Saint Jerome in a Rocky Landscape

Joachim Patinir's workshop, Saint Jerome in a Rocky Landscape, c. 1515

The National Gallery's early landscape-related art is now in a Sainsbury Wing room called 'Looking at Nature: European Painting 1430-1540.' One of the works there is Saint Jerome in a Rocky Landscape, attributed to the workshop of Joachim Patinir. I've always loved looking into this - as Erika Langmuir wrote in the 1997 NG Companion Guide 'our eye travels to a hill town (more accurately a monastery complex), valleys, woods, mountains, fortresses, farm houses, fields, the sea, the high horizon, sky...' It is a whole world. And what we see now isn't even the whole picture - it was cut down from a larger original. Patinir and his workshop did several versions of Saint Jerome and the magnificent landscape at the end of this blog post is from one that is now owned by the Prado (this too was cut down). 

 

The historical record on Patinir is scant, although we do know Dürer admired his landscapes and attended his second wedding. The first monograph on him was written by Robert A. Koch and published in 1968. This includes an analysis (pp 17-19) of his 'world landscape' paintings, and from it I have extracted these ten characteristics. 

1. Distance and Scale

'In every Western landscape painting before the nineteenth century,' Koch writes, 'the illusion of distance was created in principle by the diminution of scale and a progressive loss of clarity; but Patinir is inclined to mock this law of aerial perspective until the eye of the spectator is close to the horizon line.' His example of this is the Met's St. Jerome triptych, shown below. Koch says Patinir 'permits us to scan the landscape as though through a telescope.' I remember visiting New York in 2008 and being amazed that you were now allowed to take photos in their museums, so I zoomed in and photographed lots of details visible in Patinir's painting. Sometimes 'the scale changes irrationally and abruptly' but Patinir was seemingly happy to do this 'in order to make his landscape more immediate and more exciting.' 

Joachim Patinir, The Penitence of Saint Jerome, c. 1515

2. Perspective

Patinir lavished attention on individual objects to make them as realistic as possible but the effect as a whole was clearly not 'realistic.' As an artist he sometimes resembled an architect or cartographer. 'In constructing his vast vistas of space, he was either disinterested in or unaware of scientific rules of perspective, which in any event would have availed him little in his conquest of landscape.' 

3. Foregrounds

The highly-detailed, sharply-focused plants, animals, rocks etc. in his foregrounds are designed to make the viewer feel connected to the picture space. He would sometimes put a tree there to help provide scale. Sometimes these were dead (symbolic) and sometimes they were lacking leaves, so as to leave gaps through which the landscape would be visible. 

4. Light and Shadow

'The lighting of the landscape is artificial and rather arbitrary in the nearer distances.' But while overall it 'tends to be flat, for the sake of over-all clarity, tree foliage and rocks are usually accented in light and shadow.' Few things in Patinir's landscapes cast shadows, and if they do they are rather weak ones.

5. Colour

Flemish painting deployed the formula of the 'three distances' - reddish brown in the foreground, green in the middle and then that beautiful blue for the distance, a colour I've talked about on this blog before. Patinir, though, went beyond this simple schema, using different colours to create transitions. 'The far distant blue permits little color play, though Patinir varies its intensity and may shade it to green or gray. Bright red may occur in its traditional role as the local color of the costume of a foreground figure, and touches of it may also spark the sky, or a distant earthly or infernal fire. The sky is usually shaded from a bright, creamy tone on the horizon through white and bluish white to a deep azure blue at the frame.' 

6. Sky

When it comes to weather effects, Patinir's skies usually contain 'white cumulus clouds, evoking the mood of a clear, late summer afternoon, the atmosphere cleared of dust by a recent rain.' The subject of the painting may require a change to this of course - Koch relates St. Jerome's 'dark night of the soul' to the blackness in the sky above him (see above), and the same can be said of other works like the Prado's The Temptations of Saint Anthony. 

7. Ground

Here we see 'overlapping folds of earth' with land either swelling from a darker shade to a bright summit or vice versa. 'In either case a contour line is created when dark and light meet, clarifying the earth mass.' 

8. Water

'From the trickle of a foreground stream to rivers that empty in the foreground or meander in the distance, from ponds and lakes to great bays, water is an important element of the Master's world landscape.' Koch notices that it is always 'smooth or gently rippled, but never angry', even when the religious stories being illustrated might suggest turbulent waters or rough waves. 

9. Trees

Patinir's 'compact, trimly rounded, distant trees' are produced with dots of paint that were referred to by the late sixteenth century artist-writer Karel Van Mander as getippelt. Koch doesn't translate this term but I see it implies light, quick steps (and hence a street prostitute in modern slang!) 

10. Rocks

Finally, rock formations are particularly memorable elements in all his landscapes and dominate the National Gallery's Saint Jerome. I've always thought of these as 'fantastical' but Koch believes Patinir was 'deeply affected by the noted landmarks along the Meuse River around Namur and Dinant: the Marche-les-Dames, a bright gray wall which rises precipitously from the river; the bluish limestone Rochers de Frènes; and the dramatic chimney-like Bayard Rock at Dinant. What appear to be melodramatic rock fantasies in Patinir's paintings are really constructions based upon his personal observation of nature.' 

