The Lady And Her Conch

I thought I’d start this thread with a brief recollection of a visit I once made to Assisi. I found myself standing in front of the famous cross of San Damiano that hangs there, and before which St Francis communed directly with God. The cross hangs in a chapel within a much larger basilica. It’s getting on for a thousand years in age, has seen saints on their knees before it, and resides in a very, very, very holy place. Even if you’re agnostic about these things, it’s hard not to be a little overwhelmed by the experience. I know I was. Yet after a moment or two of looking at the delicate and moving figure of Christ painted on to the cross, it suddenly dawned on me that a vast and monstrously bloated boner was poking triumphantly out of his loin cloth. It can’t be, I thought to myself. But it was. The San Damiano Jesus sported a pair of giant bulging balls topped by the sort of colossal chopper that would attract clinical interest if it was affixed to a standard human being. A cheerful pulveriser of worlds in the most inappropriate place in all the universe.

Once I saw it, no matter how I tried, the image infected everything else. The gentle faced female saints around Christ were no longer his mourning family, but a trio of smirking bad girls eyeing up a prodigious set of happy parts. The small angels on the cross arms became chatty onlookers on a balcony noisily debating with each other the pros and cons of the great projection erupting from Christ’s waist: could this be classified as another of his miracles, and so on. Within a few moments the whole experience had became absurd. And uncomfortable – the Catholic part of me was unconvinced I was going to get out of Assisi alive. Surely I would be punished; walloped and fried by a muscular shaft of lightning. Or perhaps something more contemporary: a new and disturbingly colourful strain of cancer, a cliff top collision with a truck carrying sturdy steel girders on the E35 back up to Florence, a falling roof tile the following week. Ridiculous, you might feel. But when you’re actually there, actually thinking these bawdy thoughts in a place of saints and sacredness, believe me, there’s an ancient part of you that ought to fret. It would be a pity if we were to erase it too.

Of course, it was all unintentional on the part that nameless 11th century artist. He thought he was painting a wiry and slender abdomen; a stretched waist befitting the modestly fed saviour of mankind. I think it’s a pretty safe bet that a gargantuan erection was positively the last thing on his mind. Yet unfortunately for him, we mankind types are worldly creatures. When we see a hint of the lewd in an unlikely context, we struggle to find a reverse gear. That’s why I’m 100% confident you’ll never look at this image again without dwelling on the artistic cock up at its core. If I’m in trouble with the boss upstairs, as of this moment, you are too. Apologies for that. Although I must say, it’s a relief to have the company. There are some grounds for optimism, however. I have since learned that the San Damiano cross is famous for giving the same impression to many visitors. I can’t be certain about cancer or girders or roof tiles, but so far, not a peep about anyone being zapped by lightning. This has to be good news for all of us. And it does make me wonder if God, like a good rugby referee, is prepared to allow a few transgressions to pass unpenalised for the sake of a more beautiful game.

After that afternoon, the years rolled by. I took in hundreds, maybe thousands, of artworks without incident. There were surprises; there were veiled messages; there were often important new elements that others hadn’t quite seen. But the eye-poking ambush of Assisi seemed to be a one off. The anonymous Italian craftsman was unique in a millennium of art history. No one else offered anything remotely of a piece. That is to say, an image which seems elevated and gracious at one moment, and depraved the next. And then I stumbled across this specimen a few weeks ago online. I almost missed the kicker within it at first. But after a moment or two, it emerged like a genie snaking out of his lamp. It’s so utterly out of place. So unexpected. Like discovering Santa has left a wrap of coke and a loaded AK47 in your nine year old niece’s stocking.

At a glance, this is a sweet and extravagant early 19th century portrait. The girl has the looks of a Pre-Raphaelite heroine. Her skin is alabaster. It’s never emitted a single bead of perspiration. Elsewhere, the draperies and fabrics are tremendously well handled. And they’re never easy to pull off. But pause a moment and something will start to register with you. A detail within the painting will grow in your awareness like the distant dot of an onrushing train growing larger and larger as it hurtles towards you. And then, bang; an elemental force blots out the rest of existence. Don’t worry if you’re not there yet, because your subconscious, I can guarantee, already is. It spotted that downy fuzz around the edges of the conch shell the instant this image met with your eye. Ladies and gentlemen, we have another winner. And this time, perhaps unsurprisingly, it’s by a German.

