High-quality, archival prints of art from the Renaissance to the early 20th century.
High-quality, archival prints of art from the Renaissance to the early 20th century.
High-quality, archival prints of art from the Renaissance to the early 20th century.
High-quality, archival prints of art
from the Renaissance to the early 20th century.
Starting at $8 for a 4 x 5 inch print, or $50 with a basic oak frame.
Starting at $8 for a 4 x 5 inch print, or $50 with a basic oak frame.
Starting at $8 for a 4 x 5 inch print, or $50 with a basic oak frame.
Starting at $8 for a 4 x 5 inch print,
or $50 with a basic oak frame.
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Ostensibly a group of performers after the end of a show in a public park. They are turned toward the audience (and thus you, the viewer). After this moment, they will disperse among the crowd soliciting tips. But for now, in Watteau’s painting, they are still caught in the after-life of their performance, not yet returned to reality—or, rather, caught at the border between aesthetic experience and everyday life. After all, Watteau here is not depicting their characters but the actors themselves (who in turn are really models in a studio). From right to left, Watteau shows them in progressive states of re-entry. At furthest right, the three actors in the shadows are holding the final note of a song; two are flush from exertion while the third is still wearing his Harlequin’s mask. Above them, an ethereal sculpture sits among the treetops melting into the wispy clouds behind which the sun shines softly. On the left, near the edge of the canvas, Watteau places the outstretched hand of an actor whose face is bright with recognition, meeting the gaze of the viewer with an affable smile and already moving to greet them (eagerness of the starving performer). And, finally, in the center, the actor dressed as Pierrot, looking incredibly unsure about his place in the world. His feet are pointing him forward, but the upper half of his body sinks back into space, fixed to the spot. He clenches his hat and digs in his pocket; his lips are parted anxiously, curled and tense at the corners; his eyes are askew, and he looks off into the distance, past the crowd, dreaming of their non-existence. And although Watteau placed the sun behind him, his costume radiates light. A fragile mirage (not unlike painting itself).
Ostensibly a group of performers after the end of a show in a public park. They are turned toward the audience (and thus you, the viewer). After this moment, they will disperse among the crowd soliciting tips. But for now, in Watteau’s painting, they are still caught in the after-life of their performance, not yet returned to reality—or, rather, caught at the border between aesthetic experience and everyday life. After all, Watteau here is not depicting their characters but the actors themselves (who in turn are really models in a studio). From right to left, Watteau shows them in progressive states of re-entry. At furthest right, the three actors in the shadows are holding the final note of a song; two are flush from exertion while the third is still wearing his Harlequin’s mask. Above them, an ethereal sculpture sits among the treetops melting into the wispy clouds behind which the sun shines softly. On the left, near the edge of the canvas, Watteau places the outstretched hand of an actor whose face is bright with recognition, meeting the gaze of the viewer with an affable smile and already moving to greet them (eagerness of the starving performer). And, finally, in the center, the actor dressed as Pierrot, looking incredibly unsure about his place in the world. His feet are pointing him forward, but the upper half of his body sinks back into space, fixed to the spot. He clenches his hat and digs in his pocket; his lips are parted anxiously, curled and tense at the corners; his eyes are askew, and he looks off into the distance, past the crowd, dreaming of their non-existence. And although Watteau placed the sun behind him, his costume radiates light. A fragile mirage (not unlike painting itself).
Ostensibly a group of performers after the end of a show in a public park. They are turned toward the audience (and thus you, the viewer). After this moment, they will disperse among the crowd soliciting tips. But for now, in Watteau’s painting, they are still caught in the after-life of their performance, not yet returned to reality—or, rather, caught at the border between aesthetic experience and everyday life. After all, Watteau here is not depicting their characters but the actors themselves (who in turn are really models in a studio). From right to left, Watteau shows them in progressive states of re-entry. At furthest right, the three actors in the shadows are holding the final note of a song; two are flush from exertion while the third is still wearing his Harlequin’s mask. Above them, an ethereal sculpture sits among the treetops melting into the wispy clouds behind which the sun shines softly. On the left, near the edge of the canvas, Watteau places the outstretched hand of an actor whose face is bright with recognition, meeting the gaze of the viewer with an affable smile and already moving to greet them (eagerness of the starving performer). And, finally, in the center, the actor dressed as Pierrot, looking incredibly unsure about his place in the world. His feet are pointing him forward, but the upper half of his body sinks back into space, fixed to the spot. He clenches his hat and digs in his pocket; his lips are parted anxiously, curled and tense at the corners; his eyes are askew, and he looks off into the distance, past the crowd, dreaming of their non-existence. And although Watteau placed the sun behind him, his costume radiates light. A fragile mirage (not unlike painting itself).
