Dr. Frances Jowell
The Rediscovery of Vermeer

Dr. Frances Suzman Jowell - The Rediscovery of Vermeer

- Okay, so, some of you may have visited Amsterdam in the past few months to see the Vermeer exhibition that has enthralled visitors from all over the world. That is, if you could get hold of a ticket, since some 450,000 were sold out within days. Or you may have instead viewed the documentary film or read some of the rapturous reviews of this unprecedented gathering of 28 of Vermeer’s 37 known works. The last blockbuster, which was in 1995, had 21. That was the highest number ever at that stage. The exhibition has been universally celebrated by reviewers as one of the most thrilling exhibitions ever conceived with a few brief reminders about the Vermeer’s posthumous obscurity and recovery. Now, I’m going to share screen. Good. So here are some of the comments to be found in the reviews of the exhibition. It was celebrated as, “One of the most thrilling exhibitions ever conceived.” And, as I said, with a few reminders about his posthumous obscurity and the rediscovery of his works in the 19th century, which is the subject of my talk today. That the now-iconic Vermeer was ever neglected or little known must seem totally improbable, and it’s usually met with incredulity, disbelief, and even indignation. But the fact is that, for about 170 years after his death in 1675, at the age of 43, Vermeer’s high reputation gradually faded into semi-oblivion, what now seems incomprehensible obscurity. And I hope to explain this obscurity and then show how and when he was first decisively brought to light or rediscovered in the mid 19th century.

So what I’m talking about is, “His ascent from oblivion to mega-celebrity,” as one of the reviewers noted. Now, during his lifetime and for a short while thereafter, Vermeer’s relatively small corpus of works remained in the possession of a few appreciative Dutch collectors. But as the years went by and his paintings changed hands, and became more widely dispersed, his rare works became even rarer. For one painting after another lost its original attribution and became subject to the vagueries of connoisseurship and fashion. And this happened in the most distinguished and documented collections in Europe. For example, take The Music Lesson, which is now the celebrated Vermeer in the British Royal Collection. This was acquired by George III in the mid-18th century, but not by Vermeer, but as a work by another Dutch artist, the sought after Frans van Mieris. Some years later it was demoted to Mieris’ son, William, “On the grounds that the colouring is cold and the style not equal to the works ascribed to the father.” It’s a quote from one of the writers. By the middle of the 19th century, it was again relabeled, this time as, Eglon van der Neer. And as such, was subject to the disapproving gaze of the Victorian author, Mrs. Anna Jameson, who sourly dismissed it in her “Handbook to the Public Galleries of Art in and Near London” as, “Tasteless, the figures being too far back.” Now, another British collection, unknowingly, harboured a Vermeer, the Young Woman with the Water Pitcher, which is now at the Met in New York. It was proudly exhibited in 1838, but as a work by Gabriel Metsu. It belonged then to the distinguished collector, Robert Vernon, who later bequeathed a large part of his collection to the nation. But alas, not this painting, which would later be one of the first Vermeers to travel across the Atlantic in 1889.

Both these works that I’ve shown so far were first recognised as being by Vermeer only in the late 1870s. In other famous European collections, Vermeer of Delft sometimes became confused with the namesakes from other Dutch centres. So, the Girl with the Wineglass in the Braunschweig Museum entered the collection of the Duke of Braunschweig as of Vermeer in the early 18th century. But, by the mid 19th century, it was firmly catalogued as Jacob van der Meer of Schoonhoven and Utretcht. And The Procuress in Dresden, that was in the collection of the Elector of Saxony, was catalogued in the mid-18th century as by Jan van der Meer of Haarlem, and in the early 19th century, as Jacques van der Meer of Utrecht. In fact, the Elector of Saxony could boast another mislabeled Vermeer the Woman Reading By Window, open window. And some of you probably know that they’ve recently found that underneath the white wall, the plastered white wall behind the woman, they have uncovered a picture of a cupid. But I’m not going to show that to you since that wasn’t what they saw in the 19th century. Anyway, this work was attributed in turn to Rembrandt, then to Rembrandt’s pupil, Flinck, and then by the early 19th century to Pieter de Hooch, the artist whose name and reputation most frequently eclipsed Vermeer. When, for example, Count Czernin of Vienna, bought The Art of Painting for a pittance from a saddle maker in 1813, it was in the firm belief that he had acquired a valuable work by Pieter de Hooch. And the painting was so catalogued until 1860.

