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In the summer of 2021, I was invited to be Weiss Summer Research Fellow at the Cantor Art Gallery. The Weiss Program allows Holy Cross students to stay on campus for 8 weeks, working on research projects with College faculty. My project was researching collections at the Cantor Art Gallery with the Gallery’s Director, Meredith Fluke. On my first day at the Gallery, Dr. Fluke took me through gallery storage, where she showed me a group of Asian decorative objects, that had not been previously researched by the Gallery staff – many of which had been unearthed during a complete collections inventory that was completed during Covid (we later discovered their provenance; given to the College by alumnus Frank Gallagher III, who served under General MacArthur after World War II). I was overjoyed to peek into them. Their materials are opulent, their styles lavish, their colors sensational, and their messages nostalgic.

Among them, there was an exquisite porcelain sculpture of Avalokiteśvara (Guānyīn 觀音) in the form of Padmapāṇi (Fig. 1), on which I had an instant crush. To people in East Asia, Guanyin is ohne Zweifel the embodiment of purity 净 and compassion 悯, just as Mary is to Christians. If you peek into any sculpture of Guanyin, her body is always perfectly proportioned, her expression tender, and her manner kingly. Historically, Guanyin has been blessed with at least thirty-three iconographies in Chinese Buddhist scriptures and art, one of which was Padmapāṇi, namely the Lotus Bearer 持蓮觀音. As early as the cosmopolitan Tang dynasty (618-907), Chinese Guanyin statues had taken a female manifestation. By contrast, their Himalayan prototypes took a male manifestation while also featuring a softness of the anatomy, as evident in a turquoise-inlaid, bronze Padmapāṇi statue (Fig. 2) in the MET collection.

The Cantor Guanyin stands right on the top of a huge, flat lotus leaf, holding a spray of an aromatic lotus bloom. To me, the message that the Guanyin conveys is not physiological but rhythmic and emotional, resembling Botticelli’s Venus with leggiadria. Although her loose garment opens at her partially exposed chest, it didn’t seem to me to be lascivious at all. And, how could we not fall in love with the color of the statue? Its infinite pure whiteness was probably modeled after the Blanc de Chine 德化白瓷, a type of ivory glazed porcelains that were crafted in present-day Fujian Province during the Ming dynasty (1368-1644).

The absence of a signature hindered us from deciphering who crafted the Cantor Guanyin and when it was crafted. Dr. Fluke explained that there are many times when we research historical objects that definitive knowledge about production is lost and irretrievable. When I studied a Japanese doll in the form of a man (Fig. 3), a new “question mark” popped up. To me, it was hard to tell its exact identity. The only clue was his extravagant crimson chōfuku 朝服, which parallels with the one worn by Fujiwara no Takamitsu 藤原高光 (939-994) in Kanō Yasunobo’s 狩野安信 (1614-1685) Sanjūrokkasen-gaku 三十六人歌仙伝 (Fig. 4). Since Fujiwara as a mid-Heian samurai armed with bows and arrows wears splendid crimson fabric in Kanō’s painting, the Cantor doll’s chōfuku, when coupled with the long wayumi 和弓 in his hand, indicates that he might be a samurai either in the Asuka period (592-710) or in the Heian period (794-1185).

I was not discouraged when I reach these dead ends in my research. I would rather wade into the murmuring brook—despite being fraught with vagaries—out of sheer curiosity and exhilaration. I used my research as the foundation for an exhibit I curated for the Spring of 2021. For the first time, the gifts of Frank Gallegher ’32 were on display. I selected 10 of the 33 objects that were a part of his original gift, including the Guanyin and the Kimona Doll. At a time that the virus kept me far from my family for a long time, the Cantor experience familiarized me with collection research methodologies and professional curatorial practices, which inspired me to reconsider how the early modern world was intermingled, both artistically and commercially.

