The Art of the Bard

Literature has always served as an inspiration for art. From the earliest days of Western civilization, the Greeks were depicting their myths on their pottery, in their sculptures and, presumably, in their paintings.

So it’s no surprise that the plays of William Shakespeare have inspired great outpourings of art. On this, his presumed birthday (we only know the date of his baptism, so his birth date has to be assumed), I decided to take a look at some of paintings based on his plays.

Most of this art is by English artist, which is logical–he’s their compatriot, after all. Artists inspired by Shakespeare aren’t exclusively English–the French Eugene Delacroix did some work based on the plays, for example–but England predominates.

One of the earliest I found is by William Hogarth, from 1735:

William Hogarth, "A Scene from the Tempest," 1735.

The painting draws on the late, hard-to-classify and yet marvelous The Tempest. (The preferred term among scholars would be “problematic.” In grad school, I took one seminar on Renassiance drama, and we said things were “problematic” a lot.) The lovely Miranda sits on a throne of coral and shells, her magician father Prospero behind here hovering anxiously. To one side is the beseeching Ferdinand, the genteel castaway who will eventually win her hand. Behind and looking jealously at the beautiful maiden is the hideous Caliban. As Prospero’s servant (slave?) he hauls wood, the only laborer among these cheerful lie-abouts, and in his brutish clumsiness he crushes underfood one of a pair of linked doves.

Hogarth had high hopes for this painting, which he completed for his patron the Early of Macclesfield; he wanted to paint a whole series on scenes from Shakespeare, but no one came begging with commissions, so Hogarth presumably shrugged and went on to the next thing. The painting has Hogarth’s particularly narrative, moralistic slant. The artist said that his creative innovation was “painting and engraving modern moral subjects.” He had resolved early in his career to “treat my subjects as a dramatic writer; my picture was my stage.”

A very different type of artist from the commercially successful Hogarth was the mystical William Blake, who painted this work inspired by Shakespeare:

William Blake, Oberon, "Titania and Puck with Fairies Dancing," ca. 1785

Blake was, to put it politely, a weirdo. He was a printmaker and poet possessed of such a unique creative vision that he spent most of his life bankrupt. Most of his prints depict his unique vision and philosophy (and are correspondingly wackily compelling), but he also created illustrations–he was at work on a massive project to illustrate Dante’s Divine Comedy at his death. In the 1780s, illustrations of Shakespeare were popular, and scholars have suggested this work was an attempt by Blake to break into this market.

The scene depicts a moment toward the end of A Midsummer Night’s Dream when the fairy queen Titania calls upon her fairy court:

Hand in hand, with fairy grace,

Will we sing, and bless this place.

Titania embraces her husband Oberon, their relationship restored after the confusion of the previous night, and Puck, the mischievous instigator, stands at their side with ivy in his hair. The figures have the characteristic Blakean lack of anatomy–he was a visionary who didn’t worry about things like musculature or, you know, bones–and the space is ill-defined. But there’s a lilting quality to the dancers that is charming. In fact, the dancers remind me of Matisse’s famous dancers–I wonder if he knew this work?

The depiction of Shakespeare really got going during the Victorian period with the Pre-Raphaelite artists. The Pre-Raphaelites just loved them some Shakespeare, and just about all of them took him as as inspiration at one point or another.

One of the earliest is this famous work by John Everett Millais:

John Everett Millais, "Ophelia," 1851-52

The detail of the flowers and plants is simply astonishing. The Pre-Raphaelites really believed in detail, and every leaf is lovingly correct. The scene shows Ophelia, maddened from the murder of her father by her lover Hamlet, lying in a stream singing nonsense shortly before her death by drowning. I’ve talked about this painting before–in particularly how the model, Elizabeth Siddal, caught pneumonia from posing for hours in chilly bathwater. It’s a work remarkable in its clear pity for its subject–look at the detail of the upraised hand, palm open in a gesture of innocent frailty.

Another early Pre-Raphaelite Shakespearean work is this one by William Holman Hunt:

William Holman Hunt, "Claudio and Isabella," 1850

There’s an excellent discussion of this work here; it depicts a scene from Measure for Measure, one of the more, er, problematic “comedies.” Claudio is imprisoned (notice the shackles) for impregnating a young woman to whom he is not married. Unfortunately, the judge Angelo then ruling the city of Vienna in the absence of the Duke, sentences him to death for his immorality. His sister Isabella, a novice nun, goes to Angelo to beg for her brother’s life, and Angelo, overcome by lust for her beauty, offers to free Claudio in exchange for her virginity. The virtuous Isabella naturally refuses. In this scene, Isabella has gone to Claudio to tell him what happened. He expresses his fear–in fact, his horror–of death, and she expresses sympathy for his fears, although clearly she herself believes in Heaven. This is the moment depicted here, and in the next breath Claudio will beg his sister to sacrifice her honor for his life.