Joachim Patinir, Landscape with Saint Jerome (detail), 1516-17

The distant island of Eimeo

Conrad Martens, HMS Beagle being hailed by native Fuegians, 1832

Following a visit to Charles Darwin's home Down House earlier this year, I read the The Voyage of the Beagle (1845 - the second edition which incorporated extensive revisions and looked forward to his theory of evolution). It really is a fascinating account, in which Darwin experiences an earthquake in Chile, climbs the Andes, meets gauchos, encounters political turmoil in Peru and witnesses the return of Fuegian natives who had been taken to Britain after the captain’s previous voyage. The Galapagos Islands are an obvious highlight but the whole book is interesting. Darwin is admirably critical of slavery, sympathetic to exploited miners and saddened by the impact of diseases brought by Europeans. He is also sympathetic to the efforts of missionaries, who were evidently doing some good, even if the extent of their negative impact was not yet apparent. Overall he comes over as thoroughly admirable and his enthusiasm for the natural world extends well beyond animals and plants to encompass insects, coral reefs, fossils, geological formations and meteorology.

At the end of the book he concludes that 'the pleasure derived from beholding the scenery and the general aspect of the various countries we have visited, has decidedly been the most constant and highest source of enjoyment.' There are descriptions of landscape throughout the journey and I will just quote one example here, from his time in Tahiti, where he reaches for the analogy of a work of art.

From the highest point which I attained, there was a good view of the distant island of Eimeo, dependent on the same sovereign with Tahiti. On the lofty and broken pinnacles, white massive clouds were piled up, which formed an island in the blue sky, as Eimeo itself did in the blue ocean. The island, with the exception of one small gateway, is completely encircled by a reef. At this distance, a narrow but well-defined brilliantly white line was alone visible, where the waves first encountered the wall of coral. The mountains rose abruptly out of the glassy expanse of the lagoon, included within this narrow white line, outside which the heaving waters of the ocean were dark-coloured. The view was striking: it may aptly be compared to a framed engraving, where the frame represents the breakers, the marginal paper the smooth lagoon, and the drawing the island itself. When in the evening I descended from the mountain, a man, whom I had pleased with a trifling gift, met me, bringing with him hot roasted bananas, a pine-apple, and cocoa-nuts. After walking under a burning sun, I do not know anything more delicious than the milk of a young cocoa-nut.

The Voyage of the Beagle mentions a few of his companions but in general Darwin is too busy studying the natural world to focus on them as characters. Of the two artists who accompanied the voyage, there is no mention of Augustus Earle, who shared a cottage with Darwin in Rio, and only one of Conrad Martens: on the occasion he shot an ostrich. 'It was cooked and eaten [but] fortunately the head, neck, legs, wings, many of the larger feathers, and a large part of the skin, had been preserved; and from these a very nearly perfect specimen has been put together, and is now exhibited in the museum of the Zoological Society.' The sketchbooks of Martens were digitised a few years ago by Cambridge University (The Guardian published on article on this at the time). The example below was drawn in Tahiti.

A dense forest of pines

This is 'Barbara Codonia', a depiction of the 'landscape' of northern Germany drawn by Dürer or his school, incorporating the names of places and longitude and latitude around the borders. In the northern sea there are islands - Thule (Tyle), probably one of the Shetland Islands, Iceland (Islandi), Scandia, Gottia and somewhere that might be Svalbard. It is an illustration from the Quatuor libri amorum secundum quatuor latera germanie by German humanist Conrad Celtes (Latin: Conradus Celtis), published in Nuremberg in 1502.  These erotic poems were written in praise of Germany and each book had its own heroine. Barbara resides in Lübeck, while in the East there was Hasilina of Cracow, to the South, Elsula of Regensburg and in the West, Ursula of Mainz. The only one of these women that historians have identified with a real person is Hasilina, about whom Simon Schama writes amusingly in Landscape and Memory.

Celtis was altogether an extraordinary figure. ... He studied in Heidelberg, Leipzig, and Rostock before reaching Kraków in 1489, where he had a sensually ecstatic affair with Hasilina Ryztonic, the wife of a Polish nobleman. "How happy I was in that hour amid kisses and embraces holding Hasa's soft breasts in my hands and burying myself in her sweet thighs." Celtis strayed far enough into the Polish countryside to hunt bison, but his view of Poland as a place hopelessly sunk in drunken squalor may have been colored by his rejection at the hands of the passionate but unpredictable Hasa. In his later Liber Amorum she was decisively annexed as one of the four corners of Germany. 

In a 1992 article called 'Desiring the Barbarian' in The German Quarterly David Price describes Celtis's attitude to his four geographically separated lovers. He praises some poems in German from Ursula, albeit tentatively, and then complains that nobody teaches girls Latin. This leads him to imagine instructing her - 'my tongue will pour words into your lips'. He says he will indicate long and short syllables through the length of his kisses. Barbara gets short shrift, criticised for slurred speak when she gets drunk, and Elsula, ignorant of Latin, is castigated for being unreceptive to his songs. 'Haselina, the subject of much of Celtis's best erotic poetry, comes off even worse. Like all "non-classical" women, according to Celtis, Hasilina scorns books. ... Celtis's women resemble the faithless or unreceptive women of Roman love lyric, but they are repugnant to an even greater degree because of their illiteracy in Latin.'

Christopher S. Wood's rich study Albrecht Altdorfer and the Origins of Landscape (a source for Simon Schama's book), views Celtis as a pivotal figure in the identification of Germany with the idea of the forest. 

The key intellectual manoeuvre was the conversion of the forest from the blight into the pride of the land. The forest became at once a hazardous wilderness and a stage for chivalric heroism; it sheltered the satyr, the wild man, even - in Celtis's profound imagination - the Druid priest. The forest became an open-air temple; it became the seat of the Muses. These ideas were so fresh that they could only be put forward tentatively, experimentally, often with tangible excitement. The glamour of the forest lay in its precarious double nature: awe could easily collapse back into fear, mystery into obfuscation, heroism into barbarism.

