reproduction after Alma-Tadema’s The Parting Kiss see: Anonymous, The Art Journal (1884), p.212. 195 Anonymous, ‘Minor topics’, The Art Journal 16 (1877), p.160. 196 For Rajon’s reproduction after Alma-Tadema’s The Bath see: The Art Journal (1881), p.31 197 C. Vosmaer, ‘Claudius. Door P. Rajon na L. Alma-Tadema’, De Neder­landsche Spectator (1878), pp.38-39. 198 Quote from Carel Vosmaer from his discussion of Rajon’s etching after Alma-Tadema’s A Roman Emperor 41 ad, C. Vosmaer, ‘Claudius. Door P. Rajon na L. Alma-Tadema’, De Nederlandsche Spectator (1878), pp.38-39. 199 The Magazine of Art (1890), p.xix. 200 For the possibilities offered by etching as reproductive technique, see: Hamerton 1880, pp.8-13. 201 The Magazine of Art (1893), p.xii. 202 After training at the Academie voor Beeldende Kunsten in Amsterdam he was asked by the Swedish government in 1871 to set up a ‘school of etching’. In 1873 Löwenstam moved to London and ‘soon aquired a reputation for his skill in translating the works of leading artists into etching’; these included Alma-

203 204

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Tadema, Stacey Marks, Dendy Sadler, and E. Poynter. ‘His plates […] have done much to popularise both the artists and their works. He was awarded the highest honours for his etchings at London, Paris, Amsterdam, Sydney and other International Exhibtions’, Anonymous, The Magazine of Art (1898), p.576. Anonymous, The Magazine of Art (1893), p.xii. As previously observed, the painter also owned engravings, etchings and photographs of his work, virtually all of which he had signed personally. In the Fries Museum there is an etching by Löwen­stam after Welcome Footsteps (1883 opus cclvii) and a photogravure of The Colosseum (1896 opus cccxxxvi), both signed by the painter. See the Lefèvre advertisment in the collection of the Fries Museum. Whitman 1903, p.3. If these paintings are to be believed, the prints seem to have been hung with their frames touching. Although this was common practice in Victorian interiors, criticism was already being voiced in Alma-Tadema’s time. The well-known author L.F. Day remarked, for example: ‘We must limit the number of [pictures] in our rooms. Does anyone really want his walls plastered with them like patchwork of big postage stamps?’ L.F. Day, ‘How to hang pictures’, The Magazine of Art 5 (188­2), p.58-60; see also: L.F. Day, ‘The place of pictures in the decora­tion of a room’, The Magazine of Art 4 (1881), pp.319-323. Although these paintings show interiors from circa 1870, later images, for example of Alma-Tadema’s library, also show that he hung artworks with the frames abutting, see: exhib.cat. Amsterdam 1996, p.49. Alma-Tadema must have known Day’s ideas, either through the author’s contributions to The Magazine of Art or Vosmaer’s translation of these in De kunst in het daaglijks leven. Vrij naar het Engelsch van Lewis Foreman Day, published in 1884. For Vosmaer’s translation see: Maas 1989, p.138. Letter from Alma-Tadema to Carel Vosmaer,   2-i-1885, no.87, Vosmaer Archive rpk Amsterdam. As previously observed, the firm of Goupil published few reproductions after Alma-Tadema. This request for work to repro-

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duce was probably connected with the publication of The Great Modern Painters, published by Goupil in Paris a year later, in 1886, and written by Helen Zimmern. 209 For a more extensive discussion of the art dealer/print publisher combination see: Verhoogt 1999, pp.22-29. 210 In 1894, for example, Alma-Tadema painted his picture The Benedic­tion (1894, cccxxv) on commission to Arthur Tooth & Sons who published a photogravure of the work in the same year. He also painted Past and Present Generations (1894, cccxxvii) for this dealer. The painter wrote to his good friend George Henschel: ‘You know the lovers and the busts, called Past and Present Generations. It is so difficult & I do hope to succeed but I must use every drop of daylight so please take the will for the dead [sic] and accept my best wishes’, letter from Alma-Tadema to Henschel, 18 October 1894, (Birmingham Library, rkd). The firm published a photogravure of this a year later. The art dealer followed this print with further reproductions after Alma-Tadema’s work, including Roses, and Love’s Delight , see: cat. Maas: Arthur Tooth 1898; see also: Swanson 1990, no.385. The work The Conversion of Paula by St. Jerome, 1898, is also interesting. The painter produced this on commission to Tooth who reproduced the picture and also commissioned an extensive explanatory text from Stephens, see: Swanson 1990, no.387. In 1899 the firm of Tooth also commissioned other paintings from Alma-Tadema, publishing photogravures of these within the year; these included Hero, (1898, ccclii) and The Baths of Caracalla, (1899), see: cat. Maas: Hero, Arthur Tooth, 1899, The Baths of Caracalla, Arthur Tooth 1900. In the early years of the twentieth century various large-format photogravures of Alma-Tadema’s pictures were also published, mainly by the English firm of Arthur Tooth & Sons. A fine example is the photogravure of Under the Roof of Blue Ionian Weather (1901 opus cclxxiii), published in 1901, Swanson mentions a 1901 photogravure by the Berliner Fotografische Gesellschaft., see: Swanson 1990, no.400. In 1905 the same firm published a photogravure after