This painting was briefly in the possession of Hitler during the Second World War, and then restored, is now in the Museum of Vienna. Although the 18th-century inventories and sale catalogues show that art collectors in Holland, in the Netherlands, continued to treasure their paintings by Vermeer of Delft. By the early 19th century, the whereabouts of individual works was not generally known, despite his high reputation among connoisseurs. In a patriotic account of Dutch art published in 1816 by van Enden and van der Willigen in a book called, “The History of Painting of the Fatherland,” the author sang the praises of Vermeer’s colours and fluent brush technique. And they even dubbed him the Titian of the Dutch school, but they could locate only two paintings. Both of them were then in a famous collection in Amsterdam, the Six Collection. It was a private collection, but was well known because visitors were welcomed. The two paintings were the wonderful Milkmaid, which has been in the Rijksmuseum since 1908. And the other painting was the Little Street, another fabulous painting. And that’s been in the Rijksmuseum since 1921. They wrote, “There exists a picture of the city of Delft, which is praised highly as an artistic wonder, but we do not know where it is now to be found.” Well, the artistic wonder turned up in a sale some six years later, that’s in 1822, catalogued as, “The boldest most powerful and masterful painting imaginable.” It was acquired by the state with help of the king who stipulated it should hang in the Royal Cabinet Museum in the Hague, apparently much to the dismay of the then director who was less impressed by the painting. Just thought it was unusual. But so, in the early 19th century, even in the Netherlands, these three admired paintings formed the core of Vermeer’s well-known and documented works.

The Milkmaid, The Little Street, and The View of Delft. Now what about in the UK? What about in England? Although the first correctly attributed Vermeer, that is, a Vermeer that came in as a Vermeer, entered the country at the end of the 18th century it did very little to publicise Vermeer. For it was after its acquisition in the Hague, in 1795, by the 2nd Viscount Palmerston, it hung obscurely in his successive family collections for almost a century. And when it emerged briefly on the market in 1889, it was immediately snapped up by Edward Guinness, who later became Lord Iveagh. And in whose collection the painting led a similarly discrete and private existence for yet another 40 years. Apparently scholarly access was not welcomed. And according to the Kenwood catalogue, Kenwood House catalogue, “It was the owner’s stern determination and practise to forbid the visits of eager viewers, especially if such had either professional connections or intentions.” So it’s really only since 1928 with the Iveagh Bequest that, I’m sorry, I should have had this painting up, The Guitar Player was continuously enjoyed by the public, except for a short interruption in 1794 when it was stolen, abducted, you might say, only to be found three months later in the church graveyard, St. Bartholomew’s in Smithfield. So this was the first Vermeer that entered the country as a Vermeer. But was completely unknown, at least by the public, and inaccessible until 1928. Any other Vermeer paintings in British private collections were generally unrecorded or attributed to other artists.

And this lack of knowledge of Vermeer was reflected in an important compilation of Dutch paintings by the well-known dealer and connoisseur, John Smith of Bond Street. Here is a frontispiece of his widely consulted “Catalogue Raisonne Of The Works Of The Most Eminent Dutch, Flemish, And French Painters.” It was published between 1929 and ‘42, and it included 33 great masters of the Dutch school, each with a short biographical and critical account. And most important, with firsthand knowledge about the paintings, what they looked like, their whereabouts, their provenance, their prices, and so on. Just what collectors needed to know. It was a handbook for collectors. And Vermeer is mentioned twice, but only in passing as a scholar and imitator of two highly-valued artists, Gabriel Metsu and Pieter de Hooch. Smith admired the few paintings he’d seen but had had absolutely no information about the artist except that he’d flourished at the end of the 17th century. As he wrote, “Writers appear to have been entirely ignorant of the works of this most excellent artist. Subjects he delighted to represent were women, busy in household occupations or engaged in some amusement as music, writing, reading, or cards. And these pictures are treated with much of the elegance of Metsu, mingled with the little of the manner of de Hooch.” He singled out one painting as usual, The View Of The Town of Delft. And then throwing up or throwing down his pen, whichever, he concluded, “This master is so little known by reason of the scarcity of his works that it is quite inexplicable how he attained the excellence many of them exhibit.” And a similar situation had existed in France, as witnessed by the distinguished dealer, Jean-Baptiste Le Brun, who was a very early admirer of Vermeer. But he complained, “This van der Meer, about whom historians haven’t spoken at all, deserves special attention.

He’s a very great painter. His rare works, which are better known in Holland, are primarily preoccupied with rendering the effects of sunlight to the point of sometimes achieving illusions.” He also knew some of Vermeer figure paintings and he later handled the sale of The Mistress and Maid in 1810. Now, why this ignorance of Vermeer’s life and works in the literature on artists? Why did the historians not speak of him at all? It wasn’t only due to the scarcity of his works, although his works were indeed scarce. He didn’t paint that much during his life, some two paintings a year. The primary culprit, the main source of his posthumous oblivion, was a Dutch biographer by the name of Arnold Houbraken. He was author of a comprehensive compilation of 17th-century Dutch artists published in 1718. That’s about 40 years after Vermeer’s death. He called it, “The Great Theatre of Men and Women Netherlandish Painters.” It chronicled the lives of some 600 artists and served as the main source of information, and misinformation, about the so-called Golden Age of Dutch art. And it was a source of well over a century. It was copied and embellished in all subsequent dictionaries of artists, which was the main biographic form of art history that lasted well into the 19th century. The lives of the artists. Houbraken’s fanciful anecdotes, his news and views, his gossip, his hearsay, information, his errors and omissions, were all absorbed into a continuous literary tradition. And his most conspicuous sin of omission was Vermeer. Why he left out Vermeer, we do not know. He certainly had opportunities to see his works in collections he knew, or as they passed through sale rooms. But whatever the reason, it is ironic that Houbraken, who undertook his great project explicitly to thwart oblivion effectively erased or recorded the recorded or printed memory of Vermeer for over a century.

