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Biographical Memoirs of Extraordinary Painters
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This work is in the public domain in the United States of America, and possibly other nations. Within the United States, you may freely copy and distribute this work, as no entity (individual or corporate) has a copyright on the body of the work.
As a reproduction of a historical artifact, this work may contain missing or blurred pages, poor pictures, errant marks, etc. Scholars believe, and we concur, that this work is important enough to be preserved, reproduced, and made generally available to the public. We appreciate your support of the preservation process, and thank you for being an important part of keeping this knowledge alive and relevant.
- GenresFiction
112 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1780
About the author
William Beckford
311 books91 followersWilliam Thomas Beckford was an English novelist, a profligate and consummately knowledgeable art collector and patron of works of decorative art, a critic, travel writer and sometime politician, reputed at one stage in his life to be the richest commoner in England. His parents were William Beckford and Maria Hamilton, daughter of the Hon. George Hamilton. He was Member of Parliament for Wells from 1784 to 1790, for Hindon from 1790 to 1795 and 1806 to 1820.
He is remembered as the author of the Gothic novel Vathek (1786), the builder of the remarkable lost Fonthill Abbey and Lansdown Tower ("Beckford's Tower"), Bath, and especially for his art collection.
He is remembered as the author of the Gothic novel Vathek (1786), the builder of the remarkable lost Fonthill Abbey and Lansdown Tower ("Beckford's Tower"), Bath, and especially for his art collection.
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Displaying 1 - 3 of 3 reviews
May 4, 2018
Proof that the British nobility could enjoy a good tall tale as much as the working class did: Six biographies of famous but ludicrous painters who were never actually famous, nor alive for that matter.
(I'd like to begin this review with this note: Beckford is known to have presumed a certain linguistical prowess in his readers, and thus his works often include quotes in a variety of European contemporary languages and classical ones, which he did not see the need to translate. This was, of course, much too optimistic of him and so I have decided to supplement this review of Biographical Memoirs of Extraordinary Painters with the missing translations. These are found in the comments to the review.)
Beckford was a known eccentric and this characteristic of his personality smote onto his authorship – or let us maybe say that a certain charm was transferred from the penman to his penmanship – and his books were as a result among the more unusual and unique of his time. Not that it is easy to find any comparable writers in our age either. Biographical Memoirs of Extraordinary Painters¹ is as eccentric as one could expect. To prove this point I'd like to pose this question: Have you ever heard of a tall tale biography before? I'm feeling confident that the odds are in favour of the answer being 'no,' but now that you're about to be acquainted with this silly little collection of stories of precisely that sort, you may turn that denial to an affirmation. It is also worth mentioning that Gale Eighteenth Century Collections Online apparently have not heard of such a genre either and they have listed their reprinting of this work – which is the one this review is based on² – under 'History and Geography' rather than under 'Literature and Language' which is their category for works of fiction.
And to be perfectly clear, this book is all fiction. It is said that Beckford wrote it as a guide to his father's collection of paintings; i.e. the Splendens Collection, named after their house, Fonthill Splendens. It was a mockery, of course, and it might seem like he stood by his less than positive appraisal of his father's taste in art. His own taste, at least, did end up very different. Nevertheless, there is one thing this book does not lie about and that is the author's fascination for art; his own collection would later become among the more sizeable, and his posthumous places almost as much importance on it as it does his authorship. Biographical Memoirs of Extraordinary Painters is perhaps his most personal work because it combines these two aspects of him; there is something idiomatic about his flights of fancy regarding an art form which he was so very enamoured with.
The first painter he introduces us to is Androvandus Magus, who wasn't born in Bruges ”on St. Simon's day, 1473.” (p. 2) His parents weren't ”wealthy merchants trading to the Levant,” who intended to ”send him into those countries, that he might acquire the language and be serviceable in their commerce,” only to be rescued by the prominent painter Jean Hemmeline who ”chanced to pay a visit to the old Androvandus, his beloved friend on the eve of his sons departure.” Nor did Androvandus produce a nut oil varnish that revolutionized the art of oil painting and gave his own works such a glow that it shamed all his contemporaries. He was never the favourite of high nobility and monarchs in Middle-Europe. No lady of high standing and fortune was ever given to him in marriage. Potential disciples didn't at any time flock around him seeking apprenticeship under his genius, and at no point did he accept to tutor the non-existent Andrew Guelph and Og of Basan. He was not unanimously awarded the title of 'Magnus', 'the Great', for his mastery of the brush. And since he never lived, so neither could he have “for lack of canvas nobly died” (p. 25) – yet, it cannot be seen as a fault to wish that it had been so. If nothing else, it is a great liar's tale, worthy of Baron Munchhausen himself.