Wood illustrates the forest's dangers with a pen drawing by Altdorfer showing robbers in action, and notes a similar scene in the Amores of Celtis, who described an encounter on the road between Nuremberg and Regensburg. This is how Celtis sets the scene:

It is a place where hills are lifted from the bending valley,
And a dense forest of pines covers all sides;
In the middle of the space is a well-trodden road in a narrow track;
Watered by a lake, it leads through putrid fields.

Here the thieves spring forth but, 'moved by the poet's supplications (delivered in Latin, if we are to trust the poem),' they spare his life.

The Enchanted Forest

Marc Chagall, sketch of a curtain for The Firebird Act 1, 'The Enchanted Forest', 1945

We were in Nice last week and visited the Chagall Museum. It has an exhibition on at the moment that includes sixty-four sketches for the stage curtains and costumes used for the New York Ballet's revival of The Firebird in 1945.  I was drawn to the image above, a landscape as seen through the distinctive imagination of Chagall, with his vivid colours, floating creatures and magical realism. The view seems to be trees on either side of a river, although this river is also the sky, and what looks like a sun and moon with their usual colours reversed. Interestingly he repeated this composition for one of the Museum's twelve large painting of scenes from Genesis and Exodus (below). At first glance those wonderful blues and greens evoke the idea of a natural paradise, but the upside-down trees and fleeing birds also suggest a landscape being uprooted and changed for ever as Adam and Eve are expelled (assisted by a red cockerel, looking a lot like the Firebird).  

Marc Chagall, Adam and Eve Expelled from Paradise, 1961

I have mentioned descriptions and depictions of Eden before on this blog, e.g. by John Milton and Athanasius Kircher, but here is a bit more on The Firebird. Chagall's forest might more accurately be described as a garden, because the ballet is set in the enchanted grounds of a castle owned by the evil Kostcheï. Ivan, the hero, is lost there and sees the Firebird, who escapes but gives him one of her feathers. Later he uses this to summon her back and she tells him how to kill Kostcheï, by hurling an egg containing his soul to the ground. Aleksandr Golovin designed the scenery for the original 1910 Ballets Russes production at the Palais Garnier on 25 June 1910 - it was just one month earlier that Chagall arrived from Russia to study and paint in Paris. Natalia Goncharova took a different approach for Diaghilev's new production in 1926 - her stylised Russian cityscape for the final act was exhibited a few years ago in the Tate's Goncharova exhibition, but I'm not sure how she depicted the garden. More recent productions seem to have prioritised dancing over scenery, although the Dance Theatre of Harlem's 1982 Firebird had sets with botanical forms designed by the multi-talented Geoffrey Holder. There is no indication of how this garden (or forest) should look in the original production's brief scene descriptions, so artists will always be free to design their own imaginary landscapes. 

Aleksandr Golovin, sketch for The Firebird scenery, 1910

Soracte white with deep snow

Mountains in the Classical Tradition was a research project based at St. Andrews University from 2017 to 2023. It incorporated a blog which considered, among other cultural topics, 'William Golding at Thermopylae' and 'Edward Dodwell on Mt. Hymettos' (the subject of a post here back in 2013). In 'Augustus Hare on Mt. Soracte' Jason Konig discusses the travel writer and watercolourist who published two books about his walks near Rome. These volumes not only described Hare's own impressions of Mount Soracte (now called Monte Soratte) but also referred to twelve other nineteenth century writers who wrote about it. These included Byron, whose Childe Harold lists this rather modest peak alongside the most famous mountains of classical Greece. Soracte's unlikely fame was entirely down to just a few words of Latin verse: the first stanza of Horace's Ode 1.9, in which it stands covered in snow. 

As Jason Konig points out, 

It seems extraordinary that such a brief glimpse could have haunted the imagination of centuries of later readers. It was the opening line of this poem that Patrick Leigh Fermor’s German captive, General Kreipe, quoted to him in looking at the sunrise on Mt Ida in Crete in 1944; Leigh Fermor claims to have quoted the rest of the poem to him from memory in response, an incident which united the two men temporarily in their shared mastery of the classical heritage.

After describing the winter landscape Horace turns to his young companion, Thaliarchus, and urges him not to waste his youth - a similar theme to the famous carpe diem lines in Ode 1.11. There are numerous translations of the full poem online - at the Pantheon Poets site, for example, where you can hear it in Latin. I'll just quote here the start and end of a modern version by David Ferry. 

See Mount Soracte shining in the snow.
See how the laboring overladen trees
Can scarcely bear their burdens any longer.

See how the streams are frozen in the cold.
Bring in the wood and light the fire and open
The fourth-year vintage wine in the Sabine jars.

O Thaliarchus, as for everything else,
Forget tomorrow. Leave it up to the gods. [...] 

[...] While you’re still young,
And while morose old age is far away,

There’s love, there are parties, there’s dancing and there’s music,
There are young people out in the city squares together
As evening comes on, there are whispers of lovers, there’s laughter.

The American literary scholar H. T. Kirby-Smith, a witty historian of poetry, discusses the Soracte Ode in his book The Celestial Twins.   

Critical commentary on this poem usually neglects the metrics and settles on the issue of whether it consistently develops its subject. One reads indignant objections to the idea of sending some young man out into the streets in the dead of winter in hopes of picking up a girl, or suggestions that Horace simply meandered away from his original intention of evoking a winter landscape and contrasting it with the consolations of a roaring fire and a drink. Others, more sensibly, suggest that as Horace turns from himself to his young friend he imagines a more hospitable season — of life as well as the year — when the perils of senescent hypothermia are less threatening. 

