Welcome back to the Deep Dive. Today, we're looking
at someone truly monumental in art history, Jan
van Eyck, a real giant of the early Northern
Renaissance whose work honestly just changed
everything. Absolutely. And it's such a crucial
figure to explore because, well, he often gets
boiled down to that one phrase, doesn't he? Inventor
of oil painting. Right. Which, as we'll see,
is... It's catchy, but not quite the whole story.
Exactly. It's powerful. It tells you something
about his impact, but it really masks the complexity.
So our mission today really is to dig deeper
than that label. We want to understand how he
combined his incredible technical skill, his
position at court, his intellect, how all that
made him well. as Bartolomeo Faccio put it back
in the 15th century, the leading painter of his
time. And Faccio saying that, an Italian humanist,
that's significant praise coming from the South,
isn't it? Hugely significant. And when you dive
into the sources, the biographical details we
have, the analyses of his style, the works themselves,
you really see he wasn't just a craftsman. He
was well -educated, a diplomat even, and his
techniques... They're foundational now, things
we almost take for granted. So we're going to
unpack that, the court life, the secrets maybe
behind those diplomatic missions, and especially
that incredible mix of like almost forensic realism
alongside this really dense hidden symbolism.
Fascinating. It really is. It's that combination
that feels so revolutionary. You get the sense
that contemporaries almost felt he had an unfair
advantage. Yeah, you can imagine. And we should
probably start right there. With that big foundational
myth. The invention of oil painting. Yes. People
like Vasari, later Gombrich. They really cemented
that idea, didn't they? They did. And look, it's
a great starting point because it tells you immediately
how stunning, how completely new his work must
have seemed. That luminosity, that depth. Exactly.
It wasn't like anything they'd quite seen before
on that scale with that level of detail. So the
impact was instantaneous, massive. It makes sense
why the invention story stuck, even if it's,
well, an oversimplification. Okay, so let's peel
back those layers. For someone so famous, his
actual origins are, well, a bit murky, aren't
they? What do we actually know for sure about
his early life? Yeah, murky is a good word. It's
pretty typical for artists of this period, honestly.
The documentation just isn't there in the way
we'd like. Right. We generally place his birth
somewhere, let's say, between 1380 and 1390.
Could be a bit earlier, maybe a bit later. And
the name, von Eich. It tells us where he's from.
Massech, or Massech as it was then. It's in the
Moslem region near Maastricht. So van Eyck just
means from Eyck. Pretty straightforward. Okay.
And when does he first pop up in the records?
Around 1422, maybe up to 1424. He's recorded
as Meister Jan den Mahler, Master Jan the Painter.
Master Jan. So already established by then. Yes.
Working for John III the Amidalus. He was the
ruler of Holland and Hainaut, based in the Hague
at the time. So Jan's already got a significant
patron. Being called master in 1422, that implies
he'd finished his training, probably had his
own assistants, a workshop running. Absolutely.
He's not an apprentice anymore. He's arrived
professionally. And was this talent just out
of the blue or was painting in the family? Oh,
it definitely seems to have been a family affair.
We know about his brother Hubert. The Ghent altarpiece
connection. Exactly. Hubert died in 1426. Given
the timing, it's... Highly likely, Hubert was
Jan's master, the one who trained him during
his apprenticeship. Makes sense. Then there's
another brother, Lambert. He's active a bit later,
recorded between 1431 and 1442. The thinking
is Lambert might have been the one who kept the
workshop going after Jan died in 1441. Right.
Managing things, maybe finishing commissions.
Possibly. And there are also whispers, sort of
uncertain mentions, of a sister named Margaret.
But that might just be confusion with Jan's wife,
who was also named Margaret, so that's less certain.
Okay. But what really seems to set Jan apart,
even early on, wasn't just the painting skill,
was it? It was his education. This is maybe the
most crucial thing about him, beyond the art
itself. He was unusually well -educated for a
painter in that era. That's really key. How so?
Well, he knew Latin. That's the language of the
church, of diplomacy, of the intellectual elite.
big advantage. And even more remarkably, he used
Greek and Hebrew letters in some of his inscriptions
on the paintings, sometimes tucked into the decorative
borders, sometimes more prominent. Wow. That
suggests a level of learning far beyond just
grinding pigments. Absolutely. And this wasn't
just, you know, for show. This kind of cultural
sophistication, this linguistic ability made
him incredibly attractive to powerful, educated
patrons. Think about someone like Philip the
Good, Duke of Burgundy. Right, a major player
on the European stage. Exactly. Van Eyck wasn't
just a hired hand. He could operate in those
courtly circles. He was cultured. He could probably
hold his own in conversations, maybe even handle
sensitive tasks, which we'll get to. And yet,
despite this high -flying court career later
on, there's that lovely little detail that anchors
him right back to his roots, isn't there? Yes.
