Category Archives: The Synthetic Image research project

One week per month over the course of one year I work on the creation of a Digital Diorama of the Archangel Michael. This project serves as a vehicle for research into figurative image making before photography and how we might achieve similar effects with the computer (after, or at least without photography). To this end, the project is also accompanied by study of 3D modeling, texturing and realtime presentation.

Synthetic Image research in April

Apart from a delightful visit to the National Gallery in London which allowed me to study especially the work of Carlo Crivelli, not much happened this month. I have abandoned the Blender tutorial about modeling a human figure because it felt useless. In an attempt to understand the style of the Old Masters better, I did model a face based on the wonderful Portrait of a Young Woman by Petrus Christus. But while the exercise was useful for technical reasons, I didn’t make me much wiser artistically.

This month I experienced a rather intense “crisis of faith” caused primarily by the realization that I am involved in way too many projects to actually get any satisfying results in any of them. These are all rather elaborate projects and given that I am approaching the age of half a century, I decided to prioritize and focus.

A major factor in my choice of priorities is the contrast between the considerable know-how that I have already acquired and my desire to learn new things. It would be wasteful to not apply and deepen the skills I possess in favor of becoming an amateur at something new (like 3D modeling). Of course working with computers implies a certain level of continuous learning. But I want to stop trying to do everything in favor of actually getting something done.

I have realized that, while I enjoy research and study, not actually creating and working towards a release frustrates me immensely. And it causes a vicious circle where research increasingly feels like it is holding me back, rather than informing creation. Having a multitude of things on my mind renders it unclear what I should be doing next. The result is in fact very often procrastination, to escape the insecurity I presume. But given the overload of work, of course losing time only aggravates the problem.

I still intend to create the diorama of the Archangel Michael, but I will attempt to do so applying mostly skills that I already possess. After all, the goal of this project is to create a scene that encourages contemplation, in the way of the art of the Old Masters, and not for me to learn how to model better. I think I possess enough know-how to make something interesting. And the research that I have been doing, especially of Old Master art, will allow me to redirect this know-how towards this new goal.

So far my creative life has been focused on things that bring joy to others. But as the age of fifty approaches, the importance of things that bring me joy is growing. They started as hobbies vital to my mental balance while creating for others, and also inspiring creatively. But I feel that half a century of working for other people earns me the right to indulge myself a little in the time I have left. So yes, I will continue to learn music and practice classical guitar, and I will devote more time to projects that I feel especially passionate about, even if they may not be of any use to anybody else.

Ironically, having a much clearer structure in my life, and a sense of priorities, may end up being the only way to actually make all of the things on my list anyway. In my experience, creative satisfaction in one project can motivate and inspire others. While lack of focus reduces the possibility any creative output at all.

With many projects going on simultaneously, it’s easy to become cynical. I may deeply care for all of them but when they don’t live up to my expectations, as a direct result of spreading my energy thin, I lose courage. Dedication will allow me to pay attention to all aspects of a project. Not just the broad strokes. And I think that can be highly rewarding.

The main focus with Tale of Tales has been on the medium of videogames. Each one of our creations was a stepping stone, an experiment in a different direction, to see what could happen there with that medium. We were dedicated to that exploration more than to any project in particular. And while that is perfectly understandable in such an under-explored context, it doesn’t necessarily make for the best possible art.

While in Brussels for a classical guitar festival, I noticed that the top of city hall is decorated with a golden Archangel Michael. So I leave you with this image search result page that inspires the next step in the project.

— Michaël Samyn.

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

An Italian Primitive in London

The National Gallery in London was on my list of places to visit for The Synthetic Image research project because I wanted to see Carlo Crivelli’s picture of Saint Michael, of which I have studied a reproduction in detail. As always, of course, there were many other works to enjoy as well. But also one disconcerting experience.

An entire wing of the museum is filled with paintings from the era that I’m most interested in. The Sainsbury Wing to the side of the main building on Trafalgar Square is dedicated to paintings from 1200 to 1500. Room 59 is almost exclusively devoted to the work of Carlo Crivelli. Crivelli is a bit of an exception in the reference collection for The Synthetic Image project, and indeed Cathedral-in-the-Clouds as a whole. Most of the project is inspired by the work of Flemish Primitives but Crivelli is Italian. Yet it’s difficult to imagine he wouldn’t have been familiar with the work of Van Eck and Van der Weyden. There are very strong correlations in terms of subject matter, aesthetic style and expression. But Crivelli adds a nice dose of Italy in the mix. So much so that when I entered the gray room in the museum I couldn’t help but feel that the golden masterpieces really belong in a sunnier climate.

Many of Crivelli’s works are altarpieces. The National Gallery displays the gilded woodwork that frames one of them. It made me wonder about the craftspeople responsible for this marvelous aspect of the work. Especially the many three-dimensional elements in Crivelli’s paintings create a strong connection with the frames.

Saint Michael is displayed within its frame as well. But sadly not in the complete altarpiece it once belonged to, even though three other parts of this altarpiece are on display in the same room. Being in its physical presence allowed me to answer some questions I had when perusing the photographic reproduction. The headband of the angel is indeed three-dimensional, for instance, with what looks like a real gem on his forehead. But I also experienced something a lot less enjoyable.

Nothing. I felt nothing when I saw Crivelli’s Saint Michael in the flesh. I had made myself so thoroughly familiar with a reproduction of the piece that the real thing felt closed to me. I guess I usually “open up” artworks by exploring them. Looking at different elements and interpreting them functions as the opening of windows and doors, or as removing layers of clothing. Bit by bit the artwork allows me to enter, and I am transported. But with Saint Michael I had already done a lot of this work at home, albeit not with the same aesthetic effect. So I guess my mind was like “Been there done that”. I have similar feelings for the Mona Lisa or the Nike of Samothrace. I don’t seem to be able to see those very famous works of art. I look at them and nothing happens, no matter how hard I try.

