The Rape of Europa

by Charles FitzRoy

  Like his father, Philip enjoyed Titian’s company and decided to ask the artist to paint his portrait. The result was a splendid full length portrait of the prince wearing a suit of damascened armour, designed to show that Philip was worthy to inherit his father’s mantle.

  Shortly afterwards, the prince and the painter parted, and Philip continued his tour of the Habsburg patrimony in the Netherlands, where he enjoyed spectacular celebrations at the palace of Binche, the magnificent residence of Charles V’s sister Mary of Hungary, an assiduous collector of the works of Titian. When he rejoined his father in Augsburg, Philip was able to admire a work that the painter had just given to his father entitled Venus with Cupid and an Organist (there are five versions of this painting, showing its popularity), a highly erotic work where the organist gazes back at the naked Venus lying behind him, her foot nonchalantly resting on his tunic, while Cupid fondles her breast. What is particularly remarkable about this painting is that the organist’s features bear a marked resemblance to those of Philip.

  If Titian intended this to be a tribute to the young prince, he was completely successful. From this moment onwards Philip acquired a passion for the artists’s work. Initially, he had voiced some criticism over the painter’s technique in a portrait of his aunt Mary of Burgundy, writing: ‘you can easily see the haste with which he [Titian] painted it, and if there had been more time I would have made him work on it again.’ However, any reservations the prince may have held about the freedom of the painter’s technique soon disappeared. In 12 September 1550, Philip wrote to the Spanish ambassador to Venice, Juan Hurtado de Mendoza, urging him to speed Titian’s return to Augsburg: ‘it would greatly please me that he [Titian] should come as soon as possible, I commission you, if he has not already left when you receive this, to urge him to hasten his departure’.

  Titian was keen to accept such a prestigious invitation, spending the winter of 1550–1 as the prince’s guest in Augsburg. By the time the two men parted (they were never to meet again), they had made an agreement whereby Titian was to supply Philip with paintings on a regular basis. In effect he was appointed court artist in absentia, serving his master in Spain while remaining in Venice. This was to continue for the rest of the artist’s life.

  The next commission that Titian executed for the prince, a series of six mythological paintings taken from Ovid’s Metamorphoses, depicts the loves and lusts of the Gods. He referred to these paintings as poesie, poems in paint, where the paintings should aspire to the level of poetry and inspire similar feelings and intellectual thoughts as the poems themselves (in the sixteenth century mythological painting was ranked alongside religious works as the highest form of art). Unlike the light-hearted nature of the mythologies that he had painted for the Duke of Ferrara, however, these works convey a more complex message. Titian, like many Renaissance humanists, was influenced by Aristotle’s Poetics, which defined the main characteristics of tragedy as pity and fear.

  All six poesie follow Aristotle’s work in demonstrating an ambivalent mood, where the force of love between Gods and mortals is fragile and fraught with danger, and may lead either to ecstasy or to tragedy. The myths that Titian chose to depict, in chronological order, were: Danae, Venus and Adonis, Perseus and Andromeda, Diana and Actaeon, Diana and Callisto and the Rape of Europa, the last in the series. The mood of these paintings varies, commencing with an ecstatic Danae, awaiting her ravishment by Jupiter, who descends in a cloud of gold. In contrast Venus clings to the departing Adonis, only too aware that the huntsman is going to his death. Love is triumphant once again as Perseus swoops through the air to kill the dragon threatening the chained Andromeda. But the two scenes with the goddess Diana are full of impending tragedy as the unsuspecting Actaeon comes across the naked goddess bathing with her maidens, while her maid Callisto, who is carrying Jupiter’s child, tries to hide her pregnant body from the unflinching gaze of the goddess. In the last scene, Europa sprawls in a position of abandonment across the back of Jupiter, disguised as a bull, who will ravish her as soon as she arrives on the shores of Crete.

  A further painting, of Jason and Medea, was never executed but the Death of Actaeon (National Gallery, London), painted after the Rape of Europa remained in the artist’s studio until his death. It is therefore not part of the series that was sent to Philip II, and is the darkest painting of all, depicting the moment when the goddess Diana fires her arrow at the startled Actaeon, who is already being transformed into a stag. The actual myths themselves are discussed in more detail in Chapter 3.

