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ART IN REPRODUCTION

Nineteenth-Century Prints after Lawrence Alma-Tadema, Jozef Israls and Ary Scheffer

ROBERT VERHOOGT

a mst er da m uni v er si t y pr ess

ART IN REPRODUCTION

ROBERT VERHOOGT

ART IN REPRODUCTION
Nineteenth-Century Prints after Lawrence Alma-Tadema, Jozef Israls and Ary Scheffer

a mst er da m uni v er si t y pr ess

Robert Verhoogt Amsterdam University Press Omslag Etc

contents

PREfAcE IntROdUctIOn
chapter 1

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PInxIt Et ScUlPSIt
Pinxit Sculpsit The author of a reproduction
chapter 2

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fROm EngRAVIng tO PhOtOgRAPhy


Graphic art reproduction (1800-1835) Graphic innovation (1835-1860) Graphic versus photographic art reproduction (1860-1900) From graphic to photographic art reproduction

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chapter 3

fROm ORIgInAl tO REPROdUctIOn


Initiating the reproduction Organising the reproduction The production of the reproduction From original to reproduction
chapter 4

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fOR cOnnOISSEURS And AmAtEURS


The distribution of the reproduction Intermezzo: art reproduction in illustrated periodicals The reception of a reproduction The public for reproductions
chapter 5

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thE mOSt fRAmEd ARtISt


Ary Scheffer (1795-1858) And reproductionS After hiS Work

Scheffer and the droit de reproduction Independent reproductions Reproductions in illustrated publications The public for Scheffer reproductions Scheffers work versus reproductions

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chapter 6

ISRAlS And hIS chIldREnS BESt clOthES


Jozef iSrAlS (1824-1911) And reproductionS After hiS Work

Israls and reproductierecht Independent reproductions Reproductions in illustrated publications The public for Israls reproductions Israls work versus reproductions
chapter 7

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I RAthER lIkE tO cOmBInE PROfIt wIth PlEASURE


lAWrence AlmA-tAdemA (1836-1912) And reproductionS After hiS Work

Alma-Tadema and copyright Independent reproductions Reproductions in illustrated publications The public for Alma-Tadema reproductions Alma-Tademas work versus reproduction
chapter 8

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fROm ARt tO REPROdUctIOn SUmmARy cOlOURPlAtES


NOTEs BIBlIOGRAPHy INDEx IllUsTRATION CREDITs

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PREfACE

In early 1885, the Victorian painter Lawrence Alma-Tadema (1836-1912) was concerned about his artistic production at that moment. In a letter to his friend Carel Vosmaer he complained: Art is going badly here, the paintings wont come off. So what will those Goupils [the art- dealer/publisher goupil, rv] have to reproduce?1 He explicitly pointed out the interesting relation between his art and the reproduction of it. In the course of history, works of art have been reproduced in many ways. Prints and photographs after paintings and drawings formed the public reputations of artists and their works for centuries. However, less attention has been paid to the reproductions themselves. Art in Reproduction. Nineteenth-Century Prints after Lawrence Alma-Tadema, Jozef Israls and Ary Scheffer describes the cultural history of art reproduction in the nineteenth-century art world. New (photo-)graphic techniques and the legal developments of copyright, the rise of the art market and art publishing resulted in a wide distribution of printed reproductions to the general public in the nineteenth century. The engravings, lithographs, etchings and photographs represent the images of other works of art. At the same time they are interesting visual interpretations themselves. This interaction between the original and the reproduction gives a print or photograph of a work of art its own internal structure. It is this

artistic, social and legal interaction between art and reproduction has fascinated me for so many years, and was the source of inspiration for my research. The original idea for this study goes back to 1996 when I wrote my ma thesis in art history about the printed reproductions after the works of Lawrence Alma-Tadema. Later, this study formed the point of departure for my PhD dissertation about art reproduction in the nineteenth-century art world. Alma-Tadema was accompanied by Jozef Israls and Ary Scheffer and many other nineteenth-century painters. This dissertation was awarded a doctorate by the University of Amsterdam in February 2004. This book, Art in Reproduction. Nineteenth-Century Prints after Lawrence Alma-Tadema, Jozef Israls and Ary Scheffer, is the translation of my dissertation. Although writing a book is a solitary activity, I received a great deal of help from others with the preparation of this book. I wish to record my thanks to a large number of people. I want to thank my doctoral supervisor, Professor Evert van Uitert, for his stimulating enthusiasm for my research. Additionally, I would like to express my thanks to Richard Bionda, Ger Luijten, Ronald de Leeuw and Piet Verkruijsse for their support. Special thanks are for my former colleagues at the Institute for Art History at the University of Amsterdam for their enthusiasm and daily pleasure in investigating art history. I want to thank Margriet Schavemaker and Roel Hijink for our many stimulating discussions. I would also like to extend my thanks to Marguerite Tuijn and Saskia van Bergen, and the organisation and members of the Huizinga Institute for cultural history. For their informative suggestions and critical remarks, I want to thank: Wim van den Berg, Carel Blotkamp, Richard Bionda, Saskia Asser, Hans Rooseboom, Mayken Jonkman, Dani Cuypers, Jeroen Boomgaard, Jan de Vries, Bert van de Roemer, Petra Brouwer, Teio Meedendorp, Lotte Jensen, Jan Hein Furne, Peter Sonderen, Hans Buis, Dieuwertje Dekkers, Leo Ewals, Hildelies Balk, Annette Ligtenstein, Jenny Reynaerts, Deborah Meijers, Pierre-Lin Reni, Marga Altena and Ren Klomp. I combined the finishing of my book with my work at the Department for Cultural Heritage at the Dutch Ministry of Education, Culture and Science. I want to thank all my colleagues there for their support. Two women played an important role in the production of my book. I want to thank Anneke van Huisseling for her critical remarks and her editorial advice and stimulating comments on the book. Secondly, I want to thank Michele Hen-

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dricks for translating so many words and keeping up her stimulating enthusiasm till the last one. My thanks to Amsterdam University Press. Additionally, I am grateful to the Nederlandse Organisatie voor Wetenschappelijk Onderzoek for subsidising the translation and to the Prince Bernhard Foundation for subsidising a crucial element of the book: the reproductions. I could not write this book without the stimulating support of my family and friends. My father, Jan Verhoogt, showed me the beauty of science so that I confidently started my journey of curiosity. I want to thank my mother Corry Verhoogt for her optimism that I would not get lost. Finally, I want to thank the love of my life, Esther.
Amsterdam, february 2007

pr eface

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INTRODUCTION

ART REPRODUCTION

In 1973 the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York exhibited a then-relatively unknown picture, A Coign of Vantage (1895), painted by the Frisian-born artist, Lawrence Alma-Tadema (1836-1912). [plate 1] This sunny scene of three women by a marble balustrade, looking out over the sea by the island of Capri, had been completed by the painter in 1895. Shortly afterwards, the work had been shipped to the United States, where it became the property of a private collector. Several changes of ownership later, the painting was acquired by a great fan and collector of Alma-Tademas work, Allen Funt, the American television maker famous for his tv programme Candid Camera. In 1973 Funt loaned the work to the Metropolitan Museum of Art where it was exhibited in public for the first time, thus bringing to an end its previously obscure existence. The fame of this lovely picture spread rapidly via a slew of reproductions of every kind and format. In 1996 the work was exhibited in the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam, as part of the retrospective Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema (1836-1912). Reproductions of the painting appeared on the cover of the accompanying catalogue, on posters and postcards in the museum shop, and even on the exhibition poster. Thus a hitherto unknown work was displayed in reproduction in many bus and tram

