An odd bunch
Andrew Lambirth Artists' Self-Portraits from the Uffizi: Masterpieces from Velazquez to Chagall Dulwich Picture Gallery, until 15 July phe Uffizi is to Florence what the National Gallery is to London, and part of its astonishing collection is devoted to a unique array of self-portraits, housed now in the Corridoio Vasariano. This long corridor, which links the Palazzo Vecchio to the Palazzo Pitti, was designed by Giorgio Vasari, artist, architect and grandfather of art history with his classic Lives of the Artists. The self-portrait collection was begun in the 17th century by Cardinal Leopoldo de' Medici, and has been added to ever since, but its documentation has never been precise. Thus there are two self-portraits by Guercino in the collection, both disputed by scholars, but neither seems to be the one originally commissioned by the Cardinal. Here already is part of the legend surrounding the collection — its strange variability and in some cases its questionable authenticity. Added to this, the Vasari Corridor is not particularly accessible to the general public, so it is more familiar from report than first-hand experience.
At Dulwich are some 50 works of art from the collection, mostly paintings but a couple of sculptures as well, selected by the Italian art historians Giovanna Giusti and Maria Sframeli for an exhibition which previously showed in Venice. Was the selection made with an Italian audience in mind? I'd like to see what an English curator would have chosen for an English public. The collection contains self-portraits by Holbein, Sargent, Rauschenberg, Puvis de Chavannes, Rubens, Millais, Bocklin, Andrea del Sarto, Ingres, Delacroix and Corot — to pick but a few names at random. None of these appears here. What we have instead is a strange mixture of the familiar and the unknown, by no means all deserving the designation 'masterpiece', proffered so unblushingly in the exhibition's title.
The visitor is greeted by the famous selfportrait attributed to Filippino Lippi, a haunting and memorable face, whose greeny-hazel eyes have gazed soulfully at generations of art lovers, through countless reproductions. When the painting was purchased for the collection in 1771 it was believed to be by Masaccio, but this identification was subsequently rejected in favour of Lippi. Even this attribution is now challenged — is the gentle young man with the tombstone teeth really an artist at all? In fact, given that the painting was done in the unusual medium of fresco on tile there is considerable doubt whether it's original or a later confection. Does it matter? This image has intrigued and given pleasure to so many that it has surely justified its existence in the world. The question of attribution can for once be laid circumspectly to one side.
The exhibition is lucidly hung, with the artists' names stencilled in subtle silver above the frames for ease of identification. In this first room are a couple of big hitters to establish the collection's credentials: a supposed Rembrandt enveloped in what the catalogue is pleased to call 'an aura of charm and attributive mystery', and a Tintoretto that is probably a copy of the Louvre self-portrait. The 'Rembrandt' is rather dull and pudding-like in texture; the Tintoretto head, all gloom and melancholy whiskers, has been patched into a later canvas surround. We are perhaps on safer ground with the striking portrait of Alessando Allori (1535-1607), though it makes him look like a girl in some sort of asexual Mao outfit. Strange headgear seems to be a minor theme in this exhibition: look at the softly bearded Primaticcio's hat, just like a crust of meringue.
In the second room is a dark portrayal of Diego Rodriguez de Silva y Velazquez, full of dignity and self-importance. (Probably another copy then.) The key picture here is Gian Lorenzo Bernini's self-portrait, a rare painting by the noted sculptor, architect, playwright and stage designer, a dramatic and arresting image which holds the eye and makes the viewer curious to know more about this intellectual adventurer. There's rather a good bit of trompe l'oeil by Antonio Cioci, the man in this case refreshingly subservient to the clutter of objects which surrounds him in the studio, while Arcangelo Resani, sporting what looks like a jockey's cap, is accompanied by the animals he painted. Salomon Adler (who he?) paints himself before and after a bottle or two, while Andrea Pozzo is strict in Jesuit's robe, but full of ambition. The portrait of Sassoferrato is plainly sonorous in comparison: placed against a resounding blue typical of his other paintings, it makes a compelling and timeless statement.
Room 3 features a tremendous Zoffany which depicts the artist giving a wry laugh as time runs out — he holds an hourglass in one hand, a skull in the other. It could be gloomy, but in fact it's irrepressibly optimistic, and makes you warm to the man as well as appreciate his very considerable skills as a painter. The Reynolds next to it isn't in the same league; infinitely preferable is the sharp-eyed if dyspeptic rationality of Antoine de Favray hard by. On the opposite wall is a vast outdoor portrait of Jacob More in the Tivoli grotto, every inch the Scottish gentleman in his weskit and breeks. Reynolds apparently called him 'the finest Painter of Air since Claude', and appropriately enough More has painted both his feet floating free of the earth he should be attached to. In a corner is a small dour Overbeck, the face caught in that expression so familiar from adolescents — don't talk to me, I'm thinking important thoughts.
It would be uncharitable to describe the fourth room as given over to nonentities, considering the enjoyable picture by William Merritt Chase, one of America's most celebrated Impressionists, whose luxurious moustache seems about to take flight, and the skilful Anders Zorn portrait. There's even a bizarre Balla, looking like a dictator in benign mood requesting you take tea with him But as for the others . . . well, I sympathised with the visitor I overheard exclaiming, 'What's the point of portraits of a load of people you've never heard of?' Quite. And if you add to that a lack of artistic distinction, then you might be advised to hurry through this room, ignoring the searching gaze of Corcos, the smirking grimace of Sartorio and the rampant narcissism of Thayaht.
The last room brings us abruptly up to date, with a cabbalistic Tallies matter-picture vaguely suggestive of facial features, a wonderfully supercilious Annigoni selfportrait, and a pseudo-classical bas-relief by Mitoraj. Michelangelo Pistoletto dominates the room, with an opulent image from 1971 of himself in large yellowframed glasses, wearing a fur hat and leather coat. It's done in serigraph on a sheet of polished steel which disconcertingly reflects its spectators. (Serigraph is silkscreen printing, by the way.) By contrast, Chagall's self-portrait, which he fiddled with over a period of nine years, looks tame and inexact despite its evocative Parisian setting. Then there's the Armenian Sciltian, unknown in this country, trying to look like de Chirico, and an early Ensor, which is more about the disposition of paint across a canvas (in his own very particular palette) than about recording the appearance of his youthful self. This really is an oddly assorted assembly. Look at the self-aggrandising heightened realism of Umberto Brunelleschi's portrait. He was a popular illustrator — why on earth include him in a collection which boasts Raphael and Rembrandt? Oh well, if it entertains the troops ...
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