HOW FAR IS TOO FAR?

Conservation Tips & Tricks | Selin Kahramanoglu

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Let's talk about ethics.

Picture this: You're a conservator in a prestigious museum (congrats!), and you are tasked with restoring the painting, Woman with a Parasol, by Claude Monet. In this scenario, the painting has been cut along the top of the canvas during its transportation to the museum's collection storage.

It's only ripped. No big deal. Just patch it up, right?

Yes, the tear is near the frame, but in this imaginary scenario the tear also thinly runs down the canvas, and clearly strikes through the image of the young woman in the painting. There's no way to hide the damage. Suddenly, the slashed painting is more problematic than we initially thought. You sure that you want to keep going?

Woman with a Parasol, painted by Claude Monet. Source.

Door Number One: If you choose not to restore the painting, the rip would likely get bigger over time, and it could never be displayed in such a state. Shame would cast a shadow over your institution (sorry, I'm excited for Game of Thrones), because the Monet painting was damaged while in your care. Too bad. There goes your reputation. 

Door Number Two: If you choose to restore the painting, you will need to repair the canvas in the back, but also paint over the front image to cover the ripped edges. The question is, are you willing to paint over an original Monet? If the answer is yes, then welcome to the dark side of conservation practices.

Source.

The restoration of art is a task frequently given to conservators. Sometimes objects get accidentally damaged when moving between spaces, and other times it is an action that was purposefully done. Still, how much work can reasonably be done to repair a work of art, or an artifact, before the restoration impedes the integrity of the original work? At what point would a conservator become a contributing artist?

Now, I know these ethical decisions are hard to make, but don't worry. Remember our golden rule: The point of conservation is to protect the current state of the object, using techniques that are reversible in the future.

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Ethically, conservators are restricted to doing only what is necessary to conserve the object. That's why we would have to repair the painting's canvas. However, adding more paint to the artwork, on top of Monet's existing work, is another moral dilemma.

Here's the good news: Paint can be removed. Impressionism art has layers upon layers of paint, which can be taken off, even if the paint has been dry for decades. If a conservator chooses to paint on top of Monet's work in order to cover the rip, then yes, the conservator's paint job is reversible. So far, so good.

Sorry, there's bad news: The extent of conservation on an object is subjective. Unfortunately, each conservator is not watched by a jury of experts in the lab, telling them when they've overdone it. How can we trust that a conservator knows when to stop tinkering, repairing, altering?

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Don't forget, you are the conservator in this scenario. No one else. The decision is yours to make. The mistakes are also yours to make. Here are four important tips to following best practices when it comes to ethical dilemmas in conservation:

1. Consult another conservator or specialized expert. Try to not to pick a friend, or a colleague in the same institution, when consulting for a second opinion. You wouldn't want any biased remarks in this case. You need brutal truths on how to proceed with the job.
2. Research previously completed conservation treatments. There are many examples of a job gone wrong, and it is equally helpful to see what decisions you shouldn't be making. At the same time, a similar situation would show you the processes that someone else has already tested out before you.
3. Trust your instincts. If you think that you're in danger of going too far, then the answer is probably yes. Do you think your hand is too shaky to patch up the painting today? Then, take a break. Are you unsure as to which solvent test to do? Ask someone. Don't guess, and don't push yourself to do the job.
4. Take some risks. I know ethical dilemmas are scary, especially if you're the one in charge. Still, we should be trying to push the boundaries of our professions. Demand an answer to tough questions. If you have a strong rationale behind your decision, then do it!

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Like most ethical issues, this topic can be debated, and I won't pretend to have a definite solution. However, I encourage you to think about these problems when you go on a museum visit, or tour a historical site this summer. Take a walk through the unknown and dangerous side of conservation!

THE FAT LADY SINGS: WHEN PORTRAITS TALK BACK

WALK OF FAME

BY: SERENA YPELAAR

Anyone who knows me knows I spend a lot of time on Harry Potter. Recently, when talking about my favourite book series, fellow Musings writer Sadie MacDonald asked what it might be like if there were art galleries in the Wizarding World.

Mind blown!

My reaction matched Ron's when I considered Museum Studies + Harry Potter at a crossroads! Source.