  Various attempts have been made to give the Rape of Europa and the other poesie a Christian or philosophical interpretation. Philip was a fervent Catholic who owned a copy of the standard translation of Ovid’s Metamorphoses into Spanish by Jorge da Bustamente that stressed the moral and Christian content in the myths. Proponents of this interpretation put forward a metaphysical point of view, citing Philip’s awareness of the prevailing Neo-Platonist philosophy, an attempt to reconcile paganism with Christianity.

  But there is not a shred of evidence to support these arguments. What seems much more likely is that the time artist and patron spent together in Augsburg during the winter of 1550–1 gave them ample opportunity to discuss the commission in detail and this resulted in a shared vision. Philip relished Titian’s love of painting the female nude (interestingly all six heroines are nude, or almost nude, while the three male protagonists, Adonis, Perseus and Actaeon, are all clothed) and appreciated the paintings primarily for their physical beauty.

  In addition, Philip trusted Titian’s judgement. Working for a prince who was shortly to become the most powerful ruler in Europe (Philip’s father Charles V abdicated in 1555, leaving his brother Ferdinand to succeed him as Holy Roman Emperor while Philip himself took control of all his other possessions), Titian was given complete independence in his choice of subjects and how he interpreted them. Despite his broad, humanist education which meant that he was much better versed in the classics than Titian, who was unable to read Latin, the prince allowed the artist to take the liberty of changing one mythological subject for another and eliminating a third one without any consultation. This appears all the more remarkable since Philip was famed for exerting such close control over every aspect of his life, including his other artistic commissions.

  There is no correspondence to demonstrate what Philip agreed with Titian in Augsburg and some major art historians have therefore exaggerated the degree of artistic independence enjoyed by Titian, regarding this as a turning point in his career, and indeed in the history of sixteenth-century art. David Rosand, who has written extensively on the artist, was convinced of this, stating: ‘With the courtly know-how of a Raphael and the almost arrogant self-confidence of a Michelangelo, Titian seemed to have achieved the social status that had been a goal of Renaissance painters at least since Alberti’s [a multi-talented Florentine artist and writer] first articulation of such a program in 1435.’

  Ernst Gombrich, an Austrian émigré who came to England in the 1930s and whose The Story of Art is generally regarded as the best introduction to the visual arts, claimed that ‘in earlier times it was the prince who bestowed his favours on the artist. Now it almost came to pass that the roles were reversed, and that the artist granted a favour to a rich prince or potentate by accepting a commission from him.’ He concluded the passage by making an even bolder statement: ‘At last the artist was free.’ Gombrich was thinking in particular of the polymath Leonardo da Vinci, a brilliant artist, scientist, architect, engineer and inventor who made a series of astonishing designs of weapons of war, flying machines and water systems, as well as executing paintings and sculpture, while working at the court of Milan in the 1480s and 1490s (though his patron, the Duke of Milan, was endlessly frustrated by Leonardo behaving as a free spirit and failing to complete the various commissions he undertook, notably the fresco of the Last Supper).

  These claims are too bold, but Titian does deserve to be ranked alongside Le
onardo, Michelangelo and Raphael at the summit of sixteenth-century art. The four men raised the position of the artist to a new level in society. Leonardo ended his days as the confidant of François I of France. Michelangelo was a sculptor, painter, architect and poet who dared to confront the fearsome Pope Julius II during the painting of the Sistine Chapel. Raphael was a painter and architect, and the friend of Pope Leo X who presided at the artist’s wedding in the villa of the wealthy banker Agostino Chigi in Rome (now known as the Villa Farnesina).

  Titian, however, was a painter, not a polymath, and his exalted status was due entirely to his ability with the paintbrush. Carlo Ridolfi, writing his life in the seventeenth century, recorded a famous story of how the artist dropped his paintbrush while painting Charles V’s portrait ‘which the emperor picked up [an unheard breach of protocol], and bowing low, Titian declared: ‘Sire, one of your servants does not deserve such an honour.’ To this Charles replied: ‘Titian deserves to be served by Caesar.’

