Med tredje og sidste bind i sit værk om dronning Caroline Mathilde, Struensee, kong Christian VII og den danske revolution, I morgen bliver bedre, synes Karoline Stjernfelt momentant at ophæve tyngdekraften i dansk tegneserie.

Hun har med den skabt en litterært ambitiøst, original fortolkning af et skelsættende stykke danmarkshistorie i en enormt arbejdskrævende form, tegneserien: knap 700 sider, udgivet i albumformat i stil med de store fransk-belgiske klassikere, fra før verden gik af lave. En højst usædvanlig bedrift, uomgængelig inden for dansk tegneserie, men også en, der tydeligvis er opnået under barske kompromiser.

Læs hele herligheden her!

To paraphrase one of its former director, Kenneth Clark, it has been, and remains, one of the civilising forces of the Western imagination.”

I believe this light show is happening more or less as I write this from my home in Copenhagen, Denmark, to where I’ve happily — but also a little mournfully — returned on a permanent basis.

Sebastiano del Piombo, Polyphemus, fresco, 1511-12, Rome, Villa Farnesina

I am continuing my writings about sixteenth-century caricature, grotesque (see also here) and what I’d call proto-cartooning with an article in the anthology Grotesque and Caricature: Leonardo to Bernini, ably edited by Rebecca Norris and Lucia Tantardini and just published by Brill. The article, “Sebastiano’s Caricatural Gesture and the Path to Idealism”, focuses on Sebastiano del Piombo who never actively pursued the grotesque or even the broadly caricatural, but nevertheless incorporate a certain caricatural simplification, even abstraction, in his art that among other things strengthened the spiritual message of his art.

The book has plenty of fascinating articles on the subject of early modern caricature and grotesque. Well worth seeking out for people interested in the subject.

Rebecca Norris and Lucia Tantardini, eds., Grotesque and Caricature – Leonardo to Bernini, Leiden: Brill, 2024, pp. 55-78. Find it at your local art library. See more here.

I dagens anledning offentligør jeg her min anmeldelse fra 2014 af Erik Svanes og Thierry Capezzones

Det er sjældent, at en ny tegneserieudgivelse får bred mediedækning, at den foromtales og anmeldes i de store dagblade og får plads på morgen-tv og i Smagsdommerne. Men det sker, og det sker som journalismens principper foreskriver, når der er en ’historie’ i det. Dvs. en krog at hænge skidtet op på, så sendefladen og spalterne ikke tynder ud. Det amerikanske begreb ’gimmick’ ligger lige for.

Thierry Capezzone og Erik Svanes tegneseriebiografi over Margrethe II, hvis første bind (af to), Daisy, netop er udkommet, er således helt efter bogen. Den har været grundigt dækket i de danske medier i løbet af de sidste uger, men dens halveringstid er tydeligvis Warhols berømte kvarter.

Den dansk bosatte franske tegner Capezzone har erfaring på området. Han har de seneste godt ti år tegnet serien HC Andersen Jr., der ifører nationaldigteren barnesko og sender ham ud på en række dybt forglemmelige eventyr skåret til mindreårige efter klassisk fransk-belgisk skabelon (tænk opkog af Bulder og Mozart eller Gammelpot). Hvis Capezzone havde brugt en figur han selv havde fundet på, var restoplaget af første bind for længst blevet sendt til makulatur. Nu er bibliotekssalget sikret og der er kommet fem albums i serien. Daisy er tænkt efter helt samme devise, om end målgruppen er mere diffus. Den er for teksttung og historisk indforstået for børn og for naiv og ideologisk firkantet for voksne.

Fred være med det. Capezzone er en driftig tegneseriemager, der tydeligvis holder af sin gerning, og det danske tegneseriemarked er notorisk vanskeligt at klare sig i, så det er et ganske naturligt valg for ham—et, der sikrer at han i det mindste kan tegne serier uden at ruinere sig selv fuldstændigt.

Men hvad skal vi andre bruge det til? Det kan godt være, at der ikke før er lavet en tegneserie over Dronning Margrethes liv, men der er ikke noget nyt i tegneserier der på seriøs vis omhandler virkelige mennesker og hændelser (nogle af dem er endda virkelig gode!) Det burde ikke være en historie i sig selv.

Hvis Daisy var en bog uden billeder, er det usandsynligt at den var blevet udgivet og hvis det skete, ville den næppe have været anmeldt af andre end Berlingske tidende. Denne anmeldelse er således en del af problemet. Mea culpa og alt det der, men forhåbentlig tjener den i det mindste til at påpege en kedelig tendens.

Forfatter på Daisy er den i Frankrig bosatte dansk-amerikaner Erik Svane, utrættelig journalist og opfindsom politisk aktivist, hvis cv også tæller manuskripter til den fransk udgivne serie om Leonardo da Vinci som eventyrlysten hærfører, Général Leonardo, og pt. arbejder han på en tegneseriebiografi over Abraham Lincoln. Samme model, bare på fransk.

I Daisy fortæller han og Capezzone om Margrethes liv fra fødslen under besættelsen, over studieårene i Cambridge og ungdommens arkæologiske udgravninger til mødet med Henri de Monpezat og indsættelsen som regent i 1972. Præsentationen er stakåndet og overfladisk, uden tid til personkarakteristik eller dramatisk udvikling. Capezzones streg er uden tekstur eller liv—alt ser ud som det er bøjet i plastik—figurerne er stive og ligner kun sjældent sig selv fra det ene billede til det næste. Da han til slut skal tegne folkemængden foran Christiansborg, hin historiske aften, sjusker han sig til det med krusseduller.

