The Art of War

Since the Arnolfini Portrait is a world-famous Dutch masterpiece, why is its home today the National Gallery in London?  Like so many of the ills of today’s world, the fault lies with the French.  Specifically, I blame Napoleon.

As opposed to so many paintings of this era, we know exactly who painted it:  Jan Van Eyck.  Since his signature is in the middle of the painting, there is no argument.  The painting, at right, shows a man and a wife holding hands in their bedroom.  However, about everything else, there are endless arguments. 

The couple is probably an Italian merchant and his wife (who is probably not pregnant) and this is probably depicting their wedding, and we probably know their names.  Or, the woman may be dead and the painting is a commemoration.  Or...it is a painted version of a legal contract, giving the woman the right to conduct business while the husband is away.  Or….the painting could be interpreted to mean something completely different.  If you put three art historians in a room, you will get four opinions.

The painting is full of iconography, so that each and every object might have several different meanings.  The dog at the lady’s feet, for example, may represent fidelity, or lust, or may just be a wedding present from the husband to his wife.

(Or it could simply be the family dog, but that’s way too simple!)

Created in 1434, the painting originally belonged to a member of the Arnolfini family—naturally, exactly which one is hotly debated—and it stayed within the family for decades.  Sometime early in the Sixteenth Century, the painting was acquired by Diego de Guevara, an ambassador working for the Duke of Burgundy.  We don’t know how or why Guevara obtained the painting, but we do know he donated it to Margaret of Austria, the Duchess of Savoy and a member of the ill-fated Habsburg family.

Upon Margaret’s death, the painting passed to her niece, Mary of Hungary, who moved to Spain in 1556.  Upon her death, it was inherited by King Philip II of Spain, who (when he wasn’t losing the Spanish Armada to Queen Elizabeth) enjoyed his large private art collection.  The painting stayed in the royal palace in Madrid for at least a century and a half. 

Given time, the Hapsburgs successfully managed to kill themselves off through a dedicated and extensive program of inbreeding.  Upon the passing of the last Spanish Hapsburg, Charles II, the painting, along with the rest of the Spanish Empire was claimed by the new royal family, the Bourbons.  Throughout all of this, the painting remained in the Royal Palace of Madrid.

Generations of court artists were influenced by the work—Philip II had the painting copied with his two daughters as the subjects.  (I would show you the painting, but it is remarkably ugly, resembling two misshapen girls encased in massive iron bells.)  Diego Velasquez undoubtedly knew the painting and was probably influenced by it when he painted his masterpiece, Las Meninas.   (And I don’t have to show you that painting, as I have previously written about it.)

For over a century, the new royal family of Spain kept with tradition and inbred themselves to the point where the royal heirs could spend an entire day in a corner, quietly licking their own eyebrows.  In the early Nineteenth Century, this resulted in King Charles IV and his son, King Ferdinand VII, both of whom were so inept, that they easily qualified as honorary Hapsburgs.  As they angrily quarreled over whose turn it was to misrule Spain, they invited their neighbor across the Pyrenees, Napoleon Bonaparte, to help them settle the dispute.

Napoleon put both fools under house arrest and placed his brother, Joseph, on the throne of Spain.  While undoubtedly a better ruler than either of the previous monarchs—a low bar—the imposition of a Bonaparte upon the throne angered the people of Spain, touching off a civil war that eventually expanded into an invasion by the British Army with the help of Portuguese troops. 

The British Army was superbly led by Arthur Wellesley, the Marquis of Wellington, and the French began slowly losing control of Spain.  King Joseph, realizing that he was about to lose the war, looted as much of Madrid as he could grab, loaded up the wagons with his loot, and set off for France.  Among the loot were two hundred paintings that were simply—and rather crudely—cut from their frames in the Spanish Royal Palace.

Joseph had waited too long to abscond with his treasure.  After the Battle of Vitoria, several heavily laden French wagons loaded with priceless treasure fell into the hands of British soldiers.  Despite the strict orders of General Wellesley, not all of the treasure was returned to Spain and the restored King Ferdinand.  Some of the stolen art work found its way to London, such as the Rokeby Venus, while other work turned up in France, and still other valuable pieces simply vanished.

Some reports said that the British soldiers broke off the battle early when they discovered the incredible wealth waiting to be “liberated” from the French wagons.  General Wellesley was so furious that he wrote in a dispatch, “We have in the service the scum of the earth as common soldiers.”

Scum or not, supposedly the British soldiers sold and traded the priceless treasure among themselves.  For weeks, masterpieces were won and lost as the soldiers gambled among themselves.

“I’ll see your Goya and raise you a Titian.”

The British efforts in Spain were ultimately successful, the French left Spain and Napoleon’s Empire eventually collapsed.  In 1815, following his victory over Napoleon at Waterloo, Wellesley became the Duke of Wellington.  (And we will ignore that a painting by Velasquez, which once hung in the Spanish Royal Palace is still hanging in the Duke’s London home.)

Coincidentally, several years later, British General James Hay offered to sell the Arnolfini Portrait to the Prince Regent (later George IV).  When questioned on how he came to own the Flemish masterpiece, Hay explained that he had purchased the painting from the owner of a French inn, where he was recuperating from a wound suffered in the Battle of Waterloo.  The fact that General Hay had been also present at the Battle of Vitoria is a mere coincidence.

Every parent is familiar with this defense.  Whenever you find a hitherto unidentified toy in their possession, upon questioning your child you will inevitably be told, “Oh, that?  It’s been in the toy box a long time.”

While General Hay was certainly a highly decorated soldier, he was certainly not an art connoisseur.  It makes you wonder why he bothered to buy the piece from the French innkeeper.

After enjoying the painting as it hung in his London home for a decade, the Prince Regent finally declined to purchase the painting—no doubt in part due to the general’s somewhat questionable ownership.  When the masterpiece was returned to Hay, he promptly loaned the painting to an acquaintance.  For thirteen years, the general saw neither the painting nor the friend. 

When the British National Gallery was formed, General Hay suddenly remembered his painting, eagerly selling it to the gallery for a measly six hundred pounds (roughly $70,000 in today’s money).  The painting remains in the gallery today. 

For those of you taking the quiz, let’s review.  The Flemish painting of an Italian couple was given to the Spanish court by an Austrian duchess, where it was spirited away by a French Army led by a Corsican pretender before being recovered by a British General, who briefly loaned it to an English King, before selling it to a London gallery.