Paolo Veronese’s The Wedding Feast At Cana (1563)

Great art comes in many shapes and sizes, from por­trait minia­tures right up to mon­u­men­tal can­vas­es depict­ing epic scenes with casts of thou­sands. Today we’re going to look at an exam­ple of the lat­ter, one which hangs in the Lou­vre and deserves to have the same-sized crowd of admir­ers that per­pet­u­al­ly gath­er around the Mona Lisa there (and per­haps it does usu­al­ly, but I do have a mem­o­ry of being able to admire it unmo­lest­ed by oth­er peo­ple and able to take in its con­sid­er­able fea­tures). It’s Pao­lo Veronese’s The Wed­ding Feast at Cana (Nozze di Cana, 1562–1563), depict­ing the bib­li­cal sto­ry of the Wed­ding at Cana, in which Jesus mirac­u­lous­ly con­verts water into wine, thus jus­ti­fy­ing his invi­ta­tion sev­er­al times over.

It’s a whop­ping 6.77 m × 9.94 m and indeed as such it’s the largest paint­ing in the Lou­vre. Veronese exe­cut­ed his paint­ing slap-bang in the mid­dle of the peri­od in art known as the Man­ner­ist age (c.1520‑c.1600), in which there was a ten­den­cy of artists to take the ideals of the High Renais­sance (1490–1527) — pro­por­tion, bal­ance, ide­al beau­ty – and exag­ger­ate them such that arrange­ments of human fig­ures have an unnat­ur­al rather than a real­is­tic feel to them. It’s as if artists felt that every­thing that could be achieved had already been achieved by the likes of Da Vin­ci, Raphael and Michelan­ge­lo, and they need­ed a dif­fer­ent approach.

The can­vas was orig­i­nal­ly hung in the San Geor­gio Monastery in Venice, until Napoleon’s sol­diers nicked it as war booty in 1797. It depicts a crowd­ed ban­quet scene in the sump­tu­ous style char­ac­ter­is­tic of 16th cen­tu­ry Venet­ian soci­ety but framed in the Gre­co-Roman archi­tec­tur­al style of clas­si­cal antiq­ui­ty. There are 130 human fig­ures dressed fash­ion­ably in Occi­den­tal and Ori­en­tal cos­tume alla Tur­ca, and there are indi­ca­tions that we are post-feast, with guests sat­ed and await­ing the wine ser­vice.

In the fore­ground are musi­cians play­ing stringed instru­ments of the late Renais­sance, with leg­end hav­ing it that the musi­cian in the white tunic is a depic­tion of Veronese him­self and the oth­er musi­cians mod­elled on fel­low artists Jacopo Bas­sano, Tin­toret­to and Tit­ian. Behind the musi­cians are seat­ed Jesus of Nazareth, the Vir­gin Mary, and sev­er­al apos­tles. Amongst the wed­ding guests are depict­ed many his­tor­i­cal per­son­ages from Veronese’s day, such as Mary I of Eng­land, Holy Roman Emper­or Charles V, and Suleiman the Mag­nif­i­cent. There are so many quirky ele­ments to dis­cov­er– a lit­tle dog on the table here, a lady pick­ing her teeth there, a dwarf hold­ing a bright green par­rot – that to do so could take up some con­sid­er­able time.

Here are some details (click on them to enlarge), with the whole mas­ter­piece in its entire­ty below.

 

James Cox’s Silver Swan Automaton (1774)

Vis­i­tors to the Bowes Muse­um in the town of Barnard Cas­tle in Coun­ty Durham are reg­u­lar­ly blown away by the trea­sures housed in this provin­cial town, miles away from the major cities where art col­lec­tions of this qual­i­ty may be expect­ed. The build­ing alone is worth the vis­it; it is elab­o­rate­ly mod­elled in the style of the French Sec­ond Empire, pur­pose-built to house the art col­lec­tion of John Bowes, and opened to the pub­lic in 1892.

Bowes Muse­um, Barnard Cas­tle

The col­lec­tion con­tains paint­ings by El Gre­co, Goya, Canalet­to, Frag­o­nard and Bouch­er, as well as items of dec­o­ra­tive art, ceram­ics, tex­tiles, tapes­tries, clocks and cos­tumes. The pièce de résis­tance, how­ev­er, is today’s sub­ject, the Sil­ver Swan automa­ton, cre­at­ed by Lon­don jew­eller James Cox and the inven­tor John Joseph Mer­lin.

The Sil­ver Swan was first record­ed in 1774 as a crowd puller at the famous Cox’s Muse­um of James Cox, an entre­pre­neur as well as a tal­ent­ed jew­eller. The exquis­ite­ly craft­ed swan has an inter­nal clock­work-dri­ven mech­a­nism with 2000 mov­ing parts (designed by Mer­lin), and at an appoint­ed time each day at Bowes Muse­um, the automa­ton is cranked up and goes through its 32-sec­ond per­for­mance.

The swan sits in a stream made of glass rods and sur­round­ed by sil­ver leaves, and small sil­ver fish can be seen “swim­ming” in the stream. When the clock­work is wound, the music box plays and the glass rods rotate giv­ing the illu­sion of flow­ing water. The swan turns its head from side to side, preens itself, and after a few moments bends down to catch and eat a fish. The swan’s head then returns to the upright posi­tion and the per­for­mance is over.

The Sil­ver Swan was exhib­it­ed at the 1867 Paris Inter­na­tion­al Exhi­bi­tion, and it was here that John Bowes and his wife saw it, fell in love with it, and in 1872 had the oppor­tu­ni­ty to pur­chase it (for £200, or about £20,000 in today’s mon­ey, still an absolute steal). The Amer­i­can nov­el­ist Mark Twain also saw the Sil­ver Swan at the Paris exhi­bi­tion in 1867 and described it in his book The Inno­cents Abroad:

I watched the Sil­ver Swan, which had a liv­ing grace about his move­ment and a liv­ing intel­li­gence in his eyes – watched him swim­ming about as com­fort­ably and uncon­cerned­ly as it he had been born in a morass instead of a jeweller’s shop – watched him seize a sil­ver fish from under the water and hold up his head and go through the cus­tom­ary and elab­o­rate motions of swal­low­ing it…

If this inspires you to see the swan for your­self, leave it a few months: it is cur­rent­ly being restored but is expect­ed to return to its pub­lic next year.