This reminded me of an essay that I read a long time ago, when postmodern thinking had made it pertinent again in the 1980s. In The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction (published in 1935), Walter Benjamin talks about an aura that surrounds physical objects and that seems to be affected by photographing them. The more photographs are taken of something, the less impressive it becomes. Or that’s at least what my young mind got out of the essay. I’ll reread it one of these days.

Ironically the reason why we were able to go to London this time was to speak at a symposium about the preservation of digital art organized by Rhizome and Google Arts & Culture. The latter, of course, is deeply involved in meticulously photographing and distributing mechanical reproductions of art and museums. As an art fan, I applaud this to some extent, but my experience with Saint Michael and Walter Benjamin’s observation do make me wonder if they are not basically destroying all art.

Luckily there were many other Crivelli’s in the room. And even in their dry London presentation (compared to the drama of the Crivelli room in the Pinacoteca di Brera), being able to explore these works in person is always a feast. Strangely I had discovered Crivelli’s work only a few years ago. Somehow he doesn’t belong to the cannon that is taught in art school. And his work does indeed not fit very easily in the nicely linear story that art history often tries to be. It’s very clear to see why, though. Art history has a tendency to elevate masters from the past whose work displays some relationship with modern art. The golden, mystical atmosphere of Crivelli with his grumpy saints and refined lines and postures isn’t exactly the kind of stuff that would have inspired Cézanne or Manet. Although surely the surrealists must have adored the strange gherkins and apples that randomly populate almost all of Crivelli’s pieces.

Next to the typical depictions of saints and virgins for polyptychs, the National Gallery also shows his striking Annunciation with Saint Emidius. I was surprised by the size of this work. It’s two meters tall! In reproduction it somehow feels like a miniature. What a glorious picture! It’s a very odd annunciation scene that shows part of a city street that anyone who has visited Italy will find familiar. Virgin Mary is just one of the people who live in this town and God sends his spirit to her through a conveniently located little window which turns parts of the wall around it gold. It’s a strange and puzzling piece that has your eyes continuously bouncing from one element to the next. Especially the symbolism of birds and cages is particularly amusing in the context of the immaculate conception.

All the Crivelli’s in this room are beautiful! I was very moved by The Dead Christ supported by Two Angels, especially because baby looks so sad!

It’s wonderful to see how well Crivelli’s work has been preserved. Most of his pictures appear bright and sharp to us, with very few cracks. Maybe this is because they hung in cool dark churches most of the time. Or perhaps he painted on top of a layer of gold leaf. Paintings on metal tend to preserve much better than on canvas. I understand that the mobility of canvas offers great advantages but the wood that the Primitive Masters painted on is just a superior surface. Not only because it tends to preserve better, but also because it’s even, so we just see the picture not some woven texture. I guess this is another thing that relates the old paintings to work in the digital medium: a clean flat surface.

Many of Crivelli’s figures look down. Saint Michael has a reason for that as he’s keeping his eyes on Lucifer beneath his feet. But the others just seem immersed in thought. They make no eye contact with the spectator but invite them to join in their meditation. And although it is especially striking in Crivelli’s depictions, this is not unique. It is in fact rather common for “primitive” painters to depict characters with half open eye lids. This adds a lot to the feeling of intimacy of such works and encourages us to imagine a sensual connection with the scene rather than only a visual one. It draws us into the work.

I feel like some kind of patriot. In every museum I visit, I look for the Flemish masters. I love looking through the windows in such paintings in a foreign land and seeing views of what could be my home town of Ghent. In fact, our apartment is just around that corner! The National Gallery houses two beautiful Virgin and Child pictures, one by Memling and another by Bouts. I was moved by the contrast between the silent posture of the virgin and the brilliant golden rays behind her head in Memling’s picture. And Bouts reminded me that we can have fun with such elevated themes. A tender loving sort of fun. Not mockery or irony. Gentle, sympathetic. Baby Jesus seems to be laughing as Mary offers her nipple.

As always I found several other depictions of Saint Michael in the museum, or of his counterpart Saint George. In the light of my decision to follow the path of mystery, I was particularly drawn to the depiction of the devil (or the dragon) as a grotesque monster. To our modern eyes, their ridiculousness is very challenging. It is hard not to laugh with such a silly looking creature. But if you think about the history of evil people, or indeed very recent events in politics, doesn’t evil often appear as a clown?

In a rather unique depiction of Saint Michael, by Piero della Francesca, the angel actually kills the devil, having cut off the head of a serpent. The serpent that seduced Eve in the Garden of Eden presumably, which is Lucifer in disguise. It’s extremely rare to see Michael commit such violence. Usually he just subdues the devil, pushes him into hell (or onto earth!). Maybe he cannot kill him. Maybe God won’t allow it.

It’s a fascinating topic that I hope I can do justice in my own piece.

—Michaël Samyn.

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

The Path of Mystery

I am a modern person. Even when I purposely seek inspiration in old art, I can’t help but come up with modern ideas for my own creations. I have a tendency to twist, to subvert, to play. I should probably give in to these tendencies: follow what comes natural to me. That makes sense. After all, I am a modern person working for a modern audience. And perhaps a modern twist can make ancient sentiments more palpable to my contemporaries.

I can enjoy art that emerges from such tendencies. I like how already in the late renaissance and definitely in the baroque era and the 19th century, artists interpret traditional themes in very personal ways. But none of those make me feel what the work by the Flemish Primitives and some other medieval and early renaissance artists do. I delight in the spectacle of the baroque and even salon painting and sculpture. But I am deeply moved by the sincerity and mystery in -slightly- older work.