– Jinze Mi ’23

 

The Cantor Art Gallery has played a vital part in Holy Cross’ liberal arts education since 1983 when Rev. John E. Brooks, S.J. first envisioned its role as strengthening and fostering, “…the openness and tolerance necessary if we are to understand who we are and how we relate to one another.” During his tenure as president of Holy Cross from 1970 to 1994, Brooks made many significant contributions, including transforming the all-male, white student body into one that included students of color and women. 

Although transformative as these changes were for Holy Cross, Brooks laid a foundation as important as any other for the future of the College when he committed himself to establishing a gallery on campus. He knew, instinctively, that the visual arts matter when educating individuals and preparing them to be engaged citizens.

The Jesuit tradition in education places an emphasis on helping students to understand themselves as human beings, what their place is in the world, and how they can understand and serve others. Having a space that is dedicated to the visual arts, makes room for experiencing a wide range of expressions of what it means to be human – on emotional, intellectual, spiritual, and cultural levels. By engaging in a dialogue with a work of art, there is an opportunity for us to see and appreciate points of view we’ve never encountered or considered before.

Experiencing a work of art is like unraveling a puzzle – what is the artist trying to express, by what means is it accomplished, is it familiar or foreign to me, is it showing me something I don’t understand, or don’t relate to, how does it make me feel? I can’t think of a better way of becoming a more open-minded person than by opening oneself up to the experiences of others – whether throughout history, those present in your immediate community, or across the globe today. 

From its very beginnings until now, the Cantor has exhibited works of art across a wide range of issues, experiences, genres, and cultures – from civil rights in the United States to apartheid in South Africa; the devastation of war as witnessed at Hiroshima and through the Holocaust; objects of religious devotion from Christian, Buddhist, and Islamic faith traditions, as well as Native American sacred sites; bold African sculptures, intricate textiles from Indonesia, lyrically fluid Islamic calligraphy; art created in response to major events such as Hurricane Katrina in New Orleans, and art created by differently-abled artists that express their unique visions of the world; works by Vietnamese women artists, Latin American artists, and Cuban artists; yearly exhibitions of student works from visual arts majors, as well as visual art faculty exhibitions on a triennial basis.

When I reflect on why the Cantor is such a special part of a Holy Cross education, and vital resource for the campus, it comes down to a belief in the power of creative expression – in this case visual expression – as offering us a way to connect with others and become more than ourselves alone. Father Brooks’ words resonate with me as deeply important today, as much as they did when he spoke them back in 1983. Openness, tolerance, and understanding of our fellow humans – these values matter now more than ever. As the Cantor begins a new chapter with its move into the Prior Performing Arts Center, it is poised to further engage the Holy Cross community – and wider community – with essential questions of humanity through the visual arts.

Paula Rosenblum, Assistant Director for Communications and Operations

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As we crawl our way through the second year of the Covid-19 pandemic, I find myself returning to this moving painting in the collection of the Cantor Art Gallery. The scene represented is the Death of Saint Joseph, the fatherly saint’s identity is confirmed by the carpentry tools scattered on the ground by his bed. Attending at Joseph’s bedside are Mary, Jesus, and an angel in prayer; they are joined by a small host of angels in heaven. While one angel holds lilies, another awaits with a crown – both symbols of Joseph’s impending transition to saintly status. In this scene of extreme unction – the sacrament meant to prepare the soul for death – the gift of the Holy Spirit is sent by God the Father. In Catholic tradition, this gift is meant to renew faith in God and strengthen its recipient against the temptations of discouragement and despair that accompany the fear of dying, thus preventing the loss of hope in God’s salvation. For me, the image of people gathered at a loved one’s bedside at the moment of death has taken on new weight during the pandemic. For those of us who were denied access to our parents, relatives, and friends as they passed (in my case, my beloved father), the image reminds us of the universal desire to bear witness and provide comfort in this final transition. At Joseph’s bedside, Jesus (as priest) performs the sacrament of extreme unction, while Mary, as intercessor, serves as a perfect representation of somber, yet hopeful, Christian grief.