Hvad værre er, mangler tegneserien enhver form personligt aftryk. Det skulle da lige være dens henførte nationalromantik, men denne er påsmurt så tykt, at den er svær at tage alvorligt som egentligt standpunkt. Nå, de femten minutter er snart gået. Hvad nu?

Erik Svane og Thierry Capezzone, Daisy – en prinsesse i Danmark, Cobolt. 80 s., farve, vejl. pris. kr. 168.

Over the past months, I’ve been working with colleagues across the National Gallery, particularly my two curatorial colleagues Maria Alambritis and Charlotte Wytema, on a new temporary presentation of a selection of the Gallery’s Venetian paintings from Giovanni Bellini to Titian, roughly. The display was conceived to inaugurate the newly – and beautifully – refurbished room 29 as part of our bicentenary NG200 celebrations. It is poignant, I think, that room 29 which first opened in 1930 was originally designed precisely for the Venetian paintings.

Although a collection display, our presentation is organised like a exhibition, presenting the story of Venetian painting in the period, the lives of the artists, the social, religious and political context with a view to elucidating why it was so pivotal in the development of Western painting, collected so assiduously in Britain (and elsewhere) in the nineteenth century and thus why it is so core to the National Gallery’s collections.

In the video above, my colleague Carlo Corsato introduces a number of the key players in the organisation of the display, including of course yours truly. Do come have a look if you’re in London and let me know what you think!

En knugende sekvens af nærmest lignelsesagtig karakter strækker sig over hele fem sider. Den udspiller sig en frostkold vinternat, hvor en familie og deres venner og naboer ved fælles indsats bygger en lille hytte i byens ingenmandsland. Der skal tag på, inden morgengryet og politiet indfinder sig. To brødre, der ellers har ligget i konflikt, forenes, en cognacflaske går på omgang, kvinderne bringer mad, og børnene hjælper til, indtil de falder i søvn midt på arbejdspladsen. Ordensmagten ankommer naturligvis med dagslyset og truer med nedrivning, men nu er hytten en kendsgerning, der med al sandsynlighed bliver stående. Et underspillet billede på samfundets resistens i et forkalket system af undertrykkelse.

The week in review

It’s been a while since I’ve done one of these and it will probably be a while yet before I do another one. Much happening in terms of relocating more permanently to London, so… but I just felt the itch to post something here wishing you all (those of you still reading this rather stagnant page) a happy new year. Over the holiday I rekindled my interest in the civil rights movement and black liberation in the US by reading Manning Marable’s fantastic, and controversial, biography of Malcolm X, A Life of Reinvention. Presenting by far the most nuanced view of this complex figure so far, it does more to make him human, real, in the reader’s eye than just about anything else I’ve read. My one quibble is that by being so scrupulous about presenting the details of his life, warts and all, it tends to lose sight of what made him, this leader who achieved very little in terms of concrete political results, such a crucial figure in modern American history. It lacks sufficient exegesis on his words and thoughts, despite an excellent closing chapter that aims to provide perspective. But don’t let that deter if you have any interest in American history or the civil rights movement. It’s a great book.

With that, I figured I’d post the above video of Malcolm X speaking in Oxford (close to home for me now, that’s why, I guess!) in 1964, five or six months after having broken with the Nation of Islam. It’s a remarkable encapsulation of the fluctuating state of his thought at that moment, starting with a forceful statement of principle — the nature of American racism, the use of violence — entirely consistent with his earlier, more confrontational rhetoric, passes through a Barry Goldwater quote as well — poignantly — as one from Hamlet, to an approchement to the civil rights movement and embrace of the vote as a potential game changer for black Americans. And he ends on a universalist, revolutionary call for action. There are greater moments to be found in his many speeches and interviews (the Malcolm X Project at Columbia University is a good place to start learning more), but I love the eclecticism and coherence of this clip.

More links:

I’ve been asked a few times about the painting that the National Gallery in London has recently cleaned and put back on display as Titian’s portrait of the physician Girolamo Fracastoro, as mentioned by Vasari in his Life of Titian of 1568. It’s a difficult one. The argument, as presented in an article in last month’s Burlington Magazine, is based partly on plausible provenance, but mostly on the fact that it it carried on the back of its frame a 19th-century note identifying its sitter as Fracastoro.

The painting is clearly Titianesque, but rather dull. As mentioned repeatedly in the press coverage, by far the most attractive area is the lynx fur worn by the sitter — compelling tactile eruption flecking through an otherwise rather bland surface. In any case, it pales in comparison with the other Titians in the same room at the National Gallery. None of this means the attribution is wrong, however: it is apparently quite damaged, which probably accounts in large part for its somewhat unconvincing appearance, and although very consistent, Titian did have bad days.

Another problem is the identification of the sitter. He looks quite different from known portraits of Fracastoro, such as the woodcut on right. The sitter in the painting is clearly slimmer of face and with a thinner, more elegant nose, but he is also clearly older in the woodcut, which might account in part for his fuller, more plump appearance. Plus, we still know very little about the extent to which, and how, painters at this time idealised, rejuvenated, and otherwise altered the appearance of their sitters . It’s an issue, which always makes identification of sitters in Renaissance (and later!) portraits difficult. The nineteenth-century label helps in this case, of course, but is far from proof, even if it repeats an older tradition.

Summing up, I don’t see any reason to disagree outright with the proposal made by the gallery, which largely convinces, but cannot help but feel a little uneasy about it.

Links!