The Linguistic Clue. It's fantastic. On his preparatory
drawing for the portrait of Cardinal Niccolo
El Brigatti. Just a sketch, really, but incredibly
insightful. What does it show? Well, he's made
little notes on it. Color notes, comments about
shadows, that kind of thing, for his own reference.
Okay. And those notes, they're written in the
local Moslin dialect, his mother tongue. That's
brilliant. So even as this sophisticated court
painter dealing in Latin and Greek, his private
working notes are in the language of his home
region. Exactly. It's a tiny detail, but it just
perfectly connects the man back to Mossack. Really
humanizing. OK, let's tackle that myth head on
now. The big one. Did Jan van Eyck invent oil
painting? We know the quick answer is no, but
let's unpack the why. Why is it misleading and
what was the real breakthrough? Right. The invention
claim is, well, it's mostly down to historical
storytelling, really. Vasari is the key figure
here. Writing in Italy much later. Over a century
later, yes. The reality is oil paint using oils
like linseed or walnut oil as a binder for pigments
have been around for ages, centuries in fact.
So it wasn't like he discovered some secret ingredient.
Not at all. We have texts like Theophilus' treatise
on divers' arts from way back in 1125. And Theophilus
gives instructions for using oil paint. It was
mainly for things like, you know, painting wooden
statues, maybe decorative shields, more utilitarian
stuff. It wasn't the primary medium for high
-status panel painting in the North yet, but
it existed. So if the paint was already known,
why did someone like Vasari credit van Eyck with
inventing it? What was the agenda there? Well,
Vasari was writing his Lives of the Artists with
a clear narrative arc in mind. He was championing
the Italian Renaissance, right? So he needed
a story, a story of progress, of genius. Attributing
the invention of this incredibly luminous technique
to a northerner, like Van Eyck did a couple of
things, it acknowledged how impressive the northern
technique was. He couldn't ignore that. But it
also sort of contained it. It allowed him to
then argue that while Van Eyck might have invented
the medium, it was the Italian master's Leonardo
Raphael who truly perfected its use. It created
a neat historical break. First darkness, then
Van Eyck's invention, then Italian perfection.
Ah, okay. It serves the Italian -centric narrative.
Makes sense. So let's pivot then. If he didn't
invent the substance, what did he invent? What
was the real game -changing innovation that made
his paintings look so different? It's all about
the mastery and the application. He and his brother
Hubert, we have to include Hubert here, were
among the very first painters in the Netherlands
to really embrace oil paint systematically and
extensively for detailed, high -quality panel
paintings. Not just for odd jobs, but as their
main medium. Precisely. Before them, the dominant
technique in Northern Europe for panel paintings
was tempera. Pigment mixed with egg yolk. Exactly.
And tempura has very different properties. It
dries incredibly fast, almost instantly. It's
quite opaque. You have to build up color using
tiny, careful strokes, often cross -hatching.
The colors can be bright, sure, but they tend
to sit on the surface. Right. So what did Van
Eyck do differently with oil? His genius was
in perfecting a stable, slow -drying oil medium.
We don't know the exact recipe. Maybe he used
sun -thickened oils, maybe added resins or the
dryers. But whatever he did, it allowed him to
work differently. How so? Critically, it allowed
him to apply paint in multiple, very thin, translucent
layers. Glazes. Like painting with colored glass,
almost. That's a great way to think about it.
Instead of a solid layer of paint blocking the
light, these thin glazes let light penetrate
through the layers. Right. So light hits the
painting. goes through the color glaze layers,
bounces off the bright white gesso ground underneath,
and then reflects back out through the glazes
again. Ah, I see. So the color is coming from
within, almost. Exactly. It creates this incredible
depth, this richness and saturation of color,
this luminosity. It glows in a way that tempera
just can't replicate. That's why his paintings
look like jewels. That makes perfect sense. It
wasn't the oil itself, but this sophisticated
layering technique using oil. That was the revolution.
And that mastery just fundamentally shifted the
direction of early Netherlandish painting. It
pushed things rapidly away from the more stylized
international Gothic toward this intense, light
-filled naturalism and realism. He set a new
standard. And that technical edge, that ability
to create these stunningly realistic, luminous
works, must have made him incredibly desirable
as a painter. Which leads us to his career path.
That first big job we mentioned, with John III,
the Pitiless, and the Hague. What did that role
involve? Right, starting around 1422. And it's
important what his title was. He wasn't just
painter. He was appointed Valet de Chambre. Which
means? Literally chamber servant or maybe groom
of the chamber. But in this context, it means
more like a trusted member of the Duke's personal
household. Not just an artisan, but someone with
status, with access. It implies trust. So more
than just a contractor. Much more. He would have
had assistants, of course. His documented work
there involved redecorating the Binnenhof Palace,
the Duke's residence. It's a significant interior
work. But then comes the really big move, doesn't
it? After John III dies? Yes, John died in 1425.