It is easy to find online images of snow on Mt. Ida (height 2,456 m) but I failed to locate any of Mt. Soracte (height 691 m). I guess we live in warmer times, but perhaps it was a rare event even in Horace's day. Kirby-Smith thinks the poem's familiar landscape transformed by snow sets the poem going with 'Alpine excitement and novelty.' Neither August Hare nor his literary sources mention seeing the kind of scene described by Horace - they describe Soracte as a distant blue peak. This is how it appears in Edward Lear's panoramic vision (below). Corot painted it several times and you can see pale areas of rock on its slopes, but no sign of snow anywhere. Perhaps Horace was only ever using it as a metaphor - in Kirby-Smith's phrase, 'age as the season of snow.'

Edward Lear, Monte Soratte near Rome, 1880s(?)

The Channel of Gravelines

Detail from The Channel of Gravelines: An Evening

The Courtauld exhibition Seurat and the Sea is well worth getting to - not cheap, but of course it gets you access to the splendours of the permanent collection and there are many pictures you would normally have to travel a long way to see. The painting below was borrowed from MOMA, the study for it is usually in the Pompidou Centre and the conte crayon sketch is part of a collection of drawings owned by Jack Shear, the American curator and head of the Elsworth Kelly Foundation. These views were all executed in the last summer before Seurat's untimely death and it is sad to think that if he had lived as long as Matisse or Picasso he would have been around for abstract art and surrealism. One of my favourite paintings in London dates from the same summer, the Courtauld's The Beach at Gravelines, an astonishingly abstract composition, apparently painted for his own pleasure as it serves no purpose as a preparatory study.

Georges Seurat, The Channel of Gravelines: An Evening, 1890

While the other post-impressionists headed for the light and strong colours of the south, Seurat painted Gravelines, near Dunkirk, almost as far north as you can go in France (it is actually slightly further north than Brighton, where I grew up.) The exhibition curators explain that contemporary viewers 'were struck by Seurat's ability to convey atmosphere and by his subtle rendering of the pearly grey light of the Channel coast.'  The Channel of Gravelines: An Evening 'epitomises the contemplative and serene qualities of Seurat's seascapes that were so admired by early reviewers.' Paul Signac said 'this type of painting does not need bright light since it creates its own.' Adrian Searle, in his Guardian review, observes that 'the North Sea light is milky, turned down a notch from his summers farther south. A boat moves down the Channel at evening. There’s no one about in this violet hour, the sun gone, only the man on the boat and, I suppose, the painter following its progress.' 

Georges Seurat, study for The Channel of Gravelines: An Evening, 1890

The stillness in some of these seascapes has a strange, unsettling quality that made me think of artists like Léon Spillaert and Paul Nash. Joe Lloyd in Studio International writes that 'the emptiness and static quality of his scenes renders them stage-like. The grainy gauze of his technique makes them seem antithetical to the clarity with which our eyes perceive the world. The marines are thus simultaneously studied depictions of reality and oddly unreal simulacrums.' Reviewers prefer these paintings unpeopled - as Laura Cumming says 'the pictures go awry when stick figures appear in the foreground'. I agree, although (as in some of the landscapes painted by Claude and Turner) I quite like it when small, stiff and unrealistic figures create a strangeness that would otherwise be much less apparent. I'll leave the last word here to Laura Cumming (sadly, nowadays, often inaccessible behind The Observer paywall), talking about The Channel of Gravelines: An Evening. 'The most beautiful painting in this exhibition, on loan from the Museum of Modern Art in New York, shows Gravelines at twilight, where the waters have quietened to a silvery brightness and the sky above is pink-tinged with dying light.' 

Georges Seurat, Gravelines: An Evening, 1890

Blossoms scattering on echoes

In April 2018 I wrote a blog post here about blossom viewing: 'last weekend at Kew Gardens the cherry trees were in full bloom. It prompted me to organise for last night a small blossom viewing gathering at our house (we actually have a crab apple tree, but it's a perfectly good stand-in).' We are holding another gathering tomorrow and this time I was inspired by the cherry trees in Regent's Park (see above). Im preparation I have been writing out some of my favourite translated Japanese blossom poems on cards decorated with fallen petals. For example, this one by Nōin (988-1050) in which the falling flowers suggest a mountain soundscape: 

  To a mountain village 

    at nightfall on a spring day

      I came and saw this: 

  blossoms scattering on echoes

    from the vespers bell.*

Kenneth Rexroth included a version in his One Hundred More Poems from the Japanese, translating the last lines as petals scattering 'at the boom of the evening temple bell' which suggests they are taking fright at the sudden sound in a quiet place.

One of the best sources for blossom poetry is Ki no Tsurayuki (872-945), a poet whose work I've discussed on this blog before. He too has one about arriving at night on a spring day and looking for lodging - when he sleeps the blossom continues to fall even in his dream. In another waka the 'wake of the breeze' scatters petals into wavelets that 'ripple out into the waterless sky.' And in another, the wind is not cold, but the scattering cherry blossoms still resemble a snow flurry. Rexroth's One Hundred More Poems has one in which the poet loses his way in the confusion of so many petals falling. And the Met has a Ki no Tsurayuki blossom poem written out in the 17th century on decorated paper:

  The scent of blossoms 

    has soaked ever deeper

      into our robes

  as breezes come and go

    in the shade of the trees.    

 

^*Steven Carter (editor), Traditional Japanese Poetry: An Anthology (Stanford University Press 1991), page 134. I try not to quote whole poems but others have done so already, so I've included it here.

