Titian (Venetian, a. 1506-1576) Bacchus and Ariadne (1520-23) Oil on canvas. 176.5 BY 191CM. National Gallery, London.

In the upcoming exhibition, "Benjamin West and the Venetian Secret," (beginning September 18) Yale's Center for British Art explores an obsession with recreating the methods of Titian. The Sunday New York Times dedicates an excellent article to the topic.

Benjamin West (Anglo-American, 1738-1820) Cicero Discovering the Tomb of Archimedes (1797) Oil on canvas. 124.5 BY 180.5CM. Yale University Art Gallery.

Benjamin West (Anglo-American, 1738-1820 ) was one brightest stars in British painting at the end of the eighteenth century. During his career, art and art academies turned away from nearly a century of lighter subject matter and back towards the subjects and methods of the Old Masters. This included investigating how Old Masters actually painted. Color theory, the chemistry of paints, grounds and, even, proper stance while painting, were all debated in the halls of England's Royal Academy.

Benjamin West (Anglo-American, 1738-1820) Portrait of artist posing as President of the Royal Academy.

West had served as President of the Royal Academy (1792-1805; 1806-1820) and was particularly interested in the works of the Venetian painter Titian (Venetian, a. 1506-1576), and his ability to achieve high intensity color in his paintings.

So when an artist named Ann Jemima Provis and her father, Thomas Provis, approached West and told him they had found a copy of an old manuscript that explained how the Venetians achieved their distinctive style of painting, he jumped at the chance to learn more. Eager to incorporate the methods in the manuscript into his own work, West began experimenting with them.

There was only one problem.

“The story was an absurd invention, and the manuscript was a fake,” said Angus Trumble, senior curator of paintings and sculpture at the Yale Center. In addition, to the manuscript Ann and Thomas Provis offered demonstrations of the Venetian technique. These included a new approach to painting grounds and using Prussian blue. (Prussian blue was invented by Heinrich Diesbach and Johann Konrad Dippel in 1704 or 1705, more than 100 years after Titian's death. In his own paintings, Titian used lapis lazuli (a.k.a ultramarine); therefore, the "rediscovered" method was clearly not Titian's.)

(From "Be An Old Master, for 10 Guineas" by J. D. BIERSDORFER, August 29, 2008. New York Times.)

Painters working under the instructions of the Provises did not have the same results as the Old Masters, which led to suspicions regarding the Provises's claims. The Provises were discovered for their hoax, and a number of artists who had paid for their advice were discredited in the press and at the Royal Academy. West, especially, was criticized for not having seen the hucksters for what they were.

"Not a day without drawing," was a motto often repeated by Menzel and recalled by his students at the Royal Academy of Art in Berlin.

Portrait of Adolf von Menzel (a. 1880) Image published in Newcomb, A; Blackford, K.M.H.: Analyzing Character, 1922. Photographer Paul Thompson.

While Menzel is well remembered in German-speaking countries--a few books on him have been published in that language--his legacy has been largely forgotten by the rest of the world. This is despite the impact that he had on a number of painters including Joaquín Sorolla y Bastida, Ernest Meissonier, with whom he was friends, and a following of artists in France.

Adolf von Menzel (Polish/German, 1815-1905) The Artist's Sister, Emille, Sleeping (c. 1848). Oil on paper. 46 BY 60CM. Kunsthalle, Hamburg.

Short biography Menzel was born in Breslau, Poland. In 1830, his father moved the family to Berlin and founded a lithgraphy business, in which Menzel worked from the age of fourteen.

Adolf von Menzel (Polish/German, 1815-1905) View from a window in the Marienstrasse (1867) Gouache over chalk. Oskar Reinhart Foundation, Winterthur.

Shortly after moving to Berlin, Menzel's father died unexpectedly leaving a young Menzel as the sole provider for the family. Eventually, Menzel was able to involve other members of the family in the business and pursue an education and career in art.

Adolf von Menzel (Polish/German, 1815-1905) A Study of Castes. Oil on canvas. Private collection.

