Tag Archives: intarsia

Abbeville Book Buzz – November 2012


While the Abbeville Blog has been exploring Abbeville’s new releases in depth throughout the fall, other media outlets have been buzzing about our books as well. Here’s a roundup of some of the more notable November coverage.

The New York Times chose Renaissance Intarsia and Greek and Roman Mosaics for its Holiday Gift Guide, praising them both as books that pack “intellectual heft and emotional wallop.” The editors particularly enjoyed the arcane trivia and fantastic lore offered in each:

[Greek and Roman Mosaics'] glossary is entertaining: ancient installers called themselves tessellators, and a favorite squiggly motif was known as “opus vermiculatum. ” Many of the mosaics have been removed from their original mortar beds; a petaled frame from a Tivoli villa’s scene of doves around a birdbath has been cut apart and dispersed among collections in Germany, England and France.”

Scholars liked intarsia images of musical instruments and books, and popes and monks ordered portraits of saints. The wood grain lines, dotted with mother-of-pearl, were positioned to represent tiny gleaming swords, bird feathers and draped robes. The raw material, the [Intarsia] authors explain quite evocatively, came from trees felled in winter, “and only during the waning phase of the moon.”

Equally evocative was the review of Pieter Bruegel in the Journal of the Northern Renaissance, which revels in the sensuous thrills of the volume:

This lavish book looks and feels indulgent; revealing with thrilling intimacy details of large panel paintings, including dress, gesture, facial expressions and under-drawing, it offers the closest thing to a museum experience … Taken together with [Larry] Silver’s Hieronymous Bosch (2006), Pieter Bruegel presents a masterful survey of Northern Renaissance visual trends over a span of more than a century. The book provides a fabulous resource of images, supported by a lively text that re-engages with a much loved master, and is sure to inspire many more people to look again at Bruegel.”

The reviewer also salutes author Larry Silver for deftly negotiating the vast body of scholarship on Bruegel—a painter who has become “a brand in every sense”—while at the same time keeping the emphasis where it ought to be: “Silver’s tome…rightly declares its central purpose to be the contemplation of pictures.”

Speaking of contemplation, the JapanCulture NYC blog found a whole garden’s worth of blissful serenity in Jonathan Singer’s photographic opus, Fine Bonsai: Art & Nature: “Dr. Singer creates bold, colorful images that spring off the page and demonstrate how nature can at once be both delicate and powerful…each of [the book's] 596 pages offers moments of contemplation and meditation.” In the Journal of the American Bonsai Society, editor Bob King agreed that “this is more than your average coffee table book”:

Jonathan Singer with his grounding as an art-based photographer has revealed what he sees as the true nature of the trees through the use of selective lighting. The same black background makes the trees “pop” from the pages … As I viewed the book, I also considered the educational component for the bonsai community. The book is not just a collection of photographs of bonsai. It appears that the planned design was to have trees shown without detailed information close at hand, thereby forcing the viewer to appreciate the individual tree without the prejudgment of who was involved in the development. The sections of the history, aesthetics, and container selection all add value to this book as a comprehensive book on the art of bonsai.

And there, like a master gardener trimming a bonsai plant, we will cut off the roundup before it sprawls untidily. We hope you’ll continue to follow the Abbeville Blog throughout December for more Abbeville news, author interviews, and reflections on art and art history, as well as holiday gift ideas. See you Monday!

A Renaissance of Wood, Not Marble

Lorenzo Lotto, Self-Portrait

Feast your eyes on the face above. Lorenzo Lotto. Painter. Illustrator. Renaissance man. Creator of the cartoons for the choir stall panels of Santa Maria Maggiore in Bergamo, one of the most distinguished intarsia cycles in the history of art. Now imagine this Northern Italian gentleman approaching you, clad in his black cloak and beret. He clasps your hand warmly. “Come, my friend,” he whispers in a dialect you somehow understand. “Let me show you the delights of inlaid wood.”

Off he whisks you to sixteenth-century Italy, where the art of intarsia, or decorative wood inlay, is thriving as never before or since. He shows you around churches and cathedrals, around the studioli (private studios) of wealthy secular gentlemen. You run your hand over the panels of sacristies and choirs, walls and vaults, private cabinets and stalls beneath pipe organs. There, depicted in wood mosaics of varying grain and hue, are porticoes, domes, entire illusionistic cityscapes visible through archways. Religious scenes, too: nativities, annunciations. Still lifes of lutes, flutes, and fruits. Geometric studies of the medieval headdress known as the mazzocchio. In the studiolo of Federico da Montefeltro, commissioner of Italy’s second-largest library, an intricately rendered array of desktop items: books, lamps, hourglasses, inkstands. (Also, in one panel, a mischievous squirrel.)