The reason he took up his pen, he said, “Was before ravenous time has utterly erased the memory of many men.” Well, he’s partly responsible for the the fact that Vermeer was erased in literature for many years. And despite the admiring appraisals by dealers and in sale catalogues, and occasional reports, impressed or admiring reports of Vermeer paintings by visitors to the Netherlands, his rare works were increasingly marginal in the centres of trade and taste, that is, mainly London and Paris. And his artistic and historical identity remained mysterious in the annals of art history. Even the early art historical accounts of national schools and accounts of stylistic developments and so on, which overtook the biographical accounts, we find this absence of Vermeer. So as late as 1860, even the leading authority on European art, the director of the Royal Gallery in Berlin, the venerable Dr. Gustav Waagen, was utterly defeated by the enigmatic Vermeer. He included Vermeer in his survey of Dutch art, but only as one of Rembrandt’s followers of whom he knew nothing, except his supposed birthdate, and about six pictures representing, “Figures of servant girls, generally at a window,” I’m quoting, “Or views of towns with a few figures.” He concluded with uncharacteristic despair, “These show such power of conception, boldness in harmonious arrangement of the colours, delicacy and gradation in the sometimes cool and broken tints, and also such power, solidity, and breadth of touch in the finest impasto, that the small number of known pictures by him appears to be an insoluble problem.” However, the insoluble problem was about to be solved by a hitherto unknown writer who signed himself W. Burger. He was hitherto unknown. Now, his pioneering researchers into 17th-century Dutch art had recently begun to appear in reviews and catalogue guides of private and public collections in England, Germany, Belgium, and the Netherlands. They were published variously in newspapers, art journals, and as separate volumes.

The author signed himself W. Burger a German name meaning citizen, although he wrote and published in French. Burger’s first mention of Vermeer is found in his 1858 guide to the museums of Amsterdam and the Hague, where Vermeer is categorised as one of the several illustrious but unknown artists of the Dutch school, the . Burger first wrote about the View of Delft. He first found it rather surprising. He was surprised by the emphatic impasto depicting the masonry and the view of Delft. “It’s as if could say he wanted to build his city with a trowel and his walls were real mortar.” And he also describes in his first book on the museums of Amsterdam and the Hague, the two well-known paintings in the Six Collection. We’ve seen them before, The Milkmaid and The Little Street. He writes that he, “Finds it difficult to understand this bizarre article who is reminiscent of other artists, yet strikingly original. He handles impasto,” he writes, “like Rembrandt, depicts the play of light like Pieter de Hooch, and he treats the figures in a very distinctive way.” However, by the following year in a review of the Orenburg Collection in Brussels, the Vermeer status is elevated from being merely an illustrious unknown to an unknown genius whose neglected life and works had to be restored to history. Burger deplored the lack of information about the artist, 'cause only his place and date of birth was known, but where and with whom had he trained? What were the circumstances of his life? When did he die? Where were his other works? The available literary and archival sources yielded very little. In fact, nothing. So he initially addressed in desperation his questions directly to the silent paintings. And he jocularly dubbed Vermeer, “His provocative sphinx.”

This is a sobriquet that is still much used, and misused, and overused in connection with Vermeer. Burger came across a possible clue to Vermeer’s artistic origins in a book about Deft. This was the first clue. It was a description of the city of Delft, and it included a short poem, that honoured and lamented the death of the artist, Carel Fabritius, who had been recently killed in the great explosion of the Delft powder magazine. This was in 1654, about 13 years before, but had followed this lament with an expression of gratitude that Vermeer had then, “Luckily arose out of his ashes,” as he put it, “And masterly trod his path.” i.e. who then trod in Fabritius’ footsteps. Now, Burger wondered if this meant that Vermeer was a pupil or a follower of this Carel Fabritius. Not that that helped much, since Fabritius, at that stage, was another artist about whom virtually nothing was known. Burger had never seen a painting by him. That is until his excited discovery of a signed and dated work by the artist that was in an ancient, private collection in Brussels, The Goldfinch. He wrote that, “Although this was a mere little nothing.” “A simple study of a goldfinch chained to its little perch against a pale wall, reminiscent of Vermeer’s light, textured background, it was beautifully painted with firm accents and luminous colour.” And some six years later, Burger would be given this painting as a gift by the heirs of the present owner. It was a painting he treasured until the end of his life. It is now, as you know, in the Hague, in the Mauritshuis. But for the moment, the reference in the poem together with this painting was just a tantalising clue to the artistic source of the mysterious Vermeer. And even more significant that year in his quest, even more significant, was a signed painting, a signed Vermeer, that he found in the Orenburg Collection in Brussels. It was a hitherto unknown portrait, a study of the head that was known as a tronie, of a woman whose refined pale face emerges from the dark background, as if in moonlight.