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shelters. A Coign of Vantage (1895) is now one of Alma-Tademas best-known paintings, thanks to its many reproductions, and it is generally regarded as a masterpiece in his oeuvre.1 Works of art have been reproduced for centuries. Art reproduction developed during the late Middle Ages, in the wake of printing, whose invention made it possible to replicate both words and images. Printmakers used woodcuts and engravings on copper to produce numerous copies of the images depicted by works of art. As early as 1500 craftsmen began to concentrate on engraving artworks, and art reproduction became a specialised profession.2 The potential for copying artworks ensured that printing techniques soon became wholly identified with replicating and multiplying the images found in existing art. Vasari, for example, regarded engraving as categorically intended to serve painting. He included just one printmaker, Marcantonio Raimondi, in his famous catalogue of renowned painters and sculptors; a revealing choice which shows that for Vasari the art of printing did not begin with the early graphic experiments of Mantegna or Parmigianino, but with Raimondis engravings after works by Raphael and Michelangelo.3 Vasaris view of prints was elaborated by Samuel van Hoogstraeten in his Inleyding tot de hooge schoole der schilderkonst, which declared that the importance of printing lay chiefly in its replication of painted works: prints are messengers and interpreters, that proclaim the substance of works of art, that are either from far away or already antiquated.4 In similar vein, Gerard de Lairesse wrote that engraving copies painting as painting copies nature.5 Thanks to graphic techniques many artists saw their painted works translated into an abundance of prints. H. Goltzius, P.P. Rubens and J. Reynolds are just three of the renowned painters who used the services of professional printmakers on a large scale to replicate their works in the sixteenth, seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.6 During the nineteenth century, art reproduction gained momentum. Radical changes occurred in the sphere of reproductive techniques. The invention of lithography and photography allowed images to be copied and multiplied with increasing speed. Lithography released the printmaker from the labour-intensive process of engraving, as this technique only required the image to be drawn on a lithographic stone. Photography rendered even this action redundant. New methods for replicating and multiplying works of art were introduced at a rapid rate. At the same time traditional, hand-operated printing

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presses were being replaced by machine presses, exchanging manpower for steam and electricity. The introduction of continuous rolls of paper, known as papier sans fin, provided the endless stream of paper that was an essential precondition for modernising graphic reproductive processes. These were spectacular innovations, but it often took several decades for them to be fully developed and applied. So traditional reproductive techniques were not immediately superseded, and printmakers continued to produce line engravings, mezzotints and etchings alongside the wealth of new lithographs and photographs, although they increasingly employed steel plates instead of copper. This parallel production helped to expand the range of reproductive techniques still further. As reproductive processes gained speed, higher print runs resulted in a greater diversity of graphic and photographic images, together with lower prices. The nineteenth century was therefore characterised by a hitherto unprecedented production of reproductions, in terms of both quantity and quality. William Ivins even declared, in his renowned work Prints and Visual Communication (1953), that more prints were produced during the nineteenth century than in all the preceding centuries put together.7 Technical innovation paved the way for new forms of use and abuse. During the fifteenth century the invention of printing had provided the impetus for the development of intellectual property rights. Once publishers and booksellers had invested in the new printing process they soon felt a need to obtain legal protection for these investments. The privilege system gave publishers (temporary) monopoly rights over their publications, whilst allowing church and state, who granted these privileges, a valuable means of censorship. It proved an effective system and continued to operate internationally until well into the eighteenth century, when new Enlightenment ideas about property and creation shifted the primacy of the publisher slowly but surely in the favour of the individual author. As the spiritual and intellectual father of a work, the author was supposed to retain ultimate control over each of his creations and its replication, whether the translation of a novel or the reproduction of a painting. One artist who promoted the introduction of authorship rights was William Hogarth, famous for two series of paintings entitled A Harlots Progress (1732) and A Rakes Progress (1735), whose popularity was largely based on their many reproductions.8 The painter took public issue with illegal copies of his work and saw his efforts rewarded with the passing of the 1736 Copyright Act, better known as the Hogarth Act. This act can be regarded as the first copyright law in the sphere

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of visual art, and the first legal recognition of the rights of the individual artist. The legal transformation of the traditional privilege system into the concept of modern authorship rights mainly occurred during the nineteenth century. It was a far-reaching development that was closely followed in the art world. The well-known artist Horace Vernet recorded his view of authorship rights in his essay Du Droit des peintres et des sculpteurs sur leur ouvrages (1841), as did the influential art dealer Ernest Gambart in his paper On Piracy of Artistic Copyright (1863). The advent of authorship rights attested to a new vision of the artists relationship to his work, and reproductions of this, a vision subsequently codified in numerous laws and conventions. Art reproductions became available in a wide range of types and formats. Large publishers such as Remondini and Boydell had already made an important contribution to the international print market during the eighteenth century.9 Their work was continued by nineteenth-century firms such as Moon, Goupil, Gambart and Buffa, who further expanded the field as part of the rapidly developing art trade.10 National and international networks of print dealers and publishers connected towns and villages, countries and continents, thereby ensuring widespread distribution of art reproductions and the development of an extensive international market.11 Reproductions appeared in all kinds of new and richly illustrated forms of publication, such as the journals and catalogues associated with exhibitions, art collections and museums, while printmakers continued to produce independent prints, carrying on a tradition that had first emerged during the fifteenth century. The result was a greater and richer range of reproductions than ever previously attested. Public interest in art kept pace with the expansion of art reproduction. The culture of the Enlightenment, pursued by a motley collection of societies, journals, reading circles, exhibitions and other cultural institutions, had brought increasing numbers of people into contact with art. New forms of communication and transport had broken through physical and cultural frontiers, whilst economic progress had ensured that more and more individuals could afford some form of art. The visual arts, literature and music were no longer the preserve of a small cultural elite but increasingly lay within reach of the social middle classes. Reading prose and poetry, playing a musical instrument and collecting art in reproduction literally brought the arts into many peoples homes, in the service of the modern citizens own Bildungsideal.

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The question arises of how the phenomenon of art reproduction was accommodated within the prevailing view of art. Romantic ideas about art and the artist had created a genuine cult of the original artwork that seems at odds with the opportunities available for replicating and multiplying the unique original as many identical reproductions. Moreover, art reproduction had traditionally been associated with the worldly application of graphic techniques, market demands and legal regulations, all of which seem at first sight to be far removed from the romantic ideal of the artist as a lofty, free-spirited being. The new view of the artist is illustrated by a statement made by Adam von Bartsch (1757-1821) in his monumental catalogue Le Peintre Graveur, published from 1808:
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Lestampe faite par un graveur daprs le dessin dun peintre, peut tre parfaitement compare un ouvrage traduit dans une langue diffrente de celle de lauteur; et comme une tradition ne peut tre exacte que quand le traducteur sest pntr des ides de lauteur, de mme une estampe ne sera jamais parfaite, si le graveur na le talent de saisir lesprit de son original, et den rendre la valeur par les traits de son burin.12

For Bartsch, only prints designed and produced by one and the same artist possessed the ideal unity of concept and execution. The general lack of this unity in reproductions furnished Bartsch with sufficient cause to systematically ignore such works and focus exclusively on original graphic pieces, designed and produced by a single artist, or peintre-graveur.13 Bartsch largely drew the inspiration for his concept of the peintre-graveur from old masters such as Segers, Rembrandt and Ruysdael, although it was also an idea that inspired many contemporary masters. Artists such as Delacroix, Gericault and Bonnington experimented extensively with graphic techniques as a change from painting; masters of the Barbizon School regularly worked with both brush and burin, as did the realists and impressionists, while modern innovators such as Manet, Degas and Whistler inspired many contemporaries to practise print-based techniques alongside painting.14 Etchings were a favourite medium for graphic experiments by artists. Critics such as Philippe Burty and Philip Gilbert Hamerton developed terms such as lestampe original and belle preuve to underline the original character of printed works.15 This quest for the unique graphic image essentially endeavoured to deny the potential intrinsically associated with every graphic medium for replicating and multiplying