I doubt many of you will have heard of Julius Hübner. No one can claim that he’s a Titan of art history. Outside Germany he’s hardly known at all. But you’ll remember him after today. I can think of no other painting where the artist’s intuitions have meshed so snugly with the female anatomy that he’s unwittingly made the chief decoration within his picture a huge set of labia. They’re enormous. Compare them to the head the model tilts delicately towards them. We are in the presence of genitalia that could conceivably join in a game of Twister. Often when we see unexpected items in pictures, we find ourselves scratching our heads and asking just what was going on in the artist’s mind as they painted. Happily, that’s not the case here. The conch shell is a direct line into Julius’ amygdala. It’s a snapshot of his innermost thoughts. With the benefit of these, we can safely say that Julius’ great triumph with this piece was to keep his hands on his brushes long enough to finish it.

None of these observations are a great advertisement for portrait painters. Particularly if you’re a woman. It’s hard to look natural and relaxed for days on end in a chair when there’s a realistic chance a gigantic image of your parted muff is bouncing around inside the artist’s skull. How will you feel if he inadvertently paints a blown up version of it beside your face, like Julius did? These are reasonable concerns which, if properly considered, would lead many to prefer an Iphone selfie over weeks sitting for a portrait. But we shouldn’t be so hasty. There’s more to the tale of Julius and his sitter than immediately meets the eye. That small inscription beside the red flower sprouting from the cleft in the conch will help us to get a handle on things. When translated from Latin, it says: ‘Dearest wife of nineteen years of age, painted by Julius Hübner as a monument to his love.’ This may not take the lurid edge of that glinting shell, but it certainly changes the context.

Before we go any further, I better fill you in on what we know about Julius and his sitter, Pauline Bendemann. Pauline came from a good family involved in banking in Berlin. Buckets of fungible, reliable cash sloshed about in her background. Her family were a cultivated, cosmopolitan bunch with some interest in the arts. Julius had a trickier ride. He was orphaned when young and was brought up by an uncle who felt he ought to study theology. A church life could be a solid activity. And judging by the artworks he churned out over his life, Julius was a firm Christian. But he had other appetites too. He managed to sidestep his uncle’s wishes and instead got himself enlisted in art school in Berlin. Shortly afterwards, at the grizzled age of 21, he was giving home drawing lessons to a young chap called Eduard Bendemann. The two became great friends. In the course of their lessons, Julius met Eduard’s 18 year old sister, Pauline. An artist who has narrowly escaped a life of churchy obscurity meets a cultured and wealthy young beauty. It’s the stuff of a Disney movie.

The two young people hit it off well. It probably helped that Julius was handy with words. When he wasn’t painting, he was a poet of some ability. A walking romantic cliché had swept into Pauline’s teenage life. Julius was soon starting on a portrait of her. It was 1828, and after some preparatory drawing, the project got properly underway. By December the couple were engaged. Around the time the picture was finished in 1829, they were married. Young love. Crazy, erotic, bonkers, boggle-eyed love. And it’s all there on the canvas for us to see. That expansive conch makes a good deal more sense now, doesn’t it. This is not just any old portrait painter perving on any old girl. It’s a young couple in the first flush of knowing each other. They’re soon to walk up the aisle. Hormones are coursing through veins; he’s chomping at the bit; she’s viewed through a fog of lust. The sexual strain spills out of the synapses in his brain, trickles down his arm, and finds its way onto the canvas in a terrific gynaecological explosion.

Before we get stuck into the hows and whys of the conch shell, we ought to have a quick look through the picture to get a handle on its artistry. It’s good enough to merit some attention. Obviously, the composition’s spine is a diagonal movement running from bottom right to top left. The small dog, the lie of Pauline’s back and sleeves, the angle of the burgundy drape; together these make up the broad directional thrust on which the picture hangs. Playing second fiddle are the verticals on the left: the pilaster, the table leg, Pauline’s right arm, the crimson flower and the conch vase. It’s a slightly pedantic and Victorian piece of design. But its strong clean thrusts do make everything straightforward for the eye. That’s usually a good thing when it comes to portraits.