He accepted at the prestigious Royal Academy of Art, where he was discovered by a wallpaper magnate, Carl Heinrich Arnold, who would be become Menzel's patron, promoter, and friend.

His graduation from the Academy was followed by a series of lithographic commissions, including works by Goethe and a history of the Frederick the Great.

Adolf von Menzel (Polish/German, 1815-1905) Meissonier in his studio at Poissy (1869) Oil on panel. 8 1/4 BY 11 3/8IN. Private collection.

In 1855, Menzel traveled to Paris for the first time. The occasion was most likely the influential Paris Exposition Universelle, with thousands of artists' works on display in series of pavilions organized by nationality. There Menzel saw Gustave Courbet's "Pavillon du Réalism," which led to a more naturalistic approach to his paintings. From that time forward, he would make regular trips to Paris and came to know some of the city's most important artists.

Adolf von Menzel (Polish/German, 1815-1905) Aufbewahrungssaal während des Museumsumbaus (1848) Pastel on paper. 46 BY 57CM. Alte Nationalgalerie, Berlin.

By the end of his life, Menzel was considered one of Berlin's greatest artists. He joined the Royal Academy of Art in 1853, and was a teacher at the school from 1875 until his death in 1905. He had been decorated as a Knight of the Black Order, given the rank of Privy Councilor with the title "Your Excellency," and awarded an honorary doctorate at the University of Berlin.

This gave him a crowd of admirers and friends within government and other circles; in fact, one of his closest friends was the composer Johannes Brahms.

Adolf von Menzel (Polish/German, 1815-1905) Portrait of an Old Man (1884) Pencil on paper. 8 1/2 BY 5IN. Private collection.

Internationally, he had been honored with a show dedicated to his work in Paris in 1884, and was granted membership at the Royal Academies of London, St. Petersburg, and Paris. His works regularly appeared in the Paris Salon until his death.

Theodore Gerard (Belgian, 1829-1895) The Farmer's Child (1861) Oil on panel 33 BY 22IN. Private collection.

The French word "genre," directly translated as "kind" or "type," is used to describe a variety of paintings. As a result the use of the term "genre painting" can be confusing.

Jozef Israëls (Dutch, 1824-1911) Awaiting the Fisherman's Return. Oil on canvas. 32 1/2 BY 44 3/4IN. Private collection. A painting that depicts a scene of everyday life is generally considered a genre painting, and can include contemporary figures, urban life or peasant scenes. In her book, Keywords of Nineteenth-Century Art, Dr. Christine Lindey describes what sets a genre painting apart:

It did not aspire to the elevated scale, generalised effects or high moral truths of the grand manner; rather it sought to be entertaining (and often humorous), anecdotal and sentimental. Moreover, it depicted in telling detail non-heroic, anonymous, "ordinary" people going about their daily lives, whether they be contemporary and "real," historical or literary.

(Christine Lindey. Keywords of Nineteenth-Century Art. p. 105)

Genre paintings originate from Dutch and Flemish painting traditions going as back as the fifteenth century. In the seventeenth-century, Dutch painters like Jan Steen (1626-1679) and de Hooch (1629-1684) took common genre scenes to a new level of refinement through their nuanced use of symbols (e.g. an discarded slipper as sexual innuendo) and highly skilled treatments of light and materials.

Peiter de Hooch (Dutch, 1629-1684) The Courtyard of a House in Delft (1658) Oil on canvas.

The greatest criticism of genre paintings came from painters following Italian and French traditions of art that emphasized large scale works of historical or mythological scenes. In his assessment of Gustave Courbet, the father of Realist painting, Pierre-Joseph Proud'hon, an academic painter, wrote:

It would be no truer to call him a genre painter, like the Dutch and Flemish, whose paintings, though pleasant or comic, are insubstantial; they rarely go to the heart of things, reflect no philosophical concerns, and reveal more imagination than observation . . . (Harrison and Wood. Du principe de l'art et sa distination social. Christine Lindey, trans. p. 408)

Despite the lack of credibility they often received, there were many nineteenth-century genre painters. During the first half of the century, their works appeared more often on the private market than in public exhibitions. By the end of the century genre painting had gained greater credibility and regularly appeared in the annual Paris Salon.

