The Brooklyn Rail

Asked about the relevance that Nicolas Poussin has played and continues to play for me, I can say that it cannot be overestimated. In the preface to my dissertation on Poussin, published in 1998, I quoted the novel Solaris (1961) by the Polish writer Stanisław Lem when discussing why I had begun to study Poussin in the early 1990s: “The recruitment of scientists to any particular field of study … has never been studied as a phenomenon in its own right.” Lem has his hero Kris Kelvin reflect on the fact that the researchers’ decision in favor of a certain subject area is probably determined, among other things, by “the new perspectives offered.“ In my case, however, this did not really play a role, as at the time I could not foresee yet what “new perspectives” research on Poussin would offer to me. Back then, in 1990, I had gone to Paris for a year as a student from Germany on an Erasmus scholarship to study art history at the Sorbonne. The student card that came with it gave me the opportunity to go to the Louvre for free at any time. On one of my forays, I discovered art works in the French Baroque painting section that initially seemed unusual to me due to their aesthetically ‘brittle’ appearance. In particular, these were Poussin’s two paintings The Plague at Ashdod (ca. 1631) and The Saving of the Infant Pyrrhus (ca. 1633–34). In the The Saving of the Infant Pyrrhus in particular, I was also struck by the objects laid out in the foreground, which seemed to relate to the architecture and dramaturgy of the overall picture. As I looked at more of Poussin’s paintings in the Louvre—such as his much later Landscape with Orpheus and Eurydice (1650/51)—I noticed that he repeatedly worked with these objects that lead into the picture or comment on and point out the plot in a very differentiated way. I also realized that, apart from François-Georges Pariset in a short article in 1960, no one had ever systematically studied these objects before, and Alain Mérot, who had just published his monograph on Poussin in 1990 and with whom I had taken courses at the Sorbonne, encouraged me to look further into this subject, which then became the subject of my dissertation submitted to the Heidelberg University in 1996. I am infinitely grateful to Poussin and his work, which thus not only became my ticket to academia, but also helped me to decide to focus entirely on art history: When I went to Paris at the time, I had actually intended to do my degree in my second major, German studies, but my fascination and interest in Poussin tipped eventually the scales in favor of art history. Moreover, he and his work have remained permanent companions ever since, as they offer inexhaustible topics: Poussin is—wrongly—reduced in the public and sometimes even in the professional perception to an Atticist, academic-didactic, very cerebral painting that supposedly offers no sensual stimuli. Strictly speaking, however, Poussin actually encompasses the work of several artists within himself. There may indeed be aspects of this strict, ascetic Poussin in some of his work, but there is also the very early, stormy Poussin with violent and erotic themes. There is his subsequent “blond” phase of the early 1630s, in which he knows how to use colors in an almost Venetian manner in the most delicate way; there is the ensuing more classical Poussin and, above all, there is the later Poussin, who had to fight against the challenges of an increasingly trembling hand. In the face of this, once again, he invented a new style for himself. He knew how to transform the technical instabilities into expressive strengths by no longer shaping the forms in his works with the fine painting that now had become impossible for him. Instead he literally models them with lumps of paint, and doing so in such a way that his style nevertheless remains recognizable.

After the dissertation dedicated to Poussin, I have dealt with other, new and sometimes completely different themes, but I have always returned to him and have come to know, appreciate and admire him again and again, perhaps especially against the background of the other themes. Conversely, I then look at these other themes with eyes that are partly informed by the study of his works. And when I travel, he continues to be a determining factor in my plans for the stops in cities whose museums contain works by him. Every time I am there, I look for his paintings hosted there and it is like visiting friends who live in the city, confirming and at the same time refreshing my relationship with them by seeing them again.