A variety of greens and reds make up the bulk of Pauline’s surroundings. Since the 1400s when Florentines like da Vinci and Alberti pointed it out, we’ve known this pair match nicely with each other. We call them ‘complementary colours’. When placed side by side, they give off a pleasing and vibrant sense of contrast which brings things to life. Provided they’re well managed. Julius is a dab hand at this. He’s very aware of how he’s managing his greens and reds. This will be important in a while. But for now, I just want to point out that his control of these secondary elements really helps to pop Pauline out of the painting and into life. Like many artists, he saves his strongest contrasts for around her face where the brightest whites and darkest blacks are assembled. Because the human eye is usually drawn to where tones are strongest, he’s ensured that her face dominates the picture.

In her lap Pauline holds a little box filled with jewellery. This is interesting. There was a German tradition that on the morning after their marriage, husbands would give to their wives a sort of mini dowry made up of valuables that would be hers alone, not the couple’s jointly. That’s almost certainly what we’re looking at here. It is not quite the declaration of wealth it appears to be; it’s more related to custom. If we look closely, there’s a small folded sheet of paper at the top of the box. Given what we know of the couple, my guess is this is a poem from Julius to the bride; an offering from a painter with the soul of a poet to his muse.

Pauline wears no trinkets apart from a couple of rings. The largest of these is her wedding ring - in Germany, it was normal at the time to wear it on the right hand. Along with the small casket of jewellery, this solidifies her status for us as a wife. The Spaniel looking up to her is probably a favoured pet. Dogs crop up a lot in pictures of the well heeled at this time. In marital portraits, they tend to represent loyalty and love. The arm of the chair is carved to resemble a peacock, which seems to stare down at the dog. We sometimes see peacocks in nativity scenes in Renaissance art, where they refer to the resurrection of Christ and eternal life. But they’re rare. It is possible, I suppose, that Julius intended a bit of symbolism along Renaissance lines. But I think it’s unlikely. As a statement, it strikes me as too obscure for a painter who is humming with earthy impulses. I suspect this was just the most elegant chair to hand.

The conch shell and the flower emerging from it are at the heart of this thread. I set out with the intention of getting to the bottom of them with you. And we will. I guess I should start by giving you the view laid out by the art history boffins. Because Julius isn’t very well known, there’s only a little out there. Where it addresses the vase, it’s usually a brief, dry treatment that skitters unconvincingly over the subject. Having said that, no one ignores the Freudian supernova sitting there in plain view. How could they? The official line is that its anatomical echoes are deliberate. Julius, it is suggested, wanted a graphic image of the female undercarriage to act as a symbol of matrimonial fertility and vitality. The way the plant sprouts from the conch kind of reinforces this. The arrangement, it seems, is a well chosen visual metaphor for the hopes and functions that come into play when a man and woman tie the knot.

I’m not on board with this view. I think it’s insane. And I’m going to spend the rest of the thread explaining why. I’ll start with the duller reasons. The first thing to note is that Julius has painted the flower more prominently than the shell - remember those complementary reds and greens we pointed out earlier, and how they make things more vivid. If the official line was correct, and the conch was the key emblem in that part of the picture, surely it should be the reverse. The high contrasts and focus should be on the shell. But they’re not.  So why is he highlighting the lily? Well, it’s a Jacobean Lily, which is a type of Amaryllis. I mention this because in the 1800s people were struck not only by the Amaryllis’ beauty but also how it could stand tall and upright without any support. As a result of this, the plant started to come into vogue as an emblem for a self possessed, beautiful and proud woman. In the 1800s flower symbolism was huge in the arts. A well educated romantic poet like Julius would have known better than most what different flowers signified. I’m pretty sure that his objective here was to place beside Pauline a poetic cipher of her best qualities as an independent lady and all round Aphrodite, not her biological usefulness. Of course, having hit on the idea for a plant in the picture, he then needed a pot to put it in.