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213 214

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Among the Ruins (1902, ccclxxii), see: Swanson 1990, no.405. Some of the last independent reproductions after Alma-Tadema’s work are the photogravures after Ask Me No More, For at a Touch I Yield, from 1906, and the print after Caracalla and Geta: Bear Fight in the Colosseum ad203, from 1907, see: Swanson 1990, no.413; see also: cat. Maas Carel Vosmaer quoted in Bastet 1989, p.167. He owned a large library and an enormous collection of photographs with images of archaeological details, neatly sorted by subject. For Alma-Tadema and photography see: C. Cuypers, ‘The Question by Alma-Tadema’, Nederlands Kunsthistorisch Jaarboek, 27 (1976), p.73-90. U. Pohlmann, ‘Alma-Tadema and photograp­hy’, in: exhib.cat. Amster­dam 1996 and C. Cuy­pers, ‘Alma-Tadema’s Frede­gonda en Prae­texta­tus’, in: W. Denslagen, Bouw­kunst. Studies in vriend­schap voor Kees Peters, Amsterdam 1993, pp.145-154. Alma-Tadema quoted in: Swanson 1977, p.43. Letter from Alma-Tadema to Carel Vosmaer, 14-iii-1883 No. 69, Vosmaer Archive rpk Amsterdam. Nevertheless his archaeological knowledge was not infallible: for example, he mistakenly painted sunflowers in a Roman context, see: Swanson 1990, no.181. For this work see: exhib.cat. Amsterdam 1996, p.224-228. Alma-Tadema quoted in Zimmern 1886, p.29. For Jules Michelet and Augustin Thierry in this connection and the meaning of historical accuracy see: F. Haskell, ‘Museums, Illustrations and the Search for Authenticity’, in: F. Haskell, History and Its Images. Art and the Interpretation of the Past, New Haven London 1993, p.279-303. Historical subjects were very popular with the public, see: P. ten-Doesschate Chu, ‘Pop Culture in the Making: The Romantic Craze for History’, in P. ten-Doesschate Chu, G.P. Weisberg, The Popularization of Images. Visual Culture under the July Monarchy, Princeton 1994, p.166-188. Alma Tadema owned Gregoire de Tours’, Histoire ecclesiastique des France par Saint Gregoire (depuis 573 jusqu’en 594) suivi d’un sommaire de ses autres et precedée de sa vie ecrite au xe Siecle

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223 224

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226 227

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pas Odon, Abbee de Cluny i-ii (Paris 1858-61). His copy of this book and Thierry’s work are now in the Birmingham University Library. Krul 1996, p.164. For a more extensive discussion of this see: exhib.cat. Amsterdam 1996, p.33. C. Vosmaer, ‘L. Alma-Tadema in de Grosvenor Gallery’, in: De Neder­landse Spectator (1883) 5, pp.37-38. Gay 1998 i, p.150. Anonymous, ‘A propos van de exhibition van paintings van levende masters in Arti et Amicitiae’, in: De Kunst­kronijk 10 (1869), p.4. Daffone said of Tibullus’s Visit to Delia in The Art Journal: [it] ‘has the merit of being a study and feast for the anti­quary [...]’, see: J. Dafforne, ‘The Works of Alma-Tadema’, The Art Journal 16 (1875), p.10. Anonymous, ‘..’ The Art Journal 13 (1874), p. 100. G. Ebers, Aegypten in Bild und Wort, Dargestellt vom unsere ersten kunstlern, Stuttgart/Leipzig, 1879, pp. 113, 139, 165, 309. It should be noted that not all archaeological details could be accurately reproduced in this period, for it was during the 1860s and 1870s that a fierce archaeological debate arouse on the subject of polychrome sculpture in antiquity; according to the latest information, the white marble statues so admired since the Renaissance now seemed to have been brightly painted. AlmaTadema also reconstructed the painting of the Parthenon according to the latest insights and presented the famous ‘Elgin Marbles’ in colour. Such archaeologically accurate colour schemes were generally lost in reproduction, however. I shall return to the subject of colour in Alma-Tadema’s work below. What is important to remember here is that only the archaeological aspects of colour were lost in reproduction, see: exhib.cat. Amsterdam 1990, no.13. Countless paintings by masters such as Rossetti, Solomon, Moore and Watts display this admiration for women with auburn or red hair, who often came from Ireland. This is also illustrated by Gustave Courbet’s, Jo, the Beautiful Irish Girl (La belle Irlandaise) 1865-6, see: exhib.cat. London 1997, no.9. Letter from Alma-Tadema to M. Dolman, 13-

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237 238

10-1900, inv. 1990-A-852, Fondation Custodia Paris. The archaeological aspects of the painting were acceptable; it was the gruesome scene that gave offence: ‘we cannot help regretting that the two great masters have not combined to produce a work which would give pleasure to all who look upon it, that its claim to admi­ration might be not merely what is derived from its value as a work of Art. We can hardly consi­der any artist justified in multiply­ing a picture that repels- one that cannot fail to give pain rather than enjoyment.’ Anonymous, ‘Minor topics’, The Art Journal 16 (1877), p.160. See: The Magazine of Art (1898), p.466. Exhib.cat. Amsterdam 1996, p.238 and Swanson 1990, p.70. Lambert 1987, p. 97. Letter from Alma-Tadema to Carel Vosmaer, 11-ii-1875, no. 15, Vosmaer Archive rpk Amsterdam. It was not until the 1880s and 1890s that colour photography began to acquire some form. As yet, however, it played no significant role in reproduction in general and Alma-Tadema’s career in particular. Alongside this practice Alma-Tadema often supplied printmakers with photographs of his paintings. The fact that the painter used photographs to help him modify his tones, does not mean, of course, that photographic reproductions guaranteed the finest reproduction of tone, for the techniques was still less sensitive to tone than an engraver or etcher’s eye. It should also be remembered that photographs often discoloured unevenly over time, thereby disturbing the tonal balance (still further). Swanson 1990, p.33, 76. See also: letter from Alma-Tadema to Carel Vosmaer, 28-v-1873, no.7, Vosmaer Archive rpk Amsterdam. The first work Alma-Tadema produced in this way was The Armou­rer’s Shop in Ancient Rome (1866 opus xli). Anonymous, The Art Journal (1871), p.147, 166. For this copy of Fredegonda en Preatextatus see: C. Cuy­pers, ‘Alma-Tadema’s Fredegonda en Preatextatus (1871)’, in: W. Denslagen (ed.) Bouwkunst: Studies in Vriendschap voor Kees