And that's when Van Eyck makes the crucial shift.
He moves to Bruges and enters the service of
Philip the Good, the Duke of Burgundy. Now, that's
the big leagues in Northern Europe at the time.
Absolutely. Philip's court was arguably the most
sophisticated, powerful, and wealthy in Northern
Europe outside of royalty. Becoming Philip's
court painter wasn't just a job. It was a major
elevation in status and opportunity. And Philip
clearly recognized Van Eyck's exceptional talents,
not just artistic, but likely diplomatic, too.
So being a court painter for such a powerful
Duke, did that mean sacrificing artistic freedom?
Was he just painting what Philip told him to
paint? Actually, the record suggests quite the
opposite, which is fascinating. Philip paid him
a regular salary. Rather than per commission.
Yes. And this salary seems to have provided significant
financial security. It freed him from the constant
grind of finding the next commission, churning
out work just to pay the bills. Ah, interesting.
The documents even state that Philip wanted him
to be able to paint whenever he pleased. That
implies a huge degree of artistic freedom. So
the security actually enabled the quality. I
think it's directly linked. That meticulous,
layered, time -consuming technique we just talked
about. You need time for that. You can't rush
it. The security of the court salary gave him
the luxury of time. It allowed for that perfectionism
we see in works like the Roland Madonna or the
Arnolfini portrait. That makes a lot of sense.
And this trusted position, the salary, it also
freed him up for other duties, didn't it? Those
secret missions. Exactly. He wasn't just painting
portraits and altarpieces. The court records
for 1426 to 1429 mention several journeys he
undertook for Philip, specifically described
as secret commissions or missions. Secret. Intriguing.
And the payments for these trips were substantial
multiples of his already generous annual salary.
That tells you these weren't just quick errands.
So what was he doing? Playing diplomat? Spy?
We don't know for sure. That's the nature of
secret. But given his intelligence, his linguistic
skills, his trusted status as valet de chambre,
it's highly likely he was acting as an envoy.
Maybe scouting locations, maybe carrying sensitive
messages, maybe even negotiating behind the scenes.
He was a valuable, discreet asset for the Duke.
And there's that tantalizing hint that one trip
might have taken him quite far afield. Yes, the
reference to a journey to certain distant lands.
This has fueled speculation for a long time.
Could it have been the Holy Land? What's the
evidence for that? It's circumstantial, but compelling.
There's a later painting, probably done by his
workshop around 1440 after his death, called
The Three Marys at the Tomb. Okay. And the background
of that painting features a depiction of Jerusalem.
What's remarkable is the popographical accuracy
of that depiction. It looks like it's based on
firsthand observation. So the theory is Yan traveled
there, made sketches. Made detailed drawings,
yes. And those sketches were then available in
the workshop and used later by his assistants
or successors. Yeah. It's plausible. A pilgrimage
or diplomatic mission to the Holy Land wasn't
unheard of for someone in his position. But the
mission we do have clear documentation for, the
one that really shows his role and his integrity,
is the trip to Portugal. Ah, the Lisbon Mission
of 1428. Yes, this one is well documented and
absolutely fascinating. Philip sent him as part
of an embassy to Portugal to negotiate a marriage
contract. Philip was considering marrying Isabella
of Portugal. Okay, and Van Eyck's role. His specific
artistic task was crucial. Paint Isabella's portrait.
Philip wanted to see what his potential bride
looked like before committing. Wow. So the portrait
wasn't just art. It was like a key piece of diplomatic
intelligence, a visual vetting process. Exactly.
Think about the pressure on Van Eyck. He has
to be accurate. If he makes her look much better
than she is, Philip might feel misled when he
meets her. That could damage the whole alliance.
Right. But if he paints her too harshly. He risks
offending the Portuguese court. potentially jeopardizing
the negotiations right there. It's a diplomatic
tightrope walk. So what did he do? We don't have
the portrait anymore, do we? No, the original's
lost, sadly. But we know from records and copies
that he painted two versions. And the consensus
is that he painted her truthfully. The descriptions
suggest Isabella was probably not particularly
attractive, to put it delicately. But Van Eyck
didn't try to hide that. He captured her likeness
accurately. maintaining her dignity as a princess,
of course, but without resorting to excessive
flattery. That's remarkable, that commitment
to realism, even when it might be politically
awkward. It really speaks volumes about his artistic
integrity and also about the trust Philip must
have placed in him. Philip clearly valued that
truthful observation over mere idealization.
He needed reliable visual information. And the
mission was a success. Yes. The embassy returned.