So I have decided that, at least for the diorama of Archangel Michael that I am creating for Cathedral-in-the-Clouds in the context of the Synthetic Image research project, I will attempt to delve deeper into the mystery. To reject my modern tendencies and to follow my passionate heart (not my clever brain), even if I don’t understand where it is taking me. Curiously this requires me to think less, to invent less, and to accept traditional ideas about depiction.

The one huge caveat in this idea is that our times are drastically different from the Middle Ages. Particularly with respect to faith. Being so intensely immersed in a mysterious religion must have been a tremendous help for artists to imbue their work with sensitivity and depth. We don’t live in such times now. We have no solid shared belief in an immaterial world of gods and angels. Saints have become freaks that fascinate rather than models we admire. We think of ourselves as cartographers of the universe. Rather than of the universe as an unknowable whirlpool of which we know we form a part in an order that exceeds our understanding.

We live simultaneously in more emotional and less emotional times. We respond quickly to extreme stimuli but are insensitive to things that are hard to grasp, that escape us, that are so vast that their slowness makes them almost unperceivable to us. But if we find the silence in ourselves we can sense in the very tips of our capacities our connection to it.

I want to create work that helps us find this stillness. Work that is not extroverted, or clever, or ironic. Work that is not personal, that does not seek admiration for its creator (it is no coincidence that the name of many medieval artists is not even known to us). Work that is still. Majestic in its modesty. This does not mean distant, or cerebral, or ethereal. Physical sensuality is very much a part of this experience. We have bodies. We know fruits, the air, the landscape. We know stories, places, we are connected, not only to the spiritual world but also to the material one.

The concept of Paradise might be key here, the Garden of Eden that we forever seek to return to, but that we never really left. It is still there, underneath whatever we have created with our Knowledge of Good and Evil. The plants, the animals, humans, the wind. Our voices, our poems, our music. We are still in Paradise! And we can find it again through art. Not as an escape but as firm ground.

Maybe that is what faith is. Firm ground. The gods, the myths, the legends, they are all true. They are ways to imagine the unimaginable. Like three-dimensional realities drawn on a two-dimensional plane. Not fantasies, not even symbols. They are true. They are doors, pathways, connections. Without them we would be lost. Without them we are lost.

Mystery is an inadequate word because it implies vagueness, a lack of knowing, a lack of familiarity. But what I feel in the presence of great art is the exact opposite. Mystery is clarity. To know is but a game on the surface. Mystery is solid and strong and we are very closely and intimately connected to it. We are children of this mystery. And like children we don’t need to understand why or how. We accept. We love.

This is not the easiest path. It leads away from success, away from applause, away from sympathetic smiles and fond expressions of gratitude. I know I could make something cool and contemporary based on ancient themes. And there will be opportunities for that too. But in this particular case, I have chosen the path of mystery, the one that is even hard to see and impossible to know where it leads. Not for adventure, because I’m not expecting any of this to become clear at any point. But for devotion, as a prayer, as an exercise in submission.

Synthetic Image research in March

Our visit to the Kunsthistorisches Museum has filled me with so much inspiration that it proved a little difficult to get real work done this week. But I’m very determined about the next steps.

Collecting notes and photos from the visit took a bit more time than expected. And the 8th anniversary of our game The Path and sharing its new build for Windows 10 also affected the plans. And of course there were the classical guitar studies which I’m taking more seriously than before. I arranged my attendance of the Koblenz Guitar Festival in May. And I visited Ghent’s very own superb luthier Karel Dedain to try out his newest creation.

I did manage to continue the Blender modeling tutorial. Learned about modeling the face this time. Most of the tutorial focuses on modeling the shape which requires a sort of intuitive knowledge of anatomy (that I don’t really possess and honestly am trying to avoid somewhat in order to retain some of the naivety that I admire in early Old Masters). The way that this tutorial doesn’t explain the logic of the structure and instead just shows somebody doing it amazingly well, is not very useful anyway. Most of the instructions are in the form of “adjust the shape”. So I might abandon this thing. Maybe I should do an anime modeling tutorial, instead of a photographically-realistic one. Maybe those shapes are closer to Flemish Primitives.

Putting so much time into acquiring new skills sometimes seems a bit wasteful. I feel I already know a lot. Maybe it would be wiser to apply the knowledge that I have instead of learning new techniques and not actually creating anything. Maybe I should stop doing tutorials and just model what I can.

One of the things that caught my attention in the museum in Vienna was how very refined surfaces are treated in the paintings that I admire. Even with wonky perspective and incorrect anatomy, the artists manage to depict lush materials that give a more sensual sensation of realism, rather than a purely visual one. This made me think I should focus my study more on texturing and shading than modeling.

The museum visit inspired a great idea for interaction with the diorama in Virtual Reality. So I worked a bit more on the simple figure I modeled last month and used it to create a prototype in Unreal. I like the result so far. Some things didn’t work because interaction in VR is very tricky when hoping to avoid nausea.

There is a text that I need to write about an important decision that I have made concerning aesthetic style and conceptual approach of the diorama. I will post that soon.

I’m concerned that all this research and thinking and writing might be getting in the way of actual creation. Sometimes it feels like procrastination: it’s easier to design concepts and develop theories than to actually make something. So next month I will focus more on making! And based on the results we’ll see where I need more theory or research.

— Michaël Samyn.

Angels in Vienna

The Kunsthistorisches Museum in Vienna is one of the nicest museums I have visited. We had been there before but this time the explicit reason was to study the paintings of Archangel Michael by Gerard David, Luca Giordano and Bartolomé Esteban Murillo. I didn’t find the latter but the museum offered plenty compensation. The Kunsthistorisches Museum has a wonderful collection, splendid curation, a great building and cosy couches in ideal positions.