As readers of the series will know, portraits in the Harry Potter universe can move and talk, albeit within the restrictions of their tangible representation on the wall. What interesting ethical, logistical, and interpretive questions this idea raises! With Sadie's permission (I'm no Gilderoy Lockhart), I'll explore this possibility within the landscape of the National Portrait Gallery (NPG) in London, England.

First, some context, to get everyone on the same page:

Hogwarts portraits are able to talk and move around from picture to picture. They behave like their subjects. However, the degree to which they can interact with the people looking at them depends not on the skill of the painter, but on the power of the witch or wizard painted. - author J.K. Rowling, Pottermore

Some of the talking portraits in the grand staircase at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Source.

How closely would the paintings embody the personalities of their sitters? What would they be able to say to us?

With the above quotation in mind, it definitely intrigues me to imagine all the portraits moving about. At Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, portrait subjects can move through the frames to visit one another or go to other portraits of themselves hung elsewhere (like Sirius Black's great-great-grandfather Phineas Nigellus Black).

What would Anne Boleyn have to say if we could
speak with her likeness in the National Portrait
Gallery? Source.

In regard to the visitor experience in the National Portrait Gallery, I can think of a few issues with this.

What happens when a subject visits one of their other portraits off-site? The NPG has free admission, but that isn't an antidote to the inconvenience of not being able to see a specific portrait that is supposed to be on view.

When sitters go and visit a different portrait, how does the coexistence of multiple subjects in one frame damage both artists' respective intent? The fact that these sitters would have a sense of active agency if they could move undermines the painter's vision in "capturing" each sitter in a moment. For instance, King Henry VII was painted to convey majesty and authority under the emerging Tudor regime, but if we see him squabbling with his predecessor Richard III, how does this inter-portrait conflict unseat the dignity of both sitters? What damage can therefore be done to the real-life figures' reputation through this form of exhibitionism?

If a portrait sitter has multiple paintings of them on display, how do those portrayals coexist? Do they all have the same personality? Perhaps we could chart the evolution of a younger Alan Rickman (our Severus Snape, may he rest in peace) into an older, somewhat different-looking Alan Rickman, which is biographically valuable but could also be overwhelming in an institution full of personalities.

Who would interact with who in the gallery? Who would be friends? Enemies? How would the sitters' expressed characteristics affect our viewing experience? 

A portrait subject moving from frame to frame.
Source.

Let's say I've come to the National Portrait Gallery specifically to see and talk to British author Mary Shelley (of Frankenstein fame). I get to her painting, only to notice that ... she's gone! Maybe she's wandered off for a chat with her poet husband Percy Bysshe Shelley, or a lively argument with Lord Byron. What would these movements mean for our access? (On the plus side, it might be good to market the gallery as a guaranteed different visit every time, and a frequently rotating collection...)

Would museum staff be able to maintain any degree of control over the collection? And how would the curatorial staff rotate out the portraits? If someone's likeness was loud, irritating, or unpleasant, would it be taken off display? (Edvard Munch's The Scream isn't in the NPG, but if he could talk I'm sure he'd be very disruptive.)

Would we even need interpretive labels if the portraits could say it all?

What if the portrait sitter is still alive? 

In Harry Potter, most of the portraits Harry encounters are wizards we've either never met in person or ones who have died. If a famous celebrity had an oil-on-canvas doppelgänger spouting off in the gallery, how would that feel? Should the portrait's words even be given credence when it comes to shaping the living person's public identity? 

Gilderoy Lockhart has a painting of himself painting himself. Source.

J.K. Rowling says that Hogwarts headmasters and headmistresses kept their portraits locked away, over time teaching them how to act like themselves so they could live on with their memories after the subject's death (not unlike artificial intelligence learning mechanisms). Since Rowling asserts that the portraits only vaguely embody their sitters' personalities unless taught otherwise, issues of representation are numerous and varied.

The Fat Lady guards the entrance to Gryffindor Tower at Hogwarts. Source. 

I could keep talking about the pros and cons forever, but I'll stop there. I hear a lot of people voicing the wish that we had moving paintings like in Harry Potter (myself included). On second thought, though, projecting this desire onto art galleries seems like absolute chaos! With a stagnant portrait, the artist retains agency over the image; with an animated, semi-sentient subject, the same cannot be said. Perhaps in our world today, it's for the best that our portrait sitters hold still.  