Philip must have been satisfied enough with the
portrait and the negotiations because he and
Isabella were married on Christmas Day, 1429.
What a story. So after these diplomatic adventures,
Van Eyck settles down more permanently in Bruges.
Seems so. He bought a house there around 1432.
He also got married around this time to Margaret.
The other Margaret. Yes, his wife Margaret. Documents
suggest she was about 15 years younger than him.
She's referred to as Damoiselle Marguerite, which
hints she might have come from the lower ranks
of nobility. The damsel wasn't quite a dame,
but had some standing. Okay. And they had children.
Yes. Records indicate at least two children.
So he established a family life there in Bruges,
alongside running his busy workshop. And we get
that lovely little glimpse into Margaret's life
after Jan died, don't we? That humanizing detail.
It's wonderful, isn't it? After Jan passed away
in 1441, Philip the Good showed his continued
high regard by granting Margaret a significant
one -off payment, basically. Jan's annual salary
paid out to her. Very generous gesture. Shows
how valued Jan was. Absolutely. And then later,
Margaret received a more modest pension from
the city of Bruges. And the records show she
invested some of her income in the state lottery.
No way. Yes. It's just such a relatable detail.
Here's the widow of this incredibly famous, successful
artist living on a pension. And like so many
people throughout history, hoping for a bit of
luck, trying her chances in the lottery. It just
grounds her, doesn't it? It really does. Fantastic.
OK, let's dive into the actual paintings now,
the style itself. Because the core of Van Eyck's
genius seems to be this incredible. almost paradoxical
combination. On one hand, you have this move
towards intense naturalism realism. Almost hyper
-realism sometimes. Yeah. But then, on the other
hand, that realism is absolutely packed with
hidden meaning, with complex symbolism. That's
the absolute key to understanding not just van
Eyck, but much of early Flemish art. It's what
the art historian Craig Harbison really emphasized.
He called this blend of realism and symbolism
perhaps the most important aspect of the school.
So it wasn't just about painting things exactly
as they looked. No, the realism wasn't the end
goal in itself. It was the medium for conveying
theological truth. Van Eyck lived and worked
in a worldview where the spiritual world and
the material world weren't seen as separate.
They permeated each other. God was in the details,
literally. Pretty much. His technical skill allowed
him to paint the material world with unprecedented
conviction. But he did so in a way that revealed
the spiritual reality within that material world.
So how did he do that, this disguise symbolism,
as it's often called? How do you hide sacred
meaning inside a scene that looks totally everyday?
It's a deliberate strategy. It's subtle. He avoids
obvious, older symbols like giant halos or floating
angels most of the time. Instead, he weaves meaning
into seemingly ordinary objects, things that
belong in the scene naturally. Can you give an
example? It helps to visualize it. Okay, think
about the Arnolfini portrait. Probably his most
famous work, right? Definitely. The couple in
the room. Right. Now look closely. There's a
single candle lit in that ornate chandelier.
Just one. And it's daytime. Why? Good question.
Well, interpretations vary, but common ones are
that it represents the all -seeing eye of God
witnessing the event. Or perhaps it's the nuptial
candle, part of the marriage ceremony. Ah, okay.
So an ordinary object with a specific symbolic
weight. Exactly. Or look down at their feet.
They've kicked off their wooden clogs or patents.
Why include those? Hmm. Practicality. Muddy streets
outside. Maybe partly. But it strongly echoes
the biblical story of Moses and the burning bush
taking off shoes because you're standing on holy
ground. It suggests the room itself, the site
of this potential marriage contract or betrothal,
is sacred space. Wow. Okay. So the discarded
shoes aren't just clutter. Probably not. Or the
fruit on the windowsill, often identified as
oranges. Oranges were expensive. A luxury item,
sure. But they could also symbolize innocence.
paradise before the fall of man everything potentially
carries meaning so he's carefully choosing and
arranging these real details to build a theological
argument almost precisely he's rearranging descriptive
data as harbison put it to illustrate a supernatural
truth It's about linking the specific secular
lives of his patrons like Arnolfini, like Chancellor
Rowland, to the universal sacred narrative of
sin, redemption and salvation. Which means as
a viewer, you can't just glance at these paintings.
