Letters of Note Page 2
Artemisia Gentileschi to Don Antonio Ruffo
13 November 1649
Born in 1593 to Prudenzia di Ottovania Montoni and her husband, Orazio Gentileschi, an acclaimed Tuscan painter, Artemisia Gentileschi was twelve years old when her mother died; she was then brought up and tutored in painting by her father, whose artistic talents she eventually surpassed. When she was seventeen, Artemisia was raped by her tutor, Agostino Tassi. At the trial, to assess the truthfulness of her testimony, she was tortured with thumbscrews and subsequently believed. Despite this, she went on to become one of the most acclaimed artists of seventeenth-century Europe, a Baroque painter of immense talent whose work is notable for its depictions of strong, heroic women. One of her most famous oil paintings, Judith Slaying Holofernes, shows a biblical scene in which an Assyrian general is beheaded by Old Testament heroine Judith, with help from a maid; another piece, titled Jael and Sisera, shows a different woman poised to hammer a peg into the head of a defeated general. This letter, written to her patron in 1649, shows Artemisia pushing back against unreasonable demands from a potential male client.
THE LETTER
My Most Illustrious Sir,
I have received a letter of October 26th, which I deeply appreciated, particularly noting how my master always concerns himself with favoring me, contrary to my merit. In it, you tell me about that gentleman who wishes to have some paintings by me, that he would like a Galatea and a Judgment of Paris, and that the Galatea should be different from the one that Your Most Illustrious Lordship owns. There was no need for you to urge me to do this, since by the grace of God and the Most Holy Virgin, they [clients] come to a woman with this kind of talent, that is, to vary the subjects in my painting; never has anyone found in my pictures any repetition of invention, not even of one hand.
As for the fact that this gentleman wishes to know the price before the work is done . . . I do it most unwillingly . . . I never quote a price for my works until they are done. However, since Your Most Illustrious Lordship wants me to do this, I will do what you command. Tell this gentleman that I want five hundred ducats for both; he can show them to the whole world and, should he find anyone who does not think the paintings are worth two hundred scudi more, I won’t ask him to pay me the agreed price. I assure Your Most Illustrious Lordship that these are paintings with nude figures requiring very expensive female models, which is a big headache. When I find good ones they fleece me, and at other times, one must suffer [their] pettiness with the patience of Job.
As for my doing a drawing and sending it, I have made a solemn vow never to send my drawings because people have cheated me. In particular, just today I found . . . that, having done a drawing of souls in Purgatory for the Bishop of St. Gata, he, in order to spend less, commissioned another painter to do the painting using my work. If I were a man, I can’t imagine it would have turned out this way . . .
I must caution Your Most Illustrious Lordship that when I ask a price, I don’t follow the custom in Naples, where they ask thirty and then give it for four. I am Roman, and therefore I shall act always in the Roman manner.
From Naples, the 13th of November, 1649.
The most humble servant of Your Most Illustrious Lordship,
Artemisia Gentileschi
‘IF I WERE A MAN, I CAN’T IMAGINE IT WOULD HAVE TURNED OUT THIS WAY . . .’
– Artemisia Gentileschi
LETTER 06
WHY CAN’T WE PAINT LIKE THE ROMANTICS ANY MORE?
Carl Jung to Arnold Kübler
10 April 1942
Although known to most for his work in the field of psychoanalysis, not least as the founder of analytical psychology, Swiss psychiatrist Carl Jung was a keen and talented artist, having practised privately from a young age. Between 1914 and 1930 he created The Red Book, a giant, beautifully illustrated volume in which he recorded and analysed an intense period of self-reflection; it was seen by few people while he was alive, but has since been published. He also believed the practice of art to be an effective form of therapy. In 1942, amidst the horrors of World War II, he was asked by Swiss author Arnold Kübler: ‘Why can’t we paint like the Romantics any more?’. This letter contained his answer.
THE LETTER
10 April 1942
Dear Herr Kübler,
I have been mulling over your question about the Romantics but have come to the conclusion that, fully occupied as I am with my own work at present, I could hardly muster the necessary patience to expatiate on such a contemplative theme as “Why Can’t We Paint Like the Romantics Any More?” with the contemplativeness this requires.
