Skip to main content

Frederick Sandys, 'The Valkyrie and the Raven', 1862

 


Despite its lack of colour, this woodcut overloads the eye with detail. The art of woodcuts has long been dismissed as a 'primitive' technique yielding limited results, but the work of Sandys and his fellow Victorian artists suggests otherwise. This was a cheap method of reproducing art compared to engraving and etching, that produced very similar results. This particular version of the woodcut by Sandys (now in the RA collection) shows his woodcut reproduced by the engraver Joseph Swain. These delicate, emotive and sensory works were available to the general public, connecting them to this versatile medium for the first time. 

The importance of the print culture cannot be underestimated in disseminating works like the one by Sandys. Victorian illustration was a booming method of mass production. The years 1855-75 have been referred to as the 'golden decades' of illustration by key critics in this field, from Harold Hartley to Sarah Phelps. Sandys himself is known to have made about thirty illustrations, and it is entirely likely that this could have been one. The range of these Victorian artists, engaging with painting but also with print culture, preparatory drawings and sculpture, shows how they traversed the boundaries of media and created instability. 

Most obviously, the handling of the medium here by Sandys recalls Albrecht Durer. The hair of the female figure flows out like the mane of a lion, billowing in a ferocious wind. Her features reflect her strength as a chosen warrior of Odin, her chin, brow and nose well defined by the skill of the woodcutter, almost masculine. Sandys has even included a townscape in the background, alluding to Northern Renaissance architecture that is revealed under the billowing, dark draperies of the Valkyrie. Sandys has used a combination of horizontal, vertical and diagonal lines spaced apart at varying distances to achieve convincing light and shade. The scene itself is based loosely on a ninth century Norse poem, where a Valkyrie and raven have a conversation about the life and deeds of the first king of Norway, Harald Fairhair. The wide eye of the raven and its open beak implies conversation, but also as if it is warning the figure - ravens in Norse mythology symbolised prophecy and protection. Overall the piece is ambiguous. Though the clouds are clearing in the distance and the town below seems sleeping and peaceful, the pensive expression of the Valkyrie and wide eye of the raven suggests otherwise, and suggest danger approaching.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Cellini, 'Perseus with the Head of Medusa', 1545-1554

  My eye is immediately drawn to the head of Medusa. At first glance it looks gruesome, as though Cellini has captured the moment just after the head has been decapitated, and it oozes blood and bodily matter. However the viewer then notices the similarity between that and Medusa's hair. Maybe it is just her hair after all. Cellini has cleverly enticed the viewer in here, to take a closer look and therefore involved them in the sculpture as a whole. Once they do come closer, they begin to notice other things such as the similarity between Perseus' hair and Medusa's snakes. Hero and monster are not so separate. Even the features of their faces are very similar. Perhaps Cellini wants to suggest that evil can often wear the mask of good. Or he could even be implying that everyone has some evil within them, even the hero Perseus.  One of the good things about sculpture is that the viewer is able to walk around it, and fully immerse themselves in the piece. Cellini has used this...

Tondino di Guerrino, 'Crucifix', 1325-30

  The monumental crucifixes of Cimabue, Giotto and their followers, and their transition from Byzantine forms towards increased dynamism and naturalism, have been well studied. Equally, smaller works by French Gothic practitioners in ivory are now beginning to permeate scholarship, mainly through the detailed exploration by Sarah Guerin. The goldsmiths of Siena do not command as much attention. Yet, they hold the key to artistic synthesis in the early fourteenth century. This is proved by the small processional crucifix currently at the National Gallery's iteration of Siena: The Rise of Painting 1300-50, attributed to Tondino di Guerrino.  Tondino combines enamel with an intricate gold sculptural presentation of the crucified Christ in this small, portable work. Instantly, the eye is drawn to the central element - the thin, skeletal body hanging from two stretched, emaciated arms. Christ's torso is drawn inwards, his ribs exposed, mimicking a sharp intake of breath. The downwa...

Artemisia Gentileschi, 'Jael and Sisera', c.1620

  My eye firstly notices the hand wielding the hammer above the unsuspecting man's head. Gentileschi is depicting a new and particularly horrible kind of weapon here instead of the huge sword she gave Judith to slice Holofernes' head off in 1620. The tent peg seems all the more violent, especially as the viewer is looking at the split second before the deed has been committed. Moreover, the gaze of the women (Jael) is focused and calm, making the piece seem unnerving. This is not a moment of hesitation but a snapshot of action - the woman has made up her mind and will commit to this murder. The viewer can only imagine how Gentileschi would have depicted the bloody aftermath, in her usual violent and tenebristic way. The fact that the artist has signed her name in the tomb-like stone above the man is significant - she is signing his life away in this painting, sending him swiftly to the grave.  The body of the man (Sisera) is also interestingly depicted. He lies in a rather eff...