Ostensibly a group of performers after the end of a show in a public park. They are turned toward the audience (and thus you, the viewer). After this moment, they will disperse among the crowd soliciting tips. But for now, in Watteau’s painting, they are still caught in the after-life of their performance, not yet returned to reality—or, rather, caught at the border between aesthetic experience and everyday life. After all, Watteau here is not depicting their characters but the actors themselves (who in turn are really models in a studio). From right to left, Watteau shows them in progressive states of re-entry. At furthest right, the three actors in the shadows are holding the final note of a song; two are flush from exertion while the third is still wearing his Harlequin’s mask. Above them, an ethereal sculpture sits among the treetops melting into the wispy clouds behind which the sun shines softly. On the left, near the edge of the canvas, Watteau places the outstretched hand of an actor whose face is bright with recognition, meeting the gaze of the viewer with an affable smile and already moving to greet them (eagerness of the starving performer). And, finally, in the center, the actor dressed as Pierrot, looking incredibly unsure about his place in the world. His feet are pointing him forward, but the upper half of his body sinks back into space, fixed to the spot. He clenches his hat and digs in his pocket; his lips are parted anxiously, curled and tense at the corners; his eyes are askew, and he looks off into the distance, past the crowd, dreaming of their non-existence. And although Watteau placed the sun behind him, his costume radiates light. A fragile mirage (not unlike painting itself).
Paintings, drawings, prints, editions, etc. from practicing artists who channel the spirit of art’s history through their work, squeezing out a little more blood from the turnip—i.e., artists’ artists.
Paintings, drawings, prints, editions, etc. from practicing artists who channel the spirit of art’s history through their work, squeezing out a little more blood from the turnip—i.e., artists’ artists.
Paintings, drawings, prints, editions, etc. from practicing artists who channel the spirit of art’s history through their work, squeezing out a little more blood from the turnip—i.e., artists’ artists.
Paintings, drawings, prints, editions, etc. from practicing artists who channel the spirit of art’s history through their work, squeezing out a little more blood from the turnip—i.e., artists’ artists.
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It’s hard to say whether this drawing depicts a continuous space or if the woman bent over, bathed in light, is imagined by the man on the couch. The opening to the adjacent room, from where the light floods in, sways along the edges, bending as if the shadows were curtains pulled back by the vision. And though the figures nearly touch, the contrast between the areas of light and shadow that engulf them; the interiority implied by both their postures; and the way the composition is balanced, countering the teetering a triangle stood on its point (the woman) with the solidity of one sat on its side (the man), creates an immeasurable distance between them, turning each into the other’s extreme. The drawing is inspired by Goya’s “Caprichos” and bears particular resemblance to No. 43 in the sequence, “The sleep of reason produces monsters,” which itself may have been based on the frontispiece to 1793 edition of Rousseau’s “Oeuvres Complètes.” The figure in Canales’ version, however, is neither lost to the demons of sleep nor gripped by the throes of inspired creation. Instead, he shares the blank expression of Degas’ drinkers, one of those embodiments of Ennui who, like living ghosts, wait for their oblivion. The drawing’s title—“Barburner”—confirms this reading, but the meaning of the woman remains ambiguous. She also recalls Degas, his pastels of women bathing bent awkwardly over a low tub, only here she is turned away from the viewer and the feeling is less one of intimacy than of estrangement, a growing silence. She exists apart, and the gulf cannot be breached. Desire appears and runs through the image (in the pulsing color of the shadows, the meandering touch of the line), but finds no consummation, remains still unextinguished. Why, then, must it exist?—This seems to me what the drawing is asking.