A PAINT-STAKING PORTRAYAL: PAINTINGS AS HISTORICAL ARTIFACTS

THROWBACK THURSDAY

BY: SERENA YPELAAR

Recently, I’ve been thinking a lot about historical paintings and the question of accuracy. Whether I’m looking at famous portraits to picture what prominent figures looked like, or trying to imagine historical battles that took place before the advent of photography, historical paintings play a prominent role in visualizing history. 

As sources, paintings can certainly tell us a lot about a historical event or figure, but they also do a lot more than that: they communicate the values and ideals of any given time period in which a work was created.

Because the topic of historical paintings is unwieldly at best, I’ve decided to confine my examples to some early colonial paintings in Canada. Given that my undergraduate research focused on British and French colonialism from 1600 to 1830, I will explore the topic through the lens of early Canada. One of my favourite paintings of all time is The Death of General Wolfe (1770) by Benjamin West; not because I think it’s particularly accurate, but because it raises so many fascinating issues. 

The Death of General Wolfe by Benjamin West is a spectacular example of a sensationalized battle scene that raises more questions than it answers. Source. 

West’s 1770 painting depicts Major General James Wolfe dying at the Battle of the Plains of Abraham in 1759. Even without being an art history expert, I can recognize that West presents an idealized aesthetic of the scene, one that sensationalizes the battle and its outcome. The cost of a hard-won victory against a vastly larger French army (led by Louis-Joseph de Montcalm), Wolfe’s tragic death has been mythologized throughout the centuries.

The dramatic depiction of Wolfe as a fallen Christ-like figure, surrounded by onlookers, conveys the grandeur of the Neoclassical movement. West declared his own process in depicting the historical scene: “It must exhibit the event in a way to excite awe & veneration … all should be proportioned to the highest idea conceived of the Hero … A mere matter of fact will never produce this effect.”

West’s painting is laid out similarly to the Lamentation over the Dead Christ, painted by Anthony van Dyck c. 1630s. Since art is a form of interpretation and is constructed according to artistic conventions, additional context is relevant to visitors when situating the work in a history museum. Source.

Since artistic depictions of historical events take some license when constructing the scene, observing The Death of General Wolfe as a historical artifact prompts so many questions: What is happening here? Who are all these people? Who is the indigenous warrior at the bottom of the frame, and why is he depicted that way?

Asking these questions suggests missing context that could supplement the artwork with written interpretation in a history museum. At present, the Benjamin West painting hangs in the National Gallery of Canada, but if it were on display in the Canadian War Museum, for example, how would its significance differ? Arguably, the purpose of the artwork as a source changes when the object is placed in its new setting.

In a history museum, visitors are more likely to look for accurate depictions of historical events to gain a sound understanding of what happened in the past. This is where interpretation gets trickier, and museum professionals must make decisions on how best to exhibit artwork. Should the museum display related artifacts alongside the painting? Should there be a didactic panel specifically identifying differences between the historical event and its artistic depiction?

This painting by C.W. Jefferys, Champlain Trading with the Indians, does not reveal details on the quality of relationships between Champlain and Indigenous groups such as the Huron or Iroquois (neither of whom are explicitly identified in this artistic rendition). Source.

Especially when paintings deal with a contentious narrative, such as colonialism in Canada, explicit analysis is crucial. Factors such as the creator of the work, his or her purpose, and relevant biases can alter viewers’ understanding of a painting. C.W. Jefferys’ 1911 artwork, Champlain Trading with the Indians, lacks detail in the way of concrete information: the general term “Indian” is used in the title, overlooking the nuances of interaction in post-contact colonial New France. In this way, paintings can't stand alone as historical artifacts because they are missing the subtleties of cultural and historical significance.

The issue of accuracy is paramount in a setting where visitors have no photographs of a historical event, and constructed imagery is their main source of visual insight. More than an aesthetic experience, historical paintings have the power to convey not only emotion, but information that may be taken at face value. As such, clarity of interpretation provides an additional layer of context to ensure that these artifacts contribute to an accurate and informed view of the past.