Color

by Victoria Finlay

  Recipe for curing gangrene using verdigris

  One of the most extraordinary examples of this is the bright green skirt in van Eyck’s The Arnolfini Marriage, painted in 1434. It is one of the most debated skirts in art history—mainly because of its shape, or rather because of the shape of the young woman inside it, who looks very pregnant (even though some critics have argued that she is not). But why is it green at all? Newlyweds wanting to parade their wealth in fifteenth-century Bruges would be more likely to boast their social position through their ample use of expensive kermes red. The painting, which hangs in the National Gallery in London, is one of the most controversial pieces of fifteenth-century art: few people can agree on what it means, or indeed whether it is even a marriage portrait.

  It shows a couple standing inside a richly furnished room; they are holding hands but to me they do not look as if they are in love. In fact, quite the opposite: the man looks old and cold in his fur cloak and huge hat; the woman is looking away from him, and both of them seem to exude a deep sadness. For years the painting was believed to be a portrait of the marriage of a wealthy merchant called Giovanni Arnolfini and his young bride Giovanna. But why should they have commissioned such an unhappy picture? And why are they surrounded by objects that might be read as symbolizing corruption?

  On a wooden chair there is a tiny carving of St. Margaret of Antioch, a virgin martyr, who became the patron saint of childbirth— reinforcing the suggestion that this lady is pregnant. The very large and very red bed in the room rather suggests the same. More disturbing, however, is the mirror. It is decorated with scenes from the Passion of Christ (a cycle of suffering), and it also has ten “teeth” around it, reminiscent of the ten-spiked wheel under which another virgin martyr, St. Catherine, was tortured to death. St. Catherine’s story, like St. Margaret’s, is one of brutality—and the room in van Eyck’s painting is full of objects that could signal a brutal relationship. There is a gargoyle hovering above the couple’s clasped hands, and a brush that looks like a parody of male and female private parts, hung up like a trophy. As I looked at it one day, I wondered whether this object may possibly have been intended to symbolize sexual abuse, and whether this painting might actually be an allegory rather than a wedding picture. 19

  The couple have always seemed to me to look like Adam and Eve (transposed to van Eyck’s own time in terms of costume) just after the Fall, and that idea is reinforced by fruit tumbling over the windowsill. And if this was the artist’s intention, it perhaps solves the mystery of the woman’s ermine-lined dress. It is green—and therefore symbolic of fertility and gardens. And it is also made of verdigris, a manufactured substance that is born from the corruption of pure metal. Although today it is almost as bright as when van Eyck painted it, the artist cannot have known for sure that his new technique would last the centuries and be named after him as a result. For him verdigris would have been a seductive green paint that sometimes turned black: a perfect pigment, perhaps, to represent the fall of humanity.

  Verdigris is often described as coming from somewhere else. So “verdigris” means “Greek Green” in English, while the Germans call it Spanish green, “Gruenspan,” although it probably arrived in both places via the Arabs. The Greeks themselves describe it as “copper flowers,” or more vividly “fur-tongue,” perhaps because of how the verdigris deposit on the copper plate looks the way one’s mouth feels after a heavy ouzo session. In France this paint was usually a byproduct of the vineyards; in England it was often made with apple cider vinegar.

  Verdigris was popular with artists until the mid-eighteenth century, but it was also used enthusiastically by housepainters—and with the rise of orientalist decoration fantasies, those wealthy households in Europe that were lucky enough not to have access to Scheele’s Green would have been likely to include at least one verdigris room. The chinoiserie fashion spread to America as well, and by the eighteenth century many grand rooms in the colony were festooned with Chinese wallpapers and daubed with Orient-inspired paints. Everyone who was anyone, it seemed, wanted green for their drawing rooms and dining rooms, and that included the first President of the new republic. Even, perhaps, at a time when he ought to have had more on his mind than how to redecorate his home.

  The house at Mount Vernon in Virginia is very small for a President of the United States. In fact, in its “original state”—the term used to describe what it looked like when George Washington was enjoying his boyhood there—it was fairly small even for a farmer of the United States. Yet for nine years—between Washington’s election as President in 1789 and John Adams taking up the post in 1797—it was one of the most important buildings in America.

  When I visited, on a weekday in springtime, there were so many people trying to squash into it that the line snaked out of the house and along the garden as far as the slave quarters. We were entertained by people in eighteenth-century costume pretending to be friends of the Washingtons and filling us in on the family gossip. After an hour we were able to go into the house—through a side room, which led into the building via a covered walkway. This is not how visitors used to go into Mount Vernon in the old days; there is, in the center of the house, a hallway through which guests used to enter, “greeted by Mrs. Washington herself,” our guide announced grandly. It was also a place where they used to do a quadrille or two after dinner to keep warm in the winter, he continued. We all looked rather doubtfully at the space. The hall is so small they would be hard pressed to fit in a single salsa couple today, and I imagined a party full of very little people in big skirts and hats joggling against each other gamely, exclaiming brightly about how there was plenty of space and wasn’t it amusing.20

