Behold! The Very First Christmas Card (1843)

Christ­mas cards aren’t just an anachro­nism.

They’re almost an endan­gered species, the vic­tim of the Inter­net, postal rate increas­es, and the jet­ti­son­ing of any time con­sum­ing tra­di­tion whose exe­cu­tion has been found to bring the oppo­site of joy.

Above, Vic­to­ria and Albert Muse­um cura­tors Alice Pow­er and Sarah Beat­tie take us on a back­wards trip to a time when the exchange of Christ­mas cards was a source of true social mer­ri­ment.

Christ­mas cards must hold a spe­cial place in both the V&A’s col­lec­tions and heart, giv­en that the museum’s founder, Hen­ry Cole, inad­ver­tent­ly invent­ed them in 1843.

As a well respect­ed man about town, he received a great many more hol­i­day let­ters than he had time or incli­na­tion to respond to, but nei­ther did he wish to appear rude.

So he enlist­ed his friend, painter J.C. Hors­ley, to cre­ate a fes­tive illus­tra­tion with a built-in hol­i­day greet­ing, leav­ing just enough space to per­son­al­ize with a recipient’s name and per­haps, a hand­writ­ten line or two.

He then had enough post­card-sized repro­duc­tions print­ed up to send to 1000 of his friends.

(It’s hell being pop­u­lar…)

Talk about zeit­geist: Charles Dick­ens’ A Christ­mas Car­ol was first pub­lished that very same hol­i­day sea­son.

No won­der every­one want­ed in on the fun.

Part of the rea­son the cards in the V&A’s col­lec­tion are so well pre­served is that their recip­i­ents prized them enough to keep them in sou­venir albums.

Under­stand­ably. They’re very appeal­ing lit­tle arti­facts.

The upper crust could afford such fan­cy design ele­ments as clever die-cut shapes, pop up ele­ments, and translu­cent win­dows that encour­aged the recip­i­ents to hold them up to actu­al win­dows.

Tech­no­log­i­cal advances in the print­ing indus­try, and the cre­ation of the cost-effec­tive Pen­ny Post allowed those whose bud­gets were more mod­est than Mr. Cole’s to par­tic­i­pate too.

Their cards tend­ed to be sim­pler in exe­cu­tion, though not nec­es­sar­i­ly con­cept.

In addi­tion to the views we’ve come to expect — win­ter, Father Christ­mas, hol­ly — the Vic­to­ri­ans had a thing for jol­ly anthro­po­mor­phized food and some tru­ly shame­less puns.

Enjoy these Ghosts of Christ­mas Past, dear read­ers. We’re almost inspired to revive the tra­di­tion!

Read more about the advent of this tra­di­tion, includ­ing how it jumped the pond, in Smith­son­ian Magazine’s His­to­ry of the Christ­mas Card.

Relat­ed Con­tent 

When Sal­vador Dalí Cre­at­ed Christ­mas Cards That Were Too Avant Garde for Hall­mark (1960)

J.R.R. Tolkien Sent Illus­trat­ed Let­ters from Father Christ­mas to His Kids Every Year (1920–1943)

Langston Hugh­es’ Home­made Christ­mas Cards From 1950

Watch Ter­ry Gilliam’s Ani­mat­ed Short, The Christ­mas Card (1968)

Hear Neil Gaiman Read A Christ­mas Car­ol Just Like Charles Dick­ens Read It

An Oscar-Win­ning Ani­ma­tion of Charles Dick­ens’ Clas­sic Tale, A Christ­mas Car­ol (1971)

- Ayun Hal­l­i­day is the Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine and author, most recent­ly, of Cre­ative, Not Famous: The Small Pota­to Man­i­festo.  Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

The History of Western Art in 23 Minutes: From the Prehistoric to the Contemporary

Among the ranks of Open Cul­ture read­ers, there are no doubt more than a few art-his­to­ry majors. Per­haps you’ve stud­ied the sub­ject your­self, at one time or anoth­er — and per­haps you find that by now, you remem­ber only cer­tain scat­tered artists, works, and move­ments. What you need is a grand nar­ra­tive, a broad sto­ry of art itself, and that’s just what you’ll find in the video above from Youtube chan­nel Behind the Mas­ter­piece. True to its title, “A Brief His­to­ry of Art Move­ments” briefly describes, and pro­vides a host of visu­al exam­ples to illus­trate, 22 phas­es in the devel­op­ment of art in just 23 min­utes.