For that is what we lack at the present time – contemplativeness.
If one is sitting on a volcano and can be contemplative to boot, this is a superhuman heroism which is itself a contradiction in terms.
Nowadays it’s no longer any use appealing to any certainties.
Deep down we know that everything is tottering.
When the earth quakes, there are only abrupt and disjointed fragments, but no closely woven and harmonious flower carpet.
A Romantic ideal in our time would be like a figment from a feverish dream.
Therefore it is much better for modern art to paint the thousand-hued debris of the shattered crockery than to try to spread a deceptive quietness over the bottomless disquiet.
The grotesque, the ugly, the distorted, the revolting perfectly fit our time, and if a new certainty does not start up somewhere, art will continue to express disquiet and inhumanity.
That is all I have to say on this question. It is abrupt and disjointed, like what we are talking about.
Yours truly,
C.G. Jung
‘A ROMANTIC IDEAL IN OUR TIME WOULD BE A FIGMENT FROM A FEVERISH DREAM.’
– C.G. Jung
LETTER 07
IT IS ALL FOR LOVE AND HONOR
Hollis Frampton to MoMA
7 January 1973
In December 1972 Donald Richie, then film curator at the Museum of Modern Art in New York, wrote to artist Hollis Frampton and suggested that they organise a retrospective of his work at this most prestigious of museums. To an artist of any standing, this would be a tempting offer; however, Frampton took issue with one particular line in the proposal, a single detail of Richie’s which rendered the suggestion entirely unattractive: ‘It is all for love and honor and no money is included at all . . .’ Unwilling to work without financial reward, Frampton responded at length with a rousing letter that has since become legendary in the art world for reasons which are plain to see. It’s fair to assume that a fee was later agreed: MoMA’s Hollis Frampton retrospective ran from 8 to 12 March 1973.
THE LETTER
Box 99
Eaton, New York 13334
January 7, 1973
Mr Donald Richie
Curator of Film
The Museum of Modern Art
11 West 53 Street
New York, New York 10019
Dear Donald:
I have your letter of December 13, 1972, in which you offer me the honor of a complete retrospective during this coming March. Let me stipulate at the outset that I am agreed “in principle”, and more: that I appreciate very deeply being included in the company you mention. I am touched to notice that the dates you propose fall squarely across my thirty-seventh birthday. And I am flattered by your proposal to write notes.
But, having said this much, I must go on to point out some difficulties to you.
To begin with, let me put it to you squarely that anyone, institution or individual, is free at any time to arrange a complete retrospective of my work; and that is not something that requires my consent, or even my prior knowledge. You must know, as well as I do, that all my work is distributed through the Film-Makers’ Cooperative, and that it is available for rental by any party willing to assume, in good faith, ordinary responsibility for the prints, together with the price of hiring them.
So that something other than a wish to sh
ow my work must be at issue in your writing to me. And you open your second paragraph with a concise guide to what that ‘something’ is, when you say: “It is all for love and honor and no money is included at all . . .”.
All right. Let’s start with love, where we all started. I have devoted, at the nominal least, a decade of the only life I may reasonably expect to have, to making films. I have given to this work the best energy of my consciousness. In order to continue in it, I have accepted . . . as most artists accept (and with the same gladness) . . . a standard of living that most other American working people hold in automatic contempt: that is, I have committed my entire worldly resources, whatever they may amount to, to my art.
Of course, those resources are not unlimited. But the irreducible point is that I have made the work, have commissioned it of myself, under no obligation of any sort to please anyone, adhering to my own best understanding of the classic canons of my art. Does that not demonstrate love? And if it does not, then how much more am I obliged to do? And who (among the living) is to exact that of me?
Now, about honor: I have said that I am mindful, and appreciative, of the honor to myself. But what about the honor of my art? I venture to suggest that a time may come when the whole history of art will become no more than a footnote to the history of film . . . or of whatever evolves from film. Already, in less than a century, film has produced great monuments of passionate intelligence. If we say that we honor such a nascent tradition, then we affirm our wish that it will continue.
But it cannot continue on love and honor alone. And this brings me to your: “. . . no money is included at all . . .”.