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Peters, Amsterdam 1993, pp.145-154. 239 Letter from Alma-Tadema to Carel Vosmaer,  

240

241 242

243

244

245

3-v-1882, no.63, Vosmaer Archive rpk Amsterdam. It is not known who paid 2500 guilders for this work. The Rotterdam ship owner Fop Smith, founder of the Smith-Tak salvage company, was a well-known patron of art and often bought pictures from Goupil, the firm of international art dealers. Alma-Tadema quoted in an article in a journal: Groot Brittan­nie, de heer Alma-Tadema te London, Fries Museum in Leeu­warden (n.d.,   n.p.) no. P 1992-204. It is not known what ‘etc. etc.’ comprised, although it is more than likely that he also meant information relating to reproductions. Swanson 1990, p.234. Alma-Tadema also made Interrup­ted (1880) as a commission for The Graphic. For the significance of The Graphic, J. T­reu­herz, exhib.cat. Hard Times, Social Realism in Victo­rian Art, Amster­dam (Van Gogh Museum) 1987,   pp. 53-64. The extent to which Alma-Tadema kept an eye on his business interests is revealed by a letter to Carel Vosmaer in which he wrote about a number of paintings, mentioning details of exhibitions, new owners and reproductions. Although this is fairly harmless information, the painter impressed on the classicist the importance of not revealing these details, as he was afraid these might harm the sales of his work, see: letter from Alma-Tadema to Carel Vosmaer, 18-x-1875, no.28, Vos­maer Archive rpk Amsterdam (incorrectly inventorised, Alma-Tadema clearly dated his letter 18-x-1876). It should also be remembered that the painter was under pressure from his art dealers in such matters, see: letter from AlmaTadema to Carel Vosmaer, 28-v-1873, no.7, Vos­maer Archive rpk Amsterdam. He was also very irritated when a sketch of of An Egyp­tian at His Door­way (1865 no opus number), which he had given to Alfred Steven, came onto the market without his knowledge or consent, see: letter from Alma-Tadema to Alfred Verwee, 30-4-1877, The Netherlands Institute for Art History (rkd), The Hague. His oeuvre also contains various paintings,

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such as portraits, in which reproduction may hardly have played a role as the nature of the subject and function of the work did not lend itself to this purpose. 246 Letter from Alma-Tadema to Carel Vosmaer, 11-ii-1875, no.15, Vosmaer Archive rpk Amsterdam.

chapter 8 p. ?

1 Postcard from Alma-Tadema to Ms Israëls,  

3 May 1881, Inv. A i-4, A.S. Kok Archive, Netherlands Institute for Art History (rkd) The Hague. Anonymous, ‘The French Gallery. Seventeenth Exhibition’, The Art Journal (1870), p.149-150. Erftemeijer 2000, p.370. ‘So long I paint my picture, I work ‘ard, I work slow to get ‘im right. If ‘e is not right, I paint ‘im out, once, twice. But when ‘e is finished,   I am not an artist no more. I am a tradesman.’ Alma-Tadema quoted in Barrow 2001, p.127. See also in this connection: Crary 1990, p.21 and Vermeulen 2006. Hofstede de Groot 1906, p. xlvi. See for distorting effects in reproductions: E.F. Van der Grinten, ‘Consistent formal distortions and peculiarities in 19 th century art historical reproductions iconoligia formalis’, in: Nederlands Kunsthistorisch Jaarboek 15 (1964), p.247-260. Gombrich 1995, p.vii. The artist Corneille quoted in an interview in: Rails 47 (1998) 11, p.100.



2



3



4



5



6



7



8



9



1 Alma-Tadema cited in: Barrow 2001, p.127.

Summary p. ?

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EXHIBITION CATALOGUES Jozef Israëls exhibition, London (Hannover

Odilon Redon 1840-1916. Prince of Dreams,

Gallery) 1890.

Amsterdam (Van Gogh Museum) 1994.

Reproductionsgraphik des 16. Bis 19. Jahrhun-

À l’ombre des grand hommes. Autour du portrait

derts aus dem Besitz des Kunsthistorischen Instituts der universität Tübingen, Tübingen (Ausstellung der Kunsthalle) 1976. Gainsborough and Reynolds in the British Museum. The drawings of Gainsborough and Reynolds with a survey of mezzotints after their paintings and a study of Reynolds’ collection of Old Master drawings, London (British Museum) 1978. ‘Teyler’ 1778-1978. Studies en bijdragen over Teylers Stichting naar aanleiding van het tweede eeuwfeest, Haarlem 1978. Fotografie in Nederland 1839-1920, The Hague (Haags Gemeentemuseum) 1978. Pictures for the Parlour: The English Reproductive print from 1770-1900, Ontario (Art Gallery of Ontario) 1983. Hard Times. Social realism in Victorian art, Manchester/Amsterdam/New Haven (Manchester City Art Gallery/Vincent Van Gogh Museum/ Yale Centre for British Art) 1987. Europaische Moderne Buch und Graphic aus Berliner Kunstverla­gen 1890-1933, Berlin (Staatliche Museum) 1989.