The endless redrawn shoreline

Sean Scully, Aran, 2005

Sean Scully was the subject of a profile in the Guardian earlier this year with a clickbaity headline: ''I’m the product of a smashed-up family': how Sean Scully became the greatest abstract painter alive.' Of course abstract painters often seek inspiration for forms, rhythm and colour from landscape, and Scully is one such artist. You can see this in various ways at the Lisson Gallery's exhibition, The Nature of Art, which I visited last month. Aran (2005), for example, is a grid of the dry stone walls I have explored and photographed myself (see my earlier post 'Sentences on the sea', with quotes from Tim Robinson). He produced a book of these images, Walls of Aran, which has an introduction by Colm Tóibín. Scully was born in Ireland but grew up in London and did manual jobs while training to be an artist - he has talked about how he enjoyed seeing the forms made by stacking cardboard boxes in a factory. It is obvious why these carefully stacked stones of Aran would appeal to him.  

Landscape has most clearly influenced Scully's art in the Landlines series. An article in the Smithsonian magazine explains the origin of these works. 

It was 1999 when the artist Sean Scully approached the edge of a grassy cliff in Norfolk, England, out to the blue-green of the North Sea and the steely gray sky above it. “I saw a beautiful cliff and a very unusual possibility for a composition,” he says. The resulting photograph Land Sea Sky presented those three elements in roughly equal stripes across the pictorial space. ... “I try to paint this, this sense of the elemental coming together of land and sea, sky and land, of blocks coming together side by side, stacked in horizon lines endlessly beginning and ending,” he says, “the way the blocks of the world hug each other and brush up against each other, their weight, their air, their color, and the soft uncertain space between them.”

I have taken many photographs over the years of land, sea and sky forming bands of colours - I imagine we all have. I like the way you can vary the components - in Sussex you can also look back from the shoreline to photograph beach, cliffs and sky: grey, white and blue. The Lisson exhibition includes some of Scully's photographs, like Landline 1999 (brown, white, blue - land, surf, sea) and Landline (Lima Sunset) (2019) where, like Hiroshi Sugimoto, he just has two rectangles of sea and sky. Artists have been painting these bands of colour on the coast since The Monk and the Sea - on this blog I've mentioned Strindberg's Coastal Landscape II (1903) and Spilliaert's, Seascape Seen from Mariakerke (1909), but there was also Seurat at Gravelines, Richard Diebenkorn at Ocean Park, Patrick Heron at St. Ives, Brice Marden's Sea Paintings and Gerhard Richter's Seascapes. You could design a fascinating exhibition bringing images like these together. A few years ago Scully was invited to show new work at the National Gallery and his exhibition 'Sea Star' also included a near-abstract canvas by Turner, The Evening Star (1830).

Sean Scully, Natured (the endless redrawn shoreline) 12.22.25, 2025

Today I was in town again on my way to a Bernd and Hilla Becher show (excellent, but not really landscape art so I can't discuss it here) and walked through Hanover Square, where I took the photo below. This is a sculptural version of the Landline series, made from five blocks of marble. I guess it is always hard to write about art like this convincingly - when it was installed Scully explained that "marble is a natural material that is taken from the ground and has, as a consequence, a profound relationship with Nature." Hmm. Maybe he was partly thinking that it contrasts with the manufactured bronze used to cast the statue of William Pitt that stands across the road from it? The press release explained that 'the selected marbles translate the layered landscape of Hanover Square itself, the new gardens and surrounding buildings - the grey, sand and ochre of the footways and buildings, and the greens and blue- greens of the trees.' And you can see this in my image below, if you focus on the buildings and imagine more foliage and a more typical grey London day. Scully has simplified a complex townscape into a layering of colours resembling the naturally abstract views we experience on the edge of the sea.    

Sean Scully, Landline, 2023

Fire and Water

Today I paid a second visit to the Tate's Turner & Constable exhibition. The Guardian paraphrased Adrian Searle's review as 'boiling portentous skies versus two men and a dog' and provided the verdict upfront: 'JMW Turner is beaten by John Constable in this mighty show.' Few other reviewers were tempted to play the game of siding with one or the other, although The Tatler went for Turner - 'he was the out-and-out winner.' I don't think there's much doubt they were the two greatest landscape painters of their era - it's not like the 'who is best, Blur or Oasis?' debate, where the sensible verdict was always "Pulp". But their differences continue to fascinate - as the wall text above states one was 'all truth', the other 'poetry' and, as can clearly be seen at the Tate, where Constable's clouds and light-flecked trees and rivers sit alongside Turner's hazy, sunset vistas, 'one is silver, the other gold.'

At the risk of being annoying, I thought I would take the absurdity of ranking these two artists seriously and apply the crass five star system we are familiar with from movie reviews. I wasn't sure how this would come out, although I was expecting to side with poetry over truth, or what George Shaw describes in the exhibition film as Turner's elemental alignment with the air, over Constable's allegiance to the earth. In the first room of early work, leaving aside sketchbooks, each artist had 12 paintings and Turner edges it (37 versus 34, or 3.1 v 2.8 on average, per painting). We then move to two Turner and two Constable rooms. Turner's average for some lovely watercolours is brought down to 2.9 by four less impressive oil sketches, but he gets a 3.2 for his Alpine scenes. Constable 'in the outdoors' includes some of his less interesting sketches (2.6) but the room devoted to fields and skies features his celebrated cloud studies and paintings around Dedham (3.2). Overall, Turner is just in the lead as we come to a room called 'The Exhibition' which pits four Constables against five Turners. Here at least I have to agree with Searle, the perfection of Constable's The White Horse and sheer energy in his The Leaping Horse make him the clear winner.  