I’ll put it to you as a problem in fairness. I have made let us say, so and so many films. That means that so and so many thousands of feet of rawstock have been expended, for which I paid the manufacturer. The processing lab was paid, by me, to develop the stuff, after it was exposed in a camera for which I paid. The lens grinders got paid. Then I edited the footage, on rewinds and a splicer for which I paid, incorporating leader and glue for which I also paid. The printing lab and the track lab were paid for their materials and services. You yourself, however meagerly, are being paid for trying to persuade me to show my work, to a paying public, for “love and honor”. If it comes off, the projectionist will get paid. The guard at the door will be paid. Somebody or other paid for the paper on which your letter to me was written, and for the postage to forward it.
That means that I, in my singular person, by making this work, have already generated wealth for scores of people. Multiply that by as many other working artists as you can think of. Ask yourself whether my lab, for instance, would print my work for “love and honor”: if I asked them and they took my question seriously, I should expect to have it explained to me, ever so gently, that human beings expect compensation for their work. The reason is simply that it enables them to continue doing what they do.
But it seems that, while all these others are to be paid for their part in a show that could not have taken place without me, nonetheless, I, the artist, am not to be paid.
And in fact it seems that there is no way to pay an artist for his work as an artist. I have taught, lectured, written, worked as a technician . . . and for all those collateral activities, I have been paid, I have been compensated for my work. But as an artist I have been paid only on the rarest of occasions.
I will offer you further information in the matter:
Item: that we filmmakers are a little in touch with one another, or that there is a “grapevine”, at least, such as did not obtain two and three decades ago, when The Museum of Modern Art (a different crew then, of course) divided filmmakers against themselves, and got not only screenings, but “rights” of one kind and another, for nothing, from the generation of Maya Deren.
Well Maya Deren, for one, died young, in circumstances of genuine need. I leave it to your surmise whether her life might have been prolonged by a few bucks. A little money certainly would have helped with her work: I still recall with sadness the little posters, begging for money to help her finish THE VERY EYE OF NIGHT, that were stuck around when I was first in New York. If I can help it, that won’t happen to me, not to any other artist I know.
And I know that Stan Brakhage (his correspondence with Willard Van Dyke is public record) and Shirley Clark did not go uncompensated for the use of their work by the Musuem. I don’t know about Bruce Bailey, but I doubt, at the mildest, that he is wealthy enough to have travelled from the West Coast under his own steam, for any amount of love and honor (and nothing else). And, of course, if any of these three received any money at all (it is money that enables us to go on working, I repeat) then they received an infinite amount more than you are offering me. That puts us beyond the pale, even, of qualitative argument. It is simply an unimaginable cut in pay.
Item: that I do not live in New York City. Nor is it, strictly speaking, “convenient” for me to be there during the period you name. I’ll be teaching in Buffalo every Thursday and Friday this coming Spring semester, so that I could hope to be at the Museum for a Saturday program. Are you suggesting that I drive down? The distance is well over four hundred miles, and March weather upstate is uncertain. Shall I fly, at my own expense, to face an audience that I know, from personal experience, to be, at best, largely unengaging, and at worst grossly provincial and rude?
Item: it is my understanding that filmmakers invited to appear on your “Cineprobe” programs currently receive an honorarium. How is it, then, that I am not accorded the same courtesy?
Very well. Having been prolix, I will now attempt succinctness. I offer you the following points for discussion:
1] It is my understanding, of old, that the Museum of Modern Art does not, as a matter of policy, pay rentals for films. I am richly aware that, if the museum paid us independent film artists, then it would be obliged also to pay rentals to the Hollywood studios. Since we all live in a fee-enterprise system, the Museum thus saves artists from the ethical error of engaging in unfair economic competition with the likes of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer. (I invite anyone to examine, humanely, the logic of such a notion.) Nevertheless, I offer you the opportunity to pay me, at the rate of one-half my listed catalog rentals, for the several screenings you will probably subject my prints to. You can call the money anything you like: a grant, a charitable git, a bribe, or dividends on my common stock in Western Civilization . . . and I will humbly accept it. The precise amount in question is $266.88, plus $54.– in cleaning charges, which I will owe the Film-Makers’ Cooperative for their services when my prints are returned.