Johann Georg Meyer von Bremen (German, 1813-1886) Making a Bouquet. Oil on canvas. Private collection.

Today, genre paintings are more popularly owned by private collectors than by museums. In my regular visits to auctions in London, I often play a game a mentor taught me. Traveling to museums and auctions together, he would ask me to move into a room and choose three paintings that I would want in my museum collection.

Paul Seignac (French, 1826-1904) The Reading Lesson. Oil on panel. 19 BY 26 1/4IN. Private collection.

These three would have to be impressive in their execution, appealing in their subject matter, possibly of historical importance (e.g. a painting of a key battle) or by an important painter. Many times as I play this game, I am forced to choose between a genre painting that I love and a work that is less appealing but more historically important. Unfortunately, this is the game that most collectors play and, as a result, genre paintings by extremely competent painters are, in my opinion, regularly undervalued.

[This post was inspired by a conversation I had with the talented and thoughtful painter Joseph Brickey. For more on his work, visit his website here.]

Over three quarters of what constitutes painting is comprised of drawing. If I had to put a sign above my door I would write: "School of drawing," and I'm sure that I would produce painters.

-Jean-Dominique Auguste Ingres (French, 1780-1867) (Henri Delborde. Ingres. sa vie, ses travaux, sa doctrine. Paris: Henri Plon, p. 123)

Previously on this blog, I have received comments questioning the sincerity, artistic integrity or creativity in nineteenth-century, academic painters and contemporary artists attempting to model them.The criticism is based on a belief that drawing accurately is not artistic (right-brain), but, in essence, an act of left-brained practice. In other words, a camera could do the same as the artist. I absolutely agree that an artist should not be a camera.

However, nineteenth-century, academic painting was not based on mimicking nature, but on observation combined with the ideal, sometimes described as the "antique."

In France and much of Western Europe, the first half of the nineteenth century was dominated by an artistic philosophy that emphasized the dominance of line, or contour, over color. Drawing was considered the underlying structure of a painting and, therefore, was the principle skill taught in the major academies. In fact, it was not until the mid-nineteenth century that the Ecole des Beaux-Arts included oil painting as part of its curriculum. (Previous to that time, artists would learn oil painting in the ateliers of a master to whom they would be assigned in tandem with their studies or after graduation from the Ecole.)

In his journal, Eugene Delacroix (French, 1798-1863) planned a study program and dictionary for artists writing:

The first and most important thing in painting is the contour. Even if all the rest were to be neglected, provided the contours were there, the painting would be strong and finished. I have more need than most to be on my guard about this matter; think constantly about it, and always begin that way. (Delacoix's Journal, April 17, 1824)

To modern eyes and to many artists who are attempting to resurrect the academic methods of the nineteenth century, the emphasis on drawing could be interpreted as an ability to correctly copy or mimic what the eye sees. This is an incorrect belief. Nineteenth-century academic drawing was only partially observational. In practice, it was a combination between observation of nature and classical construction based on an understanding of ideal form.

This combination of the ideal and the observation of nature was often objected to by the Impressionists. Claude Monet (French, 1840-1926) studied with the academic painter Charles Gleyre (Swiss, 1808-1874) and recalled an experience where the two perspectives on drawing clashed. Monet was working from a live, nude model and, on seeing his work, Gleyre reacted:

'It is not bad," he said, "but the breast is heavy, the shoulder too powerful and the foot too big."

"I can only draw what I see," I replied timidly.

"Praxiteles borrowed the best parts from a hundred imperfect models, to create a masterpiece," Gleyre replied dryly. "When you make something, you must think of the antique!"

