Per Tom Hoving, the Met's foul-mouthed, limelighting, former shaker and mover:"The first nanosecond I'd looked at the vase, I vowed to get it. I stood there in the warm sun in my shirtsleeves, sucking a beer, crusty with lack of sleep, but my mind and eyes were as alive as they'd ever been. This was the single most perfect and powerful work of art of its size that I had ever encountered." (A picture appears below this post.)
To be sure: a vase is not a vase is not a vase. Archaic Greek vases of this order were works of art, and their painters ranked with sculptors and other artists. Do not confuse these with utilitarian ware; it is unlikely this krater ever tasted wine. It may have been commissioned. It appears to have gone to a wealthy Etruscan via the high-end export trade that supplied luxuries for their funereal requirements. Like the Egyptians, Etruscans outfitted their tombs with accoutrements befitting their station, so tomb raiders have enjoyed some good pickings in Italy as well. Consistent with the lead allegation at the time of Hoving's purchase, the terms of the krater's anticipated return to Italian authorities support the evidence for its plunder from a Roman necropolis shortly before it entered the (very limited) market in the early 70s.
When the oge was getting his books on Greek vases in the '60s, there was, of course, no reference in Beazley, Devambez, or Cook to the subject work. The vase was unknown until Hoving bought it for the Met in his secret deal in 1972. By his own admission, its provenance was dubious from the beginning, and he did his best to rationalize a feasible story of its acquisition. Like any major curator, of course, Hoving understood the old adage about possession and the law. And he was right, if possessing a unique antiquity for 30+ years has been worth the original price of $1M, not to mention all the accompanying costs, legal and otherwise, the deal entailed; a million dollars bought a lot in 1972.
Hoving was looking at the first completely intact work by one of the finest vase painters working in 6thC BC Athens. 17 other pieces by Euphronios are known, a mixture of works he signed in his varying roles of potter and painter, including what may be a painted companion piece to the krater, a cup or kylix, depicting the same theme---all these fragmentary in various degrees. Before Hoving's eyes was a lustrous vessel, glowing in the richest tones of red-orange and black you are likely to encounter. Reconstructed from its shards, it stood 18" with a reported capacity of 12 gallons. Its type, krater, was a design for mixing strong wine and water.
The initial impression of the vase is overwhelming. The relationship between its shape and ornamentation is absolutely satisfying. The proportion of red and black, and their positioning on the vase, are masterful, presenting a balance of mass and color that challenges any achievement of Rothko, who attempts little more. The borders and framing of the scenes are perfect as well. You will find few other pieces of Attic pottery that rise to this level of design. I share Hoving's overall estimation (the draftsmanship is far from perfect), but with the qualification that it is brilliant with regard not just to what Euphronios accomplished---although that is great--- but to what he attempted.
Before going on, we have to appreciate the challenges to technique imposed by the medium. Red-figure painting was invented (and accepted rather quickly) because it overcame the major problem of Black-figure painting, which essentially presented figures in silhouette (black on red, instead of red on black). It was almost impossible to layer or stack figures because the painter had trouble distinguishing their dark mass, and detailing them was similarly difficult. With Red-figure, the artist had a more visible "skin" for his figures, and he strove to create more detailed and complex scenes, attempting foreshortened and overlapped figures. With either color, however, he was dealing with a distinction that only emerged during firing, the more challenging as detail and complexity increased. While the painter was doing his work, the clay of the unfired pot and the slip (watered-down clay) with which he was painting the design, were the same substance and almost the same color. He was working close to blind. Add to this the problem of applying the hundreds of final line details with an instrument some compare to a pastry bag with a needle nozzle, through which the thin matter, still of almost indistinguishable color, was squeezed onto the surface of the vase. As much as some painters might try to rely on incising outlines, every detail---each link in the chain thorax of Thanatos, each strand of hair, each tiny pinion of the winged gods---was applied in, or quickly dried to, practically the same color as the background. During firing, the supply or starvation of air, controlled in stages, acted on the iron oxides in the clay to promote color. The slip, being thin and superficial, was affected more quickly than the body of the pot, producing the color contrast.
But there was another constraint on the painter, time. The body of the vase was permitted to dry only to a certain point, and the painting of the slip, including the additional pigments for the occasional reds, purples, and whites, had to be applied within a period of time that allowed for a successful firing. Different experts provide different estimates, one of them allowing---incredulously?---little more than an hour for the painting of the complete vase! I would not, however, discount the possibility of unknown aides, maybe stencils, maybe the help of an assistant working on the borders simultaneously. In any event, we are looking at something that may be as much a record of an instance of a form of performance art as it is a painting.
This time constraint, as Hoving points out in an early installment of his saga, accounts for the fact that the reverse panels of most vases are not so detailed, adventurous, or complex as the obverse. It was there that the painter could employ his fudge factor. And this is where I part company with, or maybe provide an alternative justification for, Hoving's unreserved praise of the vase's artistry.