2] If I am to appear during the period you propose, then I must have roundtrip air fare, and ground transportation expenses, between Buffalo and Manhattan. I will undertake to cover whatever other expenses there may be. I think that amounts to about $90.–, subject to verification.
3] If I appear to discuss my work, I must have the same honorarium you would offer anyone doing a “Cineprobe”. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think that comes to $150.–.
4] Finally, I must request your earliest possible reply. I have only a limited number of prints available, some of which may already be committed for rentals screenings during the period you specify. Since I am committed in principle to this retrospective, delay might mean my having to purchase new prints specifically for the occasion; and I am determined to minimize, if possible, drains on funds that I need for making new work.
Please note carefully, Donald, that what I have written above is a list of requests. I do not speak of demands which may only be made of those who are forced to negotiate.
But you must understand also that these requests are not open to bargaining: to bargain is to be humiliated. To bargain in this, of all matters, is to accept humiliation on behalf of others whose needs and uncertainties are greater even than mine.
You, of course, are not forced to negotiate. You are free. And since I am too, this question is open to discussion in matters of procedure, if not of substan
ce.
I hope we can come to some agreement, and soon. I hope so out of love for my embattled art, and because I honor all those who pursue it. But if we cannot, then I must say, regretfully, however much I want it to take place, that there can be no retrospective showing of my work at the Museum of Modern Art.
Benedictions,
[Signed]
Hollis Frampton
LETTER 08
ART IS A GREAT INTELLECTUAL STIMULUS
Mary Cassatt to Theodate Pope
September 1903
Impressionist painter Mary Cassatt was born in 1844 in Allegheny City, Pennsylvania, and was one of seven children born to Robert and Katherine Cassatt. Aside from her studies at the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts, long periods of her life were spent in Europe. She eventually settled in France where she became friends with Edgar Degas and Camille Pissarro, and exhibited her work in Paris. She corresponded extensively with a variety of people throughout the years. In 1903 Cassatt wrote to her friend, Theodate Pope – one of the first women to become a professional architect – whose parents collected art.
THE LETTER
Mesnil-Beaufresne
Dear Miss Pope,
I ought to have answered your letter before this, but I have been very busy & I waited knowing you would soon be again in this part of the world— I had such a delightful letter from Miss Hillard & quite counted on answering it in person in Paris. I am very much disappointed to think I shall not see her again, & that she will be so busy with the new school she will not, probably, be able to come to Europe very soon again—
You must not discourage her about Art, I am sure she will derive great enjoyment from the effects in her surroundings, & also for herself. I am quite sure she will begin to feel pictures in a different way, you must remember that art is a great intellectual stimulus, & not reduce everything to a decorative plane— What you say about pictures being things alone, & standing for so much, & therefore the wickedness of private individuals owning them, is I assure you a very false way of seeing things, surely you would not have museums crowded with undigested efforts of everyone? Only in years after an artists [sic] death are his pictures admitted to the Louvre, I wish to goodness we had some sensible rule of that kind at home, instead of that everything can be crowded into public Museums, & no standard is possible in such a mess. I think it is very exhilarating to a painter to know he touches some individual enough for that person to want to own his work, & surely there is nothing wrong in a hard working lawyer or business man putting some of his earnings in a work of art which appeals to him, when we must all work for the state may I no longer inhabit this planet— I assure you when I was in Boston & they took me to the Library & pointed with pride to all the young ones devouring books, & that without guidance, taking up all sorts of ideas of other people; I thought how much more stimulating a fine Museum would be, it would teach all those little boys who have to work for their living to admire good work, & give them the desire to be perfect in some one thing— I used to protest that all the wisdom of the World is not between the pages of books; & never did I meet any one in the Boston Museum, where the state the pictures are in is a disgrace to the Directors— As to the Havemeyer collection about which you feel so strongly, I consider they are doing a great work for the country in spending so much time & money in bringing together such works of art, all the great public collections were formed by private individuals— You say “no collection can be interesting as a whole” — There again you are thinking of decoration, but I know two Frenchmen who are thinking of a journey to New York, solely to see the Havemeyer collection because only there can they see what they consider the finest modern pictures in contact with the finest old Masters, pictures which time has consecrated & only there can they study the influences which went to form the Modern School, or at least only there see the results— You see how others look on collections.