II. The Bucolic
Landscapes [cont.]

There is hardly any type of landscape in the Farnesina and its contemporaries which the Boscotrecase painter did not use in producing the vignettes, but this fact does not lower his stature nor does it reflect upon his originality. The preceding vignettes were charming, imaginative, elegant; particularly those from the Farnesina which are clearly the tradition of the Yellow Frieze but of better quality, and which depict the variety of the civilized world in ever new miniatures of unfailing taste [pls. 50, 1. 51, 1]. They are almost ornamental, and the wall does not act as a suggestive element of the composition. The landscapes on the black wall of the Farnesina, which are perhaps closest to the Boscotrecase vignettes, are not compact scenes but single sketches, loosely strewn over the available space [ pl. 50, 2]. Today these little scenes have almost completely faded but their originally bright coloring can in parts still be detected. They must have been somewhat similar to the Boscotrecase vignettes. There is good reason to believe that the Boscotrecase painter saw and appreciated the effect of bright colors on black, that he realized the possibilities of this scheme by using the same effect for a small unframed composition on a ground line, in the manner of the frieze in the cryptoporticus of the farnesina and, like it, at eye level. The result of such combinations is novel and truly original.

Grander and more important is, of course, the achievement in the Red Room landscapes. What they owe to the Farnesina panels has been indicated above. But there are more examples of the manner in which the Boscotrecase painter made novel use of preceding types of landscape. The palette of the Red Room panels, for instance, which is based on light brownish yellows and on light blues with stronger color accents in particular spots, may be traced back to the landscapes of the Farnesina ambulatory [No. 8d]. The white background recalls also the white walls in both the cubiculum and the crypoporticus of the Farnesina [No. 81 and b], and it furthermore reminds one of the landscapes in the Casa dei Gladiatori [ No. 9] and the Columbarium Pamphili [No. 10]. The latter share still another and very significant formal characteristic with the Boscotrecase landscapes, with the east and west wall panels even more than with that of the north wall. All scenes in the columbarium show people and some objects in the foreground painted almost as silhouettes, very dark against the much lighter surroundings. Precisely this device we find in the Boscotrecase landscapes: note for instance the fountain in front of the tetrastylon and the group of two women on the east wall panel, and the fountain, the seated man and the tripod on the west wall [pls. 37. 39]. But what was merely a formula in the Columbarium is now a device judiciously used for a particular effect, which will be interpreted below. [p. 29]

Our survey has shown that the Boscotrecase panels are the oldest preserved examples of large-scale sacro-idyllic landscape pictures--their relation to the examples from the Farnesina, which, it must be remembered, is hardly a decade earlier, makes it probable that they are among the earliest, if indeed not the earliest specimens of their kind.[23] Large sacro-idyllic landscape painting begins with the murals from Boscotrecase. In a decisive way they establish the species. It is, therefore, imperative to discover the specific and significant constituents of their character.

No doubt the painter was, among other things, a very competent draftsman who had mastered the technical achievements of his time, that is principally, perspective as it was known in antiquity[24], namely, realistic scale, consistency of light [p. 30] and shadow, and the rendering of the appearance of objects in depth. He could have produced, if he had wished, large landscapes in the manner of the Odyssey Frieze or of the mythological murals in the Aula Isiaca. If he preferred something very different, as indeed he did, he made a deliberate choice. Wherever he deviated from the coherent realism that is the hall-mark of the Odyssey Frieze, he must have done so for specific reasons.[25]

The most obvious peculiarity of all three landscape panels appears to be that their boundaries are not the frame of the panel but the white area around them [pl. C]. This area, however, is different from the black wall on which the vignettes are painted, it is not the wall itself which is red, but is set off as a distinct panel, framed by an aedicula. The white area belongs to the paintings and to them only, and it is not part of the compositions proper. It prevents the beholder from understanding the landscapes as "views through a window", it is the means by which the painter makes it clear that he does not pretend to render the realistic image of an actual landscape. On the other hand each landscape painting is an elaborate representation of detailed open air scenery and not just a sketch of a few bucolic elements. Thus the white area may also partly be understood as air in which the branches of the trees seem to move. Indeed one would not hesitate to interpret the background as air, were it not for the large white area underneath the landscapes. Such interplay of a literal and a metaphorical reading of the three panels produces the sensation of looking at landscapes not firmly planted on solid ground but suspended in space. This sensation will be strengthened--and constantly reaffirmed--when the beholder concentrates on each landscape painting separately, and becomes aware of all the elements of the composition.