The museum allows one to get very close to the paintings. The alarms don’t go off as quickly as in some other places and many works are not covered by glass. This is enormously risky in terms of potential vandalism or accidents but it’s wonderful for students like me.

 

The two Michaels

Gerard David: Altar of Saint Michael

When I entered Room 20 I had to steady myself. The small room is filled with Flemish Primitives, many of which I’m familiar with from reproduction. I knew I was going to spend some time here. I don’t even need to look at the works. Merely being in their presence feels like arriving in a spiritual home.

One of the paintings that I wanted to study is in this room too: Gerard David’s Altarpiece of Saint Michael, painted around 1510. The triptych consists of a squarish center panel depicting the archangel defeating demons, flanked by two tall panels each depicting a saint holding a book. On the left, judging by the lion at his feet, is Saint Jerome (amusing combination for me since my brother’s name is Jerome). On the right a man dressed as a monk holding an open book upon which a little naked person is kneeling in prayer. I imagine that little guy to be the Virtual Reality user experiencing the diorama.

Of course the middle panel absorbed my attention. What a glorious composition! The depiction of the archangel controls the picture aesthetically. His figure holds everything in place and he seems completely at ease, leaning on a solid golden section. His spread wings remind of a crucifix. In fact, each of the main figures in the three panels is holding a long staff with a crucifix at the top, together referring to the crucifixion scene on mount Golgotha.

Michael’s face is deeply serene. Its angelic androgyny contributes to that serenity. This is especially striking because of the contrast with the vulgar and grotesque demons beneath him. As is common in the Middle Ages, the devils are portrayed as monsters. There’s seven of them, which might remind of the cardinal sins, according to the museum’s description.

The most remarkable aspect of the action is that Michael doesn’t even harm the demons. He just covers them with his enormous velvety cape: a heavy blanket under which he seems to put the monsters to rest. Almost like putting children to bed, reminding somewhat of virgin and child scenes or even an allegory of charity. He has no weapon. Just a shield and a staff.

The figure of the archangel in this work inspires admiration. He’s not depicted in the usual more symbolic, removed way. Here he feels more like a saint: you want to be like him. Just like Michael, I feel I must confidently and precisely suppress evil. Without emotion. Just do it because it’s right. Like brushing your teeth before bed. Only infinitely harder. Hence the admiration: I wish I could be like him. I know I should try to be more like him. But I also know that I can never achieve this ideal. He remains a inspiring saintly example.

In the background we see three angels seemingly sweeping up hords of demons. Almost like a mundane housekeeping task. Just doing the work.

Of note is that the demons are not cast into some vulcanic pit of hell. But apparently down to earth. Is earth hell?

 

More thoughts in Room 20

I found another depiction of the Archangel Michael in the same room in the tiny Maria with child by Van der Weyden’s studio: a decorative architectural ornament depicting Michael with raised sword chasing Adam out of Paradise.

On the other side of the room, two larger panels by Hans Memling depicting Adam and Eve. I was especially struck by their faces. They look so fresh. Surprised. Filled with wonder. Have they just been crying? Have they just been born? Innocent beauty (right before biting in the apple they are holding). Very naked.

And there’s much more in the small room! A triptych by Memling of the Madonna flanked by the two Johns, an intense crucifixion by Van der Weyden featuring Magdalena and Veronica, remarkable dark blue angels and a fantastically imaginary Jerusalem in the background, a small diptych by Hugo Van der Goes with a fall of man and a deposition, some wonderful portraits by Juan de Flandes, and several more small pictures.

Suffice it to say that I didn’t make it. I didn’t succeed in observing every painting in Room 20. It’s all so intense. Luckily Room 13 next door has comfy couches and walls plastered with Rubens. The irony of such spectacular work having a relaxing effect!

 

Luca Giordano: Saint Michael vanquishing the devils

Of an entirely different order is Luca Giordano‘s gigantic painting of Saint Michael vanquishing the devils, hung impressively central in a huge room. Painted around 1666 in Italy this is a highly baroque picture with diagonals and spirals swirling over an otherwise fairly static symmetrical composition. Typically for the more modern approach to painting, the work is very narrative, with realistic depictions of humans representing allegorical themes. And it’s intentionally spectacular.

The painting is so large that standing close to it means that I join the devils at the bottom with Michael towering over me as well as them. This painting represents an entirely different approach to religion. For David, the archangel is an inspiring caretaker, for Giordano he is a powerful warlord.

Even more than Raphael’s Michael that I explored in the Louvre last month, Giordano’s seems to dance on top of the demons. Despite of the raised sword, he doesn’t appear emotionally involved in a battle. He’s doing a dance. Going through the motions. Certain he will win. That is the will of God, after all. He is just performing the eternal ritual. The effortlessness of tiptoed balancing on the devil seems to mock all illusions that evil ever had any chance of winning.

It’s not an intimate scene. The light triumphs over the darkness. Simple, clear. Cherubs in the sky. Devils on the ground. The red glow below seems to suggest an underworld, not the surface of earth. Behind the angel the clouds break open to let the divine light stream in. Everything is yellow, brown and red. Michael stands out with blue and green garments inspired by Roman armor.

Typically for the modern era, the devils are depicted as almost humans. Only their little horns, small bat wings, pointy ears and long nails signify them as evil. Giordano also has Satan mimic Michael’s pose with raised arms and spread legs and wings, reinforcing the notion that the two are brothers. Typically Lucifer is naked and Michael dressed.

Unsurprisingly with sensual work like this it’s easy to read a erotic undertone in the scene. Michael is offering Lucifer a look under his skirt but Lucifer turns his head away. This causes Michael to blush. Michael is wielding a red hot sword (a flaming phallus). He’s also very feminine: skirt, cape draped like a shawl, long curly hair, graceful pose, feather on his hat.

Curiously Lucifer seems to have been sitting on a chair -a throne?- when Michael attacked him. Maybe the other devils were carrying it.