That same evening, I took Sisley, Renoir and Bazille to one side: "Let's get out of here," I said, "This place is unhealthy, it is lacking in sincerity." (Gustave Geoffroy. Claude Monet, sa vie, son temps, son oeuvres. Paris: Les éditions G. Cres et Cie, 1927, p. 26-27)

Again, academic painters were not interested in being cameras or making accurate copies of what they saw. Academic painting was deeply ideological and conceptual. It was based on the need to construct the human figure after the ideal. In this way, many artists today, including art historians, would be surprised to know that ideologically, academic painters had more in common with the avant garde Suprematism and Constructivism in the purity of geometry and line than the Impressionist did with those same movements.

An appreciation of nineteenth-century, academic painting--and, for that matter, many Old Masters--begins with an understanding of the ideology of the ideal and as the basis for painting.

"One of the un-constestable masters of our epoch." "All of us will be forgotten, but Meissonier will be remembered."

-Eugène Delacroix, Painter and Friend of Meissonier

-- "His presence will be assured in the museums of the future."

-Théophile Gautier, Nineteenth Century Critic

-- "One of the greatest glories of the entire world."

-Kaiser Wilhelm II of Germany

Jean-Louis Ernest Meissonier (French, 1815-1891) Self-portrait (1889) Oil on canvas

In his book, The Judgment of Paris--which I have referred to on more than one occasion on this blog--Ross King explores how one of the world's formost painters could become nearly anonymous nearly 100 years after his death.

Jean-Louis Ernest Meissonier (French, 1815-1891). The Siege of Paris (1876) Oil on canvas. Private collection.

Jean-Louis Ernest Meissonier was the highest paid painter of his day. His paintings, which often took years to paint, were unveiled to huge crowds and discussed in international newspapers. The list of people buying his painting reads like a who's who of late-nineteenth-century, European money and power.

Now, he is primarily remembered as a "costume painter."

Jean-Louis Ernest Meissonier (French, 1815-1891). The French Campaign (1861) Oil on canvas. Musée d'Orsay, Paris.

In short video interview, Ross King talks about Meissonier and his fall into obscurity (Click here to see the video.)

Frederick Arthur Bridgman, c. 1900

Bridgman was a born in Tuskegee, Alabama and died in Rouen, France in 1928. Joining other talented American painters, such as Thomas Eakins, he studied at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts in Paris in the studio of Jean-Léon Gérôme (1824-1904) from 1866 to 1870. Bridgman regularly participated in the Paris Salon and, in 1907, he was awarded the Légion d’Honneur. During his long and prolific career, Bridgman traveled to Morocco, Algeria, Egypt, Turkey and Syria to paint and document local customs.

Frederick Arthur Bridgman. Aicha, a Woman of Morocco (1883) Oil on canvas. 21 1/2 BY 10 1/2IN. Newark Museum, New Jersey.

Some may object to labelling Bridgman as a "forgotten" master. His paintings regularly turn up at auctions and he is familiar to many nineteenth-century painting dealers and collectors. I submit that he is forgotten for two reasons: first, his work is rarely recognized on its own merit and second, his tendency to be self-promotional has deterred others from telling his story.

Frederick Arthur Bridgman. After the Bath. Oil on canvas. 31 BY 25 3/4IN. Private collection.

After nearly a century of obscurity, Orientalist painters have found their way into the limelight. Paintings by Bridgman, Max Ernst (Austrian, 1891-1976), and John Frederick Lewis (British, 1805-1876) have sold for higher prices at auction and, recently, been the subject of a major exhibition at Tate Britain. According to conversations I have had with auctioneers at Sotheby's and Christie's in London, increased interest has been driven by Middle-eastern collectors who often see orientalist paintings as the sole visual record of their nineteenth-century cultures.

As a result, interest in Bridgman's paintings is rarely driven by an appreciation for his skill or creativity. Rather, Bridgman is grouped into a genre. To my knowledge, since his death, there has not been a biography or single exhibition in a major museum dedicated exclusively to Bridgman.