The painting was signed by a monogram, which Burger carefully analysed and compared to other signed works. This work is in the Metropolitan Museum. It was not in the current exhibition. So Burger was increasingly convinced that Vermeer’s paintings were most likely to be found misattributed to more fashionable artists or just unknown in private collections. He urged Dutch scholars to busy themselves in the archives and he urged art lovers everywhere to keep an eye open for the unrecognised paintings by Vermeer. His appeal for information was widely disseminated in a Belgian newspaper and in an art historical journal, which published extracts of his forthcoming catalogue of the Orenburg Collection in Brussels. And indeed, by the time the catalogue was published as a volume, he had received several replies, most of which turned out to relate to Vermeer’s namesakes, but with one exception. It’s a painting you’ve seen before, the Mistress and Maid that is now in the Frick. It is the painting that had been published and sold about 15 years earlier by the dealer, Le Brun. And it was recently turned up in a private collection in Marseilles. Its authenticity guaranteed by the Le Brun, the provenance and the documentation by Le Brun. Now, Burger always tried to support his attributions with documentary evidence, and it was while trawling through the sale catalogues, he came across what he called, “The most precious document on Vermeer’s works.” It was a catalogue of an anonymous Amsterdam sale which took place in 1686, which included 21 authentic works by Vermeer. Was initially believed that the sale marked Vermeer’s death, but we now know that it dates from 20 years after his death, and that the works sold had belonged to the descendants of Vermeer’s main lifetime patrons, Pieter van Ruijven and Maria de Knuijt.

It’s known as the, Dissius sale. With this list in hand, Burger searched more zealously than ever for his dispersed paintings, assiduously scrutinising paintings and signatures in Dutch, Belgium, and German collections. The fruits of his new discoveries were first published in his second volume on the Dutch museums in 1860. These were on the Van der Hoop Museum, which is a private museum in Amsterdam, but an accessible museum, and the Boijmans in Rotterdam. In the Van der Hoop Museum in Amsterdam, he had discovered the beautiful Woman in Blue Reading a Letter. He opens a section with, . “Van der Meer of Delft, Vermeer of Delft, once again, here we have again, my sphinx.” He described the image in loving detail, especially its delicate, refined paint surface, and documented its provenance and added it to his list of about six known Vermeer paintings at that stage. His commentary typically extended well beyond the particular museums. So he listed other paintings he’d found in his travels, describing each in terms of subject and treatment, and always sensitive to Vermeer’s painterly means. Such as The Lacemaker, which he found in a private collection in Rotterdam. Wonderful painting. And in Brunswick, he came across the mislabeled Girl with a Wineglass, which he restored to Vermeer of Delft. He dubbed this scene of seduction, The Coquette, La Coqette, eloquently describing the refined style and declaring it to be one of the most delicious paintings of Jan in the 17th century Dutch art. From Brunswick, he travelled onto Dresden to check out Waagen’s suggestion that The Woman Reading a Letter, was still catalogued as by Pieter de Hooch, was indeed by Vermeer. He agreed. And at that same museum, he persuaded the curator, Dr. Hubner, to allow him to climb a ladder to study another mislabeled painting, which was hung high on the wall above a Rembrandt work. This was The Procuress.

He was gratified to find that his hunch was right for he discovered it was signed and dated. And he described the painting in detail, every person in it, what they were doing, the whole scene. He suggested too, on the authority of a trusted colleague, that the Art of Painting in Vienna, then attributed to de Hooch, was by Vermeer. He now revelled in the range and diversity of style of this artist, the bold brushwork, the abundant impasto, the incomparable firmness of drawing and modelling of The Milkmaid, the harmonious colours of The Little Street and so on. And The View of Delft is now given its full due, amplified by further documentary material, detailed description, that stressing its harmonies of colour and light, rather than its excesses of impasto. He also carefully listed several other works attributed to Vermeer that he had found noted in various sale catalogues. Thus by 1860, the peripatetic W. Burger had doubled Vermeer’s known and located works and suggested other possibilities. The rediscovery of Vermeer’s lost works, whether misled or mislabeled, was well underway in the short space of two years. And these discoveries were soon absorbed into the writings of other critics and art historians. However, it has to be said that Burger’s rescue of Vermeer was not an isolated exercise in scholarly connoisseurship. It was part of a wider project, a special commitment to art historical research into the 17th-century Dutch school. He explained in the prefaces and conclusions to his pioneering catalogue guides to the museums that he believed the emergence of a distinct and original school of art in the Dutch Republic was directly attributable to its hard-won political and religious freedom, and to the energy and independence of its citizens.

Not only had they virtually created the very soil beneath their feet, they had defeated Catholic Spanish power and they had created a new democratic and equal society and a new moral and intellectual world which produced a new democratic art, which he termed naturalism. Their subject matter patriotically portrayed all aspects of contemporary life, the daily lives of the citizens, their domestic lives, their civic institutions, and the people who ran them, their cities and villages, their amusements and their work, and the natural beauties of their native landscape. He termed this , art for mankind, and this was seen as an alternative to an outmoded art that served the oppressors of mankind, rulers, popes, and kings. He decried the Italianate tradition that depicted the gods and heroes of obscure, mythological, classical, and religious themes as being outdated. You could say Rembrandt rather than Raphael. Raphael looking to the past, Rembrandt to the future. And he declared the accessible naturalistic art of the 17th-century Dutch school to be the first truly modern art and as a legitimate ancestor and a model for the art of his own time. And by implication, an inspirational Republican model for his own time. So who was this Monsieur Burger, W. Burger? Who was this peripatetic writer with a German name who wrote in French, but never, at this time, about collections or museums in France? There was very good reason for this because Mr. Burger was, in fact, Theophile Thore, here portrayed as La Citoyen Thore or Citizen Thore, Comrade Thore, a distinguished revolutionary of 1848 Revolution, a current huitard, a political journalist and activist committed to the extreme left-wing factions of the Republican movement. He fled France as Citoyen Thore and he returned only some 10 years later as William Burger, a sort of European John citizen, renowned by then for his wide-ranging, if controversial, writings on European art.