Absolutely not. They demand slow looking. You
look, then look again. The realism draws you
in, but the full meaning only unfolds as you
start to decode these layered symbols. It's like
a visual puzzle. In a way, yes. The ultimate
message across his religious works tends to revolve
around that core Christian idea. the journey
from sin and death through salvation and eternal
life, facilitated by Christ and the church. And
the figure who often embodies that connection
is the Virgin Mary, right? She's central in so
many of his works. Hugely central. And her depiction
reflects the specific religious concerns of the
early 15th century. How so? Well, this was a
period where the doctrine of purgatory was becoming
much more prominent in people's minds. The idea
that most souls needed purification after death
before reaching heaven. Right. And people...
wanted help navigating that. Exactly. They sought
powerful intercessors, figures who could plead
their case with God, and who better than Mary,
the compassionate mother of Christ? Her cult
grew enormously. Which explains why wealthy patrons
would commission paintings featuring her, like
Canon van der Pale. Precisely. Having yourself
painted alongside the Virgin and Child wasn't
just piety, it was a spiritual investment, a
way of securing her favor and intercession. The
eye typically presents Mary in one of three main
roles, the loving mother of Christ, the majestic
queen of heaven, or as the embodiment of the
church itself, the ecclesia triumphans. And this
idea of Mary as the church leads us to one of
his most striking, maybe initially infusing visual
choices, the scale issue. Especially in the Madonna
in the church. Ah, yes. That painting is fascinating.
If you look at it, Mary is just enormous. She
towers inside that Gothic church interior. Her
head is almost level with the Triforium Gallery,
which would be... what, maybe 60 feet high in
reality. She's impossibly huge for the space.
Completely. And this goes against the naturalism
we see elsewhere. It's a deliberate distortion
of scale, likely borrowed from older traditions,
like Italo -Byzantine icons, where relative size
indicates importance. So how is this originally
interpreted? Well, in the 19th century, when
strict realism was king, some art historians
saw it as a flaw. Maybe a sign of immaturity,
a young artist still figuring out perspective.
But that's not how we see it now. No, thanks
largely to Aaron Panosky's influential interpretation
from 1941. Panosky argued the scale is entirely
intentional and symbolic. What's a symbolism?
Mary is the church. She's not just in the church.
She personifies the church. As the vessel who
contained Christ, she symbolically contains the
entire body of the faithful. Her immense size
reflects her theological significance, deliberately
overriding physical realism. So it's not Madonna
in a church. It's Madonna as the church. Exactly.
And this reading is reinforced by other details,
like inscriptions woven into her robe, quoting
passages from the Book of Wisdom that associate
her with light and the spotless mirror of God.
It's all part of this symbolic program. So the
architectural setting looks real, but the figure
scale is symbolic. That's the blend again. Perfectly.
And what's also interesting is that those incredibly
detailed architectural settings, the columns,
the arches, the floor tiles, they are actually
depictions of real specific buildings. Wow, they
look so convincing. They do. But scholars have
tried and failed to identify them. It seems Van
Eyck constructed them. They are idealized composite
structures. He built the perfect church in paint.
Sort of, yes. He created visually compelling,
symbolically appropriate spaces. He'd even combine
architectural styles that wouldn't normally go
together in reality, like putting rounded Romanesque
arches above pointed Gothic columns. Archimectural
accuracy wasn't the point. The overall visual
and symbolic effect was. And he manipulates light
in a similar way, doesn't he? Creating these
intimate interior spaces that don't feel claustrophobic.
His handling of light is just masterful. Take
the Madonna of Chancellor Roland again. It's
set in this relatively small room, or loggia,
opening onto a vast landscape. Right. But look
where the light is coming from. It seems to enter
from the central portico behind the figures,
illuminating the landscape. But there also seems
to be light coming from side windows, catching
Roland's face and the Virgin's robes. So multiple
light sources. It feels like it. He's subtly
controlling and manipulating light, likely from
imagined sources, to model the figures perfectly
to create the right atmosphere, the right spiritual
intensity. It's not necessarily physically logical.
It's optically and emotionally effective. And
that sometimes leads to weird spatial moments,
like in that same painting. The exit from the
loggia. Ah, yes. The Roland loggia problem. If
you look at where Roland and the Virgin are kneeling,
they seem quite close to the ornate screen or
wall overlooking the landscape. Maybe six feet
away. Tops. Okay. But the actual arched openings
in that screen look really narrow. Some scholars
have pointed out Roland would practically have
to squeeze sideways through one of those openings
to get out onto the balcony beyond. Huh. So it
doesn't quite make physical sense? Not strictly,
no. But again, that wasn't Van Eyck's primary
concern here. He prioritized the composition,
the illusionistic depth, the framing of the divine
vision for Roland. Creating that perfect spiritual
theater trumped strict architectural plausibility.
The impact matters more than the practicality
of the doorway. It wasn't just his technique
that was revolutionary. It was also his attitude
towards authorship, wasn't it? In an age where
many artists were anonymous craftsmen, Van Eyck,
well, he signed his work. Consistently. This
is a really big deal. He is practically the only
major Netherlandish painter of the 15th century
who regularly signed and often dated his panels.