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this image. The making of original prints flourished, evolving from a pastime for devotees into the core artistic activity of the modern peintre-graveur. The founding of the Socit des Peintre-Graveurs in 1889 is illustrative of this development.16 Exclusive original prints contrasted sharply with mass-produced engravings, lithographs and photographs of artworks. Although Bartsch did not deign to discuss such reproductions, many of his colleagues did. Journals, particularly those connected with art, wrote at length about the latest reproductive techniques, copyright disputes, printmakers and publishers. They also published regular reviews of recent reproductions, paying varying degrees of attention to the subject, technique and quality of a specific print or photograph. Thus an intriguing situation developed during the nineteenth century: on the one hand, art reproduction burgeoned on an unprecedented scale, on the other, the period was permeated as never before by concepts of originality and authenticity. Bartsch identified this tension between art and its reproduction, a theme subsequently taken up by influential authors such as John Ruskin, Oscar Wilde, Thophile Gautier, Charles Baudelaire and Carel Vosmaer. During the nineteenth century the phenomenon of art reproduction seems to have been diametrically at odds with the dominant views on art. The apparently unbridgeable gulf between art and reproduction in the period makes the subject of art reproduction in the nineteenth century as fascinating as it is complex. For many years views on (nineteenth-century) art reproduction were shaped by the ideas of Walter Benjamin. In his Kleine Geschichte der Photographie (1931) the literary critic and philosopher discussed at length the relatively new medium of photography and its significance as a reproductive technique, subsequently developing his ideas in Das Kunstwerk im Zeitalter seiner technischen Reproduzierbarkeit (1936).17 The art movements of Benjamins time futurism, constructivism and dada are reflected in his fascination with art in an age that possessed the technical capability to reproduce this art. Concepts such as originality and authenticity had already lost much of their validity through the appeal of mass production and the speed of new mediums like film.18 Benjamins interest in reproduction is just as much in keeping with the cultural context of the interwar years as Bartschs preference for original prints during the romantic era. In Das Kunstwerk im Zeitalter seiner technischen Reproduzierbarkeit Benjamin analysed at length the conceptual change associated with a work of art as a result of the

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new reproductive technologies. He paid particular attention to the question of how technological reproduction affected the character of the unique work of art and concluded that such reproduction stripped an original artwork of its uniqueness and authenticity, which he described as its aura.19
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Die reproduktionstechnik, so liese sich allgemein formulieren, lst das Reproduzierte aus dem Bereich der Tradition ab. Indem sie die Reproduktion vervielfltigt, setzt sie an die Stelle seines einmaligen Vorkommens sein massenweises. Und indem sie der Reproduktion erlaubt, dem Aufnehmenden in seiner jeweilligen Situation entgegenzukommen, aktualisiert sie das Reprodusierte.20

Reproductive technology thus gave transience and the repeatability of reproduction primacy over the unique artwork. The essay discusses photography as a technique, rather than photographers or specific photographs, unlike Benjamins earlier Kleine Geschichte der Photographie, in which he considered the special relationship between an individual photographer and his technique.21 In Das Kunstwerk im Zeitalter seiner technischen Reproduzierbarkeit, however, important factors such as the diversity of photographic techniques, the photographers character and the quality of individual prints were absent from the discussion and Benjamin declared: Von der photographischen Platte zum Beispiel ist eine Vielheit von Abzgen mglich; die Frage nach dem echten Abzug hat keinen Sinn.22 Benjamins view of photography was also shaped by his concept of the aura; as Knizek remarked:
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Benjamin has to devalue photography, namely deny its status of art because he would experience difficulties in grounding his main argument that reproduction, i.e., photography in this case, strips works of art of their aura and devalues them.23

Thus, Benjamins perception of photography as a reproductive technique was considerably simplified and even distorted. The Marxist critic and philosopher regarded photography chiefly as a technical process and the first truly revolutionary means of reproduction, whose development he was unable to contemplate in isolation from the dawn of socialism. Benjamins view of reproductive techniques caused him to pay little attention to the distinctive characteristics

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of the various processes, the makers personality and the quality of individual images within reproductive traditions and the historical context. He showed little interest in the aura of a reproduction. Benjamin left research into art reproduction a complex legacy. His greatest merit is that he, more than anyone else, introduced the phenomenon of art reproduction into the sphere of reflection on art theory. His views on art and reproduction are enshrined in research on the subject. Benjamins ideas were also partly responsible for the great interest shown in art reproduction by post-modernist thought. Jacques Derrida emphasised the importance of imitation and reproduction, which he even described as the essence of art, in his much-quoted De la Grammatology (1967): The engraving, which copies the models of art, is nonetheless the model for art.24 In her well-known essay The Originality of the Avant-Garde: A Postmodernist Repetition (1985), Rosalind Krauss pointed to the discourse of the copy pursued by various post-modernist theoreticians, a discourse from which Benjamins influence was virtually never absent.25 Hillel Schwartz described Benjamin in her Culture of the Copy (1996) as: a theorist who for some readers must have been lurking behind each of these pages [].26 Benjamins ideas have even reached beyond the restricted circles of post-modernist theoreticians and been popularised for the general public: a BBC television series from the early 1970s, Ways of Seeing, written and presented by the marxist John Berger, examined how people look at art and was heavily influenced by Benjamins ideas.27 Nevertheless, there is a negative side to the widespread diffusion of Benjamins views on reproduction. In his essay Das Kunstwerk im Zeitalter seiner technischen Reproduzierbarkeit, Benjamin himself showed little interest in the aura of a reproduction, while those who have followed in his footsteps have been equally deficient in this respect. So Benjamins essay on art reproduction displays many of the same characteristics as many an art reproduction, for it has been similarly replicated and distributed on a large scale, complete with ambivalences and shortcomings. Criticism of Benjamins ideas on art and reproduction, however, does not substantially detract from the importance of his contribution to thought on art reproduction, and to some extent may even be regarded as a positive aspect of his thinking. Post-modernist theoretical approaches to art reproduction have subsequently been supplemented by other points of view. An influential work is the abovementioned study by William Ivins, Prints and Visual Communication (1953). Ivins,

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curator of the print department at the Metropolitan Museum of Modern Art in New York at the time he wrote this work, managed to condense the history of printed art into a coherent story, extending from the earliest woodcuts to the advent of modern photography. While photography forms the starting point in Benjamins vision of reproduction, in Ivins work it concludes the tale. Ivins considered the printed image from a broad socio-historical perspective and outlined the most important graphic and photographic developments, justifiably concluding that the importance of prints extended far beyond the world of art. As he stated in his foreword:
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the principle function of the printed picture in Western Europe and America has been obscured by the persistent habit of regarding prints as of interest and value only in so far as they can be regarded as works of art. Actually the various ways of making prints (including photography) are the only methods by which exactly repeatable pictorial statements can be made about anything. The importance of being able exactly to repeat pictorial statements is undoubtedly greater for science, technology and general information than it is for art.28

Ivins view of prints is thus diametrically opposed to Bartschs basic premise. Whereas Bartsch had focused on the original qualities of graphic works, Ivins stressed the importance of the printed pictures ability to replicate and multiply images, as repeatable pictorial statements.29 During the final decades of the twentieth century, Ivins social-historical approach was applied in a wealth of research into (the history of) the printed arts, including work by A.H. Mayor, whose Prints and People: a Social History of Printed Pictures (1971) is devoted to the social function and meaning of graphic representations.30 Research into the history of printed art has progressively expanded to encompass related subjects such as publishing and the print trade. Examples of work in this field include T. Riggs, Hieronymus Cock: Printmaker and Publisher (1977); A. Globe, Peter Stent, London Printseller (1985); N. Orenstein, Hendrick Hondius and the Business of Prints in Seventeenth-Century Holland (1996); M. Sellink, Philips Galle (1537-1612): Engraver and Print Publisher in Haarlem and Antwerp (1997); T. Clayton, The English Print, 1688-1802 (1997) and A.W.A. Boschloo, The Prints of the Remondinis. An Attempt to Reconstruct an Eighteenth-Century World of Pictures (1998).31 This research has been paralleled by an increasing interest in collecting prints.32
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The general expansion of research into prints has also been characterised by a growing fascination for graphic and photographic art reproduction. A number of special exhibitions on the subject, such as Bilder nach Bildern (1976), Painters and Engraving: the Reproductive Print from Hogarth to Wilkie (1980) and The Image Multiplied (1987), were accompanied by publications that have now become widely consulted.33 These general studies were followed by a range of more specific publications that examine reproductions after works by well-known masters such as Brouwer, Berchem, Van Dijck, Poussin and Canova.34 Although works on old masters tend to dominate research into graphic art reproduction, these are being increasingly supplemented by various studies associated with the nineteenth century, particularly those which deal with the English context, such as D. Alexander and R.T. Godfrey, Painters and Engraving; the Reproduction Print from Hogarth to Wilkie (1980), A. Dyson, Pictures to Print. The Nineteenth Century Engraving Trade (1984) and R .Engen, Pre-Raphaelite Prints. The Graphic Art of Millais, Holman Hunt, Rossetti and their Followers (1995).35 In recent years more research has also been conducted into French art reproduction during the nineteenth century. Muse Goupil in Bordeaux, which manages a significant part of the estate left by Goupil & Cie, the renowned nineteenth-century firm of art dealers and publishers, is an important source of publications on French art reproduction.36 A fine example of one of the museums publications is Grme and Goupil. Art and Enterprise (2000) which considers the renowned painters relationship with the firm. Another work on the French context is Stephen Banns Parallel Lines. Printmakers, Painters and Photographers in Nineteenth-Century France (2001).37 Works on nineteenth-century art reproduction in the Netherlands, Spain and Germany have also been published.38 Research into nineteenth-century art reproduction has been supplemented to an important degree in recent years by historical research into photography, a field in which increasing attention has also been paid to photographic reproduction of artworks. Important publications in this regard are E.A. McCauley, Industrial Madness. Commercial Photography in Paris 1848-1871 (1994) and A.J. Hamber, A Higher Branch of the Arts Photographing the Fine Arts in England, 1839-1880 (1996).39 Research into graphic and photographic art reproduction in the broadest sense of the term has been collected in the recently published Leids Kunsthistorisch Jaarboek: Beelden in veelvoud. De vermenigvuldiging van het beeld in prentkunst en fotografie (2002).