The jour­ney begins in pre­his­to­ry, with cave paint­ings from 40,000 years ago appar­ent­ly cre­at­ed “as a way to share infor­ma­tion.” Then comes the art of antiq­ui­ty, when increas­ing­ly lit­er­ate soci­eties “start­ed cre­at­ing the ear­li­est nat­u­ral­is­tic images of human beings,” not least to enforce “reli­gious and polit­i­cal ide­olo­gies.” The reli­gios­i­ty inten­si­fied in the Mid­dle Ages, when artists “depict­ed clear, icon­ic images of reli­gious fig­ures” — as well as their odd­ly aged-look­ing babies — “and dec­o­rat­ed them with exten­sive use of gold and jew­els as a way to attract more peo­ple to the church.”

When many us think of art his­to­ry — whether we stud­ied it or not — our minds go straight to the sub­se­quent peri­od, the Renais­sance, dur­ing which “artists start­ed to appre­ci­ate cul­tur­al sub­jects like art, music, and the­ater” as well. They cre­at­ed “por­trait paint­ings, anatom­i­cal­ly cor­rect sculp­tures, and sym­met­ri­cal archi­tec­ture,” and the inven­tion of the print­ing press great­ly expand­ed the pool of poten­tial appre­ci­a­tors. Then, in the Baroque move­ment, enor­mous­ly skilled artists like Berni­ni and Car­avag­gio “empha­sized extrav­a­gance and emo­tion,” and oth­er forms fol­lowed suit with more intense embell­ish­ments of their own.

From eigh­teenth-cen­tu­ry France emerged the “play­ful and utopi­an” Roco­co peri­od, which was fol­lowed by the back­ward-look­ing “inter­est in renewed sim­plic­i­ty” that char­ac­ter­ized Neo­clas­si­cism, which was fol­lowed by Roman­ti­cism, a move­ment whose artists “looked with­in and found inspi­ra­tion in their own imag­i­na­tions, and the nature around them.” It was the lev­el­ing French Rev­o­lu­tion that brought about the con­di­tions for the rise of Real­ism, with its focus on “depict­ing real peo­ple in every­day life,” the kind of sub­jects to that point over­looked in major works of art.

In the sec­ond half of the nine­teenth cen­tu­ry the devel­op­ment of art hit the gas, bring­ing on the imper­fect vital­i­ty of Impres­sion­ism, the dar­ing sub­jec­tiv­i­ty of Post-Impres­sion­ism, the extreme sub­jec­tiv­i­ty of Expres­sion­ism, and the sin­u­ous lux­u­ry of Art Nou­veau. Tech­nol­o­gy had always been a fac­tor in how art changes, but in the twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry — as Cubism gave way to Futur­ism, Dadaism, Sur­re­al­ism, and the Bauhaus — it came to the fore. This brings us up to liv­ing mem­o­ry: move­ments like Abstract Expres­sion­ism, Pop Art, Min­i­mal­ism, and the incli­na­tion of today’s artists to deal in “ideas rather than aes­thet­ics,” all on dis­play in most any muse­um you care to vis­it. Or at least they are in the muse­ums of the West, there being, after all, a whole world of oth­er art his­to­ries out there to under­stand besides.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Free Art & Art His­to­ry Cours­es

An Online Guide to 350 Inter­na­tion­al Art Styles & Move­ments: An Invalu­able Resource for Stu­dents & Enthu­si­asts of Art His­to­ry

100,000 Free Art His­to­ry Texts Now Avail­able Online Thanks to the Get­ty Research Por­tal

An Intro­duc­tion to 100 Impor­tant Paint­ings with Videos Cre­at­ed by Smarthis­to­ry

One Minute Art His­to­ry: Cen­turies of Artis­tic Styles Get Packed Into a Short Exper­i­men­tal Ani­ma­tion

Tate Kids Presents Intro­duc­tions to Art Move­ments: Cubism, Impres­sion­ism, Sur­re­al­ism & More

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities, the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