Another fascinating character that never was is Sucrewaffer of Vienna, the son of a grocer and ”the daughter of a Lombard pawnbroker” (p. 94) who ”was the best sort of woman in the world, and had no other fault than loving wine, and two or three men besides her husband.” Likewise he was never at a young age discovered to be more preoccupied with drawing the customers of his fathers shop than handling the registry, rendering him quite useless at that task and therefore transferred to his uncle, the heraldry painter, as a problem to be solved. In turn he wasn't apprenticed to an Italian painter named Insignificanti – Sucrewaffer was opposed to this idea, but since he's a fictional character, and that is where the story ends up, it wasn't like he had much of a choice; not that his reluctance isn't understandable since Insignificanti was almost solely preoccupied with painting sheep and shepherds, a study in monotony that lives up to his name. After having no falling out with his master he didn't go to Venice to recommend himself to the public there, resulting in a brief bout of fame that never were. While there he made no acquaintance with another painter with the wondrous name of Soorcrout, and was never dishonoured in a dispute with the aforementioned never-been's Andrew Guelph and Og of Basan, forcing him in shame to leave his home town of Vienna, where he never was, and go back to Venice, where he never went either. The story has to end at some point so he dies, even though he didn't, but not before having not existed for several more years.
We're also treated to the lengthy fibs concerning Guelph and of Basan, and their lives both in the shadow of Androvandus and beyond it. Then there is the story about Blunderbussiana, the son of the terror of Dalmatia, a banditti chief; a painter famed for his anatomically correct portrayals and dark imagery. Finally, there is the tale of the excessively polite Jeremy Watersouchy of Amsterdam, whose talent was for making objects of comfort and delicacy seem as enticing as the real thing, if not more. Every one of these stories share with the others a strong sense of an underlying individuality and personality; it is obvious to the reader that each one of them is painted by the same brush, products of the same Magnus. Again it is clear that there is something idiomatic about Beckford's writings.
I find it likely that many would by now think that I mock this book, which is, of course, entirely true. The book itself was made as a mockery. It is an attempt at satirical comedy – and a success at that, in my opinion. It was my choice to mock the mockery because it felt just right in this case. This is not by any means a book meant to be taken seriously, and it would be an error on my part if I did so. (Well, perhaps with the exception of the occasional needling critique of the painter Julio (Giulio) Romano, who seems to find no favour in Beckford's opinions.) Contemporary reviewers attempted to find whom it was supposed to parody, but found none; some of them even found this to be a fault in the text. I disagree. It needs no depth nor any hidden meanings. It is utterly shallow entertainment, but I don't see that the book in any way conceals that this is how it was intended to be all along. It was clearly written for his own amusement, and it is simply to be amused that we should read it.
Beckford was nineteen when he wrote Biographical Memoirs of Extraordinary painters; it is a product of an 'ingenium precox,' as he himself puts it, a 'young mind.' He does not elaborate on what notions he put behind this term, but I would hazard to guess that he intends to lean on the Rousseauean idea that the true human being is the child. The work is one characterized by a whimsy and pure imagination, one that doesn't feel much like adhering to the straps of reality, and thus elevates itself above social expectations into birdlike freedom – the journey from this and to the pure fantasy of Vathek/An Arabian Tale is not a long one, nor is it surprising that his authorship travelled it. It is a search for more than that which is, but yet it has not yet levitated too far from the ground to prevent us from feeling that it could almost have been real. These are tall tales, pure and true, which have lost none of their charm in the last two centuries.
1. The full title of the original is more akin to a synopsis than a title. Try this one in one breath: Biographical Memoirs of Extraordinary Painters: Exhibiting Not Only Sketches of Their Principal Works and Professional Characters; but a Variety of Romantic Adventures and Original Anecdotes: Interspersed with Picturesque Descriptions of Many New and Singular Scenes, In Which They Were Engaged. For this review it is thus most prudent stick to a shortened version.