John Constable, Watermeadows at Salisbury, 1820

The next display, 'Fire and Water', includes this serene view of the landscape near Salisbury. As you look at it, you almost can't believe you're not looking at real water. The wall text explains that in 1830 it got accidentally assessed as a potential Royal Academy exhibit, while Constable was on the committee. His colleagues 'condemned it as 'a poor thing' that was 'very green'. Perhaps out of embarrassment, Constable stayed quiet.' Well it got five stars from me and Constable wins this room, with his famous views of Salisbury Cathedral and Hadleigh Castle easily beating Turner's Palace of Caligula. The next room has a clip from the Mike Leigh film Mr. Turner, which I wrote about here in 2015. Back then I quoted a review of an earlier Tate exhibition (in 2009) which viewed the artists as rivals, showing Constable's Opening of Waterloo Bridge alongside the Turner seascape it had overshadowed at the Royal Academy, until Turner cheekily added a red buoy on varnishing day. The Constable is on show here too, along with some of his later works which I don't find very appealing (2.4). The late Turners - Venice, the Blue Rigi, the swirling Snow Storm are always astonishing (3.9). The last room, 'Landscape and Memory' has one of my favourite paintings, Turner's Norham Castle, Sunrise, but also reminds you of the variety of Constable's work - from his detailed drawing of trees on Hampstead Heath to his dramatic depiction of Stonehenge (Turner 3.5, Constable 3.7). 

So who came out on top? Well, Constable got a grand total of 221. And Turner's scores added up to... 221 as well! However, Constable, by my reckoning, had 72 paintings in the show and Turner just 66, so I declare Turner the winner.

A place with a pond

A place with a pond, in the fifth month when the rains are falling, is a very moving thing. It's deeply affecting to sit for hours on end staring out at the garden, a sea of monochrome soft green with the pond's water as deep green as the sweet flag and reeds that crowd it, and the heavy rain clouds hanging above. Indeed all places with ponds are at all times moving and delightful, and of course this is so too on winter mornings when the water is frozen over. Rather than a carefully tended pond, I find delightful the sort that have been left neglected to the rampant water weed, where patches of reflected moonlight gleam whitely on the water here and there between the swathes of green.
All moonlight is moving, wherever it may be.

- The Pillow Book of Sei Shōnagon (trans. Meredith McKinney 

I don't seem to have ever devoted a blog post to Sei Shōnagon, whose Pillow Book has been an inexhaustible source of pleasure over the years. Many of her entries on landscape are simple lists of place names she found attractive. As McKinney says in his notes, 'the charm mostly lies in the poetic associations of the name, and/or its meaning. The place itself as a geographical entity is not the point.' In an earlier section of the book, she describes why she highlights nine favourite ponds.

1. Katsumata Pond - Sei Shōnagona simply names this place, which features in the Man'yōshū collection of waka poems. It was near Toshodaiji and Yakushiji Temples in Nara.
2. Iware Pond - the possible remains of this pond in Nara were uncovered a few years ago. There is a monument there with lines from a poem written by a son of the emperor: “This is my last chance to see the ducks singing in the Iware Pond as I am destined to die today.”
3. Nieno Pond - this was somewhere Sei Shōnagon visited while on a pilgrimage to Hase. 'It was marvellous to see seemingly endless flocks of water birds rising noisily from this pond.'
4. Waterless Pond - so called because it sometimes dried up. It sounds very similar to the pond on Blackheath that I wrote about here recently. 
5. Sarusawa Pond - a 'special place' because it features in poems composed for an emperor to mourn one of the Palace Maidens, who had drowned herself. Sei Shōnagon quotes a memorable line attributed to Hitomoro that describes 'her hair tangled as if in sleep.'
6. 'Divine Presence Pond' - Shōnagon doesn't know why this one got its name. 
7. Sayama Pond - another literary site. She recalls a poet who said you can draw burr reed out of the water but if you to try to draw him from his lover's bed, 'ah I break'. 
8. Koinuma Pond - 'there's also Koinuma Pond' is all she says and I'm not sure what was special about this place.
9. Hara Pond - the last pond in her list was associated with a popular song: 'oh do not cut the jewelled weeds.'

Hasui Kawase, Sarusawa Pond, Nara, 1935

It would of course be possible to come up with similar lists of favourite ponds in England, but I will conclude here with just one example. Last summer I visited Silent Pool in Surrey, which has an evocative Japanese sounding name, although as our Rough Guide explained, it is not completely silent because you can hear traffic from the road. The water was a vivid green with pondweed, eelgrass and the reflections of surrounding trees in full leaf. The guidebook records a folk legend associated with this place that Sei Shōnagon might have appreciated: ‘A woodman's daughter was bathing in the Silent Pool when a caddish nobleman appeared. He rode his horse into the water to reach her and she drowned trying to escape him. Her father found the body and the nobleman’s hat floating on the water, which, in a sinister twist, bore the emblem of Prince John, suggesting that the future king of England was the culprit.’

Silent Pool, August 2025

Borgøya Island

I just finished reading this wonderfully depressing novel by Jon Fosse. It is about the Norwegian landscape painter Lars Hertervig (1830-1902), whose strange paintings I wrote about here a decade ago. I was writing then about a TV programme in which Andrew Graham-Dixon suggested that Hertervig's traumatic move from a poor farm on the west coast of Norway to the city of Düsseldorf was like the shock of Norway's transition from a rural backwater to a modern state. Here's how I related the artist's sad story, which inspired John Fosse's Melancholy I-II:

One day, Hertervig, who had fallen in love with the beautiful daughter of his landlady in Düsseldorf, was told that a rendezvous had been arranged with her. But when he arrived to meet her he found no one there but a bunch of bullying, mocking students. This practical joke contributed to a depression which led him to return to Norway, where he was placed in the asylum at Gaustad. After eighteen months, 'incurably insane', Hertervig went home to his family.