The Disturbing Paintings of Hieronymus Bosch: A Short Introduction

Most casu­al view­ers of Hierony­mus Bosch’s paint­ings must acknowl­edge his artis­tic skill, and many must also won­der whether he was com­plete­ly out of his mind. But insan­i­ty, how­ev­er vivid­ly sug­gest­ed by his imagery, isn’t an espe­cial­ly com­pelling expla­na­tion for that imagery. Bosch paint­ed in a par­tic­u­lar place and time — the Nether­lands of the late fif­teenth and ear­ly six­teenth cen­tu­ry, to be spe­cif­ic — but he also paint­ed with­in a dom­i­nant worldview.“He grew up in a time of deep reli­gious anx­i­ety,” says Youtu­ber Hochela­ga in the video essay above. “Ideas about sin, death, and the dev­il were becom­ing more sophis­ti­cat­ed,” and “there was a gen­uine fear that demon­ic forces lived amongst the pop­u­la­tion.”

Hence the analy­ses like that of Great Art Explained, which frames Bosch’s best-known paint­ing The Gar­den of Earth­ly Delights as an expres­sion of “hard­core Chris­tian­i­ty.” But some­thing about the trip­ty­ch’s sheer elab­o­rate­ness and grotes­querie demands fur­ther inquiry. Hochela­ga explores the pos­si­bil­i­ty that Bosch worked in a con­di­tion of not just fear­ful piety, but psy­cho­log­i­cal afflic­tion.

“There is a dis­ease called St. Antho­ny’s fire,” he says, con­tract­ed “by eat­ing a poi­so­nous black fun­gus called ergots that grow on rye crops. Symp­toms include sores, con­vul­sions, and a fierce burn­ing sen­sa­tion in limbs and extrem­i­ties,” as well as “fright­en­ing and over­pow­er­ing hal­lu­ci­na­tions that can last for hours at a time.”

This psy­choac­tive pow­er is now “believed to be behind the many Danc­ing Plagues record­ed through­out the Mid­dle Ages.” This expla­na­tion came togeth­er when, “in the mid-twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry, it was dis­cov­ered that when ergots are baked in an oven, they trans­form into a form of lyser­gic acid diethy­lamide, also known as LSD.” Did Bosch him­self receive the bizarre visions he paint­ed from inad­ver­tent­ly con­sum­ing that now well-known hal­lu­cino­genic sub­stance? The many paint­ings he made of St. Antho­ny “may have been a form of devo­tion­al prayer, done so in the hopes that the saint would rid him of his debil­i­tat­ing ill­ness.” Look at The Gar­den of Earth­ly Delighteven today, and you’ll feel that if you saw these mur­der­ous bird-human hybrids around you, you’d try what­ev­er you could to get rid of them, too.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Take a Vir­tu­al Tour of Hierony­mus Bosch’s Bewil­der­ing Mas­ter­piece The Gar­den of Earth­ly Delights

A Dig­i­tal Archive of Hierony­mus Bosch’s Com­plete Works: Zoom In & Explore His Sur­re­al Art

The Mean­ing of Hierony­mus Bosch’s The Gar­den of Earth­ly Delights Explained

Hierony­mus Bosch’s Medieval Paint­ing The Gar­den of Earth­ly Delights Comes to Life in a Gigan­tic, Mod­ern Ani­ma­tion

New App Lets You Explore Hierony­mus Bosch’s The Gar­den of Earth­ly Delights in Vir­tu­al Real­i­ty

The Musi­cal Instru­ments in Hierony­mus Bosch’s The Gar­den of Earth­ly Delights Get Brought to Life, and It Turns Out That They Sound “Painful” and “Hor­ri­ble”

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities, the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Behold a 15th-Century Italian Manuscript Featuring Medicinal Plants with Fantastical Human Faces

No mat­ter where you may stand on herbal med­i­cine as a viable 21st-cen­tu­ry option, it’s not hard to imag­ine we’d have all been true believ­ers back in the 15th-cen­tu­ry.

In an arti­cle for Heart Views, car­di­ol­o­gist Rachel Hajar lists some com­mon herbal treat­ments of the Mid­dle Ages:

Headache and aching joints were treat­ed with sweet-smelling herbs such as rose, laven­der, sage, and hay. A mix­ture of hen­bane and hem­lock was applied to aching joints. Corian­der was used to reduce fever. Stom­ach pains and sick­ness were treat­ed with worm­wood, mint, and balm. Lung prob­lems were treat­ed with a med­i­cine made of liquorice and com­frey. Cough syrups and drinks were pre­scribed for chest and head-colds and coughs.