Frederick Arthur Bridgman. Abu Simbel (1874) Oil on canvas. 20 BY 30IN. Private Collection.

In the 1870s, Bridgman traveled to Algeria on a painting expedition. In addition to canvases, Bridgman took copious notes that, eventually, became a feature article in Atlantic Monthly Magazine. The article, along with reproductions of paintings from his trip have recently been reprinted in book format.

Frederick Arthur Bridgeman. Crossing an Oasis, with the Atlas Mountains in the Distance, Morocco (1919) Oil on Canvas. 13 BY 19 1/4IN. Private collection.

After World War I, Bridgman settled in Normandy, France. Although he continued to paint, his paintings were no longer shown publicly. He died in 1928 in near obscurity. Links

• A blog dedicated to Bridgman with several images.
• Frederick Arthur Bridgman at the Anthenaeum includes over 35 images of Bridgman's paintings available for free use.
• A longer biography on the artists taken from the book Les Orientalists de L'École Américaine by Gerald M. Ackerman.

Books

• Winters in Algeria by Frederick Arthur Bridgman
• Orientalists by Kristian Davies
• The Orientalists by Lynne Thornton

Francois Joseph Heim (French, 1787-1865) Charles X Distributing Awards to Artists Exhibiting at the Salon of 1824 at the Louvre (1827) Musée du Louvre, Paris

In recent years, there has been increasing excitement for international art fairs (e.g. Art Basel in Miami, Maastricht in the Holland) that feature the works of the art world's current and rising superstars. In the nineteenth century, there were dozens of annual European art fairs, but the most influential and largest was the annual "Exhibition of Living Artists" known as the Paris Salon.

In his book, The Judgment of Paris, Ross King compares Salon attendance to today's most visited museum exhibitions:

[The Salon was] one of the greatest spectacles in Europe, it was an even more popular attraction, in terms of the crowds it drew, than public executions. Opening to the public in the first week of May and running for some six weeks, it featured thousands of works of art specially—and sometimes controversially—chosen by a Selection Committee. Admission on most afternoons was only a franc, which placed it within easy reach of virtually every Parisian, considering the wage of the lowest-paid workers, such as milliners and washerwomen, averaged three to four francs a day. Those unwilling or unable to pay could visit on Sundays, when admission was free and the Palais des Chaps-Élysées thronged with as many as 50,000 visitors—five times the number that had gathered in 1857 to watch the blade of guillotine descend on the neck of a priest names Verger who had murdered the Archbishop of Paris. In some years, as Many as a million people visited the Salon during its six-week run, meaning crowds averaged more than 23,000 people a day*

*To put these figures into context, the most well-attended art exhibition in the year 2003 was Leonardo da Vinci: Master Draftsman, at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. Over the course of a nine-week run, the show drew and average of 6,863 visitors each day, with an overall total of 401,004. El Greco, likewise at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, averaged 6,807 per day during its three-month run in 2003-4, ultimately attracting 574,381 visitors. The top-ranked schibition of 2002, Van Gogh and Gaugin, at the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam, drew 6,719 perday for four months, with a final attendance of 739,117.

(Ross King. The Judgment of Paris. New York: Walker and Company, 2006. p. 17)

Comparing the Paris Salon to modern-day museum exhibitions is probably unfair. In the nineteenth century--before the advent of photography, radio, and movie theaters--painting was truly the most public art form. A more appropriate comparison would mostly likely be comparing Salon attendance to movie ticket sales. (How about comparing Ernest Meissonier's painting Friedeland, the painting sold for the highest price in the nineteenth century and a Salon blockbuster, with Batman Begins?)

Ernest Meissonier (French, 1815-1891) 1807, Friedland (c. 1861-1875), Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York

If that is true, it would also be appropriate to consider the Paris Salons as some of the most culturally significant and telling events of the nineteenth century. Recently, while undertaking a research question, I was surprised to learn that there is little published about the Salon as an intitution previous to or after the Salon de Refusées in 1863.

Note: To protect privacy, the names used in this story have been changed.

