Bacchanal and Bruegel

Day Two at the Kunsthistorisches Museum

I spent my second day at the museum in the galleries of German, Flemish, and Dutch paintings. I prefer these schools to those of Italy, France, and Spain, so it was frustrating that I chose to visit on the same day as every single Viennese Hauptschule (middle school) student, as well as a good portion of mainland China’s middle-aged women. The crowds were ridiculous and infuriating. All of the self-serve lockers to store coats and bags were full, and the coat check itself was so overwhelmed that the extraordinarily handsome attendant told me just to take my stuff with me—a shockingly un-Austrian rule-flouting that surely left him with stomach cramps and vertigo.

So, my tour was more abbreviated than I’d have liked. I was still able to see several paintings I knew were part of the museum’s collection, and then stumbled on something extraordinary that I didn’t expect, which rather rescued the day. Let’s start with my fortuitous discovery.

Mlle Wautier for the win

The 17th Century loved dramatic scenes drawn from Greco-Roman mythology, perhaps as a palate-cleanser after all the moralistic Counter-Reformation artworks designed to overwhelm Protestant plainness with riots of athletic saints and eye-rolling martyrs reaching orgasm at the point of death. Since the ancients were believed to have gone about in scanty clothes draped in exciting ways, this genre also offered endless possibilities for highbrow nudity.

I wasn’t surprised, therefore, to come across yet another giant canvas illustrating the salubrious activities of the ancients.

*Bacchanal (The Triumph of Bacchus)* (Michaelina Wautier, before 1659)

Here we’ve got Dioynesis/Bacchus, the god of wine and madness, sprawled on his hallmark leopard skin while being pushed in an ornately carved sledge. I’m unsure where these people are dragging him or why this party isn’t stationary (unless this is a literal moveable feast). I also can’t understand how he could possibly be comfortable in that contorted pose. It serves the artistic purpose of exposing as much of his body straight out to the viewer (kind of like the stylized postures in ancient Egyptian art), yet says “will soon require the services of a chiropractor” far more than “abandoned to sensual revelry.”

But what drew me to this painting is the woman in the pink nightie on the right side of the scene. The museum’s curators inform us that she’s meant to be one of the god’s followers (a bacchante) or his lover, Ariadne. The model's identity, however, is far more fascinating than who she’s portraying. It’s the artist herself, Michaelina Wautier.

I don’t much like the look of the guy trying to put his arm around Michaelina, but I suspect she’s more than capable of dealing with this sort of nonsense.

That’s just one of the remarkable aspects of this painting. Very few women in the mid-17th Century were painters, and those who took up the brush were expected to keep to “safe” subjects like landscapes and still lifes of flowers. They certainly weren’t supposed to paint male nudes or include themselves in their works.

Wautier has chosen a complex mythological scene for this, her most significant work, and places the god’s coyly-covered groin right smack in the middle of the canvas. I don’t think that’s an accident—it’s his lolling sexuality that is the target of her avatar’s dry amusement.

It’s a courageous move to place herself in the god’s entourage with one breast bared. She’s the only figure looking straight at you, the viewer, offering the sole spot of serenity in the tumult of the party. Her knowing gaze connects. There’s no other word for it, this sense that the artist is speaking to you directly and personally. It gave me the shivers (in the best way possible).

Her male contemporaries undoubtedly would have characterized this as “brazen” or “immodest” I think it’s confident as all fuck, challenging you to disapprove of her while simultaneously highlighting the absurd irreality of the rest of the painting. I half expected her to cock an ironic eyebrow in my direction as if to say, “I know…I can’t believe how these people are carrying on either.” She’s executed the painting with apparent sincerity and virtuoso skill, yet she can’t help trying to let you in on the joke. It’s brilliant.

I was a stranger to Wautier and her work, but this experience of connection made me desperate to learn more about her. I discovered she was born in southern Belgium, never married, and later shared a studio with her brother Charles, also a painter. Art historians are certain she had some kind of formal artistic training but don’t know when or from whom. She enjoyed recognition in her day—Bacchanal is one of four paintings the Habsburgs bought from her, all now part of the Kunsthistoriche collection. But she faded into obscurity after her death, and many of her paintings were falsely attributed to her brother, other male artists, or her contemporary, Artemisia Gentileschi (a female artist also known for painting “unsuitable” historical and mythological subjects). Over half of Wautier’s known works are held in private collections, contributing to her low profile today. However, a 2018 retrospective of her work at Antwerp’s Museum aan de Stroom has helped revive interest in her painting.

For my part, I can’t stop thinking about that stunningly confident self-portrait and have added Michaelina to my list of dead people I’d like to have over for dinner. (But only if they were somehow properly alive again. I don’t want zombies turning up their noses at the appetizers because I didn’t make any with “Brains! Brains!! BRAINS!!!”)

Holy cow. That’s that painting.

Museums aren’t always about novelty and discovery. Sometimes familiarity is the draw. Standing before a painting or sculpture you know from photos and reproductions can be intensely rewarding. (It can also be supremely disappointing—some things are best enjoyed second-hand, as their luster doesn’t survive face-to-face encounters.)

I was happy to find that Pieter Bruegel's paintings fall into the “wonderful in person” category. I’ve seen photos of his work for as long as I can remember, and I’ve grown so accustomed to some pieces that familiarity has bred complacency (but not yet contempt).

So, standing in front of these old friends was thrilling, and I was filled with warm recognition and uncomplicated satisfaction. In some instances, I could see details lost in reproductions, like the texture of Bruegel’s brushstrokes, which introduce energy and immediacy invisible unless you’re standing close with the light just right.

A lot of ink has been spilled over Bruegel’s distinctive work and his ability to combine the everyday with the eerie. I’m not sure I have much to add to this body of commentary. Still, I’m including some of my pictures of his pictures below because they remind me of the afternoon I finally saw them in person and renewed my appreciation for this captivating artist and his singular imagination.

Day Two at the Kunsthistorisches Museum

Mlle Wautier for the win

Holy cow. That’s that painting.

The emu of Ljubljana

Real deal veal