And especially though for his scholarly researches and championship of the 17th-century Dutch school, as he interpreted. His advocacy of art for mankind would’ve had a familiar ring to those who remembered the earlier Thore, the younger Thore, for it was one of the themes of his earlier art criticism during the 30s and the 40s, 1830s and 1840s. When he became prominent, he became a prominent, if controversial, Republican political journalist and art critic. His staunch support for innovative artists, such as Delacroix and Rousseau and the Barbizon school, was partly based on social-political ideals. He believed the artist could and should communicate an original and heightened poetic response to nature and life by skillful use of all painterly means available, the full language of painting, whatever the subject. And so even a simple landscape or a humble genre subject could convey the light and life of nature and could fulfil what he considered art’s high purpose. It was in this context that he originally coined the slogan, , art for mankind in the 1840s, meaning that by reflecting or communicating shared experience, art could bring people together, thus indirectly prefiguring the future unity, harmony, and solidarity of mankind. Well, you could say dream on. But anyway, the 1848 Revolution was welcomed as the dawn of a new Republican utopia, but not for long. For his activism and participation in an abortive coup resulted in his flight and exile from 1849. After a few years of futile political tracts, plots, and pamphlets, he withdrew from exile politics. And, increasingly peripatetic, he lived as a fugitive under a succession of pseudonyms. He became, in fact, a bitter witness to his own oblivion, especially in the lively art and literary world of Paris of the Second Empire where his name, he who had known Le Tout Paris, seemed to have disappeared.

But as we’ve seen, he made a new name for himself, for in 1855, he resumed writing about art as W. Burger. And after inspirational visits to the Dutch museums in 1856 and to the great exhibition of great masters in Manchester in 1857, it was as W Burger that he found his new cause. And here is a picture of W. Burger. This was his new cause, an advocacy or championship of Dutch art at the centre of which Rembrandt, the great visionary naturalist, and measure all other Dutch artists. He took on pioneering scholarly research with a special fervour. He established a new canon which dismissed several formerly celebrated artists, the Italianate landscaper painters of mythological or historical subject and rather favoured painters of everyday life. And he also brought to light some other less favoured artists or known artists such as Frans Hals, Fabritius, and also Vermeer. He created the canon of Hals, Rembrandt, and Vermeer was was largely his achievement and it’s something that lasted well into the 20th century because he was read and revered by people like William Bode who ran the Berlin Museum. And many others read his works, including artists like van Gogh and so on. Anyway, after his return to France after the amnesty, that’s in 1859, he lived in Paris for the last decade of his life retaining his name W. Burger. He resumed his role as critic of contemporary art and was an eloquent advocate of contemporary artists, such as Courbet, Manet, Monet, Whistler. While he also continued his wide-ranging art historical researches. The Vermeer project, for one was far from over. There were more works to track down. And he was determined to ensure that his quote, “Cherished Vermeer received the recognition he deserved from artists, from critics, and from collectors, and ultimately be honoured in public museums.” And here his participation in the art market was very effective. He acquired and promoted Vermeer paintings amongst major collectors. He started with his own purchase. This is his first Vermeer that he acquired I think by 1862. Vermeer, 600 francs. So it was then called The Pianist, La Pianiste, now known as Young Woman Standing by Virginals. He then persuaded a Belgian collector, Cramer, to buy The Guitar Player, a subject mentioned in the 1696 Dissius catalogue.

He wasn’t to no that years later, in 1928, when the Kenwood Guitar Player emerged with the Iveagh Bequest, that this version of The Guitar Player would be demoted as the 17th-century copy and ignominiously banished to the basement of the museum after apparently having been disastrously cleaned. But hot off the press, I can tell you that at the recent symposium in connection with the exhibition, it was argued, mainly on the basis of scientific analysis of the pigments and the underpainting, that both paintings, which differ only in the girl’s hairstyle. As you can see the so-called copy in the Johnson Collection in Philadelphia has lost her ringlets. But both these paintings were most likely to be by Vermeer. This paper was given by somebody who specialises in technical art history, i.e. technical exploration of paintings. Anyway, you can make up your own minds on this, although the Philadelphia Guitarist is, I don’t think on display anymore. Now, he also persuaded prominent Parisian collectors such as Leon Dube, to acquire Vermeer paintings, such as The Soldier with the Laughing Girl which had recently passed through the English art market labelled as Pieter de Hooch. And he astutely negotiated the sale of The Geographer, which he strongly recommended to the French banker, Pereire, Isaac Pereire, both for its reasonable price, which was approximately 3 ½ thousand francs, and for the prestige it would bring the Pereire collection. A few years later, he found its pendant, The Astronomer, which he passed on to Dube, privately regretting he hadn’t kept it for himself. Unfortunately, he had much less success with one extremely distinguished museum visitor, who, on October the 31st, 1864, climbed the stairs to his fourth-floor flat or apartment on the Boulevard Beaumarchais to consult about Vermeer.