If noth­ing else, such approach­es sound rather more pleas­ant than blood­let­ting.

Monks were respon­si­ble for the study and cul­ti­va­tion of med­i­c­i­nal herbs.

You may recall how one of Fri­ar Lawrence’s dai­ly tasks in Romeo and Juli­et involved ven­tur­ing into the monastery gar­den, to fill his bas­ket full “bale­ful weeds and pre­cious-juicèd flow­ers.”

(The pow­er­ful sleep­ing potion he con­coct­ed for the young lovers may have had dis­as­trous con­se­quences, but no one can claim it wasn’t effec­tive.)

Monks pre­served their herbal knowl­edge in illus­trat­ed books and man­u­scripts, many of which cleaved close­ly to works of clas­si­cal antiq­ui­ty such as Pliny the Elder’s Nat­u­ralis His­to­ria and Dioscordes’ De Mate­ria Med­ica.

These ear­ly med­ical texts can still be appre­ci­at­ed as art, par­tic­u­lar­ly when they con­tain fan­tas­ti­cal embell­ish­ments such as can be seen in Erbario, above, a hand­made 15th-cen­tu­ry herbal from north­ern Italy that was recent­ly added to the Uni­ver­si­ty of Penn­syl­va­nia Library’s col­lec­tion of rare books and man­u­scripts.

In addi­tion to straight­for­ward botan­i­cal illus­tra­tions, there are some roots, leaves, flow­ers and fruit (par­don the pro­noun) of a decid­ed­ly anthro­po­mor­phic bent.

Fan­cy­ing up draw­ings of plants with human faces and or drag­on-shaped roots was a medieval con­ven­tion.

Man­drake roots —  pre­scribed as an anes­thet­ic, an aphro­disi­ac, a fer­til­i­ty boost­er, and a sleep aid — were fre­quent­ly ren­dered as humans.

Wired’s Matt Simon writes that man­drake roots “can look bizarrely like a human body and leg­end holds that it can even come in male and female form:”

It’s said to spring from the drip­ping fat and blood and semen of a hanged man. Dare pull it the from the earth and it lets out a mon­strous scream, bestow­ing agony and death to all those with­in earshot.

Yikes! Can we get a spoon­ful of sug­ar to help that go down?

No won­der Juli­et, prepar­ing to quaff Fri­ar Lawrence’s sleep­ing potion in the fam­i­ly tomb, fret­ted that it might wear off pre­ma­ture­ly, leav­ing her sub­ject to “loath­some smells” and “shrieks like man­drakes torn out of the earth.”

Methinks some chamomile might have calmed those nerves…

View a dig­i­tized copy of Erbario here, or at the Pub­lic Domain Review.

 

via the Pub­lic Domain Review

Relat­ed Con­tent 

1,000-Year-Old Illus­trat­ed Guide to the Med­i­c­i­nal Use of Plants Now Dig­i­tized & Put Online

A Beau­ti­ful 1897 Illus­trat­ed Book Shows How Flow­ers Become Art Nou­veau Designs

The New Herbal: A Mas­ter­piece of Renais­sance Botan­i­cal Illus­tra­tions Gets Repub­lished in a Beau­ti­ful 900-Page Book by Taschen

A Curi­ous Herbal: 500 Beau­ti­ful Illus­tra­tions of Med­i­c­i­nal Plants Drawn by Eliz­a­beth Black­well in 1737 (to Save Her Fam­i­ly from Finan­cial Ruin)

- Ayun Hal­l­i­day is the Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine and author, most recent­ly, of Cre­ative, Not Famous: The Small Pota­to Man­i­festo.  Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

What Are “Creatives”? Pretty Much Pop #138 on the Role of the Artist in Modern Society

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Is there real­ly a divi­sion in today’s cul­ture between those who cre­ate and the mere­ly recep­tive mass­es? Your Pret­ty Much Pop host gath­ers three artists in dif­fer­ent media about the place of the artist in soci­ety: sci-fi author Bri­an Hirt, art pho­tog­ra­ph­er and aca­d­e­m­ic Amir Zaki, and musi­cian/nov­el­ist/ex-Eng­lish prof John Andrew Fredrick, who leads a band called The Black Watch.