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Research into art reproduction has gradually developed in various directions, shifting its focus from printed art to photography, from the activities of publishers to the activities of collectors, from works by exclusive old masters to mass-produced photographs of the carte de visite type. Art history has thereby expanded its sphere of interest from a pure examination of images to analysis of the cultural context in which these images were produced, distributed and collected.40 Historical research into visual culture has also evolved a greater regard for the meaning of prints and photographs. In recent decades socio-cultural research by Burke, Ginzburg and Bourdieu has generated various studies that examine diverse forms of high and especially low or folk culture.41 Naturally, such broad cultural perspectives throw a spotlight on reproductions as part of general visual culture. An inspiring work in this regard is Peter Gays series The Bourgeois Experience. Victoria to Freud, which considers the bourgeois classes of the nineteenth century and includes the role of reproductions in the social environment. Remarkably, scholarly interest in art reproduction remains mostly indirect, and the subject only receives attention in its capacity as an unknown component of some famous artists work or renowned publishers output, as a factor in the development of photography or as an aspect of bourgeois visual culture. Interest in art reproduction is not, therefore, the object of research but rather a consequence of this research. Despite the increased amount of attention being paid to the subject, the phenomenon of art reproduction in itself is rarely the central focus of art historical or cultural historical research. As a result knowledge about this aspect of art history is neither consistent nor coherent, since it is scattered over various fields of research. Art reproduction is still largely uncharted territory, although current levels of interest in sixteenth- and seventeenth-century old masters means this statement should now apply specifically to the nineteenth century.
PURPOsE AND mETHOD: ART REPRODUCTION IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURy

The nineteenth century is a fascinating chapter in the long history of art reproduction. It was an age in which a number of radical changes occurred: the transition from graphic to photographic reproductive techniques, the rise of intellectual property, the evolution of the art market and the enormous increase in public interest in (visual) art. As a result of these developments the production and distribution of art reproduction was greater in volume and diversity than

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ever before. Yet it was also an age whose character was determined, as never before, by romantic views on originality and authenticity. In this study I have endeavoured to comprehend the elusive phenomenon of art reproduction by considering these socio-cultural, economic and legal processes in context from a broad cultural-historical perspective. This approach, combined with the current state of research, determined the form of this study. I have opted for the long version of the nineteenth century, extending from the end of the eighteenth century to approximately the beginning of the First World War, as the length of this period makes it possible to set and describe changes in the context of their time. During the nineteenth century, art reproduction was a phenomenon that crossed national frontiers. Many art dealers and publishers were internationally oriented in their outlook, as were the many artists, printmakers and photographers with whom they did business. New means of communication and transport allowed the public to learn about developments in the art world with increasing speed. However, research into art reproduction has tended to consign this international dimension to the background. In order to obtain a fuller picture of the art worlds international character during the nineteenth-century I therefore chose to conduct my research in breadth, supplementing my examination of art reproduction in the Netherlands with consideration of this phenomenon in England and France. These two cultural superpowers dominated not only art during the nineteenth century but also its reproduction.42 It was in England and France that the leading international art dealers, publishers and art institutions were based, that successful exhibitions were held and the latest innovations introduced in the field of art reproduction. The study specifically considers England, France and the Netherlands, fully aware that fascinating developments in the German states, Italy and the United States will remain largely beyond its scope. During the nineteenth century works of art, both by old masters and living masters, were reproduced on a large scale. Paintings by Rembrandt, Raphael and Murillo continued to be reproduced centuries after their death.43 However, nineteenth-century masters such as Turner, Grme and Scheffer almost matched these old masters in terms of popularity and volume of reproduction. One of the intriguing issues I faced when researching this study was the attitude of artists towards reproductions after their work. What did they think of these reproductions, how did they benefit financially from them and what role

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did art reproduction play in their work? When painting their canvases, were they influenced by how well these pictures would reproduce? These were the questions which guided my research into the reproduction of contemporary art in the nineteenth century, or the reproduction of art by living masters. We can generally identify a reproduction from inscriptions in the margin of the image. Widely used terms such as pinxit and sculpsit designate the names of the image designer and the image adaptor, in other words, the painter of the original work and the engraver of the print after this work. Such inscriptions are often the first indication that an image has been made after an existing work. However, the print itself cannot tell us anything about the reproduction process. What happens when art is reproduced? What is a reproduction? Are only prints, or also photographs, reproductions? How does a reproduction differ, for example, from a copy or a forgery? A reproduction represents the original work in another guise, technique, format and context, at the same time presenting itself as an independent work in its own right, with its own specific qualities. It is precisely this interaction between the original work and its adaptation in another medium that gives a reproduction its curiously hybridised yet fascinating character. The first chapter of this book, Pinxit et Sculpsit, systematically examines the phenomenon of reproduction, with a view to reaching a closer definition of a number of central terms and concepts. Preparatory to exploring the (photo)graphic reproduction process, elements characteristic to image replication and multiplication are then considered, as is the relationship between the various parties involved in the reproduction process, such as the designer of the original image and the adaptor of this image. A recurring theme is the issue of authorship. The chapter will conclude by defining several of the characteristics that set reproductions apart from other adaptations of images and forgeries. Art reproduction is inextricably associated with technological progress. The second chapter, From Engraving to Photography, aims to provide a chronological summary of the most important changes in the field of reproductive technology during the nineteenth century, plus the historical framework within which the actual process of reproduction occurred. The Industrial Revolution generated numerous innovations in reproductive technology. Although modernisation of this technology had already commenced in the eighteenth century, it was the nineteenth century that witnessed a rapid increase in methods and proce-

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dures. Traditional graphic techniques, such as engraving, mezzotinting and etching, were supplemented by new processes such as the many forms of lithography and photography. Sometimes the various techniques competed, other times they complemented each other. The strictly technical aspects of these many processes and methods are well known and have been sufficiently described elsewhere. So the aim of this chapter is not to offer an encyclopaedic overview of these technical changes but rather to delineate their dynamics from a historical perspective. Determining factors are the survival of traditional techniques from the past, graphic innovations during the nineteenth century, and the confrontation between the two. Tradition and innovation coexisted in a state of permanent tension. Whilst a stream of never-ending technical developments in the field of photography inspired excitement and enthusiasm, the impending demise of engraving, with all its ancient traditions, provided cause for sorrow and dejection. How did a reproduction come into being in the nineteenth century? Reproducing works of art was a complex process involving various parties, such as printmakers, photographers, painters, publishers and printers. My analysis of the reproductive process was partly inspired by Robert Darntons approach to the history of the book, presented in his article What is the History of Books?44 Darntons insight into a books production and distribution, in particular his view of the life of a book, offers useful perspectives for improving understanding of the reproductive process involved in producing prints and photographs.45 In the third chapter, From Original to Reproduction, I present a similar model for reproductions, based on the life of the reproduction. This approach enables the parties and processes involved in art reproduction to be considered wherever possible in relation to each other. The life of a reproduction can be divided into the following phases. The first phase comprises the initiative, intention or proposal, to reproduce a specific work. This is followed by a phase in which the various parties to be involved in the process are organised and agreement is reached on associated issues such as authorship rights, availability of the original and the engraver or photographers remuneration. Phase three comprises the actual process of reproduction, when sketching, engraving or photographing of the original image, and the correction of proofs, finally produces the material prints which are then ready for sale. In some instances prints may be signed and numbered. The purpose of this chapter is thus to present these first three