This small panel painting is most likely the work of Stefano Erardi – a Maltese painter of the late-17th, early-18th century. Born in the city of Valletta in 1630, Erardi painted in the Baroque style that was popular throughout Europe at the time. This style is marked by dramatic positioning of figures, heightened attention to the temporal aspect of a narrative, and deep, rich colors. One of the greatest painters of the Baroque period, Caravaggio (d. 1610), is known to have lived in Malta for a brief period of time toward the end of his life. Though Stefano Erardi is not well-known outside of Malta, he was favored by government and church authorities on the island, and his paintings can be found throughout churches and collections on Malta and nearby Gozo. Some of his most well-known paintings are large-scale altarpieces, such as the 1667 painting of the Adoration of the Magi, still in situ at Valletta’s Co-Cathedral of Saint John (it shares the title with the Co-Cathedral of Saint Paul in Mdina). It is worth noting that Malta suffered an intense outbreak of the plague from 1675 -76, in which Erardi would have seen approximately 11,300 Maltese citizens die. 

The Death of Saint Joseph was given to the Cantor Gallery by Martin O’Malley, a Worcester native and 1964 alumnus of Holy Cross. For many reasons — storage, care, and teaching being among them — the Gallery’s task is first to confirm its attribution: how do we know that this painting is by Erardi, especially considering that it has not been signed by the Maltese artist (keeping in mind that a signature is not always a guarantee for authentic authorship)? Often attribution lies in a complex network of clues.

The most important tool we use in determining authorship is our eyes. Does the painting look like others painted by Stefano Erardi? Since there are many affirmed Erardi paintings in Malta, we can look to comparisons to see that the Cantor’s Death of Joseph accords with known examples: one of the most famous of Erardi’s paintings, still installed in Saint John’s Co-Cathedral in Valletta, is the Adoration of the Magi, painted in 1667. Though the Adoration of the Magi is a much larger and more developed painting than the Death of Saint Joseph, we can see several similarities between the two: including the palette of rich blues, reds, and mustard-gold yellows. Also similar is the concentration of figures in the close middle ground, and especially the proportions and positioning of the youth/angel figure represented in the foreground of both paintings.

Erardi’s painting of the Annunciation, currently located in the Carmelite Priory in Mdina, Malta, dated to 1677, also demonstrates the saturated palette utilized by Erardi throughout his paintings. The Annunciation also connects to the Death of Saint Joseph through the translucent golden mustard color that the artist uses in the sky around the God the Father figure, the silvery-white outlines of the clouds, and the descending dove (representing the Holy Spirit) with light streaming from its beak — all characteristics of both paintings. 

In addition to these visual similarities, the Joseph panel importantly carries with it the opinion of a Stefano Erardi expert, who confirms the attribution in a note pasted to the back of the panel:

Valetta Malta        Jan 1  1926

With regard to the painting of the Death of Saint Joseph, Mr. Bonello, the Curator of the Art Collection of the Maltese Museum has supplied to the owner of the picture, the American Consul at Malta (Philip Adams), the opinion that without any doubt the picture was the work of Stephano Erardi; and the typewritten statement appearing above was supplied to Mr. Adams by Mr. Bonello.

Philip Adams (American Consul Valetta Malta)

In this note, Mr. Bonello, who we can assume has examined most Erardi paintings, not only confirms Stefano Erardi as the artist, but it also creates a provenance for the painting.  He illuminates the way in which it traveled from Malta to the United States — in the hands of an American diplomat. For art collections and museums, it is important to demonstrate that the painting was legally purchased, in accordance with international laws about moving works of art out of their country of origin. For the Cantor, an Erardi attribution allows us to create a storage, care, display, and research plan that responds the painting’s 17th century date, and Maltese origin.