2. More specifically the review is based on the second edition, as reproduced by Gale ECCO Print Editions from microfilm images of the original. This original was published in 1780 by J. Robson.
(I'd like to begin this review with this note: Beckford is known to have presumed a certain linguistical prowess in his readers, and thus his works often include quotes in a variety of European contemporary languages and classical ones, which he did not see the need to translate. This was, of course, much too optimistic of him and so I have decided to supplement this review of Biographical Memoirs of Extraordinary Painters with the missing translations. These are found in the comments to the review.)
Beckford was a known eccentric and this characteristic of his personality smote onto his authorship – or let us maybe say that a certain charm was transferred from the penman to his penmanship – and his books were as a result among the more unusual and unique of his time. Not that it is easy to find any comparable writers in our age either. Biographical Memoirs of Extraordinary Painters¹ is as eccentric as one could expect. To prove this point I'd like to pose this question: Have you ever heard of a tall tale biography before? I'm feeling confident that the odds are in favour of the answer being 'no,' but now that you're about to be acquainted with this silly little collection of stories of precisely that sort, you may turn that denial to an affirmation. It is also worth mentioning that Gale Eighteenth Century Collections Online apparently have not heard of such a genre either and they have listed their reprinting of this work – which is the one this review is based on² – under 'History and Geography' rather than under 'Literature and Language' which is their category for works of fiction.
And to be perfectly clear, this book is all fiction. It is said that Beckford wrote it as a guide to his father's collection of paintings; i.e. the Splendens Collection, named after their house, Fonthill Splendens. It was a mockery, of course, and it might seem like he stood by his less than positive appraisal of his father's taste in art. His own taste, at least, did end up very different. Nevertheless, there is one thing this book does not lie about and that is the author's fascination for art; his own collection would later become among the more sizeable, and his posthumous places almost as much importance on it as it does his authorship. Biographical Memoirs of Extraordinary Painters is perhaps his most personal work because it combines these two aspects of him; there is something idiomatic about his flights of fancy regarding an art form which he was so very enamoured with.
The first painter he introduces us to is Androvandus Magus, who wasn't born in Bruges ”on St. Simon's day, 1473.” (p. 2) His parents weren't ”wealthy merchants trading to the Levant,” who intended to ”send him into those countries, that he might acquire the language and be serviceable in their commerce,” only to be rescued by the prominent painter Jean Hemmeline who ”chanced to pay a visit to the old Androvandus, his beloved friend on the eve of his sons departure.” Nor did Androvandus produce a nut oil varnish that revolutionized the art of oil painting and gave his own works such a glow that it shamed all his contemporaries. He was never the favourite of high nobility and monarchs in Middle-Europe. No lady of high standing and fortune was ever given to him in marriage. Potential disciples didn't at any time flock around him seeking apprenticeship under his genius, and at no point did he accept to tutor the non-existent Andrew Guelph and Og of Basan. He was not unanimously awarded the title of 'Magnus', 'the Great', for his mastery of the brush. And since he never lived, so neither could he have “for lack of canvas nobly died” (p. 25) – yet, it cannot be seen as a fault to wish that it had been so. If nothing else, it is a great liar's tale, worthy of Baron Munchhausen himself.
Another fascinating character that never was is Sucrewaffer of Vienna, the son of a grocer and ”the daughter of a Lombard pawnbroker” (p. 94) who ”was the best sort of woman in the world, and had no other fault than loving wine, and two or three men besides her husband.” Likewise he was never at a young age discovered to be more preoccupied with drawing the customers of his fathers shop than handling the registry, rendering him quite useless at that task and therefore transferred to his uncle, the heraldry painter, as a problem to be solved. In turn he wasn't apprenticed to an Italian painter named Insignificanti – Sucrewaffer was opposed to this idea, but since he's a fictional character, and that is where the story ends up, it wasn't like he had much of a choice; not that his reluctance isn't understandable since Insignificanti was almost solely preoccupied with painting sheep and shepherds, a study in monotony that lives up to his name. After having no falling out with his master he didn't go to Venice to recommend himself to the public there, resulting in a brief bout of fame that never were. While there he made no acquaintance with another painter with the wondrous name of Soorcrout, and was never dishonoured in a dispute with the aforementioned never-been's Andrew Guelph and Og of Basan, forcing him in shame to leave his home town of Vienna, where he never was, and go back to Venice, where he never went either. The story has to end at some point so he dies, even though he didn't, but not before having not existed for several more years.
