Grant Wood’s American Gothic (1930)

Grant Wood (1891–1942) was an Amer­i­can painter best known for his paint­ings depict­ing the rur­al Amer­i­can Mid­west, par­tic­u­lar­ly Amer­i­can Goth­ic (1930), which has become an icon­ic exam­ple of 20th cen­tu­ry Amer­i­can art. Wood was born in rur­al Iowa and received his art train­ing at the Art Insti­tute of Chica­go before mak­ing sev­er­al trips to Europe to study Impres­sion­ism and post-Impres­sion­ism. He always returned to Iowa, how­ev­er, and had a stu­dio at the house he shared with his moth­er in Cedar Rapids. He was a major pro­po­nent of the art move­ment known as Amer­i­can Region­al­ism which arose in the 1930s as a response to the Great Depres­sion, and incor­po­rat­ed paint­ings, murals, lith­o­graphs, and illus­tra­tions depict­ing real­is­tic scenes of rur­al and small-town Amer­i­ca.

It was while dri­ving around the town of Eldon, Iowa, look­ing for inspi­ra­tion, that Wood spot­ted the Dib­ble House, a quaint small white frame house and con­sid­ered it just right for his pur­pos­es. So why “Amer­i­can Goth­ic”? Well, the house is built in the so-called Car­pen­ter Goth­ic style, an archi­tec­tur­al style bor­row­ing ideas from Goth­ic archi­tec­ture but ren­der­ing it in wood. Here’s the Dib­ble House below, with its arched Goth­ic style win­dow clear­ly shown.

The Dib­ble House

Wood want­ed to add fig­ures of peo­ple he fan­cied should live in that house: a farmer and his daugh­ter. He chose for his mod­els his sis­ter Nan Wood Gra­ham and their den­tist Dr Byron McK­ee­by. The woman is dressed in a colo­nial print apron while the man is adorned in over­alls cov­ered by a suit jack­et and car­ries a pitch­fork. It’s an odd blend, and some took it ini­tial­ly as a mock­ery of “the kind of peo­ple” who might live in such a house, but this was far from the intent of the artist who wished to sim­ply cre­ate an authen­tic depic­tion of real peo­ple in his home state.

Wood’s mod­els: his sis­ter and den­tist

Amer­i­can Goth­ic became one of the most famil­iar images of Amer­i­can art and has been wide­ly par­o­died in Amer­i­can pop­u­lar cul­ture. Exu­ber­ant it ain’t, but it some­how cap­tures a stead­fast spir­it befit­ting of the con­text in which it was paint­ed.


Grant Wood

A E Housman’s A Shropshire Lad (1896)

Alfred Edward Hous­man (A E Hous­man) was a life­long clas­si­cal schol­ar at Uni­ver­si­ty Col­lege Lon­don and Cam­bridge Uni­ver­si­ty, right up until his death in 1936. He was also a gift­ed poet whose pri­ma­ry work, A Shrop­shire Lad, a cycle of 63 poems, was pub­lished in 1896 and became a last­ing suc­cess. The col­lec­tion struck a chord with many Eng­lish com­posers, among them Arthur Somervell, Ralph Vaugh­an Williams, and Ivor Gur­ney, all of whom set his poems to music.

The col­lec­tion’s var­i­ous melan­choly themes, includ­ing dying young and being sep­a­rat­ed from an ide­alised pas­toral child­hood, ensured that it accom­pa­nied many a young man to the trench­es in the Great War. Hous­man had always had a young male read­er­ship in mind and as W H Auden said: “no oth­er poet seemed so per­fect­ly to express the sen­si­bil­i­ty of a male ado­les­cent”. Equal­ly, George Orwell remem­bered that, among his gen­er­a­tion at Eton Col­lege in the wake of World War I: “these were the poems which I and my con­tem­po­raries used to recite to our­selves, over and over, in a kind of ecsta­sy”.

There’s a phrase Hous­man used that I have always found strik­ing: “blue remem­bered hills”, three sim­ple words that exem­pli­fy the melan­cholic tone of poem num­ber XL, Into my heart an air that kills. It con­sists of just two qua­trains that reflect on the pas­sage of time and the futil­i­ty of long­ing for a long-gone land and age. The speak­er, in a dis­tant land, recalls the hills and spires of his home­land. He recog­nis­es that, whilst he was hap­py when he lived there, he can­not return there now he is old­er and has left that land behind.