Why was that so unusual? The medieval workshop
tradition emphasized the collective, the guild,
the quality of the object itself rather than
the individual star artist. Signing your work
was seen as, well, perhaps a bit boastful. Unnecessary.
But Van Eyck did it anyway. He did. It's a clear
assertion of individual authorship, a claim to
the quality and uniqueness of his creation. It
really positions him as a precursor to the Renaissance
idea of the artist, as an individual genius,
someone whose name matters. It's about building
a personal legacy. And he often signed with that
distinctive motto, didn't he? Yes, the famous
ALS ICH can. usually translated as as I can or
as best I can. Which sounds quite modest. It
sounds modest, but it's cleverer than that. Firstly,
it's almost certainly a pun on his own name.
Ick. Ick. As Ick can. Ah, I never caught that.
Ickick. Exactly. Sometimes he even wrote it in
Greek letters, adding another layer of intellectual
flair. And that specific spelling, I -C -H, with
the aspirated she sound, that points directly
back to his Limburgish dialect, his home region
again. So, okay, it's a pun. But the meaning,
as I can, is it genuine humility, like, I did
my best, forgive the flaws? That's one interpretation,
and it fits with certain medieval literary conventions
of authors expressing modesty. But, given the
astonishing quality of the paintings themselves,
and the often prominent, even decorative way
he includes the motto... You think it's more
of a boast? Most art historians lean that way
now, yes. It's more likely a kind of playful
but confident assertion. Like saying, this is
the best that I, Jan van Eyck, can do, and my
best is unsurpassed. It's a mark of quality assurance,
almost a brand guarantee, delivered with a slight
wink. As only I can, perhaps. Exactly. And the
style of the signature itself often reinforces
this. He frequently used a kind of decorative
script that was typically reserved for legal
documents, for official acts. Lending it a sense
of authority. Precisely. Like it's been notarized.
The most famous example, of course, is on the
Arnolfini portrait. Right there on the back wall.
in elegant script, Johannes the Ike, Futhikik,
1434. Jan van Eyck was here 1434. It's not just
Jan van Eyck made this. It's Jan van Eyck was
here. It's a witness statement. He's inserting
himself directly into the scene, recording his
presence at this significant event. It's an extraordinary
act of self -assertion. That focus on the individual
himself, but also his sitters, seems perfectly
timed with what was happening socially, right?
The rise of portraiture. Absolutely. The 15th
century saw a huge growth in the wealth and influence
of the merchant class, especially in Flanders.
People like Giovanni Arnolfini, Jodicus Wietz,
who commissioned the Ghent Altarpiece. They weren't
aristocracy, but they had money and status. And
they wanted their portraits painted. Yes. Combined
with emerging humanist ideas about the value
and importance of the individual, portraiture
was no longer just for kings and dukes. There
was a growing demand from this affluent middle
class for realistic likenesses, records of themselves
and their families. And Van Eyck, with his revolutionary
oil technique, was perfectly equipped to meet
that demand. Perfectly. Those translucent glazes
were ideal for capturing the subtleties of human
flesh. the textures of rich fabrics, the glint
of jewelry. He could achieve a level of strikingly
vivid likeness that was simply astonishing at
the time. And he established certain conventions
in portraiture too, didn't he? He really did.
He popularized, maybe even standardized, several
key elements. The three -quarter view of the
face, not full profile, not full front, but that
engaging angle became the standard for European
portraiture for centuries, largely thanks to
him. Why is that view so effective? It gives
a better sense of volume and personality than
a flat profile, but it's often considered more
dynamic and less confrontational than a full
funnel view. He also mastered the use of directional
lighting, often coming from one side, to model
the face and create a sense of depth and character.
And the plain backgrounds. For many of his single
portraits, yes. He often used a flat, dark, usually
black or very deep green background. This isolates
the sitter, eliminates distractions, and forces
all your attention onto... to their face, their
expression, their inner life. It's incredibly
effective psychologically. And then there's that
amazing detail, the one you almost can't believe
until you look closely, the stubble. Huh? Yes.
Lorne Campbell, a major Van Eyck scholar, pointed
this out really clearly. It's fascinating. In
several of his portraits of men, Cardinal Abergati,
Yandelou, Jodokas Vits. on the Ghent Altarpiece
if you look really closely. What do you see?
You see stubble. Campbell describes it as a light
stubble of one or two days growth or notes that
the sitter looks rather inefficiently shaved.
That's incredible. Why include that? It's not
exactly flattering. That's the point. It's the
ultimate commitment to realism, isn't it? He's
not idealizing them into smooth perfection. He's
capturing them as they actually appeared at a
specific moment in time, perhaps between shaves.
It's this forensic level of observation that
makes his portraits feel so present, so real.
Wow. And yet, for all that intense realism, he
wasn't strictly a human photocopier, was he?