And I’m referring to Sir Charles Eastlake, who was the first director of the National Gallery. Eastlake was on the lookout for a Vermeer and Burger was the recognised expert who knew which Vermeers were currently available, where, and at what price. And what transpired must bring bitter ears to the eyes of Eastlake’s successes at the National Gallery. Burger arranged for him to go to Marseilles to view The Mistress and Maid, which was then back on the market. Eastlake was distinctly unimpressed, complaining it was too large, oversized for such a familiar, unimportant scene. And he was critical of the dark background. He offered less in the asking price, 5 instead of 7 2/3 thousand francs, which was refused. So back he went to Paris, where Burger took him to see another Vermeer that was available. That is The Young Woman with Necklace, then available for 4,000 francs. But Eastlake disliked this work too. He found little substance in the profile face and he heartily disliked the intensely dark area that divided the painting diagonally into dark and light masses. Burger dashed any hope that quote, “Light might be possibly recovered in the figure in the dark foreground,” because he assured him, he assured Eastlake, that the painting had already passed through the hands of an accomplished picture dealer who would’ve left nothing undone to give it a better appearance. Eastlake also rejected Burger’s own Lady Standing at the Virginals as, “Not quite eligible.” On his return to London, he reported to his trustees that Burger had discovered many Vermeers that were attributed to other artists and would soon produce an account and catalogue of his pictures.

To Burger he wrote, “I hope that sooner or later you will find a perfect example for the National Gallery.” As it happens, both the National Gallery’s two paintings, which were acquired later rather than sooner, came from Burger’s own collection following the sale of the collection in 1892, some 23 years after his death. The Lady Standing by the Virginal entered the museum soon after the sale in ‘92, The Seated Lady at the Virginal entered the museum in 1910. Eastlake’s expectations of the perfect Vermeer were based on the three famous Vermeers, The View of Delft, The Milkmaid, and The Little Street, which he admired for their unrivalled, sparkling quality of colour. Had he lived longer, he might have broadened his view of Vermeer. Eastlake did not live to see the first public exhibition of Vermeer paintings in Paris, which was in 1866. It was an exhibition known as the Exposition Retrospective. It was actually a showcase for private collectors. And the exhibition was largely organised by Burger and he deliberately used it to show Vermeer paintings to the Parisian public. These included four major works, two by now that were in his collection. The Pianist or the Woman Standing by the Virginal, The Woman with a Pearl Necklace, and two were from the two major Parisian collections, The Soldier with the Laughing Girl and The Geographer. But he added to these a few townscapes and landscapes that are no longer accepted as Vermeer, but which were nevertheless enthusiastically received by their audiences, such as The Rustic Cottage, which was from the Suermondt Collection in Aachen, then Aix-la-Chapelle.

It enjoyed only about 25 years of celebrity, for although was expensively acquired by the Berlin Museum in 1875, seven years later, it was denounced as by a 19th-century artist, Dirk van der Laanm and promptly sent in disgrace to the basement reserves. Such are the hazards of connoisseurship, even for the most experienced eye. Thus, the distinguished art historian, Bredius, who triumphantly denounced The Rustic Cottage as a heresy. How could anybody say this was by Vermeer? He later, in 1937, proudly announced the discovery of a new Vermeer painting, Christ at Emmaus, which turned out, after the war, after 1945, to be an notorious van Meegeren forgery. And I’ll spare you a picture of that. I mention this simply as a reminder, that if establishing a corpus of authentic works by Vermeer has been a lengthy and controversial endeavour, it was particularly challenging in the initial stage of his rediscovery. The four Vermeers that were in the retrospective, as well as the misattributions, such as The Rustic Cottage or some works by an artist called Vrel. They all enthralled their new audiences, artists, critics, and public. A critic who was very close to Manet called Astruc declared, “That the formerly disinherited Vermeer, whose many virtues were only yesterday appreciated by a few, has now been brought to light. And maybe one day, who knows, this newly-revealed artist will be celebrated and daringly considered le Grand Meer, the Great Vermeer.” That year, Burger published his eagerly-awaited study and catalogue of Vermeer. Was published as three articles in “The Gazette des Beaux-Arts” and also published as a separate volume. He summarised all past literature, gave his interpretation of Vermeer’s style and position in the Dutch school and optimistically catalogued approximately 70 works. Some located, but only documented, and listed a retrouver, that is to be found or to be found again. One of these was The Concert, which was indeed found and acquired by Burger the following year, 1867.