As already noted, foreground and background scenes have no representational connections with each other. The given view does not lead the eye gradually into farther and farther distances, on the contrary, the view comprises two distinct stages. They are differently painted, differently designed, differently seen. The way the viewer is asked to read the foreground settings is not the way he reads the background scenery. And yet, were one to remove the latter, the foreground landscapes would lose their specific character and become lifeless and flat in spite of their lights and shadows and their refined shadings. It is the background setting that is the intermediary link between the foreground and the surrounding white area, not only because it is painted in a lighter palette. Without the background scenes the landscapes would not seem suspended in space, they would appear as elaborate vignettes on a neutral wall. In the general effect of the entire composition foreground and background [p. 31] are intimately related to each other, although they are not parts of one coherent representation of landscape. Perhaps one ought to say because, rather than although they are not.

Although the immediate impression is that foreground and background scenes differ and that the way they differ is the same in each of the three landscapes, yet closer examination reveals a greater complexity.

The north wall landscape [pls. 32 C] shows a number of objects seen in oblique view: all square pedestals [those of the Priapus statue, of the short and the tall columns, of the tomb and of the central statue] have a light front and a shaded side, but the contours of both sides make one straight line. All pedestals are, therefore, supposedly placed at the same level, namely at the level of the beholder's eye. Even the line of the roof of the tomb is almost straight, with but the slightest indication of a rising curve. In other words there is no perspective coherence, all objects are seen singly and from a point of view that would make them appear two- rather than three-dimensional. Shape and volume of each object are indicated only by light and shadow, not through converging contour lines. Lighting and shading, however, are so consistent and suggestive--not for instance the darkness of the short column, its pedestal and its vase, the contrast between the deep shadow to the left of the statue and the bright light on the pedestal of the tall column next to it--that the entire foreground scene sets a spacious and comfortable stage, on which persons, animals, and objects are placed in a seemingly coherent and realistic relation. Equally consistent and realistic appear the proportions of all elements in the foreground scene. The size of the persons sets the scale which determines the size of the stage and of the objects on it. Yet the shepherd is as tall as the woman, though he stands at a greater distance and the goat in the foreground is even smaller than the one behind it.

On examining the background we noticed that the temples to the right follow the perspective pattern set by the objects in the foreground: again there are no converging, but only straight lines, again only lights and shadows determine shapes and volumes. The parapet to the left, however, is differently seen, the contour lines of both sides rise. It is here that we notice the inconsistency of the perspective most clearly. Why has the painter chosen to deviate from the pattern of discreet inconsistency? The question is legitimate although of course not fully answerable. The angle of the parapet pointing toward the foreground binds the two scenes together compositionally as the bridge connects, formally and actually, the island with the shore in the lower right hand corner. Parapet and bridge are the most significant indicators of the depths suggested. Without them the composition would probably become flat in spite of light, shade, proportions and three-dimensional objects.

It is perhaps instructive to imagine the foreground scene, as it were, corrected. If we were to redraw all the contours of obliquely seen objects according to a consistent perspective so that they converged ultimately, if not at one point, at least at one horizon line, the effect of the entire scene would be very different indeed: our attention would focus on the exact measurements of the distances, it would take the [p. 32] bucolic scene literally as the representation of an actual event happening in an actual place at a precise time--in other words the scene would change from an idyllic to a narrative one and would lose much of its charm and suggestiveness. It would also lose its relation to the background which would become incomprehensible and meaningless within the composition because one would miss a realistic link between the two stages. Background and foreground can only merge into one whole if neither is coherent in perspective. They need a common denominator and this is and can only be, the substitution of suggestion for representation of depth. The entire composition, such as it actually is, seems to be remote, seems to be seen at a distance where receding lines tend to appear horizontal and where exact visual information about depth is impossible. The effect of the vignettes on the black wall [pls. 29-31] is simply repeated, like the peculiar perspective, though the vignettes of course simulate a position farther back. The white surrounding, the peculiar perspective, the difference of foreground and background scenery induce the beholder to look at the picture as a mirage of a distant scene. When he begins to let his eye travel at leisure from object to object to take in the details, he is properly prepared for a profound stillness of nature inhabited by people who are removed into the permanent atmosphere of quiet and simple bliss.