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phases in the life cycle of a reproduction, which generate the actual printed works, in a range of types, formats and prices. In chapter four, For Connoisseurs and Amateurs, the life of the reproduction is followed through the distribution of reproductions to the public. This distribution can be regarded as the fourth phase in the life of a reproduction. The public was made aware of the new reproduction through advertising and publicity, and the print dealer and publishers distribution network was required to convey the print or photograph to its destination. A supplementary intermezzo then considers an important new form of publication in the world of art reproduction, the illustrated (art) journal. The publics encounter with a reproduction, as an independent work or in illustrated publications, is the fifth and final phase in the life of the reproduction.46 A number of elements played a role in the reception of a reproduction: where could people see reproductions, who collected them and how? I conclude this chapter by considering what the nineteenth-century public thought of reproductions. How did they view reproductions? How did they judge the execution of the subject, the translation of colour into black-and-white and the adaptation of the original work into another medium?
ARy sCHEffER, JOzEf IsRAls AND lAwRENCE AlmA-TADEmA

What was the attitude of artists to art reproduction during the nineteenth century? Many masters of the period saw their work reproduced in prints and photographs. To find out how artists dealt in practice with the opportunities offered by reproduction, I sought out several typical representatives amongst their ranks. Various artists emerged as potential candidates in the French and British contexts, ranging from Edwin Landseer (1802-1873) and John Everett Millais (1829-1896) to Jean-Lon Grme (1824-1904) and William-Adolphe Bouguereau (1825-1905). The possible Dutch masters included David Bles (1821-1899), Henritte Ronner-Knip (1821-1909) and Anton Mauve (1838-1888), whose work was reproduced and circulated in great numbers. In order to represent the international dimension to art reproduction I chose one artist from France, one from England and one from the Netherlands. None of these artists are completely unique, and therefore impossible to compare; all three are masters who to some degree are representative of other artists in their environment. If Ginzburgs micro-historical approach allows one unknown miller to be representative of an entire layer of folk culture, three renowned artists must surely be a

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1
fig. 1 lon Benouville, Portrait of Ary Scheffer (1858), drawing on paper, 27 x 22 cm, dordrechts museum, dordrecht.

2
fig. 2 A.J.m. Steinmetz, Portrait of Jozef Israls (ca. 1881), photograph, netherlands Institute for Art history, the hague.

3
fig. 3 Portrait of Lawrence Alma-Tadema (ca.1880-1885), photograph from: Onze Hedendaagsche schilders, 1880-1885, netherlands Institute for Art history, the hague.

serviceable tool for gaining greater insight into the historical phenomenon of nineteenth-century art reproduction.47 The three artists I selected were Ary Scheffer (1795-1858), Jozef Israls (18241911) and Lawrence Alma Tadema (1836-1912). [fig. 1,2,3] All three were Dutch by birth. Scheffer found a new home in France and Alma-Tadema in England, while Israls mainly worked in his native country where he evolved into one of the most authoritative artists of his time. All three were exceptionally successful, prominent figures in their cultural environment. Their works were reproduced on a large scale in engravings, lithographs, etchings and photographs in diverse publications. The first prints after Scheffers work appeared as early as 1817. During the 1830s, 1840s and 1850s the artist worked with the leading printmakers of his age and was closely associated with the French print publishers Goupil, pioneers in the production and distribution of reproductions. Scheffer was also one of the most reproduced artists of his age. When he died in 1858, the first engravings after Israls work had already been published. Israls collaboration with the publishers Kruseman and Buffa produced many prints after

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his work, making him one of the most reproduced artists in the Netherlands over a period of more than half a century. By this point the young Frisian-born Dutch artist Alma-Tadema had also been making a name for himself in England during the 1860s and 1870s. Working together with the influential art dealer and publisher Ernest Gambart he rapidly developed into one of the best-known Victorian painters of the late nineteenth century. Alma-Tademas paintings were reproduced on a large scale in engravings, etchings and photographs, which continued to be published until his death in 1912. The interval of time between the publication of the first prints after Scheffers work and the last photographic reproductions approved by Alma-Tadema encompasses virtually the entire nineteenth century. This combination of shared background yet different working context in terms of time and place makes the three masters interesting subjects for the present study. The first four chapters on nineteenth-century art reproduction in general form the background to chapters five, six and seven which discuss Scheffer, Israls and Alma-Tadema. The intention of these later chapters is to analyse the attitude of each artist to reproduction of their work in actual historical practice. What form did their collaboration with printmakers and photographers take? What did they know about authorship rights? How did they evaluate reproductions of their own work? What was the significance of reproduction to their work? The writer and critic Stendhal once complained that contemporary artists were increasingly painting work with an eye to its lithographic reproduction.48 Was his complaint well founded? Did artists intentionally paint art for reproduction? Analysis of these individual artists not only introduces greater differentiation into the picture that emerged in previous chapters, it also counterbalances this picture. For whilst the schematic life of a reproduction offers an overview of nineteenth-century art reproduction, such an outline tends by its very nature to subordinate individual painters, engravers, photographers and publishers, and their paintings, prints and photographs, to general cultural processes which largely ignore the unique qualities associated with individual works of art. Research that specifically addresses these three artists not only shows the extent to which they fitted into general patterns but also the degree to which they did not. The book concludes with some thoughts on the significance of art reproduction in the nineteenth century in general, and in the careers of the three chosen masters in particular.

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All three artists Scheffer, Israls and Alma-Tadema enjoyed status, prestige and income. Their work was awarded prizes at many exhibitions, sold for record sums at auction and was purchased by the leading collectors of their age. However, all three artists encountered more fame during their lifetime than after death, when their popularity declined rapidly. Scheffer and Alma-Tademas sentimental works, for example, were barely able to withstand the scrutiny of modernist criticism. This situation has now changed, however, and the paintings produced by Scheffer, Israls and Alma-Tadema have become better known, thanks to research conducted by Leo Ewals, Dieuwertje Dekkers and Vern Swanson. I have made grateful use of their studies in my own research. Moreover, all three artists have recently been honoured with fine retrospectives: Scheffer was accorded an exhibition in his native city of Dordrecht, and Israls in Groningen, the city of his birth; Alma-Tadema was even honoured in the Van Gogh Museum, temple to the most famous artist in the world.49 The public visited all these exhibitions in droves. The price of all three artists work has since risen enormously at auction, making a painting by Scheffer, Israls or Alma-Tadema just as prohibitively expensive for the simple amateur as it would have been during the artists lifetime. Once again a fine reproduction of an unattainable original, such as Alma-Tademas A Coign of Vantage, has become an attractive alternative for many enthusiasts.