Peter Paul Rubens (Flemish, 1577-1640). Head of Medusa (c. 1617) Oil on canvas.

What started as a simple trip to Madrid to do research became a story worthy of Ian Flemming. Ferraris, international real-estate deals, London, Madrid, and world-renown Old Masters art dealers combined in a week-long painting adventure.

Recently, I flew to Spain on a research project. Getting off the plane at the Madrid, Bajaras airport, I was approached by a distinguished Englishman, John Jacobs. He was on his way to a business meeting near the Prado Museum and had overheard me talking to someone in Spanish--Jacobs didn't speak the language.

"Would I mind sharing a taxi?" he asked, "I could use the help and it would save us both money." My hotel was near the Prado. So, Jacobs and I got in the cab and got to know one another.

The ride was about thirty minutes. I learned that Jacobs was a consultant for a large British real-estate company working on a multi-billion-dollar deal that involved a group of Spanish investors. We didn't go into much detail about either of our careers. Stepping out the cab, he asked for my card, and I went on to my hotel without much thought about it; that is, until I got a call from Jacobs the next day.

"I met today with a very wealthy Spanish businessman. When I told him that I shared a taxi with an art historian, he wanted your number. Apparently, he has a Rubens painting and wants you to sell it," was Jacob's message. A businessman from Madrid with a Rubens? I'm curious.

(As an art historian, I am approached regularly about paintings inherited from grandparents and found a yard sales. It is highly unlikely that any of these turn out to be masterworks or, even, a minor work of any worthwhile value. But, the possibility, no matter how minute, that someone in Arkansas has purchased a Titian from a Church charity sale makes every art dealer and historian want to at least take a look.)

On day three in Madrid, I get a call from Marcelo, the businessman with the Rubens. He asks to meet me at the Ritz Hotel in a few hours, where I could see an image and documentation of the Rubens painting. Rather than making me less suspicious, the idea of meeting at the Ritz seemed like an attempt to impress beyond a more disappointing reality. At least, that is what I thought before Marcelo stepped out of his Ferrari to shake my hand. (The likelihood that he rented a Ferrari in the few hours between the call and the Ritz, in an effort to impress me, was slim.) Having a Rubens now seemed credible.

Peter Paul Rubens (Flemish, 1577-1640). The Holy Family with Saint Anne (c. 1628) Oil on canvas. (This is not the painting I was shown. For legal reasons, I am unable to show an image of the piece discussed in this post.)

He showed me the image of a Rubens modello (i.e. preparatory oil sketch) for an important altarpiece located in Northern Italy, along with a certificate of authentication from an art historian in Beverly Hills, California. "The painting is not actually mine," Marcelo explained, "I have a client that is doing a major real estate deal. He needs more cash and would like to sell the painting. He is not a painting expert, and neither am I."

In other words, there are several degrees of separation and supposed ignorance that made the situation seem simultaneously less credible and more credible. (Almost all Old Master paintings have a long history, but beware of complicated histories of ownership that include anyone that is cash poor, let alone a businessman from Texas.)

Peter Paul Rubens was one of the most prolific of the Old Master painters. Born in Antwerp, his formative training took place in Italy, where for several years he copied Renaissance painting and ancient statuary. Before returning to Antwerp, Rubens painted a number of altarpieces and other religious works. His working method included submitting a small sketch (modello, which literally means "model") of the intended painting to a patron for approval. Having received approval, he would use the modello as a map for the much larger, final work.

Marcelo's client wanted the modello sold in London to a dealer, but not an auction house--more alarm bells. And, Marcello planned to be in town to see Wimbeldon. "Could we meet with some dealers before or after one of the matches?" he asked.

Peter Paul Rubens (Flemish, 1577-1640). Drunken Silenus (1618) Oil on canvas.

Arriving in London a few days before Marcelo, I took a photograph of the painting, along with certifying documents and met with two of the worlds foremost dealers in Old Masters paintings. (Though I will not mention their names, each has a gallery in St. James's Place in Westminster.)