de la comtesse Maison d’Hippolyte Flandrin, Villeneuve-sur-Lot/Bordeaux (Musée de Villeneuvesur-Lot/Musée Goupil) 1995. Ary Scheffer 1795-1858: gevierd Romanticus, Dordrecht (Dordrechts Museum) 1995. Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema, Amsterdam/ Liverpool (Van Gogh Museum/Walker Art Gallery) 1996. Barend Cornelis Koekoek (1803-1862) Prins der Landschapschilders, Dordrecht/Kleve (Dordrechts Museum/Museum Haus Koekoek) 1997. Degas, Boldini, Toulouse-Lautrec… Portraits inédits par Michel Manzi, Bordeaux/Albi (Musée Goupil/Musée Toulouse-Lautrec), 1997. The Age of Rossetti, Burne-Jones & Watts. Symbolism in Britain 1860-1910, London/Munich/Amsterdam (Tate Gallery/Haus der Kunst/Van Gogh Museum) 1997. Memoires du xviiie siècle, Bordeaux/Visille (Musee Goupil/Musée de la Revolution Francaise) 1998. Paul Delaroche. Un peintre dans l’Histoire, Nantes/Montpellier (Musée de Beaux-Arts/Musée Fabre) 1999. Theo van Gogh 1857-1891. Kunsthandelaar, verzamelaar en broer van Vincent, Amsterdam/ Paris (Van Gogh Museum/ Musée d’Orsay) 1999. Jozef Israëls 1824-1911, Groningen/Amsterdam (Groninger Museum Groningen/Jewish Historical Museum) 1999. Gérôme & Goupil Art and Enterprise, Bordeaux (Musée Goupil) 2000. Velázquez en blanco y negro, Madrid (Museo del Prado) 2000. De keuze van Vincent. Van Goghs Musée imaginaire, Amsterdam (Van Gogh Museum) 2003. Catalogus der schilderijen, teekeningen, prenten, etsen, photographien enz, enz. kosteloos bijeengebracht voor de te houden Verloting ten voordele van het op te richten standbeeld ter nagedachtenis van den beroemden kunstschilder Ary Scheffer 1860. (Catalogue of paintings, drawings, prints, etchings, photographies etc., etc. brought together for the Lottery to the advantage for the memorial statue for the famous artist Ary Scheffer 1860)

High and Low Modern art Popular Culture, New York (The Museum of Modern Art) 1990.

Ary Scheffer bewonderd door Vincent van Gogh. Tentoonstelling bij gelegenheid van het honderdste sterfjaar van Vincent van Gogh, Dordrecht (Dordrechts Museum)1990. Vincent van Gogh 1853-1890, Amsterdam (Van Gogh Museum) 1990. Van Gogh en Den Haag, The Hague (Haags Historisch Museum) 1990.

Rembrandt: De meester zijn werk­plaats, te­­keningen en etsen, Amsterdam (Rijksmu­seum) 1991. L’Atelier d’Ary Scheffer, Paris (Musée de la Vie Romantique) 1991. Van Gogh in England- Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, London (Barbican Art Gallery) 1992. Een wereldreiziger op papier. De atlas van Laurens van der Hem (1621-1678), Amsterdam (Stichting het Koninklijk Paleis op de Dam) 1992. Felix Bracquemond (1833-1914), Amsterdam (Van Gogh Museum) 1993.

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Nineteenth century periodicals A P.-R, ‘Nécessité et moyen de fixer légalement la condition des artistes’, L’Artiste (1835) x, p.21-25. A.J., ‘Simples réflections sur l’art et les artistes’, L’Artiste (1835), p.236-238. A.-Z., ‘Revue de la Semaine’, L’Artiste (1839) ii, p.116. Alberdinkh Thijm J.A., ‘-’, De Kunstkronijk, 10 (1868), p.23. Alophe, ‘L’Avenir de la Photographie’, L’Artiste (1861) xii, p.61-63 Anonymous, ‘bericht’, Algemeene Konst en Letterbode, (1802), p.300-301. Anonymous, ‘Pierre le Grand, gravure par M. Migneret d’apres M. Steuben’, Le Globe 6 (1828), p.461-462. Anonymous, ‘Lithographie à la manière noire’, L’Artiste (1831), p.213-214. Anonymous, ‘L’Artiste’, L’Artiste, (1832) iii, p.1-2. Anonymous, ‘Procès entre M. Léopold Robert, auteur du tableau des Moissonneurs, et M. Ricourt, directeur de L’Artiste’, L’Artiste iv(1832), p.257-259. Anonymous, ‘Preface’ (18 december 1832), The Penny Magazine, volume 1 (1833), p.iii-iv. Anonymous, ‘Variétés’, L’Artiste (1833), p.303304. Anonymous, ‘Variétés’, L’Artiste, vi (1833), p.316. Anonymous, ‘The Commercial history of a Penny Magazine ii’, The Penny Magazine 2 (1833), p. 417-424. Anonymous, ‘The Commercial history of a Penny Magazine i’, The Penny Magazine 2 (1833), p.377-384. Anonymous, ‘Concours de gravure pour le Prix de Rome’, L’Artiste, viii (1834), p.63-64. Anonymous, ‘Passages de Chailles, Vue des Échelles en Savoie, deux lithographies, par M. Champin, d’après Storelli’, L’Artiste (1834) vii, p.90-91. Anonymous, ’Gravure et lithographie’, L’Ar­ tiste, vii (1834), p.158-159. Anonymous, ‘Le bon dévot, gravé par Prévost, d’apres Charlet’, L’Artiste (1834) vii, p.187-188. Anonymous, ‘Variétés’, L’Artiste (1834) viii, p.270-271.