“The makers of these images,” Lotto intones, “are all but forgotten in your century. Fra Giovanni da Verona. Benedetto da Maiano. Pier Antonio degli Abati. Their names do not ring down the corridors of time as do those of Botticelli, Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci. Yet they once sought to rival the great painters and sculptors of my age in the passion and precision with which they handled wood. Perhaps these men were dreamers. Perhaps their quest was folly. But do they deserve oblivion? Did they not master techniques of perspective unknown to Europe only a century or two before? Did they not handle light, shade, tone more skillfully with wood than many a draftsman could with pencil? Should they be punished–their life’s work forever judged a ‘minor art’–merely for going against the grain?”

The pun you forgive; the artists you vow not to forget. You linger by Lorenzo Lotto’s side a moment in the sinking Venetian sun. “Well, I should retire to my own studiolo,” you tell him. “It’s getting late, and I’d like to study this art form more.”

“Then I shall leave you with another guide.” He hands you a copy of Abbeville’s Renaissance Intarsia, edited by Luca Trevisan. “If we must part, accept this as my parting gift.”

“Thank you,” you whisper, turning it over in your hands. You glance up and find yourself at home, at your desk, with only the book and a faint wistfulness as souvenirs from your journey. Perhaps Lorenzo will someday return. You knock on wood. You begin to read.

The Lost Art of Intarsia

Abbeville’s Renaissance Intarsia

“The lost art of intarsia.” Let that phrase roll off your tongue and try not to be enchanted. The very syllables are redolent of the Renaissance, evoking workmen’s guilds and intricate handicraft and the firelit faces of apprentices. This lost art–this lost world–is what we here at Abbeville will be celebrating all this week, in anticipation of our forthcoming volume, Renaissance Intarsia. But before we get too transported, let’s address a few basic questions.

What is intarsia?

Intarsia is a form of wood inlaying that originated in the Arabic world and spread to Europe in the Middle Ages. It entails the joining together of variously shaped and colored pieces of wood to create mosaic-like images with sophisticated perspective illusions. As Luca Trevisan explains in his Introduction to Renaissance Intarsia:

Intarsia is neither sculpture nor painting (nor, perhaps, pittura di legno, “painting in wood,” Pier Luigi Bagatin’s appropriate definition, a paraphrase of Giorgio Vasari’s term legni tinti, or “tinted wood”), nor, in the end, architecture. Or perhaps, on second thought, it is all three arts together. Composed on a two-dimensional plane and according to chromatic canons already well tested in painting, intarsia is at the same time based on material that is carved, arranged, and thus “sculpted,” and it reaches the height of its inherent potential in the representation of three-dimensional objects, namely urban spaces translated into meticulously prepared architectural perspectives.

When and where did European intarsia flourish?

Its development in Italy began in the mid-1300s and flourished throughout the Quattrocento and Cinquecento. During the Cinquecento it began spreading to wider Europe, ultimately reaching as far as London.

What sorts of things was intarsia used to decorate?

The walls and doors of ornate buildings, particularly churches. Also, church furnishings: altars, cabinets, choirs, and the like.

What held intarsia panel pieces together?

We are very glad you asked. According to Paolo Pizzati in Renaissance Intarsia:

“…the artist glued the pieces down, usually with cheese glue, one of the strongest types then available. This was obtained by soaking fresh cheese in water and quicklime, which allowed the casein to separate from the oils….Other glues were derived from the skin or bones of animals, a process that entailed a prolonged boiling with alkaline substances and subsequent purification. One of the most surprising formulas called for the use of eel skin preserved in salt.”

Why care about intarsia nowadays?

Because you have a taste for the finer things and an imagination. Because you admire how quickly, how skillfully, the fifteenth-century discovery of perspective in drawing was adapted to this more sculptural art. Because you can practically smell the sweet haze of sawdust hovering around those long-dead woodworkers as they plied their trade. Because it is the smell of honest craftsmanship, of dignified labor. Because in the late Renaissance, cabinetmakers and their customers began to favor marquetry over intarsia, and deep down you know that Western culture has gone downhill ever since.