But alas must now once again be labelled as to be found, because although it was later purchased by Isabella Stewart Gardner at the Thore-Burger sale in 1892 and was safely transferred to the Gardner Museum in 1924, it was stolen in 1990 and has never been recovered. I should add that Gardner’s purchase was part of a wave of Vermeer acquisitions by collectors in the United States. I think there are about 14 Vermeers in the States and at increasingly astronomical prices. And just in conclusion, shall be noted that, although Thore-Burger’s name, as he’s posthumously known as Thore-Burger, is indissolubly linked to that of Vermeer. And his dedication to the revival and rediscovery of the artist was acknowledged by his colleagues and friends. His firm belief that Vermeer ranks as one of the greatest of all painters received only limited acceptance during his lifetime. For despite the booming market for Dutch paintings in the late 1860s, prices for Vermeer remained comparatively low. Between 4 and 8 ½ thousand francs, while de Hooch and other fashionable painters spiralled upwards. Anything from 51 to 150,000 francs. And this could be seen very clearly in the market. Take, for example, his Woman with a Pearl Necklace was sold to this dealer, Gauchez, for 600,000 francs in 1867. It was offered to the museum in Brussels, the Musee Royal des Beaux-Arts in Brussels, for 10,000. But it was refused. They did not want it, despite a price reduction to 8 ½ thousand. So it was publicly auctioned, bought by another dealer, Sedelmeyer, and it was about to be offered to a German museum in Frankfurt. This was a prospect that greatly pleased Burger, who wrote to his friend, the collector Suermondt, that, “This would be an important step in furthering the reputation of our cherished Vermeer who will soon have to be acquired by all museums.” This news evidently spurred Suermondt’s intervention to acquire it for his own collection. It did, however, end up in a museum eight years later in 1875 when Suermondt’s entire collection was purchased by the Royal Museum in Berlin. So it went together with The Rustic Cottage to Berlin where it remains.

When it was bought, apparently The Rustic Cottage was valued much higher than The Woman with a Pearl Necklace. Now, Thore did not live to see the first Vermeer, the utterly exquisite Lacemaker, enter the Louvre in 1870. Nor would he know how his Vermeer would, in subsequent decades and forever after, become one of the most universally revered artists. He would’ve been gratified that one of the early blockbusters, the blockbuster exhibition of 1966, which was held at the Mauritshuis in the Hague and in the Musee de l'Orangerie in Paris, specially commemorated his pioneering publication of 1866. He of course couldn’t know that his rediscovery, in fact, initiated a sustained historical and critical engagement with the artist that continues unabated today. His optimistic catalogue of possible Vermeers has been pruned by about 1/3. And as researches have, of course, been hugely amplified by new archival discoveries and art historical research and, it seems, an utterly inexhaustible literature. Each new book, each article, each new exhibition, and nowadays each film or website dedicated to Vermeer throws more light on the artist, on his historical context, on his patrons, on his religious affiliations, on his family, on his finances, on his subject matter, on particular objects represented in his works, whether maps, ceramics, earthenware, furniture, clothing, or other paintings, pictures of other paintings. Furthermore, the physical paintings are increasingly subject to the most sophisticated and rigorous scientific examination.

The weave of the canvas used, of the pigments, of the under drawing, of his construed artistic procedure, of how he painted things in and then painted them out. And yet it has to be said, there still remains something of the sphinx about Vermeer. We don’t know anything about his training, for example. And as one of the curators of the current exhibition, Gregor Weber, comments, “There will never be a final word on Vermeer.” Nevertheless, I contend that every exhibition is a tribute to those early efforts of the exiled Thore, Theophile Thore, who, having experienced the loss of his own name and identity, then dedicated himself to restoring the name, identity, and reputation of Vermeer and to rectifying what he called, “The historical injustice of Vermeer’s posthumous oblivion.” Thank you.

Q&A and Comments:

One is just from Linda Scarpa. “Lovely to see you. Hugely excited about this lecture.”

From Corinne Herberts, “Always amazing and wonderful to see you after so many years, last time being at Wits.” “If you ever come to Los Angeles, come and look me up. I’d like to take you through the Getty Museum where I’ve been a docent for 36 years.”

That’s Karen Herwitz, nee Golden.

Q: Arlene, “How did the proper attribution to Vermeer come about?” Which one, I dunno which one. This is from Arlene Goldberg. “How did proper attribution come about?”

A: I don’t know. I’m not sure which Vermeer you’re talking about. First of all, he usually looked at signatures and he had a great eye and he sort of saw similarities. There’s someone who’s having trouble with his computer and suggests that the audience may want to read about a Dutch forger During World War II.

“He largely forged Vermeer. And as his paintings are the backbone of the book, it has much about the Dutch Golden Age of…” Well, would that not be van Meegeren? George Steiner. Van Meegeren, what he did was, since there weren’t many early works known by Vermeer, van Meegeren, who was a very good painter, but he felt aggrieved that he wasn’t recognised. He managed to, you know, use the kind of techniques that Vermeer would’ve used. And he was only discovered after the war because he was accused of being a collaborator by allowing his paintings, allowing Vermeers to leave the country.

Q: “Was he politically incorrect?”

A: No, I don’t think so.

Q: Which is my favourite Vermeer?