Anonymous, ‘Hogarth and his works no.ix’, The Penny Magazine 4 (1835) x, p.13. Anonymous, ‘Variété’, L’Artiste (1835) x, p.84. Anonymous, ‘Un vieux soldat, par Léon Noel, d’après Charlet’, L’Artiste (1835) x, p.98. Anonymous, ‘Salon de 1835. Gravure et Lithographies’, L’Artiste, (1835) ix, p.193-194. Anonymous, ‘Reynolds’, L’Artiste (1835) x, p.224-227. Anonymous, ‘Salon de 1836. Gravure et lithographie’, L’Artiste (1836) xi, p.181-184. Anonymous, ‘Société des Amis des Arts de la Ville d’Amiens. Le Roi René, Lithographie par Aubry-Lecomte, d‘après Saint-Èvre’, L´Artiste, (1836) xii, p.324-325. Anonymous, ‘De la Lithographie’, L’Artiste (1837) xiii, p.15-16. Anonymous, ‘Le Salon de 1837’, L’Artiste (1837) xiii, p.81-83. Anonymous, ‘Variétes’, L’Artiste, (1837) xiii, p.127-128. Anonymous, ‘Variétés’, L’Artiste, (1837) xiii, p.351. Anonymous, ‘L’atelier de Miéris. Lithographie de Léon Noel pour l’ouvrage lithographié de la galerie de Dresde, Publié a Leipsick’, L´Artiste, (1837) xiv, p.227. Anonymous, ‘De la gravure’, L’Artiste (1837) xiv, p.287-289. Anonymous, ‘Printing in the fifteenth and in het nineteenth centuries’, The Penny Magazine, vi (1837)p.501-509. Anonymous, ‘A nos lecteurs’, L’Artiste (1838) xv, p.149-151. Anonymous, ‘L’Artiste’, L’Artiste, (1838) xv, p.169-170. Anonymous, ‘De Maaiers en de visschers van Leopold Robert’, De Gids (1838) (ii), p.412. Anonymous, ‘La Madonne de l’arc et les Moissonneurs’, L’Artiste (1839) ii, p.157-158. Anonymous, ‘-’ Algemeene Konst en Letterbode (1839) i, 359-364. Anonymous, ‘Gravures. Strafford allant au suplice.- La retraite de Constantine’ L’Artiste (1840) vi, p.218-219. Anonymous, ‘Gravures Francais. État du travail dans les différents ateliers’, L’Artiste (1840) vi, p.251-252.

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Anonymous, ‘Gravure de la présente livraison. Vue de Saint-Jean-L’Acre- Mode de calque de Daguerréotype’, L’Artiste (1840), vi, p.276. Anonymous, ‘Gravures et illustrations’, L’Artiste (1840) vi p.413-415. Anonymous, ‘Nécrologie M.Rittner’, L’Artiste (1840) vi, p.399-400. Anonymous, ‘Houtsnee-school. De heer Brown’, De Kunstkronijk 1 (1840-41), p.7. Anonymous, ‘Mengelwerk’, De Kunstkronijk 1 (1840-41), p.4. Anonymous, ‘Eene gravure van den heer Sluijter.’De Kunstkronijk 1 (1840-41), p.57. Anonymous, ‘Mengelwerk’, De Kunstkronijk 1 (1840-41), p.63-64. Anonymous, ‘Gratuitous Exhibitions of ­P ictures’, The Penny Magazine x (1841), p.12. Anonymous, ‘..’De Gids (1842) i, p.64. Anonymous, ‘Kunstberigten’, De Kunstkronijk 3 (1842-43), p10. Anonymous, ‘De Houtsneê-school te ‘s Gravenhage’, De Kunstkronijk 3 (1842-43), p.15-16. Anonymous, ‘Album der kunstkronijk’, De Kunstkronijk 3 (1842-43), p.31-32. Anonymous, ‘regtzaken’, De Kunstkronijk 3 (1842-1843), p.42. Anonymous, ‘Kunstberigten’, De Kunstkronijk (1842-43), p.61. Anonymous, ‘Gravures et lithographies’, L’Artiste 4 (1843), p.122-124. Anonymous, ‘Berichten’, De Kunstkronijk 4 (1843-44), p.7. Anonymous, ‘Kunstberigten’, De Kunstkronijk 4 (1843-44), p.64. Anonymous, ‘Programma der tentoonstelling voor 1844, door het Schilderkunstig genootschap, te Rotterdam’, De Kunstkronijk 4 (1843-44), p.72. Anonymous, ‘De houtsneêschool’, De Kunst­ kronijk 4 (1843-44), p.80. Anonymous, ‘Een nieuwe schilderij van Ary Scheffer’, De Kunstkronijk 4 (1843-44), p.95-96. Anonymous, ‘Berichten’, De Kunstkronijk 5 (1844-45), p.8. Anonymous, ‘Berichten’, De Kunstkronijk 5 (1844-45), p.71. Anonymous, ‘Album der Kunstkronijk’, De Kunstkronijk 6 (1845-46), p16.

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Anonymous, ‘Kunstberigten’, De Kunstkronijk 6 (1845-46), p.55-56. Anonymous, ‘Resumé de nos travaix en 1844 et 1845’, L’Artiste (1846) vi, p.143-144. Anonymous, ‘Impression en couleur’, L’Artiste (1847) ix, p.207-208. Anonymous, ‘Kunstberichten’, De Kunstkronijk 8 (1847), p.14. Anonymous, ‘Proeve van houtgravure’, De Kunstkronijk 8 (1847), p.65. Anonymous, ‘Property in art’, The Art Journal 1 (1849), p.133-136. Anonymous, ‘Reviews’, The Art Journal 1 (1849), p.263. Anonymous, ‘Kronijk’, De Kunstkronijk (1849), jrg.10, p.63. Anonymous, The Art Journal, New Series Volume i, (1849). Anonymous, ‘Glypographie.’ De Kunstkronijk 11 (1850), p.48. Anonymous, ‘Reviews’, The Art Journal (1850), p.36. Anonymous, ‘Foreign Copyright’, The Art Journal (1850), p.94. Anonymous, ‘Water-Colour Engravings’, The Art Journal (1850), p.234. Anonymous, ‘Autobiography of John Burnet’, The Art Journal (1850), p.275-277. Anonymous, De Spectator. Kritiesch en histo­ riesch kunstblad, deel 9 (1850), p.413-419. Anonymous, ‘Reviews’, The Art Journal (1851), p.36. Anonymous, ’Foreign lithographes’, The Art Journal (1851), p.173-174. Anonymous, ‘Minor topics of the month’, The Art Journal (1852), p.232. Anonymous, ‘Reviews’, The Art Journal (1853), p.68. Anonymous, The Art Journal (1853), p.174. Anonymous, ‘Kronijk’, De Kunstkronijk 14 (1853), p.65. Anonymous, ‘Kronijk’, De Kunstkronijk 14 (1853), p.96. Anonymous, ‘The Process of Photography. Photo-lithography. Photographic pictures etched on metalplates’, The Art Journal (1853), p.181-183. Anonymous, ‘Minor topics of the month’, The Art Journal (1854), p.57.