The work struck me as a depiction of a three dimensional scene that the artist imagined. Even if that scene is hard to read here and there, it is the unseen three dimensional reality that matters. Very much like realtime 3D.

 

More museum musing

Perugino and Raphael

Seeing the multiple Perugino paintings in the museum’s collection I suddenly understood the desire for pre-raphaelism. Raphael’s work is undeniably beautiful, clever and sensitive. But his teacher’s work still holds the mystery of the primitives. There is magic in Perugino’s worlds. Mystery. Awe.

That makes them harder to appreciate. Raphael is easier on the eyes and mind. But Perugino shows us the true holy essence of existence. And sometimes we just don’t want to know how devastatingly dazzling our existence is. Raphael distracts us from being too acutely aware of this. He consoles with the charm of mundane prettiness.
Perugino is stubborn. He’s not fishing for compliments. Not trying to make your life easier. He’s a hardcore painter of an irrefutable truth that is agonizingly mysterious.

If you mock a Perugino or have fun in its vicinity you will most certainly be struck by lightning. That’s what the eyes of his figures seem to say. They force you into sincerity. And it’s a pleasant sensation. To be allowed to be sincere.

If the Raphael is the exquisitely well made entertaining blockbuster then the Perugino is the annoyingly obscure clumsily shot art house film. Ridley Scott versus Chantal Akerman. Guillermo del Toro versus Andrei Tarkovsky.

 

Rewarding attention

One of the things that I admire in the Flemish Primitives is their devotion to detail. Unlike later painters, they eschew suggestion. Everything in their paintings is actually there. When you observe closer, you see better. As opposed to baroque painting for instance where zooming in only reveals a paint stroke (admirable effect in and of itself, of course).

This necessity for things to actually exist feels similar to the requirements of computer-based realtime 3D. I have long been annoyed by the difficulty of simply suggesting shapes in my medium. But the Old Masters are helping me to embrace this aspect and teach me how to use it.

Extreme detail in art gives a feeling of preciousness. It demands reverence, respect. And, importantly, it rewards the viewer for paying attention! The more you look, the more you see. The closer you look, the better you see.

This is not exclusive to the Northern Renaissance. The Italian mannerist Bronzino also rewards attention. Getting closer does not disappoint. Like in the work of the Flemish Primitives, the closer you look the more you see. It’s always sharp. The picture never dissolves into brush strokes. At least to the naked eye! Of course brush strokes are revealed when we blow up technical reproductions. Demonstrating how the art is made to the scale of the human body. Just like Virtual Reality.

You must paint individual hairs!

 

More Michaels

That evening we attended a violin quartet performance in the baroque Saint Anna church. They played an early piece by Vienna’s superstar Mozart and a wonderful rendition of Schubert’s Death and the Maiden.

Right above our heads, like a sign from heaven, a glorious Archangel Michael chases a bunch of devils out of heaven with firy lightning bolts in each hand. Again dancing on tiptoe.

The next day we went back to the museum. I still felt somewhat drained from the intense experiences in Room 20. So I strolled around the museum more leisurely, and visited the musical instrument collection, the Greek and Roman collection and the decorative arts section, before diving into the picture gallery.

There’s a room filled with paintings by Bartholomeus Spranger, a unique Flemish mannerist painter. His work is extremely erotic. It is simply custom in his world for women to bare their breasts. Even when they are otherwise fully dressed. So too his Minerva victorious over Ignorance which feels a bit like a Michael vanquishing Satan. Except, of course, typically for the time, it is wisdom that triumphs, not faith.

I found another Michaelesque scene in Zucchi’s Immaculata. In it the virgin moon goddess stands on the head of a devil.

There’s a wonderfully refined sculpture by Johann Schnegg in the Kunstkammer. The figure of Michael is carved in ivory while Satan is made from ebony. Satan gets to have feathered wings rather than the usual bat wings. As opposed to their static appearance in many depictions, here Michael’s wings seem very much a part of his body as he raises one together with his right arm. And even in these delicate materials, Michael balances on one foot on a devil lying on a cloud covered globe.

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Synthetic Image research in February

The central event of this week’s work on The Synthetic Image was a visit to the Louvre museum in Paris. Intended to study the two paintings of Archangel Michael by Raphael, the hours spent roaming the endless museum halls also inspired a great many ideas. More about that here.

To prepare for the visit I read up a bit about Raphael’s life and work. I discovered how 16th century art historian Giorgio Vasari deeply idolized the painter for his politeness and friendliness. In stark contrast to contemporary colleague Michelangelo, apparently: “Nature created Michelangelo Buonarroti to excel and conquer in art, but Raphael to excel in art and in manners also.”

This renewed encounter with the high renaissance did however make clear that, despite of my deep enjoyment of this and later art, what I am hoping to approach in The Synthetic Image is only really present in earlier art. Sadly the museum rooms dedicated to the Northern Renaissance were closed for restoration. And the Louvre only has a few pieces by Southerners (Crivelli and Botticelli) that help my research.

In terms of actual work, I continued my tutorial in Blender with the basic modeling of a face. And while I do learn about some handy modeling features, the tracing of photographs in this tutorial seems to counter the anti-photography stance of my project. I do learn techniques but the tutorial doesn’t help with more technical aspects of either mesh construction or human anatomy.

The day after the visit to the Louvre, I was still exhausted from the trip. So i didn’t get much done. Something to keep in mind for future journeys!

On Friday I had planned to work some more on the diorama prototype. But since I didn’t want to work with Unreal’s standard mannequin character, I looked into an add-on for Blender called Manuel Bastioni Lab. This application can generate human bodies based on given parameters, including a poseable rig. It’s very impressive software but the choice between heroic, realistic and anime styles doesn’t make it suitable for my needs. The models are also far too detailed for my current prototyping needs.