That terrible bullying experience at the hands of his fellow painters is powerfully evoked through interior monologue in the first part of the book. In Part 2 we find Hertervig suffering in the Gaustad asylum, while Part 3 is told from the perspective of a modern-day writer who has an emotional, quasi-religious experience in front of Hertervig's painting Borgøya Island. The fourth part, Melancholy II, was added in 1996 and is perhaps the most upsetting section of all, tracing the thoughts of Hertervig's elderly, incontinent sister during the course of one afternoon, soon after his death in 1902.

Lars Hertervig, Borgøya Island, 1867

While reading the first part of the novel, set on that fateful day in the Autumn of 1853, I was curious to know more about the "painters who can't paint", as Hertervig describes his contemporaries. He excludes from this judgement Hans Bude, the Düsseldorf Art Academy's young Norwegian tutor. Hertervig, in the novel, frets about whether Bude will criticise his art, although when they meet each other in the street Bude is encouraging. It wasn't artistic criticism that precipitated Hertervig's breakdown. Fosse also mentions 'Tidemann' who I took to be Adolph Tidemand, another older Norwegian artist. Tidemand's talent for figure painting led him to collaborate with Gude on landscape scenes like the Bridal Procession I have reproduced below. The place where all these painters used to meet up in Düsseldorf was Malkasten, which I imagined as a large beer hall full of students. In fact it was a renowned artist's association ('Malkasten' means Painter's Box) which in Hertervig's day hired out restaurant rooms. Malkasten was founded in 1848 and is still going today, having undergone numerous changes over the years (they now have a bar 'where art meets gastronomy').

Adolph Tidemand and Hans Gude, Bridal Procession on the Hardangerfjord, 1848 

When Hertervig first enters Malkasten, already in a fragile state, he encounters 'Alfred', who will later go out of his way to deceive him into thinking Helene, the girl he loves, is sitting somewhere at the back of the bar. There were a few real artists at that time called Alfred, but I am guessing he is not based on an actual person? (If any Fosse or Hertervig experts are reading this, feel free to put me right!) Another artist we encounter is 'Müller' who must be Morten Müller (1828-1911), a painter whose views of fjords and pine forests can be seen in Norway's National Gallery. 'Capellen' is briefly mentioned too, presumably August Capellen (1827-52) although he died of cancer the year before the novel is set and doesn't appear as a character. Alfred's main accomplice is 'Bodom' and he too was a real person, the Norwegian landscape painter Erik Bodom (1829-79) who Hertervig admits "can paint. But Bodom is not as good a painter as I am." 

Erik Bodom, Landscape with a Waterfall, 1855

As Hertervig talks to Bodom he is increasingly confused with sexual delusions, visions of Helene and images from his past life on Borgøya Island. Something is clearly wrong... 

This is your first time at Malkasten, isn't it, he says.
And I look straight into Bodom's eyes, and his eyes are grinning, I see Bodom's eyes grinning and just like that his eyes turn into bog-holes, black, wet, and then someone pulling, sinking, splashing in the bog, hard, the hand moves fast, pulls up, down, tightens, tightens, and I can't pull my foot free and it's stuck and then, up ahead, is the light that sucks and comes at me and pulls me down...

Listening to Insects at Dōkan Hill

Utagawa Hiroshige, Listening to Insects at Dōkan Hill, 

from the series Famous Places in the Eastern Capital, 1835-1845 

This is one of the prints that was on display in the British Museum's exhibition Hiroshige: artist of the open road last year. Lafcadio Hearn published an essay on 'insect musicians' and the listening practices surrounding them in his collection Exotics and Retrospectives (1898):

There are charming references to singing-insects in poetical collections made during the tenth century, and doubtless containing many compositions of a yet earlier period. And just as places famous for cherry, plum, or other blossoming trees, are still regularly visited every year by thousands and tens of thousands, merely for the delight of seeing the flowers in their seasons,—so in ancient times city-dwellers made autumn excursions to country-districts simply for the pleasure of hearing the chirruping choruses of crickets and of locusts,—the night-singers especially. Centuries ago places were noted as pleasure-resorts solely because of this melodious attraction;—such were Musashino (now Tōkyō), Yatano in the province of Echizen, and Mano in the province of Ōmi. Somewhat later, probably, people discovered that each of the principal species of singing-insects haunted by preference some particular locality, where its peculiar chanting could be heard to the best advantage; and eventually no less than eleven places became famous throughout Japan for different kinds of insect-music. [He goes on to list them...]

The Hiroshige print is analysed in a 2023 acoustic ecology paper by soundscape researcher Keiko Torigoe. She includes a description of Dōkan Hill from the Edo Meisho Zue (1834-6).

There are many medicinal herbs in this area, and people who gather medicines always come here. Especially in autumn, pine insects and bell ringers make exquisite sounds. Therefore, courtesans and persons of elegance and refinement all come here to recite poems in the winds and sing songs under the moon, appreciating the sound of the insects.

The pine insect is the matsumushi 'much esteemed for the peculiar clearness and sweetness of its notes', according to Hearn, and the bell ringer is the suzumushi which 'in certain lonesome places might easily be mistaken,—as it has been by myself more than once,—for the sound of rapids.' You can hear what they sound like on YouTube: here are links for the pine cricket and bell cricket. There is actually a temple in Kyoto known as Suzumushidera because the monks keep bell crickets there to sing all year round.  

Dōkan Hill features in other 19th century prints. Hiroshige's son-in-law Suzuki Chinpei (Hiroshige II) composed a scene similar to the one above in 1864: Listening to insects on Dōkan Hill. There is a comic 1859 scene by Utagawa Hirokage called Catching fireflies at Mount Dōkan, which the Library of Congress describes as showing 'four men drinking alcoholic beverages in a field at night' (one of them is rolling round, clearly pissed as a pudding). And in 1884 Kobayashi Kiyochika depicted a couple climbing the hill to enjoy the views, whilst in the foreground a horse looks startled, perhaps by the sight of some huge white daikon radishes lying on the floor. I'll end here with another example: a simple and rather lovely pink and turquoise view of the landscape below Dōkan Hill, by Hiroshige himself.    