  To show his appreciation of his favourite painter, Charles’ son Philip paid Titian an annual salary of 500 ducats, the sum that a leading member of the Venetian government was likely to earn in a year, ten times the wages of a manual worker in the Arsenal (the dockyard in Venice where ships were built and repaired). But the note of flattery that the painter liked to use when writing to his patron shows that he was a consummate courtier, anxious not to take any liberties. Titian compared Philip with Alexander the Great, with the painter cast in the role of Apelles, pre-eminent among ancient painters and famed for his portrait of Alexander.

  The large number of letters between artist and patron during the 1550s shows the importance both men attached to the commission of the six poesie, Philip urging haste in the completion and delivery of the paintings, Titian anxious to ensure that they have arrived safely and that they have been well received. The tone for the whole series was set by the first subject Titian chose, possibly the most erotic picture he ever painted. Danae was a reworking of a theme that he had executed some 20 years earlier for Cardinal Alessandro Farnese, another great patron of the arts. Alessandro was grandson of Pope Paul III, whose portrait had been painted by Titian. The pope had renounced his sybaritic youth, during which he had sired a number of illegitimate children, when he was elected to the papacy, and had subsequently led the reform of the Catholic Church and set up the Council of Trent.

  Alessandro, however, although a cardinal and a prince of the church, had shown little desire to give up the sins of the flesh and conform to the new morality espoused by his father. He commissioned Titian to execute two paintings of his mistress Angela, one clothed, the other naked. In order to provide a modicum of decorum, Titian portrayed the cardinal’s mistress as the mythical figure of Danae (Capodimonte, Naples) lying naked on a bed about to be seduced by Jupiter, who is descending in a shower of gold (remarkably, it was deemed perfectly acceptable for women to appear nude in mythological subjects though it was seldom a cardinal’s mistress who posed in this manner).

  The painting arrived in Madrid in 1554, much to the delight of the king. Later that summer Titian sent Venus and Adonis (Prado, Madrid) to London shortly after Philip’s marriage to the English Queen Mary I. To show the personal nature of the commission, the features of Adonis bear a marked resemblance to those of the king. Philip could scarcely wait for the painting’s arrival, cajoling his secretary in Italy Diego de Vargas in a letter dated May 1556: ‘The sooner you send them to me, the greater pleasure you will give me and the greater will be your service to me.’ At the same time he urged Titian, whom he addressed fondly as ‘amado nuestro [our friend]’ (a singular compliment) to complete ‘some pictures that I commissioned and that I am looking forward to very much.’ Anxious to comply, the painter obliged, sending the king Perseus and Andromeda (Wallace Collection, London), the third in the series.

  A letter from Venice dated 19 June 1559, in which Titian describes the completion of both paintings recounting the myths of Diana (the fourth and fifth in the series and now in the National Gallery), shortly to be sent to Spain, includes the first mention of the Rape of Europa:

  After their dispatch I shall devote myself entirely to finishing the ‘Christ on the Mount’, and the other two poesies which I have already begun – I mean the ‘Europa on the shoulders of the Bull,’ and ‘Actaeon torn by his Hounds [National Gallery, London]’. In these pieces I shall put all the knowledge which God has given me, and which has always been and ever will be dedicated to the service of your Majesty. That you will please accept this service so long as I can use my limbs, borne down by the weight of age.

  It is important to note the title that Titian used for the painting: Europa on the shoulders of the Bull. He was to use other titles such as Europa sopra il tauro (Europa on the bull) but none of them contained the word ‘Rape’ which is therefore a misnomer. It was Cassiano del Pozzo, a Roman connoisseur who saw the painting in the Alcázar in Madrid in 1626, who first gave it the title by which it has been known ever since. All later comments on the painting, therefore, which have tended to be coloured by the word ‘Rape’, need to be treated with great caution.