Most of what could be said about the north wall landscape holds true for and is reaffirmed by the landscapes of the east and the west walls. There are, however, differences which qualify and round out the analysis.

The schola of the east wall landscape [pls. 35, 36] is the one prominent object that seems to indicate the view-point for the entire foreground scene. The receding line of its curved entablature seems to establish an eye level that appears valid for the other objects as well. But the schola itself is a strange edifice. The curve indicates its form, which must be semi-circular, but instead of a smoothly rounded curve which turns and reappears between column and solid wall[26], we see two very flat curves that in fact could join only at an angle. It is not likely that such a mistake is due to the artist's incompetence. On the contrary, this peculiar representation must be deliberate, for it makes the schola appear flat and conceals its depth. Lights and shadows give the exact degree of spaciousness desired--more would have strengthened the realism beyond the permissible limit. If, on the other hand, the painter had drawn the entablature as a straight line, the schola would no longer have been recognizable in its shape and size. A schola as the main theme of a setting cannot help giving a stronger indication of depth than either a tetrastylon or column, tree and tomb. The painter must have been aware of this fact, because he very cleverly counteracted the effect of too much depth by various other means as well: the stage is shallower, the actual shape, volume, and position of its rocks are indeterminable, and tripod and fountain are on almost the same plane and both are, as has been noted above, silhouettes set against the lighter surrounding. Nothing acts more effectively against the impression of corporality and measurable depth than does [p. 33] a silhouette in a light background. The painter furthermore de-emphasized realism through the proportions of the figures. The priestess is much taller than the two shepherd travelers; consequently we have two equally valid disparate scales: the one set by the priestess, the other by the two men. It is quite an achievement that al these inconsistencies are but vaguely noticed and that they are not at all disquieting.

The background scenery of the east wall landscape [pl. 37] is more elaborate than that of the other two. The long portico obviously has the same role to play as the parapet in the background scene of the north wall landscape; it establishes with the foreground a visual link which resists literal interpretation. Its bird's eye view is even more startling than the view of the parapet, particularly because the two women in the far background appear even taller than the portico. It is here, and here only, that the composition breaks its own set of rules. Here reality is not delicately transformed into the suggestive apparition of a poetic setting. Here too is the sole representation of a type of architecture that cannot be understood as sacred. Porticos or colonnades of this form belong to representations of villas or cities[27]. It seems likely that the painter lifted the right background scene from such villa pictures without adapting it properly to the style of his paintings. That would account for its different appearance as well: colonnades are almost always represented in bird's eye view and the size of adjacent persons is almost never on the same scale.

In the west wall landscape [pls. 38. 39] the sole decisive indicator of greater depth is the curved parapet of the schola surrounding the tetrastylon. Great pains have been taken to flatten the appearance of the tetrastylon with the tree in it, which, as a motive, should be most conducive to a representation of spatial extension. The device of the silhouette is employed here as well and no less effectively: note the contours of the right tetrastylon column, the fountain, the steps, the group of women. In this panel there is not even one object connecting foreground with background. Instead we see only two persons in between. And yet the composition, for the reasons stated above, gives a suggestion of depth, here exclusively by means of shading and coloring. This is perhaps the most painterly landscape of the three.

All the landscapes must be seen together, and not only as single panels. Upon entering the room the beholder saw them at once and all at the same level: the east and west wall pictures obliquely, the north wall picture head on. He found himself in an enchanted world which nevertheless he could recognize as a transformation of the rural world, of what he had seen traveling from the town to the villa. But unlike the friezes and panels of former decorations the pictures did not offer him the entire variety of a landscape scene nor was he entertained by representations of everyday life and of purely practical or domestic buildings. What he now saw was a selection of sacred places only, such as must have existed in reality but in a different atmosphere. Having been introduced by the two opposite pictures on the east and the west walls into this intimate and yet remote world where travelers rest and women prepare their offerings, he reached, on proceeding to the rear wall, the bridge that leads to [p. 34] the most sacred island. It is even more modest than the landscapes he saw before; there is no tetrastylon, no schola, but simply a column, a tree and a statue of a goddess. And yet even on this island, in fact on this very island and not on the road to it, a goat-herd has found the place for his flock.