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chapter 1

Pinxit et SculPSit

the culture of the coPy

In 1759 the writer Edward Young (1683-1765) declared in his Conjectures on Original Composition:
c

The mind of a man of Genius is a fertile and pleasant field, pleasant as Elysium, and fertile as a Temple; it enjoys a perpetual Spring. Of that Spring, Originals are the fairest Flowers: Imitations are of quicker growth, but fainter bloom. Imitations are of two kinds; one of nature, one of Authors: the first we call Originals, and confine the term Imitation to the second.1

Over the centuries some works of art have left long traces of their existence in diverse copies: Greek bronzes were imitated by the Romans in marble, while two-dimensional images were copied in paintings, drawings and, once the printing press had been invented, through graphic techniques. The result has been an assortment of copies of every type and format. The nineteenth century enjoyed an exceptionally rich culture of the copy.2 Works of art were replicated on a large scale in new paintings, drawings, prints

31

and photographs by the original artist, his pupils, and by specialist printmakers and photographers. The art historian P. Mainardi has distinguished five kinds of copy from this period.3 At the top of the list are the copies of a work made by its original creator. These are followed by a painters different, yet closely related, versions of a specific composition, known in French as repetitions. Reductions are an artists reduced-format copies of his work. Under the artists supervision some paintings were also copied by pupils or assistants, in the form of a replica. A copy made outside the artists sphere of influence, or after his death, was known in the period as a copie. The final category, encompassing copies of original works executed in another (graphic) medium such as engravings or lithographs, offered the potential to multiply an image, unlike the previous categories. In terms of volume this is by far the largest category, for the application of graphic and photographic techniques allowed many works of art to be translated into numerous prints and photographs. It is this final category, comprising prints and photographs after works of visual art, which is central to this study. Nowadays, these prints after other works of art are usually described as reproductive graphics, a term whose historical roots various authors have endeavoured to uncover.4 In her study De Hollandse schilderschool in prent. Studies naar reproductiegrafiek in de tweede helft van de zeventiende eeuw (1998), the art historian Gerdien Wuestman properly describes the wide application of the term reproductive graphics to the seventeenth century as an unfortunate anachronism. 5 However, the deployment of other terms, such as gravures dinterprtation or interpretative graphics, has not managed to end this confusion. The term reproductive graphics is similarly problematic when applied to a nineteenth-century context: although sometimes encountered in the period, it is certainly not associated with a clear-cut concept. This is shown by the fact that, whilst the vast majority of engravings, lithographs and etchings found on nineteenth-century exhibition lists and stock lists appears to consist of prints after existing works, they are not described as reproductive graphics. There is a further drawback to the term reproductive graphics, for this, by its very nature, appears to designate manual techniques such as engraving, etching and lithography, and thereby threatens to exclude photography from the picture. Yet art reproduction in the nineteenth century was actually shaped by graphic and photographic techniques, or a combination of these.6 Thus the term reproduc-

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tive graphics is also problematic in that it does not cover the broad range of nineteenth-century art reproduction. In 1879 the Winkler Prins Encyclopedie wrote: Ultimately one gives the name of reproduction to the multiplication of a drawing etc. by mechanical process, for example through stone or wood engraving, photography, etc.7 Multiple meanings have traditionally been attached to the term reproduction in itself.8 Derived from the Latin word reproductio it was originally employed in a legal context, to denote the presentation of witnesses and/or evidence again during a trial. It also has biological and physiological connotations. In the context of the nineteenth-century art world reproduction denotes the copying or multiplication of works of visual art, both in the form of prints and photographs. For this reason the term reproduction is preferable to that of reproductive graphics. On the one hand it encompasses the process of reproduction, described as: the aggregate of actions which lead to the correct rendering, in equivalent, reduced or enlarged measurement, of paintings, drawings, photographs, maps etc; on the other hand it also designates the product of those actions, the actual print or photograph.9 Reproductions can often be identified at first glance from inscriptions in the margin of printed images. Terms such as inven(it), pinx(it), delin(eavit) and composuit refer to the creator of the original work, while sculp(sit), caelavit, incidit en fec(it) refer to the maker of the reproduction. The printer and/or publisher may also be designated with exc(udit), divulgavit or formis.10 These terms indicate that a work is a reproduction, nothing else. So what precisely happened when an original work of art was reproduced? I shall begin with a systematic review of the reproduction process and further definition of several key concepts.11 I shall then consider the relationship between the creator of an original work and the maker of its reproduction, a recurring theme being the question as to which of these two is entitled to claim authorship of the reproduction. The chapter concludes with several remarks about the products of the reproduction process, or the reproductions themselves. The aim of this systematic exploration of reproduction is to provide a set of tools for considering the phenomenon of art reproduction in the historical context of the nineteenth century, the central theme in the rest of this study.

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Pinxit
Every reproduction presupposes the existence of an original work, a model on which the reproduction is based. The widely used term pinxit refers to this model, or, strictly speaking, to the creator of the original. It also indicates that this original would have been painted, just as the term delin (eavit) shows that it was drawn. Both terms mask an important aspect of the original work: that it was made by human hands. In order to avoid a confusion in conceptual terms, it is important to construe the designation original in the sense of a material object designed and shaped by human agency, for, as Edward Young wrote: Imitations are of two kinds; one of nature, one of Authors: the first we call Originals, and confine the term Imitation to the second; if nature itself is the original, its representation in a work such as a painting is already a form of reproduction, making the subsequent translation of that painting into a print a repetition of the reproduction at most.12 So in order to distinguish reproducing from producing, it is essential to regard the term original as a work made by human agency. An interesting question in this regard is whether the term original can also be applied to a concept or a theory. Throughout (art) history many divergent views have been expressed regarding the relationship between the concept and the work in its concrete, material form, or the relationship between the corpus mysticum and the corpus mechanicum.13 Conceptual art in its most radical guise has now reduced the work to the concept in which the material form apparently ceases to play a role. Nevertheless the same relationship applies here as well: if the concept is the original then the execution of this can be regarded as a form of reproduction, in which it is barely possible to distinguish production from reproduction any more. A reproduction presupposes an original that is more than simply nature or an idea, an original that has literally been given form in a material object. In this respect a reproduction can literally be interpreted as a re-production, as the remaking of a work previously created. The observation that an original is of necessity given form must be accompanied by the remark that every form is possible. If the discussion is restricted to the visual arts, this means that every painting, drawing, print, photograph or sculpture can of course constitute an original for reproduction. Nevertheless, an original does not even have to be a work of art. Every product, from a history painting to a penny print, is suitable for reproduction, regardless of whether it derives from high or low culture. Neither is it necessary for an original to

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be a finished work, as a sketch can also serve as a model. The large-scale reproduction of drawings and sketches during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries means that it is important not to disregard this group of works.14 Nor does an original have to be a complete artwork, for the nineteenth century also witnessed a developing tendency to reproduce just a few significant details from a specific work.15 The original is thus the model for the reproduction. However, use of the term original does not imply something better or higher in a qualitative sense, but simply something that came first. The original inevitably precedes the reproduction. Nevertheless, as previously remarked, the nineteenth-century art world was characterised by a complex assortment of closely related works in the form of repetitions, replicas, reductions and other copies. This diversity of copies relied on an equally great diversity of comparable originals, created both after and alongside each other. During the reproductive process, use was also made of supplementary visual material, such as drawings, watercolours or photographs of the original.16 Photographic reproductions of original paintings, for example, were frequently made after prints of the original.17 As a result it is frequently unclear which piece served as the original for a reproduction, for this role was apparently played on occasion by a group of works. In the reality of historical practice it is often difficult to identify a single, undisputed original. For this reason it is advisable to differentiate between the formal original and the material original, the former being the work intended for reproduction, the latter being the model actually used for this.18 The original is an object that has been given form, although the exact identity of the object is often unclear. It is important in this connection to bear in mind that the reproductive process was generally not intended to reproduce the object, but only an aspect of this. The reproduction of a painting is actually the reproduction of the image in the painting, not the work itself. In 1859 the photographer O.W. Holmes wrote on the subject of photography:
c

Every conceivable object of Nature and Art will soon scale off its surface for us. Men will hunt all curious, beautiful, grand objects, as they hunt the cattle in South America, for their skins, and leave the carcasses as of little worth.19

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In a similar fashion the reproduction of an artwork focuses principally on the skin of the work: although the artwork may function as the original, it is important not to identify this with the work itself, for only the image in the work of art serves as the original. A unique exception to this rule is the reproduction of Holman Hunts painting The Finding of the Saviour in the Temple, for which both the image was translated into print and the original frame copied in an attempt to multiply the entire material object.20

SculPSit
On 23 August 1799 the artist William Blake (1757-1827) wrote:
c

I have no objection to Engraving after another Artist. Engraving is the profession I was apprenticed to & Should never have attempted to live by any thing else If orders had not come in for my Designs & Paintings which I have the pleasure to tell you are Increasing Every Day. Thus If I am a Painter it is not to be attributed to Seeking after. But I am contented whether I live by Painting or Engraving.21

Although Blake engraved his own compositions, he did not object to producing prints after another artists work. In this respect he was a remarkable figure in the print world in which there was a clear boundary between painters who created compositions and professional printmakers who translated these into print.22 In the history of the printed arts, a long tradition lies behind this separation between creation/composition and the making of prints. Although printers engaged in the first graphic experiments, by around 1500 printmaking had become a separate discipline, practised by specialist craftsmen. Peintre-graveurs, or painters who also produced prints, were soon in a minority. Raphaels paintings were mainly translated into print by the engraver Marcantonio Raimondi, while Rubens and Reynolds worked with dozens of printmakers on the reproduction of their work.23 This separation of creation/composition from the making of prints, of pinxit from sculpsit, remained virtually intact until well into the nineteenth century.24 Creating works of art was a task for specialists, as was the reproduction of these. Even the development of photography had little effect in this regard.