For modern viewers, the scene of Joseph’s deathbed is an important reminder of the humanity that defines the lives of the saints. Joseph’s role as a loving father has been recently highlighted through the Pope’s proclamation that 2021 be a special “Year of St. Joseph.” The Pope’s Patris corde (with a father’s heart) letter, written against the backdrop of the Covid-19 pandemic, relates Joseph to the “ordinary people” who have persevered and helped one another, offered hope, and thus played an important role in the history of salvation. The Cantor Collection’s painting, perhaps painted around the time of Malta’s plague outbreak, connects us with these larger ideas of health and care that are fundamental human values — here to be considered and emulated through the contemplation of a transcendent work of art.

Meredith Fluke, Director of the Cantor Art Gallery

 

Welcome guest blogger Alyssa Stone ‘ 22! Alyssa has worked with the Cantor as a Gallery Assistant, and has been working as a Research Assistant during the 2020-21 academic year.

Hi, I’m Alyssa. I’m a junior psychology and self-designed peace and conflicts major. I’m a maker myself and have always been interested in artistic processes. This is why I work the Cantor Gallery, even though it may not seem to intersect with my academic endeavors. Typically, I get a front-row seat at the gallery shows, but unfortunately this year COVID-19 had other plans. Instead, I have been able to work as a remote gallery assistant, helping to research and curate the show 10 x 10 (Ten Women: Ten Prints) with gallery staff Paula Rosenblum and Meredith Fluke. This specific project means a lot to me because it was put together in 1995 to commemorate the 75th anniversary of the United States’ adoption of the 19th amendment, which allowed women the right to vote. In addition, social justice issues like these are an encompassing passion of mine.

This exhibit includes the work of ten women artists, who themselves display the beauty of racial and ethnic diversity within the United States and across the globe. Each woman represents a different life path, as well as some of the many challenges women face domestically and internationally. The prints foster discussion about many of the struggles women face both publicly and privately – in their individual lives or their communities. They bring attention to these collective experiences, portraying them in ways that show their strength through vulnerability.

Many of these works interested me due to their foundations in conflict and immigration, given my academic pursuits in PCON studies, and my hopes of becoming an immigration lawyer. Claudia Bernardi’s piece, Ser Mujer Es Saber Resistir, caught my eye as it directly correlated with my studies. I wrote a research paper about the atrocities committed during the Argentine Dirty War, so I was familiar with the subject matter, but Bernardi’s approach made what I knew all the more human. It reminded me that even though this portfolio is celebrating the achievement of women’s suffrage (now a little more than 100 years ago), America has also created painful conditions for women all over the world. Similarly, Homenaje a Dolores Huerta from Women’s Work is Never Done by Yolanda Lopez reflects on the silenced experience of Mexican and Mexican-American women, who have been exploited through agricultural work. The themes of these artworks address only immigrant women or women affected by US foreign affairs, but also basic issues and hardships that are applicable to the lives of many women and their experiences.

As I researched each of these prints and their makers, I felt even more connected to the artists and their messages than I did before I was offered this opportunity. Like myself and other women, these artists and incredible multi-dimensional. They are not just makers; each artist draws from her personal identity to portray a part of the female experience. These images illuminate the stories of women who might have been marginalized in beautiful and powerful ways, hopefully furthering the discussions surrounding these issues.

In my life, I try to participate in dialogue that will bring about change. Whether the change is within myself or the world varies, but it is always impactful. The art in the 10 x 10 portfolio is beautiful, but like all difficult dialogue, it is sometimes uncomfortable. I think that, while people have different levels of tolerance for discomfort, works made by passionate and inspiring artists make discomfort easier. The beauty of these prints is that they allow the audience to lean in, and to understand the artist through their own lens. I hope that this exhibition allows others to embrace these experiences as I have, and leaves them with a pang of discomfort and curiosity, as it did for me.

 

Alyssa Stone is a psychology and peace and conflict studies double major, with an interested in rhetoric and composition. She is passionate about social justice and change, and hopes to continue pursuing her interests in law or nonprofit work in the future. At Holy Cross, Alyssa serves as a mentor for first-year students and writing consultant in the Writer’s Workshop.