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Anonymous, ‘Reviews’, The Art Journal (1854), p.60. Anonymous, ‘The progress of a painter’, The Art Journal (1854), p.87-88. Anonymous, ‘Copyright in Foreign Art’, The Art Journal (1854), p.299-300. Anonymous, ‘The Art-Journal’, The Art Journal (1854), p.349. Anonymous, ‘De tentoonstelling te ’s Gravenhage, voor den jare 1853’, De Kunstkronijk 15 (1854), p.8-19. Anonymous, ‘Tony Johannot’, De Kunstkronijk 15 (1854), p.90-91. Anonymous, ‘Paris Illustrated Catalogue’, The Art Journal (1855), p.131. Anonymous, The Art Journal (1855), p.218. Anonymous, ‘Correspondence. Fraudulent “proofs” from worn plates’, The Art Journal (1855), p.241-242. Anonymous, ‘Action at law. Martin v. Day’, The Art Journal (1855), p.265. Anonymous, ‘Minor topics of the month’, The Art Journal (1855), p.308. Anonymous, ‘Destruction of engraved plates’, The Art Journal (1855), p.314-315. Anonymous, ‘The Art-Publications of mm. Goupil, of Paris’, The Art Journal (1856), p.7-8. Anonymous, ‘The Exhibition generale of 1855, and its close’, The Art Journal (1856), p.17. Anonymous, ‘Minor topic of the month’, The Art Journal (1856), p.29. Anonymous, ‘Reviews’, The Art Journal (1856), p.32. Anonymous, ‘Kronijk’, De Kunstkronijk 17 (1856), p.52. Anonymous, ‘Chromolithography’, The Art Journal (1856), p.95 Anonymous, ‘The Publications of Messrs. Day and Sons’, The Art Journal (1856), p.320. Anonymous, ‘Reviews’, The Art Journal (1856), p.324. Anonymous, ‘The Art Journal’, The Art Journal (1856), p.357. Anonymous, ‘Reviews’, The Art Journal (1857), p.200. Anonymous, ‘Exhibition of the Works of Paul Delaroche’, The Art Journal (1857), p.220. Anonymous, ‘The Collection of Engravings at

the South Kensington Museum’, The Art Journal (1857), p.262. Anonymous, De Kunstkronijk 18 (1857), p.95. Anonymous, De Gids (1857) i, p.563-564. Anonymous, ‘Van der Helst’. De Gids (1857), p.565. Anonymous, ‘Copyrights in pictures and other works of art’, The Art Journal (1858), p.53-54. Anonymous, ‘Reviews’, The Art Journal (1858), p.63. Anonymous, ‘Minor topics of the month’, The Art Journal (1858), p.112. Anonymous, ‘Reviews’, The Art Journal, (1858), p.128. Anonymous, ‘Artistic Copyright’, The Art Journal (1858), p.205-209. Anonymous, ‘Reviews’ The Art Journal (1858), p.192. Anonymous, ‘A process of hardening engraved copper plates’, The Art Journal (1858), p.356. Anonymous, ‘Minor topics of the month’, The Art Journal (1858), p.373. Anonymous, ‘International Art Copyright’, The Art Journal 1858, p.369. Anonymous, De Dietsche Warande (1858), p.596. Anonymous, ‘Binnen- en buitenlandsch kunstnieuws’, De Kunstkronijk 20 (1858), p.56. Anonymous, ‘photoglypic engraving’, The Art Journal (1859), p.46. Anonymous, ‘Reviews’, The Art Journal (1859), p.95. Anonymous, ‘Minor topics of the month’, The Art Journal (1859), p.194. Anonymous, ‘Ary Scheffer’, The Art Journal (1859), p.209-210. Anonymous, ‘Chromo-lithography. The gallery of Messrs. Rowney’, The Art Journal (1859), p.367. Anonymous, ‘Album der Kunstkronijk’, De Kunstkronijk 1 (1859), p.32. Anonymous, ‘Kunstnieuws’, De Kunstkronijk 1 (1859), p.48. Anonymous, ‘Necrologie’, De Kunstkronijk 1 (1859), p.16. Anonymous, ‘Kunstberigten’, De Kunstkronijk 1 (1859), p.88. Anonymous, ‘Minor topics of the month’, The Art Journal (1859), p.112. Anonymous, De Gids (1858) i, p.489.

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Anonymous, ‘Minor topics of the month’, The Art Journal (1860), p.36. Anonymous, ‘Reviews’, The Art Journal (1860), p.160. Anonymous, ‘Minor topics of the month’, The Art Journal 1860, p.182. Anonymous, ‘Minor topics of the month’, The Art Journal (1860), p222. Anonymous, Gazette de Beaux Arts 1860, p.319-320/377-378., opzoeken.! Anonymous, ‘Reviews’, The Art Journal (1861), p.31. Anonymous, ‘Minor topics of the month’, The Art Journal (1861), p.62. Anonymous, ‘Art-Copyrights’, The Art Journal (1861), p.88. Anonymous, ‘The Belgian Artistic Congress’, The Art Journal (1861), p.304-305. Anonymous, ‘Het Hemicycle van Paul Dela­ roche gegraveerd door Henriquel Dupont’, De Kunstkronijk 3 (1861), p.9-11. Anonymous, ‘De Goethe galerij. Goethe’s vrouwen naar teekeningen van Wilhelm von Kaulbach’, De Kunstkronijk 3 (1861), p.25-27. Anonymous, ‘Kunstberichten’, De Kunstkronijk 3 (1861), p.40 Anonymous, ‘Minor topics of the month’, The Art Journal (1862), p.88. Anonymous, ‘Minor topics of the month’, The Art Journal (1862), p.176. Anonymous, ‘The Official Illustrated Catalogue’, The Art Journal (1862), p.208. Anonymous, ‘Minor topics of the month’, The Art Journal (1862), p.226. Anonymous, ‘Copyright in art’, The Art Journal (1862), p.241. Anonymous, ‘Copyright in Sculpture’, The Art Journal (1863), p.58 Anonymous, ‘Photo-Sculpture’, The Art Journal (1863), p.59. Anonymous, ‘Infringement of Copyright’, The Art Journal (1863), p.103. Anonymous, ‘Reviews’, The Art Journal (1863), p.128. Anonymous, ‘Infringement of Copyright’, The Art Journal (1863), p.210-211. Anonymous, ‘Minor topics of the month’, The Art Journal (1863), p.231. Anonymous, ‘Reviews’, The Art Journal (1864), p.347.