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This deep-seated separation of creator/designer from executor thus seems a characteristic feature of art reproduction in general, unlike original graphic work which is designed or created and executed by the same person. Nevertheless acceptance of this separation can lead to confusion, for it suggests that the reproduction of works of arts depends on the individual, not only in historical practice but also in principal. Theoretically this would mean that an artist would never be able to reproduce his own work. Blake, however, made prints after other artists work and his own compositions. Naturally, there was a difference between the two, as he himself wrote: To engrave after another Painter is infinitely more laborious than to Engrave ones own Inventions.25 But this is not a difference based on principle. The determining factor, within the framework of the concept of reproduction, as previously discussed, is how the work is made, rather than by whom. The separation between creator/designer and executor in the history of art reproduction is thus a consequence of professionalisation and specialisation in the print world, rather than a theoretical precondition for a reproduction as such. It is important not to confuse this practice with theory. Once it has been established that it is not the individual but the technical execution that is the determining factor in reproduction, the question then arises of how this activity or action should be regarded. The reproductive process was described above as the aggregate of actions which lead to the correct rendering, in equivalent, reduced or enlarged measurement, of paintings, drawings, photographs, maps etc. It is important to observe that reproduction has not been described as the engraving, lithographing, etching and photographing of paintings and drawings; a more open formulation has been chosen, the advantage being, of course, the avoidance of a restrictive summary of methods and techniques. The core issue is not a specific reproductive technique or method but the totality of actions that can be interpreted as a reproductive process, together with the product of these actions, the material print or photograph. Thus the criterion lies not in the technique but in the way in which this is used. Basil Gray expressed this acutely in his 1937 work, The English Print:
c

We have assumed that the artistic processes, etching, engraving, mezzotint, aquatint, wood-engraving and lithography, are radically different from the reproductive processes, collotypye, photogravure, half-tone, the line block and offset lithography. Yet all the artistic processes have been

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used for reproductive purposes; why should the reproductive processes not be used for original design? The final distinction is not the process but the way in which and the purpose for which it is used [italics rv] .26 It is from this perspective that we should consider both graphic and photographic methods and processes in the world of nineteenth-century reproduction, without, of course, providing an exhaustive summary of these. Taking such an approach to reproduction brings us face to face with a curious paradox. On the one hand the action forms the basis for reproduction, on the other hand it can vary to such an extent that a restrictive summary would be meaningless. The reproductive process can be briefly characterised as being divided into two phases. During the first phase the original image is translated to its printed form through copying. During the second phase the image is multiplied through this printed form. The actions in both phases can be further divided into preparatory actions and executive actions.27 The advantage of this division is that it does greater justice to the complexity of the reproductive process in the systematic sense as well. The process is represented in system form in diagram i.

reproduction

original

Execution Multiplication

Preparation imitation

MULTIPLICATION

IMITATION

Preparation Multiplication

Execution imitation

Printing matrix

diagram 1 the Reproductive Process.

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coPying the original image

During the nineteenth century a range of preparatory actions was required before the original image could be translated into printed form. Laws governing intellectual property required that the first step be to acquire the authorisation to make the reproduction, in other words the rights of reproduction.28 This was accompanied by agreements regarding the availability of the original work for reproduction or alternative visual material.29 Further considerations were the technique to be used, the time required for the reproduction and the remuneration.30 Such preparations provided the formal, practical and technical framework within which actual translation of the image could occur. They thus constituted decisive factors in the progress of the reproductive process and its final product. The next step was the actual depiction of the image in printed form. Activities at this stage naturally depended to a large extent on the chosen reproductive technique. An engraver had to incise the image into a metal plate, a traditional process that required several months to several years, while an etcher only needed to penetrate a thin layer of wax, after which chemicals in an acid bath did the rest. The invention of lithography at the beginning of the nineteenth century also enabled the printmaker to apply the image to the stone through direct drawing. Nevertheless, all these techniques share one major feature: the image is transferred to the plate or stone by hand in a traditional craft-based manner. For centuries this kind of manual reproduction was the only way to reproduce works of art, and its use continued during the nineteenth century, although the development of photography no longer made manual reproduction the only option. A characteristic feature of photography is that the image is not captured by a manual process of drawing or engraving, but by exposure of a light-sensitive plate. In his Pencil of Nature, the photographic pioneer W.H. Fox Talbot (18001877) stressed that: The plates shown in this work have been produced solely by the action of light, without any help from the artists hand.31 It was not the hand of a master but the light itself which applied the image to the photographic printing matrix, or negative. Photography developed rapidly in the wake of the early experiments conducted by J.N. Niepce (1765-1833), L.J.M. Daguerre (1787-1851) and W.H. Fox Talbot (1800-1877), generating a huge range of photographic processes, such as albumin prints, carbon prints, heliotypes, photogravures, photolithographs and autotypes. This development will be outlined in

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the following chapter. I will confine myself here to the observation that all these photographic techniques varied widely as regards light sensitivity, colour sensitivity, image stability, potential for multiplication, price and popularity. It is this diversity which makes any discussion of photography in the nineteenth century problematic, for the range of techniques available to photographers was so wide that the concept of photography as such does not appear to exist in this period; it was rather an umbrella term employed to designate the many techniques based on the photographic principle. As previously remarked, interaction between graphic and photographic techniques is a characteristic feature of nineteenth-century art reproduction. The crucial difference between graphic and photographic techniques lies in the method used to secure the image on or in the matrix. Although the reproductive process entails the translation, as it were, of the painted or hand-drawn original into another graphic medium, such a change of medium is not a defining characteristic of a reproduction. After all, the medium also changes in paintings and drawings after prints or photographs, but these are not reproductions. Many daguerrotypes were also photographed or otherwise transferred into print during the nineteenth century, as the sharp images produced by this technique could not be otherwise reproduced, while new engravings were sometimes made of existing engravings.32 In both these instances no change of medium occurred although there was reproduction of the original image. A change of medium might be usual, but it was no prerequisite for reproduction. One individual, the printmaker or photographer, was generally responsible for transferring the original to the printing matrix. However, there are also instances of printmakers collaborating. Engravers appear to have operated a studio system, with pupils and assistants, similar to that employed in the painting world, although we still know little about this subject. Evidence of such a system is provided by Blakes remarks regarding Robert Strange and William Woollett, well-known engravers of reproductions: Woolletts best works were Etchd by Jack Brown. Woollett Etchd very bad himself, and Stranges Prints were when I knew him all done by Aliamet & his french journeymen whose names I forget. Like painters, renowned reproduction engravers such as Strange and Woollett ran studios where various assistants and pupils were responsible for a portion of the work, or, as the art historian Morris Eaves remarked: Grinding is for grinders, preliminary etching for preliminary etchers, and finishing

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engraving for finishing engravers.33 Collaboration between photographers evolved naturally from the engravers studio system. Although photographs inscribed with the name Braun may create the impression that they are the work of the renowned photographer Adolphe Braun, in practice they were often taken by an employee of his firm.
multiPlication of the image