Euphronios had to have been pressed for time. (The reader is directed to the excellent Met website to view details of the scene, enhanced by zoom and pan features:
http://www.metmuseum.org/Works_of_Art/viewOnezoom.asp?dep=13&zoomFlag=1&viewmode=1&item=1972%2E11%2E10 ) As one critic of the purchase pointed out at the time, Thanatos' left ear is drawn backwards. But there are additional mistakes. Hermes' feet are impossibly turned with respect to his body. His kerykeion bends oddly at midpoint. You will see that the hand of Hypnos does not quite manage to encircle Sarpedon's leg. In contrast, Thanatos got a better grip on the hero's arm, at the right side of the panel. The streams of blood fall at an odd diagonal. I tried to allow that this might be dried blood, but where it passes from his chest wound to stream toward the ground, it continues to defy gravity. I could suppose that the application of the pigmented slip that would turn red in the firing, was the last or near-last piece of the job, maybe rushed on as the big pot was being hurried to the kiln. On the companion cup, Sarpedon's blood flows consistent with the force of gravity. But these, and a few more lapses, are easily overlooked, much as the anachronistic front eye that the painters of this period insisted on painting on their profiles (within a generation or so, they would adopt a lateral convention).
The big problem is compositional. Here, however, we need to back up and consider the theme of the panel. Without delving into the particular literary and mythic sources for Sarpedon, it is enough to recognize the power of the archetypal image of the slain hero and his momentous departure from the field of battle. Not far beneath it lies the notion of lost hope, where the death of the champion delivers his people to the enemy, often prospective of the fallen city. It is the energizing impulse of the Iliad, of the surrogate Hector as he enacts a preview of the death of Achilles, magnified by Troy's destined doom, of Arthur and of Siegfried, the image of whom, borne on his shield, inspired the composer's supreme symphonic passage.
This is the general context in which Euphronios, not so far removed from the rage of war and the contests of heroes as you and I, approached the blank belly of the big damp pot. His was not to be a simple scene of party heterai or sporting satyrs. He was to depict legendary tragedy, and he aimed at the point between life and death. Thanatos and Hypnos are just lifting the body, their wings folded. Hermes has not begun the journey. We are on that transverse plane between worlds. Within the great inverted trapezoid of the scene, framed by the bell shape of the pot and enforced not only by the flanking figuring but by the upsweep of the handles, the angles of the gods' folded wings immediately seize our eyes between two opposing diagonals which initiate a large inverted triangle, completed at the apex where Hermes' winged foot is planted on the ground. This construct conditions us for a rapid succession of smaller triangles that suddenly animate the scene. Hermes seems to turn as the triangle formed by the crook of his left arm jumps to that formed by his uplifted right. Other triangulated figurations animate Thanatos to step in, and Hypnos to bend over.
Most affecting of all, however, and an achievement of high cost, is the hero's excruciating embrace of, and farewell to, the earth, accomplished by his spread arms. It is a gesture as poignant as any painted by our early Christian masters in their depictions of the holy and the sainted. Here the dynamic diagonals of the composition resolve themselves in their final expression, a righted triangle encompassing the hero's heart and fatal wound, his hands softening the figure as they relax toward the horizontal of final release. Sarpedon is dead---we know that irrefutably from the presence of the gods of death---but he is not yet in the land of the dead. He holds us at that point of passage. And the painter has accomplished the feat not through exposition, but through drama. We recall later constructions in which a triangle is defined at the bottom of a scene, William Blake's "Ancient of Days," where God's fingers literally hold the apex, or his "Red Dragon," in which the creature's legs describe the diagonals that intersect the horizontal of the woman of morning.
Euphronios paid a large price as he reached for this sublime moment. He unconvincingly turned the shoulder and arm against a frontal torso. And he directed the face downward, following the shoulder and arm as if to emphasize a lingering regard for the earth, but it is a difficult position, and one he executed imperfectly, failing to complete the droop of the head (compare the tragic but more facile execution of the upturned head chosen for the kylix). The head would also appear more natural positioned between Thanatos' arms, but the painter could not permit the god's forearm to cover the subject's face. Euphronios made additional sacrifices for his great effect, including placement of the winged foot of Hermes too far to the left, but they are minor. The genius of the work is that we experience how much is attempted; that he fell short is only an acknowledgement of the scale of his vision. It would be a marvelous thing to discover that in a later piece he resolved these problems.
I always return to the blood. It still streams from the body of a dead man, as if the laws of nature were suspended at this intersection of worlds. Is it possible, after all, that it flows deliberately, that genius directed it according to those generative diagonals?
In any event, the krater appears headed back to Italy, not that the Italians did anything to make it in the first place (they just entombed it for two and a half millenia), but I suppose the rightful considerations of indigenous entitlement have bolstered legal claims as well. It seems we have a couple years left to visit it again at the Met, if you can stand the ongoing mayhem that feels like too many junior high field trips overrunning New York's great museums (when will they increase the visiting hours?). And we hope it will pass by the Swiss policeman who broke the kylix during its return.
"A Classical vase that has long been the crown jewel of the Metropolitan Museum of Art's Greek galleries will probably be handed over to Italy at the beginning of 2008, the museum and Italian officials said yesterday, in their first public agreement on a date."
http://www.nytimes.com/2006/02/04/arts/04muse.html?th&emc=thAnd for Hoving's 6-part saga on what it is, how he got it, what it took to hold onto it for 30 years, the whole colorful cast of involved players, and why he, Tom, really is an OK guy:
http://www.artnet.com/Magazine/features/hoving/hoving6-29-01.asp