I decided I should model some figures myself. Confronted with the empty startup scene in Blender, however, I felt at a bit of a loss on how to start. So I did a tutorial for modeling a very basic human figure. I ended up having quite a bit of fun modeling the shape better than in the tutorial. But I also realized that I lack some basic knowledge about the form of the human body. So I decided I need to study that a bit. I don’t want to learn actual human anatomy for fear that I would lose the naivety that I share with the early renaissance painters. So I started collecting screenshots of low poly meshes to sketch from.

Moodboard for the design of the Diorama of Archangel Michael

And finally I worked on the design of the diorama and created a moodboard with decisions about scene, colors, clothing, etc. I realized that I can’t help being modern. No matter how much I admire the Old Masters, I keep having ideas that one would never find in their work, but that might appear in more recent art. Such as my desire to depict Lucifer as almost human, much like Michael. This is something that artists had only been doing since the baroque. In earlier art, Lucifer is always depicted as a grotesque monster. Indeed one can see this evolution in Raphael’s own work: his early Lucifer resembles a dragon, the later one a satyr.

Sadly I didn’t get around to prototyping the design. Looking forward to doing that next month!

— Michaël Samyn.

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Raphael’s archangels and Louvre inspirations

The two paintings of the Archangel Michael by Raphael were the direct reason for wanting to visit the Louvre again. Paris being only two hours away from our home, I travel there regularly. But Raphael hadn’t moved me much in the past. And seeing the two paintings in person didn’t blow me away this time either.

The paintings of Archangel Michael by Raphael in the Louvre. The small work on the left was painted when the artist was 21 years old. The large painting on the right was created at age 35, 2 years before the artist’s death.

The first painting is very small and created when Raphael was in his early twenties. It’s interesting mostly because the figures of Michael and the monster are set in a desolate landscape that seems to refer to the book of Revelation (in which the Archangel makes a prominent appearance). It’s a mysterious scene depicting monsters, souls of the damned and a city on fire. Young Raphael is trying to tell a big story in a small picture.

The second painting is very large, and painted two years before Raphael’s early demise. A much more mature work, the painting depicts Lucifer and Michael in an otherwise empty landscape, dark and rocky at the bottom, where the demon is being trampled, with some signs of volcanic activity, bright and peaceful behind the triumphing angel. The diagonal composition and decorative flying fabric already announce the baroque style in an otherwise high renaissance image.

In both pictures Michael is wearing golden armor, covered in some areas by blue fabric (a skirt in the first and a cape in the second). This inspired the thought that perhaps my Michael could be covered completely by body hugging golden armor that would only leave the face free, prompting the spectator to wonder whether he is made of gold. He is an angel after all, not a human. I may also copy the idea of the light flowing fabric on top of the armor.

Or perhaps the color of his skin is simply gold. It does appear so in the second painting. Only the decorations in the metal show the difference between skin and armor. Maybe in the diorama he could be fairly naked.

In both images, Michael’s wings appear heavy, immobile almost, as if they too were made of gold. That’s an interesting idea, making the figure seem more like a statue than a person (which would fit the diorama concept). But I also like the opposite: bright white feathers, divine, not his own, directed by God, as if Michael is a puppet on strings. Feathers. Fingers. Feathers everywhere. Maybe Michael has many hands?

The scale-like pattern on Michael’s armor looks similar to Lucifer’s skin.
The blue fabric against blue sky makes him look ethereal.
The spear point is cross shaped. If it were to pierce the devil, it would leave the imprint of the cross of Christ in the victim’s flesh.

It came to me that in none of the images of Michael and Lucifer that I can recall, the devil is ever killed. Michael always only subdues him. In both Raphaels he balances on one leg, holding down the demon’s body. He dances on the evil. Perhaps this is significant. Perhaps he does not kill because the battle against evil is an ongoing, never-ending process.

Maybe Lucifer and Michael are each other’s mirror. Both angels, demonstrating the opposite paths that can be taken.

I discovered a few more depictions of the Archangel on my stroll through the museum. The Ercole Roberti had a similar thing going on with hard armor covered by flimsy fabric, transparent even in this case. Lucifer appears completely naked. It made me think that perhaps in my version he could just be a naked human, not a devil, just a man with dark, grey or greenish skin.

The piece by the anonymous medieval artist referred to as the Maitre des Anges Rebelles is very spectacular. Floating in a sky seemingly ablaze with gold several golden angels battle dark demons falling to a small dark planet beneath. In the top triangular part God on a throne surrounded by angels and saints much as described in the book of Revelation.

When I wandered off into the Object d’art section, references to the archangel didn’t stop. I saw a curious bronze lamp by Félicie de Fauveau from 1830 depicting Michael accompanied by four winged knights in heavy armor resting or asleep. There was also a bronze clock from the same period with hands in the shape of snakes featuring a scene with a very feminine archangel towering upright over a fallen demon who seemed twice their size, snakes everywhere. And finally a very delicately sculpted ivory spectacle with an elegant archangel standing or floating atop two demons, one upside down, whose positions seem to be mockingly imitated by cherubs alongside Michael. Again, Michael dressed and the demons naked.

What makes the synthetic image so powerful?

The Louvre is an interesting place for my research because the collection contains both the older paintings that inspire the Synthetic Image project and the younger ones that don’t have the right effect. The difference is very clear. But hard to put into words. Let alone apply to my medium. Sadly at the moment the museum rooms where the strongest representatives of the power of the Synthetic Image, the Northern Renaissance, are hung were closed for renovations. I may need to resort to juxtaposing similar reproductions to figure it out, for now.