A: Oh, I think The Lacemaker.

“And thank you,” Barbara Stan. “Thank you.” You’re welcome.

Mickey Fruiterman. “I was lucky enough to see the exhibit.” Mickey Fruiterman. “Oh, am going to see it. One of the rare evening tickets were issued much later.” That’s true. They’ve extended the exhibition to midnight.

“There’s so much hype that local people are unable to get tickets. My Dutch friends are jealous.” Yeah, and you may find trouble with the crowds. It’s quite difficult seeing the paintings.

“Sense of expectancy and lightness.” Yes, indeed. That’s from Romaine. And there’s another old friend.

“Hi, Jeffrey Maisels, longtime addict of Lockdown University.” Oh, and he enjoyed the scholarly review of Vermeer. Thank you. And those who discovered him. He saw the National Gallery in Washington exhibit. That was in 1995 and '96. It started in the Hague at the Mauritshuis and then moved to Washington. And it was indeed a blockbuster. People queuing around, you know, for hours. But there were 21 premieres in that exhibition.

“Keep sending these before I think. Oh, hope all is well.” Thank you. All is well.

Q: “How many Vermeers are known today?”

A: 37. And a couple of them are controversial. And they assume that there are a few that haven’t yet been found, that have been documented in sale catalogues. But it seems that he only painted two or three a year.

And, “Thank you.” From Rita K. You’re welcome. Jennifer Melbourne. “Thank you for the lecture.” “Thank you,” from James Barnard. “Thank you for the presentation.” These are all thanks. That’s very kind.

Though the second Girl at the Virginals. No, it is a Vermeer. Marilyn thinks the second Girl at the Virginals, shown at the right-hand side of the two, is not of Vermeer. No, it’s definitely a Vermeer. And it may be that the slide wasn’t very good, but if you saw it, it’s actually a companion piece to the one on the left, the standing girl. But I think the image was a bit dark. No, I didn’t show The Girl with the Pearl Earring. That was only discovered, I think, in the 1870s. There were several works only turned up, you know, in the 70s and 80s when suddenly… And of course we all know that painting, since it’s moved into fiction and film.

“Van Meegeren, a great painter, forged Vermeers.” I dunno if he was a great painter, but he did forge Vermeers. The Goncourt brothers. Yeah, the Goncourts, I think as I remember they did comment on The View of Delft. And positively. “I came in late.” Oh no, the exhibitions, from Tony, is still on in Amsterdam. But it finishes on I think June the 4th. There’s no way you’ll get tickets at this stage. But you can see the film. There’s a film of the exhibition that’s been circulating and shown all over the world. And actually, if you are interested in Vermeer, there’s a very, very good website called The Essential Vermeer, which has got a huge amount of information and wonderful pictures. So I recommend that to everyone.

Oh, another complaint I didn’t show The Girl with the Pearl Earring. Well, Thore Burger didn’t emerge until the 70s, 1870s. Yes. You can see The Girl with the Pearl Earring. It’s been taken out of the exhibition, gone back to the Mauritshuis where it is with also that wonderful little painting by Fabritius, The Goldfinch.

“Token man, that was wonderful.” I didn’t quite get that. That’s from Jonathan Matthews.

Linda Scarpa. Oh, thanks Linda. “Great privilege to see the works in a less-is-more fashion.” Yes, you’re right. There was an article that was in a review. Less is more. Which, like the way the exhibition was arranged, where there were just very few things in each room. You’re quite right. I think it was Traci Chevalier who wrote that, if I remember correctly.

Q: “How many paintings in Dresden?”

A: Oh, yes. I dunno how many, but that was Vermeer and some of his contemporaries. And it was at that Dresden Museum.

This was from Philip Mole. Wants to know how many paintings were in the Vermeer exhibition in Dresden two or three years ago. “It was an exhibition that was interrupted by the closure of all museums 'cause of the pandemic.” Yeah. I didn’t get to see it, but it was at that exhibition that the girl reading in front of an open window was first exhibited with the painting of the cupid on the wall behind her. They had just taken off the top layer of paint. I just hope it wasn’t Vermeer who painted it out, 'cause he did often paint out things to simplify the the composition. Oh, Rhonda Balgate from Toronto. “Thank you.” You’re welcome.

Q: “Is there any evidence there were drawings?”

A: No, we don’t know any drawings by him. He seemed to have done a kind of rough first draught on the canvas as far as one can see. No, there are no drawings.

“Thanks. The only one I’ve seen is… Oh, Kenwood House.” Yeah, from Elliot Fine, “The only I’ve seen up close is The Girl Playing the Guitar at Kenwood House on a visit to Hampstead Heath.” It is lovely picture. But maybe the other one in Philadelphia should be resuscitated. Apparently it’s undergone a terrible destructive cleaning. So I don’t know. And it’s got a tear in the canvas, but it should perhaps be shown together with the Kenwood one to see if one can come to any conclusion about whether he could have painted both of them. I think that’s all the questions.

• [Host] Thank you so much, Frances. What a wonderful lecture. And thank you everyone for joining us and we’ll see you all soon. Good night.

• Thank you. Night.