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Anonymous, ‘Reviews’, The Art Journal (1864), p.348. Anonymous, ‘Line-engraving’, The Art Journal (1864), p.354. Anonymous, ‘Album der Kunstkronijk’, De Kunstkronijk 7 (1865), p.48. Anonymous, ‘Kunstnieuws’, De Kunstkronijk 7 (1865), p.64. Anonymous, ‘Gedachten over kunst en volksleven’, De Kunstkronijk 7 (1865), p.73-74. Anonymous, ‘Een schuld die niet verjaren mag’, De Kunstkronijk 7 (1865), p.93-95. Anonymous, ‘Line engraving’, The Art Journal (1866), p.158. Anonymous, ‘Lithography an auxiliary to photographic portraiture’, The Art Journal (1866), p.250. Anonymous, ‘Litho-Photography’, The Art Journal (1866), p.226. Anonymous, ‘Kunstnieuws’, De Kunstkronijk 8 (1866), p.16. Anonymous, ‘Kunstnieuws’, De Kunstkronijk 8 (1866), p.56. Anonymous, ‘Album der Kunstkronijk’, De Kunstkronijk 8 (1866), p.56. Anonymous, ‘Kunstnieuws’, De Kunstkronijk 8 (1866), p.71. Anonymous, ‘Kunstnieuws’, De Kunstkronijk 9 (1867), p.47. Anonymous, ‘Kunstnieuws’, De Kunstkronijk 9 (1867), p.55. Anonymous, ‘Reviews’, The Art Journal (1868), p.59. Anonymous, ‘The Autotype’, The Art Journal (1868), p.142. Anonymous, ‘Minor topics of the month’, The Art Journal (1868), p.195. Anonymous, ‘Reviews’, The Art Journal (1868), p.59. Anonymous, ‘International reproduction of works of art’, The Art Jour­nal (1868), p.212. Anonymous, ‘Reviews’, The Art Journal (1868), p.216. Anonymous, ‘Selected Pictures. Christ and St John. Ary Scheffer painter E. Rousseau, engraver’, The ArtJournal (1869), p.52. Anonymous, ‘Selected Pictures. The Kiss of Judas. Ary Scheffer, painter -Chevron, engraver’, The Art Journal (1869), p.76.

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Anonymous, ‘The recent publications of Messrs. Rowney in Chromolithography’, The Art Journal (1869), p.84. Anonymous, ‘A propos van de tentoonstelling van schilderijen van levende meesters in Arti et Amicitiae’, De Kunstkronijk 11 (1869), p.3-7. Anonymous, ‘The French Gallery. Seventeenth Exhibition’, The Art Journal (1870), p.149-150. Anonymous, De Gids, (1870) (iii, iv), p.138-139. Anonymous, ‘Picture-Frames in Fictile wood’, The Art Journal (1871), p.94. Anonymous, ‘Minor topics’, The Art Journal 10 (1871), p.147. Anonymous, ‘De etsen van William Unger’, De Kunstkronijk 12 (1870), p.46-48. Anonymous, ‘De redactie vraagt het woord’, De Kunstkronijk 13 (1871), p.7-8. Anonymous, ‘Kunstnieuws’, De Kunstkronijk 14 (1872), p.16. Anonymous, ‘Autotype Fine Art Company’, The Art Journal (1872), p.125. Anonymous, ‘Review. The Publications of Messrs. Pilgeram and Lefevre’, The Art Journal (1872), p. 175-176. Anonymous, ‘Works of Art in Black and White. Dudley Gallery, Egyptian hall, Picadilly’, The Art Journal (1872), p.212. Anonymous, ‘Reviews’, The Art Journal 13 (1874), p.223. Anonymous, ‘Kunstnieuws’, De Kunstkronijk 16 (1874), p.23-24. Anonymous, ‘De Geïllustreerde pers’, De Kunstkronijk 17 (1875), p.68-69 Anonymous, ‘Nieuwe uitgaven’, De Kunstkronijk 17 (1875), p.16, 63 en 80. Anonymous, ‘The Black-and-White Exhibition’, The Art Journal (1875), p.278-279. Anonymous, ‘Reviews’, The Art Journal (1876), p.223. Anonymous, ‘Berichten’, De Kunstkronijk 18 (1876), p.47. Anonymous, ‘Nieuwe uitgaven’, De Kunstkronijk 18 (1876), p.96. Anonymous, ‘Minor topics’, The Art Journal 16 (1877), p.160. Anonymous, ‘Minor topics’, The Art Journal (1878), p.62. Anonymous, ‘Autotype and its relation to art’, The Art Journal (1878), p.89-90.