  In the early 1770s, while the soldier-farmer was still living mostly at home, he spent hours poring over the eighteenth-century equivalent of Architectural Digest magazine. It was called The City and Country Builder’s and Workman’s Treasury of Designs, published by an opinionated English freemason called Batty Langley in 1756. (Batty is apparently a Christian name, not a description of this man’s more preposterous ideas, although it could have been.) The heavy old volume is still in the Mount Vernon resource library. I read it there, as peacocks strutted outside the window, and I imagined Washington sitting in his white-walled study flicking through its pages, then occasionally spinning round on his chair (he loved having a chair that spun) to look over at the Potomac River, while he daydreamed of having English house designs in his American home. 21 His interest in house design should not be underestimated. He was a freemason—one of the earliest in America—and he believed that architectural proportions were set by divine law. An elegant Palladian window, and the careful measurements of his new rooms, were not only about having somewhere nice to feed guests. Instead they were about symbolically constructing God’s will, and being seen to do so.

  But then in June 1775 he was called in to be commander-in-chief of the Continental army, fighting for independence against the British. He would see his home only once in the next eight years, and on that occasion it was from a distance, across the Potomac River. He left the estate in charge of his relative, Lund Washington—and there is an interesting series of letters between the two. There was the saga of the joiner who only managed to finish the rough carpentry in the dining room although he had been asked to complete all the finer work as well. And then there were the exploits of “the stucco man” employed to plaster and paint the ceiling of the little dining room, now apparently considered one of the finest examples of colonial decorative art today, but at the time the source of considerable consternation. How hard it was to find good workmen nowadays, Washington complained. Especially in wartime.

  He was a disciplinarian in charge of an army of twenty thousand men, and he dealt firmly with subordinates who—as his successor John Adams once said—quarrelled “like cats and dogs.” But in the middle of a battle, or in the days leading up to it at least, his letters reveal he was fussing over housepaints and timber.22 At first I fe
lt uncomfortable with this. Should he not have been doing more important things? But then I thought about how lonely and bored the man must have been. It is nice in a way to think of him sitting in his tent, nostalgic for home and imagining each step of the improvements he could make to his boyhood home to make it fit for the statesman he had become.

  Washington returned home on Christmas Eve 1783 to take control of the Campaign of the Large Dining Room. There were more disasters with workmen, but eventually in 1787 the room was ready to be painted. Plantation tradition encouraged the man of the house to decorate the public rooms, while women’s taste was reflected only in the private rooms. Martha Washington preferred yellows and creams, although she was brave about woodwork— which was in greens and blues. But it was George who chose the pistachio color for the large dining room, to complement the gleaming white of his new Batty-inspired Palladian window.

  He and his men had routed the English, but he saw no reason not to adopt English taste in his home. So it was neoclassical for the window, and chinoiserie for the walls. He found the bright green was “grateful to the eye” and less likely to fade. He would have been pleased, no doubt, to know that green was once the color that emperors had loved, although he would probably have shaken his head and said that America had left all that old stuff behind. There was a minor hiccup in September 1787, when he wrote to a relative to say that he was “sorry to find that the Green paint which was got to give the dining room another coat should have turned out so bad,” but once that “verdegrease” had been replaced he was thrilled with the result. The views of the garden that the Palladian window was designed to show off looked spectacular against the green: like a double celebration of nature. Washington liked it so much that he immediately painted his small drawing room the same color—although perhaps he would have done well to research his paint better, because with lead white on the finishes it didn’t take long for the verdigris to react chemically, and darken.

  Two years later it was in the large dining room, surrounded by a Chinese-inspired green color and by his cheering family and compatriots, that Washington learned he was to be the first President of the United States. And nearly two hundred years later it was the outrageously bright colors of this dining room after they had been restored with authentically hand-ground paints which prompted a radical reassessment of thinking about how people in America decorated their houses in the eighteenth century.23

  THE LOST GREENS

  Europeans stopped using verdigris in the nineteenth century, but the Persians used it in their paintings until the beginning of the twentieth century. For Muslims, green is often a holy color—the color of the Prophet Muhammad’s cloak—and often when miniature artists wanted to portray a particularly important man they would give him a verdigris halo. Court scenes in Persian miniatures symbolized power, and could be painted in any number of gem-like colors. But the sexier scenes were often set in green bowers. A garden was symbolic of love, and a wilderness represented an environment where normal rules didn’t apply. So of course the greens were particularly popular, setting the scene for the mild erotica that the Persian miniaturists were so good at. The artists had their own special recipes for this color, at least one of which was lost until recently.