We touch on art edu­ca­tion, the self-under­stand­ing of artists, the rela­tion between artist and con­sumer, art vs. com­merce, bad art vs. non-art, and much more.

Lis­ten to Amir talk­ing about pho­tog­ra­phy on a past PMP episodeLis­ten to John talk about his music with Mark on Naked­ly Exam­ined MusicLis­ten to John’s new EP. Bri­an brings up the Decoder Ring pod­cast episode “The Sto­ry­telling Craze.” Lis­ten to Mark’s tunes.

Fol­low us @blackwatchmusic@amir_zaki_, and @MarkLinsenmayer.

Hear more Pret­ty Much Pop. Sup­port the show and hear bonus talk­ing for this and near­ly every oth­er episode at patreon.com/prettymuchpop or by choos­ing a paid sub­scrip­tion through Apple Pod­casts. This pod­cast is part of the Par­tial­ly Exam­ined Life pod­cast net­work.

Pret­ty Much Pop: A Cul­ture Pod­cast is the first pod­cast curat­ed by Open Cul­ture. Browse all Pret­ty Much Pop posts.

A Chinese Painter Specializing in Copying Van Gogh Paintings Travels to Amsterdam & Sees Van Gogh’s Masterpieces for the First Time

There are many rea­sons to look down on art forgery, from its ille­gal­i­ty to its lack of orig­i­nal­i­ty. But much like any oth­er human endeav­or, you need a great deal of skill and sta­mi­na to do it well. Cer­tain indi­vid­ual forg­ers have lived on in his­to­ry: Han Van Meegeren, say, who tricked the Nazis with his Ver­meers, or Elmyr de Hory, whose skills at imi­tat­ing the styles of Picas­so, Matisse, Modigliani, and Renoir land­ed him in Orson Welles’ F for Fake. If Zhao Xiaoy­ong does­n’t yet fig­ure among the names of the best-known art forg­ers, it’s not because nobody’s made a movie about him.

That movie is Yu Hai­bo and Kiki Tian­qi Yu’s doc­u­men­tary Chi­na’s Van Goghs, which you can watch just above. Much of it takes place in the vil­lage of Dafen in Chi­na’s Guang­dong province, home to thou­sands and thou­sands of oil painters, all of whom make their liv­ing mak­ing repli­cas (in var­i­ous sizes) of famous paint­ings by the likes of Leonar­do, Rem­brandt, Dalí, Basquiat, and — above all, it seems — Van Gogh. It speaks to the speed and scale of mod­ern Chi­nese indus­try that this activ­i­ty began only in 1989, but grew such that, at one point, Dafen was sup­ply­ing 60 per­cent of the oil paint­ings in the world.

Zhao arrived in Dafen in the ear­ly nine­teen-nineties, but still got into its nascent indus­try quite ear­ly on. “Back then, paint­ing in the vil­lage hadn’t scaled up yet,” he writes in an essay at The World of Chi­nese. “I was moved the first time I saw the oil paint­ings there. They were so del­i­cate. The people’s eyes and skin looked so vivid, so alive.” In Dafen’s small fac­to­ries, “all of the painters there were rush­ing to fill orders, so nobody was going to hold my hand.” After his first batch of sales, he made him­self a promise to “mas­ter the works of Van Gogh.”

At the time, Zhao would have had no way of know­ing how close he would even­tu­al­ly get to those works. Even when he estab­lished him­self to the point that he could start his own stu­dio, the dream of vis­it­ing Van Gogh’s home­land — as opposed to sell­ing copies of Van Gogh’s art to Van Gogh’s own coun­try­men — must have seemed far off. But then the doc­u­men­tar­i­ans came call­ing: “They want­ed to make a film about my life. With their encour­age­ment and sup­port, I made a trip to Ams­ter­dam.” (In the film, that trip begins at the 46:23 mark.)