This is where we come to the conch. The boffins talk about it as if it was an unremarkable and well established erotic symbol. This isn’t the case. Conches had some erotic overtones in eastern cultures, but none whatsoever in the west. In fact, they didn’t symbolise anything at all. If Julius wanted a shell that indicated fertility or desire, he would have gone for a scallop shell, a symbol of Venus since antiquity that was instantly readable for arty people. But he didn’t. He went for an item which was just a curiosity. It was an interesting decoration, which, during the 1800s, gained some traction on the mantelpieces of the European upper and middle classes. No doubt this is where Julius found this one as he searched out a vase to use for his Amaryllis. And he chose it because it was a visually interesting object that could both house his important flower, and go well with the sumptuous and grand interior in which he had situated his model. It was only after he started painting that conch and cooch were conflated and the shell got the Penthouse treatment, each stroke – in my opinion - urged on by a subconscious that was fizzing with desire.

We also have to consider that Julius was a diligent Christian. Alongside portraits and some mythical subjects, religious themes make up the majority of his serious output. He was often to be found beavering away on pictures of minor Biblical characters that just aren’t encountered outside the more obscure recesses of the Old Testament. It’s hard to see how a man with these tastes would be happy to wave a lurid pornographic flag at the world from the centre of one of his paintings. And not just any painting; a painting of his wife. Sure, lots of artists have been a bit weird, like Salvador Dali. Some have also relished offering us as many crotches as possible to examine, like Egon Schiele. But do we honestly think Julius was playing similar cards? I don’t. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t. Let me explain why.

Julius didn’t paint Pauline for free. The portrait was a commission. Her parents had requested it. If your girlfriend’s parents commission a portrait of her, what are the chances that before you hand it over, you’ll include a little gynaecological surprise for them? I’ll tell you. Nil. Igloos in Hell. No one resident outside a hippy commune or a psychiatric unit, would entertain the idea. More to the point, what parent would tolerate such a thing? The Marquis de Sade, probably. The emperor Caligula, perhaps. The Hapsburgs were keen on family intimacy, I suppose. But after that, even if I stick to grade A monsters, I’m struggling. Stalin wouldn’t. Hitler definitely wouldn’t. It’s a peculiarly degenerate type of parent that pays for and keeps a large picture of their daughter’s vulva in their drawing room. Do they point it out to visitors? And how do those visitors respond to Pauline’s father, Anton, or her mother, (and you’ve no idea how hard it’s been to keep this from you until now) Fanny. What can the social caller say to them both? ‘Isn’t it amazing how it seems to follow you around the room.’

After Julius had exhibited the picture at the Berlin Academy exhibition in 1830 (not a murmur of offence, by the way), it remained with his new family and their descendants for close on a century. Here’s a painting of them all with some friends a couple of years later, cooing over Julius’ and Pauline’s first child. Not the greatest work of art, is it? But have a good look at them. Do they strike you as the sort of folk who’d enjoy attending the Vagina Monologues? It is inconceivable that these people, their children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren would knowingly potter about at home in front of the blown up privates of a beloved family member. It is even more inconceivable that Julius would attempt to sell such a thing to them. The vase was never intended to represent anything other than, well, a vase. Julius and others around him were blind to the whopper we can see. That’s not to say that it’s all a bizarre coincidence, that some unspoken part of his mind wasn’t down there in the torrid deeps, churning and panting, quietly guiding his hand as he painted. In fact, I’ve no doubt that’s what happened. But this was an age before Freud and after Chaucer. Things were a little more buttoned up. What seems obvious to us now, would have passed un-noticed by polite people of the time.

I can’t deny there is a part of me that is thrilled to find that the erection I spotted on the San Damiano cross has a female partner in the Alte Nationalgalerie in Berlin. In terms of scale, they’re perfectly made for each other. It’s as if I’ve filled a difficult poker hand. But I’m also aware that it’s a fool who takes the frameworks of his own time and uses them to pass judgement on the past. We live in an age saturated with imagery. There is nothing that hasn’t been photographed, catalogued and placed under our noses a hundred times in a hundred different ways. Julius belonged to a different world. If he failed to spot a glaring faux pas that leaps out for modern eyes, that’s no ill reflection on him.  How was he to anticipate what would inform the gaze of the future, when we can’t either? Yet that doesn’t mean we can’t have a chuckle. It’s only human. Art history is so often earnest, humourless stuff. It’s great to find an instance or two where it tips into laughter. Although I have to admit, I won’t be laughing if I return to Assisi. No. I think not. There’s a nervous voice inside that tells me I only just got away with it last time.