  At first it had been a casual observation, although an intriguing one. One day, in her laboratory at the Art University in Tehran, conservator Mandana Barkeshli was struck by something curious in a series of sixteenth-century miniature paintings done by Mughal artists in India. She noticed the paper had burn marks wherever a certain shade of green appeared. Yet when the same pistachio shade had been used in Persian paintings there had been no corrosion. “I couldn’t understand it,” she said when I met her at the Islamic Museum in Kuala Lumpur. After all, the Mughal tradition had come directly from Persia just a few years earlier, in 1526, when Babur had conquered northern India, bringing Islamic art, artillery and gardens into the predominantly Hindu subcontinent. So it would make sense if the artists from both places had used the same materials. And yet clearly they had not.

  The research was to take three years. First Dr. Barkeshli studied the paper for clues but found nothing. Next she studied ancient texts and learned that verdigris—known as “zangar”—was made with a similar recipe to that used in Europe and China, although sometimes sheep-milk yogurt was used instead. One particularly Arabian Nights–like touch, described by Sadiqi Beg Afshar in his seventeenth-century text Qanoon-al-sovar, demanded the hanging of “broad swords made of thin copper” over a well, and leaving them for a month. She experimented with various alternatives (although not the sword bit) yet the answer, when she found it, came not from any formal painting treatise, but from a love poem.

  In the sixteenth century, the poet Ali Seirafi had written a verse to his beloved, adding a word of advice to others who wanted to make their feelings permanent. “The smiling green pistachio that resembles your beautiful lips whispers tenderly,” he wrote, in words that were probably intended as loving, although I wonder whether the lady would have found them so flattering. “Mix saffron with zangar,” he continued more practically, “and move your pen with it gracefully.” Disturbing lip imagery notwithstanding, for Dr. Barkeshli this was the clue she needed. “I was so happy I cried,” she told me.24

  A few months later, visiting the Lahore Museum in Pakistan— which was once under the directorship of Rudyard Kipling’s father, and known by their family as the Wonder House—I saw some Mughal miniatures of hunting scenes. The green fields on which the horsemen and deer were prancing and dying were fringed with brown marks of corrosion. These artists had clearly not read their contemporary love literature carefully enough and had failed to include the crucial ingredient of saffron. Interestingly, Cennino had a very similar recipe. “Take a little verdigris and some saffron; that is, of the three parts let one be saffron,” he advised readers, promising that: “It comes out the most perfect grass-green imaginable.” But he did not seem to know that his yellow herb could also save his green from corroding the parchment, or if he knew, then he did not say.

  In the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam I saw a curious example of how an artist has consciously used the corrosive power of green. A color woodcut, printed in 1887 by the innovative Tagohara Kunichika, shows the actor Kukugoro V performing as a ghost. He rises with shocking pallor out of the bodies of two other theatrical characters, and his head is covered with green that has burned into the paper until it is brown and spoiled. The effect was apparently deliberate: the dangerous ectoplasm destroying even the paper on which its image is painted.

  A ONE-POT DYE

  Celadon travelled from China to Europe, and knowledge of verdigris went originally from Persia to Europe. But probably one of the last times green color technology moved lucratively in that east-west direction was in 1845. That year an official team from France went to China to investigate the potential for new trading items. China had just lost Hong Kong Island to the British a couple of years before, and the French wanted to see whether they could find anything for themselves. They came back with objects, not territory. But among the porcelain and textiles and mineral samples was something less obviously valuable. Just a few pots of green mud. But for a while it seemed that they were going to prove to be the greatest treasure of all: these unpretentious pots promised to revolutionize European dyeing, in the same way that cochineal had revolutionized it three hundred years before. The mud was called Lo Kao, or Chinese Green, and it caused huge excitement because it was the first one-pot natural green dye.

  If artists had problems with greens, then the situation for dyers was even worse. Green had never been an easy color for them, and it tended to require them dipping the cloth into two vats—a blue one and a yellow one. Together with the problem of adding mordants and getting the right temperatures and concentrations, all this dipping meant that the chance of getting the same shade twice was fairly low. And when dyers did manage to achieve some kind of consistency it was highly prized. The legends of Robin Hood a
nd his merry men, for example, describe them as wearing “Lincoln Green.” I had always imagined it to be for camouflage, but the truth is they were wearing it to show off. The green cloth was the pride of Lincoln, made of woad (a blue plant) and weld (a yellow one). It was also called “gaudy green,” and it was expensive. Wearing it was a way for the legendary bandit to laugh at his Nottingham rivals and show how he was stealing from the rich to clothe the poor.

  We can see another example of the problems of greens in the experience of English designer William Morris. In the 1860s Morris decided to help revive medieval textile arts—and in order to give ordinary people the sense of living in a medieval castle, he created wallpapers that looked like antique tapestries. His papers were mostly blue, with a little red, just like the old tapestries Morris had admired. But if he was trying to be authentic, he had made a mistake. In the Middle Ages, dyers made their yellows from a plant called dyer’s weld, and their greens were made by overdyeing the yellow with blue woad. But weld fades, and after seven hundred years of hanging on castle walls medieval tapestry forests tend to be misty blue where once they were gaudy green. We can only imagine what the original works looked like. But they were probably surprisingly similar to the bright textiles of the nineteenth century that Morris was so passionately deriding as garish.