As ever with the Pre-Raphaelites, the details are meticulously executed. Hunt visited a prison to get the background right. The vivid reds of Claudio’s clothing stands in contrast to the muted colors of Isabella’s, symbolic of his riotous, immoral life and her simple, pure one.

Not to be left out of the Shakespeare party, Dante Gabriel Rossetti got in on the game in 1858 with this pen and ink drawing:

Dante Gabriel Rossetti, "Hamlet and Ophelia," 1858

The scene is of Ophelia attempting to return Hamlet’s letters and tokens of affection. Since his father’s death, he has grown distant, and now Ophelia’s meddling father has insisted she return his letters to force the issue. Rossetti captures the pained look on Hamlet’s face–a face that belies his harsh words, while Ophelia turns away, unwilling to look at him. The beautiful Ophelia is again portrayed by Elizabeth Siddal, by then Rossetti’s wife.

The details of the wood carvings are elaborate and symbolic–there’s an excellent discussion of them here. As with most of Rossetti’s work, the perspective is wonky–he never mastered it. The background has some weird and wild architecture going on. But the faces are magnificent, and capture a painful moment within the play.

Holman Hunt, Rossetti and Millais were the official members of the official Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood (PRB), but several other artists became associated with the style as the years went on. For example, here’s Ford Madox Brown:

Ford Madox Brown, "Romeo and Juliet," 1867

Brown was older than the other members of the PRB; Rossetti saw his work in the 1840s and begged the artist, the highly unpopular and a commercial failure, to be his tutor. He has the same hyper-attention to detail and narrative emphasis as the Pre-Raphaelites, as well as the same preference for painting beautiful women.

Here he depicts Romeo and Juliet after their one night of wedded bliss. Juliet is disheveled, not yet dressed, while Romeo has flung one leg over the balcony railing in preparation for departure. He steals one last embrace, the conflict in his body represented by the contrast between the out-thrust arm moving away from Juliet and the other than clings to her bare shoulder. Dawn is breaking over the town, and he must flee for his life.

Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema, "Antony and Cleopatra." 1883

Born in the Netherlands, Alma-Tadema moved to England in 1870 at the outbreak of the Franco-Prussian war. He had always painted historic scenes, but meeting the Pre-Raphaelites and friends in England encouraged his to brighten his palette and refresh his themes. His work became lush, bright and ever-more detailed.

His Cleopatra is seen riding on her barge down the river Nile, a scene described in magnificent verse:

The barge she sat in, like a burnish’d throne,

Burn’d on the water: the poop was beaten gold;

Purple the sails, and so perfumed that

The winds were love-sick with them; the oars were silver,

Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made

The water which they beat to follow faster,

As amorous of their strokes. For her own person,

It beggar’d all description: she did lie

In her pavilion–cloth-of-gold of tissue–

O’er-picturing that Venus where we see

The fancy outwork nature: on each side her

Stood pretty dimpled boys, like smiling Cupids,

With divers-colour’d fans, whose wind did seem

To glow the delicate cheeks which they did cool,

And what they undid did. . . .

Cleopatra doesn’t look particularly Egyptian, but look at the fall of the leopard-skin, the sheen on the silk curtains, the clusters of roses. Europeans were obsessed with the exotic Orient at this time, and this work manages to combine that obsession with a love Shakespeare for a perfect double-play of Victorian fantasies.

Finally, there’s this late work by the latest of the Pre-Raphaelites:

John W. Waterhouse, "Ophelia," 1910

Waterhosue painted Ophelia three times over the years, and this is the last version. (He planned a fourth painting but died before he could attempt it.) She is on her way to her death, gathering flowers by a stream. By 1910, most artists had abandoned the hyper-realism of the Pre-Raphaelites, but Waterhouse continued it, and the detail of the embroidered gown, the flowers, and the river grasses are impeccable.

What makes the work fascinating to me is the expression on Ophelia’s face, which is pained and distracted, Waterhouse’s indication of her madness. Two children watch her from the footbridge over the stream, their expressions revealing their puzzlement and pity.

There are dozens and dozens more Shakespeare-inspired works, many by the Pre-Raphaelites. If you’re curious, check out this site from Emory, which features primarily British works, or this collection from Flickr, which includes a wide range of works from all nationalities.

So happy birthday, William Shakespeare! And thanks to the artists who made his works come alive in new ways.