British aristocrats on the grand tour provided a stream of eager sitters for the Baroque artist Pompeo Batoni, whose portraits are about to go on show in London.
On Thursday, April 18, 1765, the writer James Boswell visited the studio of the painter Pompeo Batoni in Rome.
There he saw an extraordinary portrait of a recent acquaintance, Colonel the Hon William Gordon, in progress. More than two centuries later, the picture - which goes on show at the National Gallery next month alongside other similarly over-the-top portraits by Batoni - remains quite a sight.
Colonel Gordon had elected to be painted in uniform with drawn sword, kilt and swathed in a length of Huntly tartan which the painter has made resemble as much as possible a Roman toga. He stands - indeed swaggers - with the Colosseum in the distance behind him, a statue of the goddess Roma at his side, and fragments of an ancient ruin at his feet. He looks as if he has just conquered the city, and in a way he had.
As the art historian John Ingamells once put it, "In the course of the 18th century there was a peaceful British invasion of Italy." Or as Edward Gibbon - also in Rome in 1765 - observed with a touch of irony, "According to the law of custom, and perhaps of reason, foreign travel completes the education of an English gentleman." Some restricted themselves to France and northern Europe, but for most the classical antiquities of Italy were the main objective. This was, of course, the Grand Tour.
The English and Scots, with the Welsh and the Irish, moved south in a steady stream throughout most of the 18th century. And one of the things to do, once one had arrived in Rome - at least for those who could afford it - was to have one's portrait painted by Pompeo Batoni, a highly accomplished exponent of the fag-end of Italian baroque. Between 1740 and his death, Batoni (1708-87) turned out portraits of around 200 Britons, many of whom were already peers or would later inherit a title.
advertisement
A few days before that studio visit, Boswell had taken a look at Batoni's magnum opus as a religious painter, The Fall of Simon Magus (1746-55). He wasn't entirely convinced: "The colouring," he noted, "is false and unnatural." Boswell tended to be sniffy - a few days later he was complaining in his journal about Michelangelo's Moses, "Beard too long; horns, though scared, yet ludicrous." But in the case of Batoni's altarpiece, he wasn't alone in being critical. Originally executed for St Peter's, it had been rejected by the ecclesiastical authorities. It was this rebuff, which he put down to intrigue, that led Batoni to specialise so much in the Grand Tourist portraiture.
As a portrait painter, Batoni took tips from British artists, such as the visiting Scot, Allan Ramsey. Colonel Gordon's swagger is derived from the lordly elegance of Van Dyck's English portraits. In this way Batoni established himself as a rival to such British portrait-painting contemporaries as Joshua Reynolds. That may explain why in 1789 Reynolds tartly remarked that Batoni - dead the year before - was destined to be one of those artists "renowned in their lifetime" who fall "into what is little short of total oblivion". The National Gallery exhibition aims to prove that prediction wrong.
What Batoni offered to his Grand Tourist sitters was the opportunity to look truly, almost comically, grand. In many cases, like Gordon's, their postures none too subtly suggest that they own the place. Thomas Dundas, later 1st Baron Dundas, posed in 1764 with the most celebrated ancient sculptures in Rome grouped around him: Laocoon, Antinous, Apollo Belvedere and Sleeping Ariadne. Dundas gestures negligently towards the last of those as though he was ordering it to be shipped to his country house.
That was pretty much what often happened. Vast numbers of casts, copies, genuine antiquities and Old Master pictures were installed in the country houses of England. A version of Ariadne, for example, can be seen in the grotto of the grounds at Stourhead. Acres of rural Wiltshire were remodelled by the banking Hoare family to resemble Roman countryside as depicted by Claude, complete with classical temples and facsimiles of famous ancient sculptures.
That transformation was part of a wider metamorphosis of British art, architecture and music in the 18th century. In that era, British architecture was classicised - often by architects such as Lord Burlington, Robert Adam and John Soane, who had themselves been on a Grand Tour. The most improbable aspects of British life were redesigned along classical lines.
When Soane was exploring ruins of the Villa of Lucullus, south of Rome, with his patron, the Bishop of Derry, the latter made an amazing suggestion. "I should like to form some idea of a classical dog kennel, as I intend to build one for the hounds of my eldest son - this will be a fine subject for the display of your creative talents." The eccentric clergyman - on his third Grand Tour, so much did he enjoy them - may have been joking, but Soane dutifully produced a design festooned with every conceivable type of ancient doggy ornament.