See­ing the very same Van Goghs he’d copied count­less many times before, Zhao encoun­tered more “del­i­cate brush­strokes and sub­dued col­ors” than he’d ever noticed before, among oth­er phys­i­cal signs that Van Gogh “must have been try­ing dif­fer­ent things all the time.” After get­ting back to Chi­na, he found that his expe­ri­ence in Ams­ter­dam had moti­vat­ed him to paint not Van Gogh’s work but his own. “My wife had been with me for so many years, and we’d paint­ed for so long, but she didn’t have a paint­ing of her­self, Zhou writes. “The first orig­i­nal paint­ing I did was of my wife.” The future of Dafen may be in doubt, but Zhou’s com­mit­ment to art cer­tain­ly isn’t.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Anato­my of a Fake: Forgery Experts Reveal 5 Ways To Spot a Fake Paint­ing by Jack­son Pol­lock (or Any Oth­er Artist)

Meet Noto­ri­ous Art Forg­er Han Van Meegeren, Who Fooled the Nazis with His Coun­ter­feit Ver­meers

What Hap­pens When a Cheap Ikea Print Gets Pre­sent­ed as Fine Art in a Muse­um

Illus­tra­tions for a Chi­nese Lord of the Rings in a Stun­ning “Glass Paint­ing Style”

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities, the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

15-Year-Old Picasso Paints His First Masterpiece, “The First Communion”

 

It took me four years to paint like Raphael, but a life­time to paint like a child. — Pablo Picas­so

We think it’s safe to say that most of us have a pre­con­ceived notion of Picas­so’s style, and The First Com­mu­nion, above, isn’t it.

Picas­so was just 15 when he com­plet­ed this large-scale oil, hav­ing lost his 7‑year-old sis­ter, Con­chi­ta, to diph­the­ria one year before.

The strick­en young artist had attempt­ed to bar­gain with God, vow­ing to give up paint­ing if she was spared. As Ari­an­na Huff­in­g­ton writes in the biog­ra­phy Picas­so: Cre­ator and Destroy­er:

…he was torn between want­i­ng her saved and want­i­ng her dead so that his gift would be saved. When she died, he decid­ed that God was evil and des­tiny an ene­my. At the same time, he was con­vinced that it was his ambiva­lence that had made it pos­si­ble for God to kill Con­chi­ta. His guilt was enormous—the oth­er side of his belief in his pow­ers to affect the world around him. And it was com­pound­ed by his almost mag­i­cal con­vic­tion that his lit­tle sis­ter’s death had released him to be a painter and fol­low the call of the pow­ers he had been giv­en, what­ev­er the con­se­quences.

If there’s evil at work in the “First Com­mu­nion,” he keeps it under wraps. All eyes are on the rapt young com­mu­ni­cant, embod­ied in his sur­viv­ing sis­ter, Lola, in a snowy veil and gown.

Their father, painter and draw­ing pro­fes­sor José Ruiz y Blas­co, assumes the part of the girl’s father or god­fa­ther, a solemn wit­ness to this rite of pas­sage.

Ruiz y Blas­co pro­vid­ed instruc­tion and cham­pi­oned his son’s gift. He encour­aged him to enter the “First Com­mu­nion,” and lat­er, “Sci­ence and Char­i­ty” (in which he appears as the doc­tor) in the Exposi­cion de Bel­las Artes, a com­pe­ti­tion and exhi­bi­tion oppor­tu­ni­ty for emerg­ing artists.

Picas­so lat­er remarked that “every time I draw a man, I think of my father.  To me, man is Don José, and will be all my life…”

Ruiz y Blas­co, con­vinced that Picasso’s tal­ent would bring suc­cess as a nat­u­ral­is­tic painter of clas­si­cal scenes and por­traits, was deeply dis­ap­point­ed when his teenaged son began blow­ing off class at Madrid’s pres­ti­gious Acad­e­mia Real de San Fer­nan­do. 

Just imag­ine how he react­ed to the scan­dalous Cubist vision ofLes Demoi­selles d’Avignon,” unveiled a mere eleven years after the “First Com­mu­nion.”

The rest is his­to­ry.

Just for fun, we invit­ed the free online AI image gen­er­a­tor Craiy­on (for­mer­ly known as DALL‑E Mini) to have a go using the prompt “Picas­so First Com­mu­nion”.

The results should sur­prise no one. 

Relat­ed Con­tent 

The Gestapo Points to Guer­ni­ca and Asks Picas­so, “Did You Do This?;” Picas­so Replies “No, You Did!”