These dealers are Olympians of the art world, with the ability to look at a painting and, within moments, place it in time and space together with its likelihood of authenticity. The first dealer looked at the photo for about 30 seconds, looked up at me and said: "Rubens didn't paint hands like that," and "the cherubs surrounding the Virgin look too thin to be by Rubens." His final judgments was it was authentically from the period, but more likely from a follower of Rubens.

The second dealer had sold a similar Rubens painting a few days earlier to the Getty Museum in California. He remarked on the hands of the modello too and said the overall composition "lacked a cohesive Rubens approach" with the figures being too separated in action from one another. I called my Ferrari-driving friend from Spain telling him the news: It's not a paintings by Rubens. He brushed off the bad news and invited me to Wimbledon.

--

In sharing my experience with a long-time art dealer from the United States, he said that my story was familiar. Apparently, there has been a long practice of trying to sell supposed Old Master paintings to less-than-public buyers who are more likely to be ignorant of dubious works.

In my case, I was able to avoid being caught up in the a potentially huge mistake by taking the painting to two experts. It was a good lesson that, thank heavens, did not come with a price. The best advice I got came from the second of the two dealers: "Don't trust certified documents from art historian in Beverly Hills."

William Adolph Bouguereau. Pieta (1876) Oil on canvas. 230 BY 148CM. Dallas Museum of Fine Arts, Dallas, Texas

At the 1878 Universal Exposition in Paris, Edouard Manet was asked which of all the painters then living would be best remembered in 100 years. His answer: William Adolph Bouguereau.

Manet (1832-1883) and Bougeureau (1825-1905) represented two polar movements in painting. Manet, regularly controversial in his work, had been the leader of the Impressionist movement and Bougeureau was the darling of the Academic tradition supported by the Ecole des Beaux-Arts in Paris.

Thanks to Google Trends and Amazon.com, it is possible to get some indication of whether or not Manet's prediction, at least in comparison to his own work, has come true.

Over the past few years, Google has been tracking the number of searches done specific keywords. Because Manet and Bouguereau have unique names, it is fairly easy to narrow down searches relating to them as opposed to other painters (e.g. Ingres is the names of the painter and a Fortune 500 company.)

Google Trends of Manet searches from 2004 to 2008.

Google Trends of Bouguereau searches from 2004 to 2008.

At the time of this post, a standard search on Google.com produces 4,870,000 results for Manet and 1,140,000 for Bouguereau. An Amazon.com search produces 12,721 books for Manet and 1,071 for Bouguereau.

Edouard Manet. Olympia (1863) Oil on canvas. Musée d'Orsay, Paris

The comparison of these two artists and their popularity through these methods is hardly comprehensive. But, it is one indication that Manet is more popular than he is prophetic.

Maybe he was misquoted and meant 200 years. I'll follow up with another post then.

Via BibliOdyssey is a series of drawings by the Polish painter and illustrator Józef Rapacki.

Józef Rapacki (Polish, 1871-1929). From the book:Z dawnej i niedawnej Warszawy. Lithograph

Rapacki was born in Warsaw, Poland and trained in Munich, Germany. In the late-nineteenth century, many Eastern European painters, including Muckansy and Mucha, used academic schooling in Germany as a gateway to the rest of Europe.

Józef Rapacki (Polish, 1871-1929). From the book:Z dawnej i niedawnej Warszawy. Lithograph

In addition to Germany, Rapacki traveled through Italy. Very little is printed in English or Polish about his life and work, though his paintings and drawings occasionally surface at international auction houses.

Though little is known, it is obvious that Rapacki has a solid grasp on anatomy and proportion. He has moved beyond the basic studies of academic training and is combining classical understanding of form with direct observation from nature.

Józef Rapacki (Polish, 1871-1929). From the book:Z dawnej i niedawnej Warszawy. Lithograph

This series of lithographs depicts street figures observed by Rapacki in Warsaw. These and more works by him are published online at the Polish National Library's website.