According to one prevalent 18th-century theory, culture came from the south. In the view of Dr Johnson, who famously lamented the fact that he had failed to make the journey to Italy, "All our religion, almost all our law, almost all our arts, almost all that sets us above savages, has come from the shores of the Mediterranean." It followed, therefore, that those who could afford the time and money to take that trip to some extent owned culture. The Society of Dilettanti, founded in 1732, was a London dining club restricted to gentlemen who had visited Italy. Many of Batoni's sitters, including Dundas, were members.
The society promoted Italian opera, sponsored archaeological expeditions and campaigned for the foundation of a Royal Academy - all good causes. But such organisations also stood for the idea that gentlemen knew best about artistic matters. This naturally irritated non-Grand Tourists and has bedevilled the discussion of the arts in Britain ever since, mingling the arts almost inextricably with snobbery.
In practice, of course, Grand Tourists varied in the seriousness to which they applied themselves to the sights. The intellectual Gibbon could not sleep for excitement on his first night in Rome. Others were more interested in having fun.
Horace Walpole, himself a Grand Tourist, cattily remarked of the Society of Dilettanti that "the nominal qualification for membership [is] having been in Italy, the real one, being drunk". Two of its founder members were, he claimed, never sober during their entire stay in Italy (English habits abroad never change).
Boswell went dutifully round the sights with a "Mr Morison, a Scottish antiquary". But they soon fell out. Boswell was much more interested in making friends with other fellow Scots, such as Colonel Gordon, and pursuing women. "I must admit," he wrote rather boastfully to Jean-Jacques Rousseau, "that in the midst of my Roman studies I indulged in sensual relaxations." Boswell wasn't the only one, nor probably was he alone in leaving Turin with "the agreeable sensation that derives from a half-knowledge of things - to many minds perhaps as great a pleasure as knowing them thoroughly".
That's another aspect of tourism that hasn't altered over the years.
'Pompeo Batoni: 1708-1787' opens at the National Gallery, London WC2 (020 7747 2885), on February 20.
On Thursday, April 18, 1765, the writer James Boswell visited the studio of the painter Pompeo Batoni in Rome.
There he saw an extraordinary portrait of a recent acquaintance, Colonel the Hon William Gordon, in progress. More than two centuries later, the picture - which goes on show at the National Gallery next month alongside other similarly over-the-top portraits by Batoni - remains quite a sight.
Colonel Gordon had elected to be painted in uniform with drawn sword, kilt and swathed in a length of Huntly tartan which the painter has made resemble as much as possible a Roman toga. He stands - indeed swaggers - with the Colosseum in the distance behind him, a statue of the goddess Roma at his side, and fragments of an ancient ruin at his feet. He looks as if he has just conquered the city, and in a way he had.
As the art historian John Ingamells once put it, "In the course of the 18th century there was a peaceful British invasion of Italy." Or as Edward Gibbon - also in Rome in 1765 - observed with a touch of irony, "According to the law of custom, and perhaps of reason, foreign travel completes the education of an English gentleman." Some restricted themselves to France and northern Europe, but for most the classical antiquities of Italy were the main objective. This was, of course, the Grand Tour.
The English and Scots, with the Welsh and the Irish, moved south in a steady stream throughout most of the 18th century. And one of the things to do, once one had arrived in Rome - at least for those who could afford it - was to have one's portrait painted by Pompeo Batoni, a highly accomplished exponent of the fag-end of Italian baroque. Between 1740 and his death, Batoni (1708-87) turned out portraits of around 200 Britons, many of whom were already peers or would later inherit a title.
advertisement
A few days before that studio visit, Boswell had taken a look at Batoni's magnum opus as a religious painter, The Fall of Simon Magus (1746-55). He wasn't entirely convinced: "The colouring," he noted, "is false and unnatural." Boswell tended to be sniffy - a few days later he was complaining in his journal about Michelangelo's Moses, "Beard too long; horns, though scared, yet ludicrous." But in the case of Batoni's altarpiece, he wasn't alone in being critical. Originally executed for St Peter's, it had been rejected by the ecclesiastical authorities. It was this rebuff, which he put down to intrigue, that led Batoni to specialise so much in the Grand Tourist portraiture.