It’s hard to say whether this drawing depicts a continuous space or if the woman bent over, bathed in light, is imagined by the man on the couch. The opening to the adjacent room, from where the light floods in, sways along the edges, bending as if the shadows were curtains pulled back by the vision. And though the figures nearly touch, the contrast between the areas of light and shadow that engulf them; the interiority implied by both their postures; and the way the composition is balanced, countering the teetering a triangle stood on its point (the woman) with the solidity of one sat on its side (the man), creates an immeasurable distance between them, turning each into the other’s extreme. The drawing is inspired by Goya’s “Caprichos” and bears particular resemblance to No. 43 in the sequence, “The sleep of reason produces monsters,” which itself may have been based on the frontispiece to 1793 edition of Rousseau’s “Oeuvres Complètes.” The figure in Canales’ version, however, is neither lost to the demons of sleep nor gripped by the throes of inspired creation. Instead, he shares the blank expression of Degas’ drinkers, one of those embodiments of Ennui who, like living ghosts, wait for their oblivion. The drawing’s title—“Barburner”—confirms this reading, but the meaning of the woman remains ambiguous. She also recalls Degas, his pastels of women bathing bent awkwardly over a low tub, only here she is turned away from the viewer and the feeling is less one of intimacy than of estrangement, a growing silence. She exists apart, and the gulf cannot be breached. Desire appears and runs through the image (in the pulsing color of the shadows, the meandering touch of the line), but finds no consummation, remains still unextinguished. Why, then, must it exist?—This seems to me what the drawing is asking.
It’s hard to say whether this drawing depicts a continuous space or if the woman bent over, bathed in light, is imagined by the man on the couch. The opening to the adjacent room, from where the light floods in, sways along the edges, bending as if the shadows were curtains pulled back by the vision. And though the figures nearly touch, the contrast between the areas of light and shadow that engulf them; the interiority implied by both their postures; and the way the composition is balanced, countering the teetering a triangle stood on its point (the woman) with the solidity of one sat on its side (the man), creates an immeasurable distance between them, turning each into the other’s extreme. The drawing is inspired by Goya’s “Caprichos” and bears particular resemblance to No. 43 in the sequence, “The sleep of reason produces monsters,” which itself may have been based on the frontispiece to 1793 edition of Rousseau’s “Oeuvres Complètes.” The figure in Canales’ version, however, is neither lost to the demons of sleep nor gripped by the throes of inspired creation. Instead, he shares the blank expression of Degas’ drinkers, one of those embodiments of Ennui who, like living ghosts, wait for their oblivion. The drawing’s title—“Barburner”—confirms this reading, but the meaning of the woman remains ambiguous. She also recalls Degas, his pastels of women bathing bent awkwardly over a low tub, only here she is turned away from the viewer and the feeling is less one of intimacy than of estrangement, a growing silence. She exists apart, and the gulf cannot be breached. Desire appears and runs through the image (in the pulsing color of the shadows, the meandering touch of the line), but finds no consummation, remains still unextinguished. Why, then, must it exist?—This seems to me what the drawing is asking.
It’s hard to say whether this drawing depicts a continuous space or if the woman bent over, bathed in light, is imagined by the man on the couch. The opening to the adjacent room, from where the light floods in, sways along the edges, bending as if the shadows were curtains pulled back by the vision. And though the figures nearly touch, the contrast between the areas of light and shadow that engulf them; the interiority implied by both their postures; and the way the composition is balanced, countering the teetering a triangle stood on its point (the woman) with the solidity of one sat on its side (the man), creates an immeasurable distance between them, turning each into the other’s extreme. The drawing is inspired by Goya’s “Caprichos” and bears particular resemblance to No. 43 in the sequence, “The sleep of reason produces monsters,” which itself may have been based on the frontispiece to 1793 edition of Rousseau’s “Oeuvres Complètes.” The figure in Canales’ version, however, is neither lost to the demons of sleep nor gripped by the throes of inspired creation. Instead, he shares the blank expression of Degas’ drinkers, one of those embodiments of Ennui who, like living ghosts, wait for their oblivion. The drawing’s title—“Barburner”—confirms this reading, but the meaning of the woman remains ambiguous. She also recalls Degas, his pastels of women bathing bent awkwardly over a low tub, only here she is turned away from the viewer and the feeling is less one of intimacy than of estrangement, a growing silence. She exists apart, and the gulf cannot be breached. Desire appears and runs through the image (in the pulsing color of the shadows, the meandering touch of the line), but finds no consummation, remains still unextinguished. Why, then, must it exist?—This seems to me what the drawing is asking.