We're also treated to the lengthy fibs concerning Guelph and of Basan, and their lives both in the shadow of Androvandus and beyond it. Then there is the story about Blunderbussiana, the son of the terror of Dalmatia, a banditti chief; a painter famed for his anatomically correct portrayals and dark imagery. Finally, there is the tale of the excessively polite Jeremy Watersouchy of Amsterdam, whose talent was for making objects of comfort and delicacy seem as enticing as the real thing, if not more. Every one of these stories share with the others a strong sense of an underlying individuality and personality; it is obvious to the reader that each one of them is painted by the same brush, products of the same Magnus. Again it is clear that there is something idiomatic about Beckford's writings.
I find it likely that many would by now think that I mock this book, which is, of course, entirely true. The book itself was made as a mockery. It is an attempt at satirical comedy – and a success at that, in my opinion. It was my choice to mock the mockery because it felt just right in this case. This is not by any means a book meant to be taken seriously, and it would be an error on my part if I did so. (Well, perhaps with the exception of the occasional needling critique of the painter Julio (Giulio) Romano, who seems to find no favour in Beckford's opinions.) Contemporary reviewers attempted to find whom it was supposed to parody, but found none; some of them even found this to be a fault in the text. I disagree. It needs no depth nor any hidden meanings. It is utterly shallow entertainment, but I don't see that the book in any way conceals that this is how it was intended to be all along. It was clearly written for his own amusement, and it is simply to be amused that we should read it.
Beckford was nineteen when he wrote Biographical Memoirs of Extraordinary painters; it is a product of an 'ingenium precox,' as he himself puts it, a 'young mind.' He does not elaborate on what notions he put behind this term, but I would hazard to guess that he intends to lean on the Rousseauean idea that the true human being is the child. The work is one characterized by a whimsy and pure imagination, one that doesn't feel much like adhering to the straps of reality, and thus elevates itself above social expectations into birdlike freedom – the journey from this and to the pure fantasy of Vathek/An Arabian Tale is not a long one, nor is it surprising that his authorship travelled it. It is a search for more than that which is, but yet it has not yet levitated too far from the ground to prevent us from feeling that it could almost have been real. These are tall tales, pure and true, which have lost none of their charm in the last two centuries.
1. The full title of the original is more akin to a synopsis than a title. Try this one in one breath: Biographical Memoirs of Extraordinary Painters: Exhibiting Not Only Sketches of Their Principal Works and Professional Characters; but a Variety of Romantic Adventures and Original Anecdotes: Interspersed with Picturesque Descriptions of Many New and Singular Scenes, In Which They Were Engaged. For this review it is thus most prudent stick to a shortened version.
2. More specifically the review is based on the second edition, as reproduced by Gale ECCO Print Editions from microfilm images of the original. This original was published in 1780 by J. Robson.
August 1, 2020
Beckford consigue iniciar con una tradición donde lo literario se separa de la sensación de ficción que la caracteriza hasta, incluso, el siglo XX. No se tiene la sensación de estar leyendo ficción,sino biografías de personas de carne y hueso, una narrativa donde lo fantástico toma el atavío de hechos históricos, que se convierte en una tradición no sólo cuentística, sino también de la crónica contemporánea.
Pasando de la tradición que genera, me parece genial la forma en que sus pintores viven y se convierten en personas que el lector conoce, y que, además, dejan al desnudo la condición del artista.
La prosa es refinada, ligera, se lee como una ola; el trato al lector sutil, como quien cuenta los hechos de su propia vida.
Pasando de la tradición que genera, me parece genial la forma en que sus pintores viven y se convierten en personas que el lector conoce, y que, además, dejan al desnudo la condición del artista.
La prosa es refinada, ligera, se lee como una ola; el trato al lector sutil, como quien cuenta los hechos de su propia vida.
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April 16, 2022Interessante.
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