Into my heart an air that kills
From yon far coun­try blows:
What are those blue remem­bered hills,
What spires, what farms are those?

That is the land of lost con­tent,
I see it shin­ing plain,
The hap­py high­ways where I went
And can­not come again.

Sur­pris­ing­ly, Hous­man was­n’t actu­al­ly from Shrop­shire, he was from Worces­ter­shire, and hadn’t even vis­it­ed Shrop­shire until after he had start­ed writ­ing the poem cycle. It is not Hous­man who is the Shrop­shire lad, but a lit­er­ary con­struct. Be that as it may, here’s anoth­er punchy short poem from the cycle, again ref­er­enc­ing the pas­sage of time but this time evok­ing a carpe diem urgency about the here and now. Fun­ni­ly enough, as I write this in view of my gar­den, my own cher­ry tree is hung with snow, its ‘win­ter blos­som’ as implied by this poem.

Loveli­est of trees, the cher­ry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the wood­land ride
Wear­ing white for East­er­tide


Now, of my three­score years and ten,
Twen­ty will not come again,
And take from sev­en­ty springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more

And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are lit­tle room,
About the wood­lands I will go
To see the cher­ry hung with snow

A E Hous­man

Diego Velázquez’s Las Meninas (1656)

The Span­ish Gold­en Age of flour­ish­ing arts and lit­er­a­ture in Spain coin­cid­ed with the Span­ish Empire’s polit­i­cal and mil­i­tary dom­i­nance in the 16th and 17th cen­turies, rough­ly dur­ing the reigns of the Hab­s­burg mon­archs Charles V, and the Philips II, III and IV of Spain. In lit­er­a­ture, Cer­vantes was writ­ing Don Quixote de la Man­cha (1605) and Lope de Vega was knock­ing out about 500 plays and 3000 son­nets between the 1580s and 1630s. In art, El Gre­co, Fran­cis­co de Zur­barán and Bar­tolomé Muril­lo flour­ished, as well as the lead­ing artist of them all, Diego Velázquez, who worked under the patron­age of King Philip IV between the 1620s and 1650s.

Velázquez’s ear­li­est works are bode­gones, kitchen or pantry scenes with promi­nent still-lifes and domes­tic activ­i­ty such as his Woman Fry­ing Eggs (1618) which I remem­ber being tak­en with many years ago dur­ing a vis­it to the Nation­al Gallery of Scot­land in Edin­burgh. How­ev­er, it was when he took to por­trai­ture that he gained the atten­tion of King Philip and was invit­ed to become court painter. Diego was able to thrive under Philip’s wing for the rest of his life. He pro­vid­ed por­traits for the court (he paint­ed Philip him­self over thir­ty times) and for lumi­nar­ies of the time such as Pope Inno­cent X, but was also giv­en the free­dom to paint less promi­nent per­son­al­i­ties such as Juan de Pare­ja, a for­mer slave and fel­low painter in his work­shop.

His mag­num opus, how­ev­er, was Las Meni­nas (The Ladies-in-wait­ing or Maids of Hon­our). Paint­ed in 1656 and now resid­ing in the Museo del Pra­do in Madrid, Las Meni­nas depicts the 5 year old Infan­ta Mar­garet There­sa sur­round­ed by her entourage of maids of hon­our, chap­er­one, body­guard, two dwarfs and a dog. Just behind them, Velázquez por­trays him­self work­ing at a large can­vas and look­ing out­wards towards the view­er. In the back­ground there is a mir­ror that reflects the upper bod­ies of the king and queen them­selves. Giv­en the expec­ta­tion that a court paint­ing would be a for­mal affair, Las Meni­nas’ com­plex and enig­mat­ic com­po­si­tion sur­pris­es us and cre­ates an uncer­tain rela­tion­ship between us and the fig­ures depict­ed. Because of its unusu­al nature, Las Meni­nas has been one of the most wide­ly analysed works in West­ern paint­ing, and it’s one of “the greats” that I hope to vis­it one day.

Diego Velázquez, detail from Las Meni­nas