He did make adjustments sometimes. No, he wasn't
a slave to pure optical reality. There's always
artistry involved. We see this particularly in
the portrait of his wife, Margaret, from 1439.
What did he change there? Well, it's undoubtedly
her. It feels like a real person. But analysis
suggests he probably made subtle alterations
to her features, maybe slightly adjusted the
line of her nose, perhaps elongated her forehead
a bit. A high forehead was considered a mark
of beauty and intelligence then. So a little
bit of flattering editorializing. A little bit,
yes. Or maybe just adjustments for compositional
harmony. He's balancing the intense realism with
achieving an aesthetically pleasing, well -composed
image. He could tweak reality to fit the ideal
or the fashion of the day while still making
it feel utterly convincing. It's a skillful balance.
And his innovation didn't stop with the paint
surface. The frames themselves were important,
weren't they? Hugely important. We often see
paintings today ripped out of their original
frames. But for Van Eyck, the frame was an integral
part of the artwork. He clearly designed them,
and they worked with the painting. Ah, so. He
often signed and dated the frames themselves.
And frequently, the frames were painted illusionistically,
maybe to look like marble or stone. sometimes
with inscriptions seemingly chiseled into this
fake stone. The frame for the portrait of Yandelou
still survives, and it's painted to look like
bronze. So the frame extends the illusion. Exactly.
And the inscriptions on the frames were often
very clever. They could function almost like
speech bubbles. Giving voice to the sitter. Yes.
Like on that Yandelou portrait frame, the inscription
reads basically, Yandelou, painted by Jan van
Eyck. See when he began it. 1436. It's as if
Deleu himself is speaking to you from the frame.
That's brilliant, and different from the religious
works. Yes. On religious commissions, the frame
inscriptions usually serve a different purpose.
They often detail the patron's name, their piety,
the fact that they commissioned the work for
their salvation, like on the frame of the Virgin
and Child with Canon Vanderbilt. It acts as a
permanent record of the donor's charitable act.
And the frames could even break the barrier between
the painted world and ours. That was another
clever trick. He often incorporated a painted
ledge or parapet, sometimes as part of the frame
itself, sometimes just inside it. Like a windowsill?
Sort of. And then he'd have the sitter rest their
hands on this ledge, or maybe a piece of their
clothing would drape over it. We see this in
copies of the loft portrait of Isabella of Portugal.
What does that do visually? It makes the sitter
seem to project out of the painting into the
viewer's space. It breaks that flat picture plane
and creates a much more direct... almost interactive
connection between the painted person and you,
the viewer. It's a surprisingly modern effect.
Okay, let's take a moment to highlight some of
the absolute must -know works, the core pieces
that define his legacy. Well, you have to start
with the Gen Altarpiece, finished in 1432. co
-signed with his brother Hubert, though the exact
division of labor is endlessly debated. The huge,
multi -paneled work. Exactly. Commissioned by
Jodica's feats for Ghent Cathedral. It's just
epic in scale and ambition, often seen as representing
the final conquest of reality in the North. Just
an astonishing accumulation of detail, symbolism,
and technical brilliance. It's the benchmark.
But that incredible detail, that almost microscopic
realism, could its roots lie somewhere unexpected?
Not in panel painting initially. Ah, you're thinking
of the manuscript Illumination Connection. Oh.
This is fascinating, though still debated. It
involves the Turin Milan Hours, a very luxurious
illuminated manuscript. Okay. Art historians
have identified different artists, or hands,
who worked on it. One of them, known only as
Hand G, produced miniatures of absolutely breathtaking
quality and realism, dating from around 1420.
And Hand G might be... Might be Jan van Eyck.
The style is incredibly close to his later panel
paintings, just on a tiny scale. If this attribution
is correct, and it's a big if, then these miniatures
would be his only known early works. Which would
suggest what? It would suggest that maybe his
revolutionary skills in oil painting, that ability
to render minute detail with such precision,
actually developed first in the context of manuscript
illumination. that working small trained him
to see and paint big with such clarity. It's
a really provocative idea about his development.
Interesting. And what about his peak period for
panel painting? When was he producing his most
iconic works? The mid -1430s seemed to be an
absolute high point, roughly 1434 to 1436. In
just those few years, he produces an incredible
string of masterpieces. Like what? Well, you've
got the Arnolfini portrait, 1434, the Madonna
of Chancellor Roland around 1435, the beautiful,
intimate Luca Madonna, maybe 1436, and the monumental
Virgin and Child with Canon van der Pal 1436.
It's just an extraordinary burst of creativity
and technical perfection. It's staggering to
think of producing all those in such a short
time. But we also need to remember that what
we have is likely just a fraction of what he
actually painted, right? There are lost works.