Such simple, blissful and tranquil bucolic life, however, is not depicted as though it were easily attainable. These paintings are not friezes accompanying the beholder who walks alongside, nor are they a string of vignettes of almost endless variations invented for the pleasure of the spectator, nor ever-repeated little scenes freely sketched on any available part of the decoration. On the contrary, the paintings of the Red Room are large, thoughtfully composed pictures placed between monochrome panels on walls that are decorated with elegant restraint. Thus they appear on their white ground distinct but remote, intimate but sacred, charming but untouchable, natural but unreal. Without any pretention or ceremoniousness, discreet and noble, they convey their message in a low key. It is a novel message in the arts of antiquity, it is not for the multitude and not for the public but for the pensive, educated private man who, worried by the state of affairs or troubled by the uncertainties of life, has come to the country in search of contemplation and of the tranquillity of his villa[28]. In these landscapes he may recognize a world of divine stillness, at moments close to him but ultimately unapproachable, a vision, a dream, but one that smilingly give life a new meaning and perhaps even peace. [p. 35].

Influence
These paintings, or paintings such as these, made a deep and lasting impression. From now on walls of houses and villas abound with similar landscapes. But few to my knowledge place them on a surrounding white ground: one of the most suggestive aspects of the Boscotrecase landscapes seems to have been lost[29]. This is not the place to catalogue the many large and small landscapes that have come down to us. Every one familiar with panels of the Third and Fourth Styles has seen a number of them. Three panels from Pompei [pls. 52, 1. 53, 1.2] no longer preserved but known from drawings made when they were discovered, seem especially closely related to the Boscotrecase models. Two were found in Pompei VII 2, 18[30], and one in [p. 35] Pompei VII 3, 25[31]. None of them seems to have been of the quality of their models. There is no attempt to imitate the subtle combination of a foreground and background scene in the Boscotrecase manner. The scenes are more crowded and thus less suggestive. One [pl. 53, 1] represents a stage clearly and realistically divided into fore-, middle- and background: depth is represented rather than suggested. Paintings such as these may have been influenced by paintings of the older, realistic Greek-Hellenistic tradition[32] rather than by the atmospheric suggestive style of the Boscotrecase painter. Yet it is his way of painting a landscape that produced the most impressive murals of the following decades and perhaps centuries.

A particularly beautiful version is in Pompei I 7, 19[33] [pl. 54]. Here a painter of a very different character has produced a picture the very simplicity of which is eminently suggestive. Reducing the vocabulary of the sacro-idyllic landscape to its barest essentials but placing these in an atmosphere of mist in which they seem to fade away, he concentrates attention on the lonely shepherd, small and humbly standing next to herm, altar, column and tree. Mist permeates many of the later landscapes, sometimes even the more factual representations of harbors, such as those from the Casa della Piccola Fonatana.

Sacro-idyllic landscape painting culminates in the enormous panels from the temple of Isis in Pompei.[34] Their majestic grandeur seems to owe little to the achievements of the Boscotrecase painter. Yet it presupposes them. They are also the precondition for landscapes of no less impressive though different character such as the beautiful fragment in Naples [pl. 56][35], in which the dark blue sea fills the entire panel. The light greenish grey portico in the background with its trees and its group of people is contrasted with the vivid coloring of the two boats. No photograph can reproduce the effect. Small though the panel is, from it emanates a peculiarly mysterious power. One is tempted to interpret it as the Island of the Blessed towards which the boats are sailing over the immeasurable sea that separates the living from the dead. There is a vast difference between such painting and the Boscotrecase landscapes. Still it was their form and their character that established the style in which alone the later painters could express what they wished to convey.

Some sacro-idyllic landscape paintings are equal in quality to the Boscotrecase murals, most are inferior, only very few surpass them. One of the latter is the [p. 36] landscape panel Albani[36]. It is not a purely sacro-idyllic landscape since it combines other elements. The world it depicts seems simple, but it is an almost complete world, strangely transposed into a peaceful cosmos in which each object has a concrete as well as a symbolic meaning. It seems no accident that the Albani panel was adapted several times in the eighteenth century by Venetian painters[37].