Anonymous, ‘Minor topics’, The Art Journal (1878), p.157. Anonymous, ‘The Autotype process’, The Art journal (1878), p.184. Anonymous, ‘Ruth and Naomi. Ary Scheffer, painter J. Levasseur, engraver’, The Art Journal (1878), p.212. Anonymous, ‘Art-Publications’, The Art journal (1878), p.223. Anonymous, De Nederlandsche Spectator (1878), p.1 Anonymous, De Nederlandsche Spectator 3 augustus (1878), p.261. Anonymous, ‘Kunstberichten’, De Kunstkronijk 1 (1879), p.22. Anonymous, ‘Kunstnieuws’, De Kunstkronijk 1 (1879), p.23. Anonymous, The Art Journal (1879), p.8. Anonymous, ‘Artistic Copyright’, The Art Journal (1879), p.58. Anonymous, ‘The engraved works of the late Thomas Landseer, A.R.A.’The Art Journal (1880), p.232. Anonymous, ‘Minor topics’, The Art Journal (1880), p.253. Anonymous, ‘Reviews’, The Art Journal (1881), p.31. Anonymous, ‘Our Illustrations’, The Art Journal (1881), p.28. Anonymous, The Art Journal (1881), p.256. Anonymous, The Art Journal (1882), p.224. Anonymous, The Art Journal (1883), p.16-17. Anonymous, The Art Journal 1883, p.35. Anonymous, ‘Reviews’, The Art Journal (1883), p.240. Anonymous, The Magazine of Art, july (1884), p. xl. Anonymous, ‘Alma-Tadema’, L’Art, (1885) ii, p.100. Anonymous, ‘Kunstvervalsingen’, De Kunstkroniek (1886), p.10-13. Anonymous, The Magazine of Art (1890), p.xix. Anonymous, The Magazine of Art (1893), p.xii. Anonymous, Verslag in Nieuwe Rotterdamsche Courant, 4 maart 1893. Anonymous, ‘Kunst en letteren. Jozef Israëls’, Algemeen handelsblad, 18 januari 1894. Anonymous, De Nederlandsche Spectator (1894), p.38.

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Anonymous, The Magazine of Art (1894), p.xviii. Anonymous, The Magazine of Art, 1898, p.576. Anonymous, The Magazine of Art, 1898, p.466. Anonymous, Interview met Corneille in: Rails 47 (1998) 11, p.100. Armstrong W., ‘Recent Engravings’, The Art Journal (1884), p.212. Bale E., The law of artistic copy­right: an expo­ sition, The Magazine of Art (1899), p.262-265. Beijnen L.R., ‘Eene kunstbijdrage over Ary Scheffers Christus Consolator’, De Kunstkronijk 11 (1850), p.89-93. Beraldi H., ‘Exposition de la lithographie’, Gazette des Beaux-Arts (1891), p.479-496. Blanc C., ‘La Joconde de Leonard de Vinci. Gravée par Calamatta’, Gazette des Beaux-Arts 1 (1859), p.161-167. Blanc C., ‘L’Hémicycle de Paul Delaroche. Gravé par Henriquel Dupont’, Gazette des Beaux-Arts (1860), p.354-361. Blanc, E., ‘De la Propriété en matière d’art. à M. le directeur de L’Artiste’, L’Artiste (1841) vii, p.131-133. Boquillon, ‘Le Galvanoplastique’, L’Artiste, (1840) vi, p.55-57. Bull A.J., ‘Ary Scheffers Chistus als vergelder’, De Kunstkronijk 12 (1851), p.5-10. Bull A.J., ‘Van der Helst-Kaiser 1648-1848’, De Kunstkronijk 17 (1856), p.59-60. Burty P., ‘La gravure et la lithographie a l’exposition de 1861’, Gazette des Beaux-Arts (1861), p.172-179. Burty P., ‘La gravure et la lithographie. Salon de 1863’, Gazette des Beaux-Arts (1863), p.147-160. Burty P., ‘La gravure au salon de 1864’, Gazette des Beaux-Arts (1864), p.554-565. Burty P., ‘La Gravure la lithographie et la pho­tographie au Salon de 1865’, Gazette des Beaux-Arts (1865), p.80-95. Burty P., ‘La gravure au Salon de 1866’, Gazette des Beaux-Arts (1866), p.184-194. Burty P., ‘La Gravure et la Photographie en 1867’, Gazette des Beaux-Arts, (1867), p.252-271. Burty P., ‘La Gravure le bois et la lithographie au Salon de 1868’, Gazette des Beaux-Arts (1868), p.108-122. Burty P., ‘Salon de 1869. La Gravure’, Gazette des Beaux-Arts (1869), p.157-170. Burty P., ‘La gravure, la lithographie et la

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Auction catalogues Alma-Tadema, 9-13 en 16 june 1913, London, Lugt nr.72906, p.47. Archief A.S. Kok: Dessin et gravures topographie-moeurs et coutumes provenant en partie du Musee Kunstliefde a Utrecht; La Celebre collection sur Jozef Israëls. Provenant du M. le Dr A.S. Kok Dessins- eaux-fortes- lettre autographes- reproductions- livres etc. Vente a Amsterdam, Mardi et mercredi le 13 et 14 juillet 1920, R.W.P. de Vries dans leur salle des ventes Singel 146, 10 et 12 juillet 1920. L.Calamatta (20-22 december 1871, Paris Lugt nr.32799). C.L.Dake (29 july-2 august 1919, Lugt nr.79295). Auction cat. Auction sale of books, prints and manuscripts, 29-30 november, 1 december 2000, Bubb Kuyper, Haarlem. T. Landseer (14-16 april 1880 London Christies, Lugt nr.40082).

Liquidatie van den voorraad etsen, gravures, litho’s, prenten van de firma Frans Buffa & Zonen ,

Archives

702

man at the library of University of Leiden Museum Boymans van Beuningen, Rotterdam Fondation Custodia, Paris Victoria and Albert Museum, London

Amsterdam, verkooping 21-22 november 1934, Internationaal antiquariaat, Amsterdam. A. Raimbach (18-19 may 1888, Sotheby’s London, Lugt nr.47426). P. Rajon (15 july 1889 London, Lugt nr.48426). C.E. Taurel, (27 june-1 july 1893 Amsterdam, Lugt nr.51897). W. Unger (16-18 november 1908, Wenen, Lugt nr.66907).

Victorian & Pre-Raphaelite Engravings. 19-november-19 december1997, The Maas Gallery, London 1997. Victorian Engravings. 1-22 december 1999, The Maas Gallery, London 1999. P. Zilcken (13-15 may 1902, Den Haag, Nijhoff De Vries, Lugt nr.60191).

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