As a portrait painter, Batoni took tips from British artists, such as the visiting Scot, Allan Ramsey. Colonel Gordon's swagger is derived from the lordly elegance of Van Dyck's English portraits. In this way Batoni established himself as a rival to such British portrait-painting contemporaries as Joshua Reynolds. That may explain why in 1789 Reynolds tartly remarked that Batoni - dead the year before - was destined to be one of those artists "renowned in their lifetime" who fall "into what is little short of total oblivion". The National Gallery exhibition aims to prove that prediction wrong.
What Batoni offered to his Grand Tourist sitters was the opportunity to look truly, almost comically, grand. In many cases, like Gordon's, their postures none too subtly suggest that they own the place. Thomas Dundas, later 1st Baron Dundas, posed in 1764 with the most celebrated ancient sculptures in Rome grouped around him: Laocoon, Antinous, Apollo Belvedere and Sleeping Ariadne. Dundas gestures negligently towards the last of those as though he was ordering it to be shipped to his country house.
That was pretty much what often happened. Vast numbers of casts, copies, genuine antiquities and Old Master pictures were installed in the country houses of England. A version of Ariadne, for example, can be seen in the grotto of the grounds at Stourhead. Acres of rural Wiltshire were remodelled by the banking Hoare family to resemble Roman countryside as depicted by Claude, complete with classical temples and facsimiles of famous ancient sculptures.
That transformation was part of a wider metamorphosis of British art, architecture and music in the 18th century. In that era, British architecture was classicised - often by architects such as Lord Burlington, Robert Adam and John Soane, who had themselves been on a Grand Tour. The most improbable aspects of British life were redesigned along classical lines.
When Soane was exploring ruins of the Villa of Lucullus, south of Rome, with his patron, the Bishop of Derry, the latter made an amazing suggestion. "I should like to form some idea of a classical dog kennel, as I intend to build one for the hounds of my eldest son - this will be a fine subject for the display of your creative talents." The eccentric clergyman - on his third Grand Tour, so much did he enjoy them - may have been joking, but Soane dutifully produced a design festooned with every conceivable type of ancient doggy ornament.
According to one prevalent 18th-century theory, culture came from the south. In the view of Dr Johnson, who famously lamented the fact that he had failed to make the journey to Italy, "All our religion, almost all our law, almost all our arts, almost all that sets us above savages, has come from the shores of the Mediterranean." It followed, therefore, that those who could afford the time and money to take that trip to some extent owned culture. The Society of Dilettanti, founded in 1732, was a London dining club restricted to gentlemen who had visited Italy. Many of Batoni's sitters, including Dundas, were members.
The society promoted Italian opera, sponsored archaeological expeditions and campaigned for the foundation of a Royal Academy - all good causes. But such organisations also stood for the idea that gentlemen knew best about artistic matters. This naturally irritated non-Grand Tourists and has bedevilled the discussion of the arts in Britain ever since, mingling the arts almost inextricably with snobbery.
In practice, of course, Grand Tourists varied in the seriousness to which they applied themselves to the sights. The intellectual Gibbon could not sleep for excitement on his first night in Rome. Others were more interested in having fun.
Horace Walpole, himself a Grand Tourist, cattily remarked of the Society of Dilettanti that "the nominal qualification for membership [is] having been in Italy, the real one, being drunk". Two of its founder members were, he claimed, never sober during their entire stay in Italy (English habits abroad never change).
Boswell went dutifully round the sights with a "Mr Morison, a Scottish antiquary". But they soon fell out. Boswell was much more interested in making friends with other fellow Scots, such as Colonel Gordon, and pursuing women. "I must admit," he wrote rather boastfully to Jean-Jacques Rousseau, "that in the midst of my Roman studies I indulged in sensual relaxations." Boswell wasn't the only one, nor probably was he alone in leaving Turin with "the agreeable sensation that derives from a half-knowledge of things - to many minds perhaps as great a pleasure as knowing them thoroughly".
That's another aspect of tourism that hasn't altered over the years.
'Pompeo Batoni: 1708-1787' opens at the National Gallery, London WC2 (020 7747 2885), on February 20.