There were many artists copying from the masterpieces on the wall. But invariably their copies seemed to be lacking the essence of the original. It feels as if modern copyists don’t see the picture in front of them. It’s like they are trying to paint a photographic reproduction. Preferably with some improvements in terms of realism. Maybe they don’t understand that what is bad about the original in terms of realism is what makes it so good as art.

It made me think that the mantra they hammered on in art school is wrong. Maybe we should not “paint what we see”. If we do, we seem to miss the point. We stay on the surface, quite literally, and our paintings are mediocre. Maybe we should “paint what we know” instead, what we know to be true, how we feel inside that things exist. It doesn’t need to look real. It should feel real!

As my stroll slowly approached the modern age, paintings started to become more narrative. They were clearly trying to tell stories. Not the myths and legends that everyone knows but very specific tales. It was quite impossible to decipher many among them. And yet the artists seemed to try their best to express this or the other story. A waste, if you ask me. I think referring to stories is fine. Just assume people know them. Even if they don’t, they will feel the mystery. Or just add text somewhere, telling the story. Another mantra, “Show, don’t tell”, doesn’t seem to apply to The Synthetic Image. Just tell, and make a great picture. Don’t conflate the two. Don’t try to express the story in an image.

Another thing I noticed is that figures in more modern paintings (starting already in the 17th century) are striking because they feel like real people. You can sense their personality. Their strength or weakness. The painting records and expresses this. Without trying to rise above it. And while that often brings a pleasant experience to the spectator, it’s not what I am after in the Synthetic Image. I need more distance, more archetypes perhaps, figures unlike you and me, but that do, perhaps, sometimes experience emotions that we do too. Only they know how to deal with them much better than we do. They are exemplary. Unlike we.

―Michaël.

Save

Save

Save

Save

Synthetic Image research in January

The first week I had reserved for The Synthetic Image research project sadly suffered from several unwelcome distractions and interruptions. Excessive rainfall had caused clogged drains in our new home that took two days to investigate and repair. Our car had a flat tire that needed to be fixed. I had to do some accounting work and there were the usual groceries and guitar lessons.

I did manage to look up the locations of paintings I want to study. I wrote an introductory text to the project, described my diorama creation plans and analyzed Crivelli’s painting of Saint Michael that I hope to see one day in person in London.

I started the tutorial series by Angela Guenette for Character Modeling in Blender. This taught me some handy modelling features that I wasn’t aware of. And I learned how to model an eye with a recessed iris and an extra layer for the cornea. The realist purpose of this method did make me wonder if it would be at all useful towards achieving the “Primitive” style I am after. But I need to learn basic skills.

On Friday I set up a rudimentary diorama prototype in the Unreal engine with the default mannequin and cursor key input. While simplistic, it does give me a lot to think about. I also briefly investigated Virtual Reality camera handling in Unreal.

An eye in Blender and a mannequin in Unreal.

Unfortunately I suffered from an inclination to procrastinate on Friday. Which is silly because as soon as I do actually start working, I enjoy it a lot. But then there’s too little time left. I’ll do better next month!

Tomorrow, Sunday, I plan to visit the Museum of Fine Arts in Ghent to hopefully take a closer look at some of the Mystic Lamb panels while the restoration crew is not at work. And maybe there will be other pieces that attract my attention.

— Michaël Samyn.

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Carlo Crivelli’s Saint Michael

Carlo Crivelli: Saint Michael

Carlo Crivelli: Saint Michael (about 1476)
90.5 x 26.5 cm
tempera on poplar
currently in the National Gallery in London

This analysis was done on 18 January 2017 based on photographic reproductions found on the internet.

One of 4 panels from an altarpiece in Ascoli Piceno, a town in the Marche region in East Italy where Crivelli died in 1495. The other panels depict Saint Jerome (in red, holding a book and a building and with a lion at his feet), Saint Lucy (holding a palm branch and a round plate with eyes) and Saint Peter Martyr (in monk’s habit with a sword in his head and a dagger in his chest). I didn’t find an image of the entire altarpiece.

Michael is looking down at the demon under his feet. He is holding his sword behind his back. Not so much as if he is about the strike, but in rest, as if he knows he has won and is in control of the situation. This relaxed attitude is confirmed by the delicate pose of his left hand as it holds a scale between thumb and index finger. In the scale a tiny naked kneeling man and woman appear lighter than the silver tent-shaped weight in the other scale. Maybe the tent represents the heavenly Jerusalem (the tabernacle of the lord). Crivelli has omitted one of the ropes that would be holding up the scales presumably not to intersect with the figures. The scales are tilted towards the spectator in a way that defies either gravity or perspective.

Michael’s chest is covered by ornate golden armor centrally featuring a baby’s head, possibly a cherub, and flowers on his nipples in an ornament that vaguely suggests breasts. His skirt consists of several layers, three of which appear to be made of feathers. Maybe they refer to his wings that are only partially visible, folded behind his back. They seem to have the same colors: red, green and white. His thighs are covered by armor in the shape of lion heads. His calves seem to protrude out of the lions’ mouths. Right under his knees appears a golden fish-scale pattern, perhaps indicating chain mail. Suprisingly, and confirming his relaxed attitude perhaps, his lower calves, ankles and feet are bound in cloth, leaving an opening for bare toes. The bandages have the same striking pale blue color as the armor on his thighs, underneath the lion heads. He wears a short gold-rimmed cape that is green (velvet?) on the inside and red or pink (satin?) on the outside. Crowning his half long golden hair in page style is a pearl band with a gem in the center and a green feather that looks like a palm leaf. Behind his head a golden aureola with ornamented edge.

The background is a golden floral geometric pattern (like wallpaper) bordered at the bottom by an ornate terracotta frieze. The floor is made of yellow marble and is less than a meter wide. The scene takes place on some kind of ledge. Two shapes in the ornamented border of the ledge seem to mimic the demon’s head.

