Skip to main content

Anselm Kiefer, 'Myrtis', 2002

 


A collection of monolithic, monochromatic and freestanding dresses construct Anselm Kiefer's Women of Antiquity series, begun at the turn of the twenty-first century and revitalised by the artist in 2018. Exhibited most notably in his so-called 'studio' La Ribaute, these luxuriously tactile gowns have subsequently travelled across both exhibition venues and the art market. Mytris, who is weighed down by the book which constructs the head of the figure, is one such example.

Kiefer, today, is one of the most talked about artists. A slow rise to fame has now blossomed into exhibitions that have drawn on literary references (Finnegan's Wake at the White Cube in 2023), expositions detailing his earlier working life (at the Ashmolean in early 2025), or his connections to canonical artists (Van Gogh/Kiefer at the RA which recently concluded). His colossal canvases suck a viewer in, his colours are captivating, as the artist draws on themes of violence, spiritualism, desolation and human nature, ideas which clearly resonate with a modern day audience. However, the Women of Antiquity series is less typical of Kiefer - these are not 20 meter canvases and they are not overburdened with colour. As Mytris proves, colour is secondary to texture, in a dress which is conceived of clear layers. There is a heaviness to the material and its folds, almost clinging to one another in a linearity that is reminiscent of the classical 'wet look' one finds on the Parthenon frieze, for instance. In Kiefer's work, there is a clash between the modern art historical language of forceful materiality, and the classical origins of subject matter. This combines with the fact that his sculptures are designed to be viewed in the round, a particularly important feature of Renaissance and Baroque works. The coming together of history and tradition gives Kiefer's pieces a timelessness, which is perhaps why they continue to appeal.

The heavy book that flops down on the shoulders of the figure links back to the title of the work and the identifying feature as Mytris of Anthedon, likely an unknown name for today's viewer - information only comes from a short summation by the Greek philosopher Plutarch, who describes her as a poet. Allegedly, a bronze statue was made of Mytris, however, details are vague. Weighed down by her knowledge in Kiefer's portrayal, she is no femme fatale but a woman of strength who celebrates her occupation. The huge array of figures covered by the Women of Antiquity series not only suggests the impressiveness of Kiefer's own classical knowledge, but highlights the potential of art in the modern age to revitalise figures from the past that might otherwise have been lost to history. 

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Mark Rothko, 'Light Red over Black', 1957

  My eye is not drawn to the painting itself but the title of the painting, 'Light Red Over Black'. We would automatically think that the black is on top of a red background, but Rothko has flipped this around, subverting the title just like he subverting the meaning of what it was to be an artist and what Art actually was. During this time, art was going through rapid changes, with abstract expressionism coming into full force (Rothko, Pollock). But Rothko showed that all this change was for the good, even if for him, it was short lived.  The colour red in this painting is searing and the black struggles to fully cover this velvety border, especially at the bottom of the canvas. Unlike the black squares which have a hazy quality to their edges, the red is clear and impregnable. It is hard to figure out what this represents - the Tate has suggested a window perhaps, but if it is a window then what are we looking out into? Perhaps it is night, or perhaps the viewer is catching ...

Egon Schiele, 'Dead Mother', 1910

  My eye is drawn to the hand. Those long, bony fingers are so characteristic of Schiele but here they are particularly skeletal and deathly – the veins seem to have been injected with poison. And they are a warning right in the foreground of the painting that keeps the viewer at bay as an outsider to this incredibly intimate relationship between mother and child, and sets the tone of death and mortality which hangs over the whole image. The mother cradles her child in a womb-like shroud, alluding to childbirth and the death of the mother explained in the title. She seems desperate to feel that bodily connection with her child, highlighted by the emphasis on her craned neck as she tries to connect to the baby. There is a clear link between the mother’s bent neck and the child’s bent neck, again emphasising their longing to be with each other. However, the darkness around the child is almost like ropes, with flecks of white in the painting making it look as though the darkness is wo...

Frans Hals, 'The Laughing Cavalier', 1624

  The Laughing Cavalier is a man on the cusp of unseriousness. His eyes follow a viewer around the room, his curled moustache twitches endearingly as if he struggles to maintain composure, whilst his lip is pursed to stop laughter escaping. The pose, meanwhile, is proud and monumental, filling the canvas with a foreshortened elbow and shoulder pushing into a viewer's world, serving to emphasise the silks and expensive dress against the monochromatic background.  Frans Hals was first and foremost a portrait painter. His oeuvre includes wedding portraits of solo male and female sitters, multifigure works including The Banquet of Officers from 1627, yet his depictions often turned to peasants or comical characters, notably his Jester with a Lute now in the Louvre, proving that portrait painters also had range. The Laughing Cavalier remains an equally intriguing work: despite being Hals' most famous piece, the sitter remains anonymous. Yet, the smile is so familiar to a viewer, an...