  Subsequent correspondence between artist and patron shows how concerned Titian was about Philip’s reaction on receiving the paintings. He wrote several times to ascertain whether the paintings of Diana and Actaeon and Diana and Callisto had arrived safely (they finally reached Spain in the spring of 1561). In a typical letter dated 22 April 1560 he enquired: ‘if they have not pleased the perfect judgement of Your Majesty I will labour to remake them again, to correct past errors’. Once the king was satisfied, Titian continued, ‘I will be able to put more heart into finishing the fable of Jove with Europa [the Rape of Europa] and the story of Christ in the Orchard [the Agony in the Garden, the Escorial], in order to make something that will not prove entirely unworthy of such a great King.’

  It is also interesting to note that, at this point, Titian was painting both mythological and religious subjects for Philip. The king had a complex character which has puzzled historians ever since. But (as I will describe in more detail in the next chapter) the seeming discrepancy between a man who could savagely persecute Protestants throughout his dominions while secretly enjoying a succession of mistresses is reflected in his patronage of the arts where he could take equal enjoyment from Titian’s deeply religious Agony in the Garden and his highly erotic Rape of Europa.

  Titian was certainly determined that his work should be up to the highest standards and, as a result, he took his time. Over a year later, the paintings remained unfinished. On 2 April 1561 Titian wrote to the king, informing him that his Magdalen [the Escorial] was now completed, and ready to be dispatched to Spain, ‘and, in the meanwhile, I shall get ready the Christ in the Garden and the Poesy of Europa, and pray for the happiness which your Royal Crown deserves.’ Progress was slow, however. Four months later, on 19 August, he gave Philip more news: ‘Meanwhile, I shall proceed with the Christ in the Garden, the Europa and the other paintings which I have already designed to execute for your Majesty.’ Philip, in his careful way, made a note on the letter for Titian to hasten the completion of the pictures and that they should be dispatched with great care from Genoa, and not suffer the fate of an earlier painting of the Entombment, lost at sea.

  Eventually, the Rape of Europa was dispatched to Spain, together with the Agony in the Garden, in 1562, with an accompanying letter to Philip. Once again there is an anxious tone to the letter which ends: ‘still, having dedicated such knowledge as I possess to Your Majesty’s service, when I hear – as I hope to do – that my pains have met with the approval of Your Majesty’s judgement, I shall devote all that is left of my life to doing reverence to your Catholic Majesty with new pictures, taking care that my pencil [i.e. brush] shall bring to that satisfactory state which I desire and the grandeur of so exalted a King demands.’

  Unfortunately, there is no record of what Philip’s Spanish contemporaries thought of Titian’s work. It is in Venic
e that we find contemporary opinions of Titian’s poesie and of Titian’s art in general. Lodovico Dolce’s influential Dialogo della Pittura, published in 1557, championed the art of Titian. It was written shortly after Giorgio Vasari’s first edition of his Lives of the Artists, first published in 1550, had omitted Titian completely. Vasari’s work, with its vast array of information on all major Italian painters from the time of Giotto onwards, ever since regarded as the single most important source on Italian Renaissance painting, was designed to show the supremacy of the Tuscan School of Painting.

  Dolce and Vasari argued in favour of the two opposing ideas that dominated sixteenth-century Italian painting: the art of colore (the supremacy of colour over drawing) and that of disegno (the creation of idealized forms based on drawing). For Dolce, the art of colore was perfected in Venice with Titian as its leading practitioner, while Vasari considered the art of disegno, the main characteristic of Florentine art, to have reached its highest point in the figure of Michelangelo. The debate over the merits of the two schools of art was to continue into the seventeenth century when the art of colore was championed in the art of Peter Paul Rubens, a great admirer of Titian (he was to execute a copy of the Rape of Europa), while the French classical painter Nicholas Poussin favoured the art of disegno.

  Despite the disagreements between Dolce and Vasari, and the latter’s omission of Titian in the first edition of his work, it is interesting to observe the consensus between the two men over the Rape of Europa. Dolce had marvelled over the slightly earlier Venus and Adonis in a letter to the Venetian nobleman Alessandro Contarini, how the goddess seemed to be alive and the effect she has so that a spectator feels himself ‘warmed, softened, and all the blood stirring in his veins. Nor is it any wonder: if a statue of marble could somehow with the stimuli of beauty so penetrate the marrow of a youth that he leaves a stain there, then what must this painting do, which is of flesh, which is beauty itself, which seems to breathe?’