Utagawa Hiroshige, Below Dokan Hill, 

from the series Twelve Views of Edo, c. 1835 

Over stones, under alders

 

At the Small Publishers Fair last year I caught a reading by John Bevis from A Surrey Naturalist, his new collection of eighty found poems derived from an old book by the broadcaster and conservationist Eric Parker. Afterwards I talked to John and his publisher Colin Sackett about the techniques of found poetry and the challenges of writing about the landscape of your childhood. His main method was erasure, where poems emerge from the original work by retaining only a few words, in their original order, arranged into stanzas. I liked his simple idea for 'Swifts innumerable', a poem where everything is erased but the punctuation, which floats freely on the page like swifts glimpsed in a cloudy sky. He also used a Jonathan Williams-style cutout - 'a piece of card, smaller than a postcard, with a central rectangle about the size of a matchbox removed' - and an approach inspired by stargazing where he would visually sweep Parker's pages in order to spot interesting words in his peripheral vision. 

Having grown up in Brighton, I always viewed Surrey as the place you had to pass through on the way to London. John addresses the stereotypical view of Surrey in his introduction and regrets that it is 'pretty much at the bottom of the heap in terms of poetic credibility, authenticity of voice, rootedness.' It has a strong association with stories of childhood - Lewis Carroll, J. M. Barrie, E. H. Shepard. I remember as a teenage Tolkien fan reading Michael Moorcock's description of the Shire (in 'Epic Pooh') as 'a Surrey of the mind', and thinking how unfair it was to compare Middle Earth to a place I associated with retired bankers. However, as John points out, there were always elements of industry here and links to writers like Wells and Huxley who had darker visions of humanity. Eric Parker's book, published in 1952, covers this cultural history but also provided fresh and vivid observations of nature that John felt he could rework into poems evoking the landscape of his childhood whilst bypassing the selectivity of memory.

A Surrey Naturalist (this version but evidently the original too) varies its approach from chapter to chapter, providing different lenses on the county and its topography. I particularly enjoyed a section called 'Country Chances', the first page of which is reproduced on the Uniformbooks website. You can see there the Ian Hamilton Finlayesque 'Visitors from Sea', a brief meditation on travel in 'Thought of a Journey' and the enigmatic 'Riddles of a Lawn'.  Later in the chapter there is a poem called 'Cuttings of Hazel' that turns Parker into a haiku poet: 'Difficult to choose / a carpet of snow // over a carpet / of primroses.' I will end here by quoting a poem on the Surrey landscape (sticking, as ever, to my blog's theme), from the chapter 'Rivers and Streams'. I was briefly tempted to create my own composite found poem from John's, but will spare you this further level of condensation and abstraction. You could also, I suppose, move in the opposite direction and re-imagine Parker's chapter based solely on his found texts, but the resulting descriptions would no doubt let back in that 'Surrey of the mind' we all carry around with us. 

Over stones, under alders. Under oaks, dun water.
Above, the sun. More beyond.
Dried up in summer, the drought of last summer.
Dried up in spring, and dry in summer.
Heard of streams: a bubbling melody in three bars, of moaning, loud cries, whoop and whirr.
To find the source, to trace the river to a pond, to some fish, to swimming.

This photograph was taken in August last year, when I was walking with my sons by Tillingbourne in the Surrey Hills.  Sunlight on dun water...  

Deposition

 

Lucy Raven, Deposition, Dam Breach, 16, 2024

This picture, which I saw yesterday at the Lisson Gallery in London, appears to show a mountain landscape. However, it is actually a byproduct of a more ambitious work of landscape art that I saw last November at the Barbican: Lucy Raven's film Murderers Bar (2025). I have written here before about art addressing the environmental impacts of dams; this film does the opposite - celebrating the undamming of the Klamath River in Northern California. At the Barbican I arrived at just the right time to watch drone footage of the wider landscape and workers laying dynamite. Then, the loud detonation arrives making you jump (I stayed to watch it again and managed to film it on my phone - see below). The beauty of the film really becomes apparent as her camera follows the wave of water flooding through miles of the old river valley, all the way to the Pacific Ocean. 'The film then follows the river back upstream through the drained reservoir, a stark terrain of sediment cut by the new path of the river that will be transformed by life in years to come. The original drowned landscape is now revealed as potential'.    

At the Lisson Gallery (until the end of this month) there are three Deposition panels and a video piece showing the water and mud from which gave rise to them. What they are is prints that reveal part of the working process behind the film. 'By constructing a large steel and wooden channel lined with expanses of silk, Raven staged smaller-scale floods and dam breaches in a studio environment, before revealing the aftermath, traced as sedimentary imprints or chance echoes on fabric sidewalls.' The resulting images are made of the same raw materials - sand, mud, cement, salt water - that she filmed at the Klamath River, but they bear no visual link to the landscape. The way they relate to the main film reminded me of the sketches artists used to make in preparing for major landscape paintings, or the documentary material assembled and exhibited by land artists. Murderers Bar itself is also only a part of a whole, as it represents the final installment of Raven's series The Drumfire. As an ArtReview article explains, this this focuses 'on how the landscape’s natural materials are placed under pressure, broken apart, reconstituted.' Earlier videos feature mining in Idaho and military detonations in New Mexico. You can see her talk about all this in a short film, Pressure & Release, at Art 21.