14 Self-Por­traits by Pablo Picas­so Show the Evo­lu­tion of His Style: See Self-Por­traits Mov­ing from Ages 15 to 90

How To Under­stand a Picas­so Paint­ing: A Video Primer

- Ayun Hal­l­i­day is the Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine and author, most recent­ly, of Cre­ative, Not Famous: The Small Pota­to Man­i­festo.  Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

When Salvador Dalí Dressed — and Angrily Demolished — a Department Store Window in New York City (1939)

If you want to under­stand the his­to­ry of art in twen­ti­eth-cen­tu­ry Amer­i­ca, you can’t over­look the cor­ner of Fifth Avenue and 56th Street in New York City. No, not Trump Tow­er, but the build­ing it replaced: Bon­wit Teller, the lux­u­ry depart­ment store that had stood on the site since 1929. Then as now, any shop on Fifth Avenue has to find a way to set itself apart, and by 1939 Bon­wit Teller had built a “rep­u­ta­tion for hav­ing Man­hat­tan’s screwiest win­dow dis­plays.” So says Time mag­a­zine, cov­er­ing a minor deba­cle that year over one of the instal­la­tions by “the world’s No. 1 sur­re­al­ist, Sal­vador Dalí.”

Dalí had pre­vi­ous­ly dressed Bon­wit Teller’s win­dows with­out inci­dent in 1936, rid­ing high on the buzz from his first Amer­i­can exhi­bi­tion that same year. When invit­ed back by the store to cre­ate a new dis­play, writes Tim McNeese in Sal­vador Dalí, “he decid­ed to use the win­dows to depict the ‘Nar­cis­sus com­plex,’ ” divid­ed into day and night. “In the Day win­dow, Nar­cis­sus is per­son­i­fied,” says The Art Sto­ry. “Three wax hands hold­ing mir­rors reached out of a bath­tub lined with black lamb­skin and filled with water. A man­nequin entered the tub in a scant out­fit of green feath­ers. For the Night win­dow, the feet of a poster bed are replaced by buf­fa­lo legs and the canopy is topped by its pigeon-eat­ing head. A wax man­nequin sat near­by on a bed of coals.”

As for the pub­lic reac­tion, writes the New York Times’ Michael Pol­lak, “words were exchanged, not all of them com­pli­men­ta­ry, and the store’s staff made quick changes. The skin­ny-dip­per in ‘Day’ was quick­ly replaced by an attired man­nequin. Out went the sleep­er in ‘Night’; in went a stand­ing mod­el.” As soon as he caught sight of the unau­tho­rized mod­i­fi­ca­tions, Dalí took cor­rec­tive action. McNeese quotes the artist’s own mem­o­ry of the pro­ceed­ings: “I dashed into the win­dow to dis­arrange it, so that my name, signed in the win­dow, should not be dis­hon­ored. I was nev­er so sur­prised as when the bath­tub just shot through the win­dow when I pushed it and I was there­after most con­fused.”

Dalí was charged with dis­or­der­ly con­duct but issued a sus­pend­ed sen­tence since, as the judge put it, “These are some of the priv­i­leges that an artist with tem­pera­ment seems to enjoy.” Noth­ing like this hap­pened to Andy Warhol when he lat­er dressed Bon­wit Teller’s win­dows, writes i‑D’s Briony Wright, though “a com­mis­sion for the depart­ment store in 1961 brought what could be con­sid­ered his big break.” Those same win­dows also became oppor­tu­ni­ties for a host of oth­er artists includ­ing Sari Dienes, James Rosen­quist, Jasper Johns, and Robert Rauschen­berg, the last two of whom col­lab­o­rat­ed on a dis­play as Mas­ton Jones. They had their own rea­sons for the pseu­do­nym, but an artist of Dalí’s par­tic­u­lar sen­si­bil­i­ty knows you don’t turn down a chance to get your name on Fifth Avenue.

Relat­ed con­tent:

When Sal­vador Dali Met Sig­mund Freud, and Changed Freud’s Mind About Sur­re­al­ism (1938)

When Sal­vador Dalí Cre­at­ed a Sur­re­al­ist Fun­house at New York World’s Fair (1939)

Sal­vador Dalí Gets Sur­re­al with 1950s Amer­i­ca: Watch His Appear­ances on What’s My Line? (1952) and The Mike Wal­lace Inter­view (1958)

When Sal­vador Dalí Cre­at­ed Christ­mas Cards That Were Too Avant Garde for Hall­mark (1960)

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities, the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

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