Oh, definitely. Many works are mentioned in records
or known only through later copies. We already
talked about the lost portrait of Isabella of
Portugal. Right. Any other significant lost ones?
Perhaps the most intriguing is a painting known
as Woman Bathing, or sometimes Lady at Her Toilet.
We don't have the original, but we know what
it looked like because it was depicted hanging
on the wall in a later gallery painting from
1628. A painting within a painting. Exactly.
And what's fascinating is that this woman bathing
apparently included several elements very similar
to the Arnolfini portrait. Such as? A convex
mirror reflecting the room, discarded clogs or
slippers on the floor, even a small dog, possibly
the same breed. Wow. So he was reusing motifs.
It certainly suggests he had a repertoire of
successful compositional devices and symbolic
elements that he might adapt and reuse across
different commissions, perhaps especially for
private domestic scenes. Makes you wonder what
other connections existed in works now lost.
Indeed. So Van Eyck dies in Bruges, July 9th,
1441. What happens immediately after? His reputation
is workshop. Well, as we mentioned, his patron
Philip the Good acted immediately, making that
generous payment to his widow, Margaret. That
shows the highest team he was held in right up
to the end. And the workshop, did it just dissolve?
No, it seems to have continued, at least for
a while. It was likely taken over by his brother
Lambert, maybe with Margaret's involvement too.
They would have had unfinished commissions to
complete. Like what? The small crucifixion and
last judgment dip -titch in the Met is often
thought to have been finished by the workshop
after Jan's death, particularly the upper sections.
They also likely produced new works based on
his existing designs and patterns. Paintings
like the Insol Madonna are often attributed to
the workshop. So they kept his style going, disseminated
it further. Exactly. Ensure the Van Eyck brand,
if you like, continued to circulate immediately
after his death. And his reputation beyond Flanders.
Did it take time to grow or was it immediate?
It seems to have been pretty immediate and widespread,
which is remarkable. It wasn't just local fame.
His work clearly traveled or was talked about.
We see Italian humanists praising him very soon
after his death. Like who? Ciriaco de Pizzicolli
mentions him admiringly in 1449. And then Bartolomeo
Faccio, who we started with, writing his book
On Famous Men in 1456, explicitly calls van Eyck
the leading painter of the day. And Faccio was
writing in Naples, right? Far from Bruges. Exactly.
That recognition from Italy, the heartland of
the Renaissance, is hugely significant. It proves
that his technical brilliance, that stunning
realism and luminosity, was recognized as truly
exceptional across Europe, even by those who
usually champion their own artists above all
others. His genius transcended borders almost
instantly. Hashtag tag outro. So stepping back
from all this incredible detail, if we had to
summarize the core of Jan van Eyck's achievement,
what would it be? It's more than just the oil
paint, isn't it? Oh, much more. I think it's
about integration. He wasn't just a painter.
He was this educated, cultured, well -connected
figure, possibly a diplomat. Right. And he channeled
all of that, plus his immense, almost uncanny
technical skill, that ability to paint the world
with such breathtaking realism into creating
this incredibly rich. visual language. A language
that could hold both meticulous reality and deep,
complex theology together in the same frame.
Exactly. He found a way to make the material
world speak of the spiritual world. and vice
versa, with a power and conviction that hadn't
really been seen before in northern panel painting.
And alongside that, his deliberate use of the
signature, the motto. A -L -S -I -C -H -K -A
-N -Y. That whole performance of authorship,
that was key too, wasn't it? For securing his
place. Absolutely. It was a conscious act of
self -promotion, of legacy building. By signing
his work so consistently, often so prominently,
he really distinguished himself from the anonymity
of the traditional medieval workshop. He's asserting
the value of the individual artist, Jan van Eyck,
the unique creator. It's a very modern stance
in a way. So this combination of intense realism,
hidden depths, and self -assertion, it leaves
us with a final thought, maybe a question for
you, our listeners, to ponder. Given everything,
the meticulous signatures, the foothick. Was
here the possible diplomatic secrecy, the blending
of the sacred and the deeply personal? Was Van
Eyck ultimately painting for God? Was his primary
audience the divine, showing piety through perfect
craft? Or was he perhaps cleverly using the accepted
framework of religious art, the most prestigious
art form of his time, as the ultimate vehicle
to achieve something else, to immortalize himself,
to ensure that Jan Van Eyck, the individual genius,
would be remembered for posterity? Is the sacred
subject matter in a way the stage for his own
enduring presence? Painting for God or painting
for history using God's imagery. It's a fascinating
question to hold in mind when you look at those
incredibly detailed, intensely present works.
Perhaps the answer lies somewhere in that shimmering,
ambiguous space between the two. Something to
think about next time you encounter one of his
masterpieces. Thank you for joining us on the
Deep Dive. We'll see you next time.