This week we hear more from Ellen Perry, Professor of Classics at Holy Cross about sculptor Frederick Shrady:

Frederick Charles Shrady, the sculptor who created the bronze sculpture of Saint Martin of Tours in the foyer of Dinand Library, was born in New York in 1907. He was the son of another sculptor, Henry Merwin Shrady, whose most famous (and ambitious) work was the bronze group on the National Mall in Washington D.C. known as the Grant Memorial (Henry even incorporated a portrait of Frederick into that monument as a drummer boy).

The Grant Memorial was a labor of 20 years that was only finally dedicated 2 weeks after Henry Shrady’s death. Frederick was just a teenager at the time, but he grew up to study art in New York and Orleans, France; then art history at Oxford before he moved to Paris to live full-time. He lived there for 12 years and had established a solid reputation for himself as a painter. He also worked with the French underground, for which he was eventually awarded the Legion of Honor.

In June 1943, Frederick Shrady enlisted in the U.S. Army. He would join the Monuments, Fine Arts, and Archives (MFAA) division of the army, better known to contemporary moviegoers as the Monuments Men. In June 1945 he was part of the team of Monuments Men who rescued some thousands of paintings, sculptures and other works of art from the salt mines at Altaussee, Austria, where the Nazis were storing/hiding them apparently with the intention of building a museum in Linz. Regardless of their intentions, however, in the last days of the war, the salt mines and therefore the works of art were placed at risk first by Nazi loyalists and then by the prospect of advancing Soviet troops. The protection of these works from the Nazis was complicated business for which many locals get credit. But the rapid evacuation of the art before the Soviets arrived was largely the work of the Monuments Men.

While he was in Austria, Frederick Shrady met his future wife, Maria Louise Likar-Waltersdorff, who was serving as an interpreter for the MFAA. They married in 1946. Shrady converted to Catholicism and his artistic output thereafter was largely, though not exclusively, religious; Shrady also cast a bronze sculpture titled Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity—the FBI motto—which stands in the courtyard of the FBI Building but, for security reasons, is no longer accessible to the general public. Shrady’s first bronze (1949) was a portrait of the Jesuit philosopher and public intellectual Martin D’Arcy. Incredibly, that very first sculpture of Shrady’s was purchased by the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Many years later, Shrady would also become the first American artist to receive a commission from the Pope (John Paul II).

Novelist and historian Paul Horgan described Shrady’s overall style in a way that finds perfect application to the sculpture of Martin of Tours in Dinand Library:

….as he so often works in heroic scale, his powerful sense of the dramatic gesture to express an act or idea is always given to us through interplays or extreme tension between the flowing elements of his design. The parts seem to strive against each other in sweeping lines of almost choreographed gestures—and then to come together in the whole to effect a great act of release.

 In June of 1969, the College of the Holy Cross conferred an honorary degree on Frederick Shrady. Six months later, just before Christmas, Father Swords was corresponding with Shrady about whether he might be willing to create a sculpture for Dinand Library. He wrote, “I know that the size of the bequest [$5,000] will limit the project, and I also realize that your time is very much in demand. However, I feel that an alumnus of Holy Cross in the person of your good self could bring to the work a feeling which an outsider would not have.” Swords evidently turned Shrady into a Holy Cross “graduate” shortly before calling on him as a loyal alumnus to do his part for the College.

This blog is dedicated to the art and spaces of the Holy Cross campus that are hidden or exemplary, beloved or overlooked, and decidedly unique. Each post will explore a different work of art, its various connections and histories, and the singular journey that brought it to Holy Cross. Treasures of the Mount will present a variety of voices — students, faculty, staff, and community members — whose diverse interests and research will shed light across the varied campus collections. We hope that you will not only gain insight into familiar works, but will also discover new treasures from the Mount St. James.

–Meredith Fluke, Director, Iris and B. Gerald Cantor Gallery