The demon beneath Michael’s feet is green. He lies on his back. He is naked. His feet are brown and remind of bird of prey claws. He has a tale like a lizzard’s that ends in his crotch with something like a sex organ. His body is shaped like a male human’s but his skin consists of scales, like a reptile’s. On the back of the calves we see some curly hairs. His left hand clasps Michael’s calf while the right reaches up. His fingers end in black claws. He has short bat-like wings, green like the rest of him. The demon’s head is covered by short brown thick curly hair and hangs over the ledge. He has two curved horns that look like those of some kind of gazelle or even an insect. His ears are long and pointy and remind a little of a donkey’s (also because of the white hair inside). Two white fangs and a red tongue protrude from his red lips. He might be smiling. Like Michael’s, Satan’s eyes are not visible. He seems to be looking into Michael’s eyes.

Because the two figures are engaged in an almost intimate staring context, the scene feels closed. Or maybe Michael is simply making sure that the demon cannot escape, for our benefit.

Since the humans in the scale are too light, presumably they are damned. Maybe that is who Satan reaches out for. Perhaps Michael’s calm signifies resignation. Maybe the scene is not static at all and we see Michael putting away his sword, preparing to release the light-weight humans to the devil. The baby on his chest armor seems shocked or even sad. The demon seems to be gurgling “These two are mine, Michael! Give them to me!” And Michael looks at him and then at the scales and he knows that Satan is right. There’s nothing he can do for the little people.

That the humans are man and woman could refer to Adam and Eve, the first humans that Michael delivered to evil, to the extent that he chased them out of the Garden of Eden.

Michael’s face appears calm. He knows how these things work. “I am stronger than you, Satan. But rules are rules. These two are yours. They are too light for Heaven.”

The entire composition fits tightly within the vertical panel.
There are some very light drop shadows behind Satan, to the right, consistent with the light in the entire scene, coming from the top left. Here and there dark lines appears between two shapes, giving the drawn effect that is typical for Crivelli’s work, but these might be interpreted as shadows too. Some are blurrier than others, suggesting depth.

Part of this painting is made in relief. In a reproduction it’s hard to see what exactly. The ornaments on the armor definitely, perhaps also on the arm, and the locks on the legs. Maybe the head band too (silver!). And the gem? The aureola’s border seems relief as well. Elements of the scale maybe too.

 

— Michaël Samyn.

 

Save

Save

Save

Save

Diorama of Archangel Michael

Statue of Saint Michael by Remi Rooms
Statue of Saint Michael by Remi Rooms on Saint Michael’s bridge next to Saint Michael’s church in my home town of Ghent

The choice of Archangel Michael as subject of my diorama is obvious: he is my patron saint since I carry the same name (although my atheist parents named my after the Florentine renaissance master Michelangelo Buonarroti). As a result I have always been fascinated by depictions of the archangel.

Historical depictions

Archangel Michael is most often depicted as defeating Satan, another angel who rose up against God. I don’t believe this story is mentioned in the Bible but it is an important part of the premise of John Milton’s Paradise Lost, which I have recently read in a splendid Dutch translation by Peter Verstegen. According to Milton the expulsion of Satan from heaven lead directly to the seduction of Eve and the subsequent fall of man. One can sometimes see the Archangel Michael guiding or chasing Adam and Eve out of the Garden of Eden (also mentioned in Paradise Lost).

The second most occurring depiction of Saint Michael is in scenes depicting The Last Judgement. In the biblical book of Revelation he, once more, defeats evil. But in paintings he is more often shown holden a scale and weighing people to separate the ones who will be saved from those who are damned. Sometimes he battles Satan over a particular soul. So Michael plays a prominent role both at the beginning and at the end of the world.

Personal meanning

There’s a certain symmetry is the expulsion from Paradise and the Last Judgement: maybe we are still living in the Garden of Eden. But we have eaten so much from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil that Satan has more or less made Earth his home. When God finally gets sick of all our silliness he sounds the trumpets and sends Michael to clean up the mess.

I do not literally believe in the stories of the Catholic faith. But I find them very inspiring (much like others may find Greek mythology inspiring). And since I grew up and live in a place still filled with many pictorial references to Christianity, I feel comfortable in this narrative atmosphere.

There’s some interesting parallels between the figure of Michael in Christian stories and Perseus in Greek mythology. Perseus defeats Medusa (a monstrous woman with snakes on her head), and then he fights a sea monster to save Andromeda (Eve?).

The idea of ultimate evil residing in hell has become somewhat laughable now that humanity has reached a level of malevolence that would make any devil proud. For me personally, the evil that Saint Michael battles is first and foremost the evil within myself (or ourselves when extended to society). The stories and depiction of Michael remind me to be alert and to banish evil to hell as soon as it rears its head. Not an easy task. Which is why it takes a Prince of Angels to handle it.

As the weighing of souls shows, defeating evil is only one part of the problem. The other part is recognizing it. And that, in my experience, is even harder to accomplish.

So there’s a personal spiritual motivation to my choice of subject for the diorama.

Diorama design

A more general aspect of angels that fascinates me is that they are supposed to be genderless. In painting, angels like Michael are often depicted with a male body, an androgynous face and long hair. Maybe I will take that aspect further in the diorama.

A painting by Crivelli inspired me to depict both the defeating of Satan and the weighing of souls in a single scene. This fits well with the idea of a vertical diorama that you scroll vertically: moving towards Michael’s feet trampling the monster may feel like descending into hell. I think this would work well in the screen-based presentation of the diorama.

For the Virtual Reality presentation I will need to do more research. On the one hand I like the idea of being confronted with a life size angel in virtual (sacred) space. But on the other I am attracted to the idea of an excessively large Michael figure, almost architectural and having the user literally travel down his body into hell.

 

—Michaël Samyn.

Save

Save

Save