Although photographic and graphic techniques differ greatly as to how they capture an image, they are more closely related where multiplication of that image is concerned. An important link in this process is the unique photographic or graphic printing matrix. The engraver applies the image to a metal plate, the lithographer uses a heavy lithographic stone and the photographer a negative, but in all these cases the different matrices form the link between capturing and multiplying the image. Images were printed with ink from woodcuts, steel engravings, mezzotint, etchings or lithographic stones according to the familiar processes of relief, intaglio and planographic printing.34 Photographic techniques generally employed chemical means to multiply images. Photomechanical techniques, such as photogravure and photolithography, form a separate group of processes, being combinations of photographic and graphic techniques, which capture the image in the printing matrix through photographic means, then print this image using relief, intaglio and planographic processes. Printing (or development) of the printing matrix makes it possible to produce multiple images. It is precisely this potential to multiply the image that distinguishes reproduction from the other nineteenth-century forms of copy listed above: the repetition, replica, reduction and copie, all types of copy after existing compositions, but also one-off works, whereas prints, to reprise their definition by print expert William Ivins, are exactly repeatable pictorial statements.35 Of course, this does not mean that a reproduction can only exist in multiple form, although the automatic association of reproductions with large numbers of identical works tends to make the existence of a single reproduction a purely hypothetical phenomenon. Nevertheless it is worth briefly considering this prospect. In theory it would be possible to print just one reproduction from a matrix, in which case this could be described, paradoxically enough, as a unique reproduction. A crucial, defining aspect of a reproduction is not, therefore, the actual existence of several identical prints, but the technical potential to

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obtain these. The concept of a single reproduction gains in relevance in the nineteenth-century context, as many artists during this period were inspired by the idea of the lestampe originale, particularly during the 1860s when they experimented widely with prints in very small editions. In their quest for the unique print artists made frantic efforts to deny the potential of their medium for multiplication wherever possible, especially in the field of original graphic work and, to a lesser extend in art reproduction. Nineteenth-century peintre-graveurs, such as Manet and Redon, derived particular inspiration from the concept of the lestampe originale. Yet it is precisely in the work of these artists that the dividing line between original graphics and reproductions (by their own hand) is often unclear. I shall return to this subject shortly. Art reproduction may have offered the technical potential to multiply images, but the actual number of works in an edition could vary widely, from enormous quantities to a single, exclusive print. This multiplication of the image also required certain preparatory activities. Choices had to be made regarding the printing medium the ink or, in the case of photography, the chemicals and the printing surface. Although the image was generally printed onto paper, there were many kinds from which to choose, such as Dutch types or expensive Japanese or Chinese papers. The nature of the paper largely determined the degree of ink absorption and was thus a factor of considerable influence in the prints final appearance. The choice of printing medium and type of paper also depended on the kind of print that was planned a large edition, several proofs or a few exclusive works. Although graphic and photographic reproduction offered the potential to multiply images into a number of works, in practice these images were often not identical. Various prints were frequently made before the printing matrix was finally completed. Traditional manual techniques, such as engraving, etching and lithography, tended to use proofs which allowed corrections to be made to the plate before commencing an edition. Sometimes printmakers would produce several proofs, printed from the plate at various stages of completion. As an extension of this they also printed several states of the print. Once the image had been completed, various states of the margin were also printed. Prints before the letter were prints without an inscription in the margin, followed by states inscribed in the margin with terms such as pinxit and sculpsit, indicating the name of the creator/designer (painter) and executor (printmaker) respec-

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tively. Subsequent prints were inscribed with the title of the work, sometimes accompanied by the publishers name, a vignette with the name of the owner of the original painting or the individual to whom the print had been dedicated.36 A long tradition lay behind the use of states, which continued unabated in the nineteenth century, when the term was broadly interpreted to cover the wide range of prints in circulation, such as proofs before the letter and with the letter, prints on various kinds of paper, etc. The (reproductive) etcher Phillip Zilcken remarked in this connection: epreuves dartiste, a term that has been overly misused by art dealing speculations.37 During the nineteenth century the ability to differentiate between various states was raised to great heights by print connoisseurs. Prestigious engravings with highly detailed execution of the image and margins regularly generated interim prints. Fewer states were generally produced in lithography, while in photographic reproduction they barely played a role, as the photographic printing matrix does not readily lend itself to correction, despite occasional retouching of the negative. Photomechanical reproductions with and without lettering in the margin were produced, however, in a semblance of different states. Nevertheless, it is not always clear what the term state actually signifies, particularly when it is used so widely as to be in danger of losing all meaning. In his well-known survey of printmaking, A History of Engraving & Etching from the 15th Century to the Year 1914 , the print expert A.M. Hind employed a tighter definition of the term state, reserving this for one or more prints made after the plate had been modified. A state is therefore always associated with the printing matrix, not the print. According to this criterion, prints of the same image that differ in appearance as a result of different ink being used are not regarded as separate states but as impressions. Hind uses the designation variation to denote other versions of a print, these being the more or less related impressions within a specific state, such as prints before the letter made on Dutch, Chinese or Japanese paper. Thus, variations are always prints made from a plate in the same state. I employ Hinds definition of these terms in order to navigate my way through the motley archipelagos of states, variations and impressions in the nineteenth century.38 The diversity of states and variations does not detract from the fact that, within a single state and variation, multiple, almost identical, prints were produced. Yet the capacity for multiplication was not unlimited, for the printing process wore down the printing matrix. As a result the various reproductive techniques produced equally varied editions in terms of number. While fragile

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etchings could only produce several dozen to a hundred works, copper engravings could support editions that ran into the hundreds. Printmakers responded to these limitations by developing processes that employed a harder matrix, such as the steel engraving or the steeled copper plate, which allowed the volume of an edition to be increased tenfold. Other procedures multiplied the matrix itself, producing several identical examples from which to print. Lithographic stones could produce ten thousand prints, while the number of prints derived from photographs was virtually unlimited. The major technical developments in this field are discussed below. I shall confine myself here to the observation that the opportunities for reproduction were not inexhaustible, being limited both by technical factors and commercial considerations. For example, it was important for the publishers of exclusive reproductions that the capacity for multiplying these images be restricted, so printing matrices were regularly destroyed by order of the publisher or artist, in order to prevent these from being printed from at a later date (by a rival). From a commercial point of view, therefore, it was sometimes important to restrict, or even eliminate entirely, the technical capacity for multiplying an image an inherent feature of reproduction.39 Although the multiplication process was sometimes performed by the printmaker or photographer, this generally occurred in collaboration with a publisher and a printer. Professionalisation and specialisation had increasingly made the publication of reproductions the preserve of professional print publishers. In the tradition of Hieronymus Cock and the Remondinis, various firms, such as Colnaghi, Goupil, Gambart and Agnew, operated on an international scale during the nineteenth century, rapidly growing into large enterprises that would dominate the international print trade for decades.40 Nevertheless, the role of the nineteenth-century publisher was not always clear-cut.41 Publishers often engaged in various supplementary activities, not all of which were associated with publishing. Alongside their supervision of print production and distribution, they often sold prints and books too.42 Moreover, publishers frequently became involved in the art trade. Sometimes this involvement went no further than doing artists a favour, or supplying them with a modest range of painting equipment; in other instances, however, a modest trade in paintings developed into a substantial international enterprise that eventually overshadowed their original publishing activities. Well-known companies such as Ag-

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new, Goupil and the Dutch firm of Buffa operated both as publishers of prints and photographs and dealers in works of art. Thus, they were regularly associated with reproductions and original works. Many publishers expanded these activities by opening a gallery for exhibitions or auctions. Alongside this (sometimes large-scale) publication of reproductions, however, there were still engravers who published and sold their own prints, sometimes collaborating with colleagues in order to keep control over the production and distribution of their prints, plus the income generated by these. On rare occasions artists themselves acted as the publisher of reproductions after their own work, while sitters for portraits sometimes undertook the task of publishing portrait prints for private use.43 The reproduction process was concluded once the material reproduction had been completed. The print or photograph could now serve as an original, either for reproduction as a work in its own right or as an alternative in the reproduction of another work. Engraved reproductions, for example, were regularly used when photographing paintings, while artists sometimes provided the engraver with an impression of a painting in a photograph. With this new original the reproductive process could begin anew. The reproduction was copied by the engraver and secured in a new printing matrix. After the usual preparatory and executive activities the matrix was ready for printing, offering new potential to produce a number of identical reproductions. This potential could be then be exploited or restricted, depending on the parties involved and the chosen technique. The result was a new reproduction, which could then etc, etc.

thE authoR of a REPRoduction


The reproductive process occupied the space between the original and the reproduction. The painter generally supplied the original, while the printmaker or photographer produced the reproduction. Both painter and printmaker/photographer therefore made an important contribution to the reproductive process. How should we now characterise their contributions? Who is the author of a reproduction? The creator/designer of the image (the painter) can contend that it is his work which provides the foundation without which no reproduction would be possible. However, this can be countered by the executor of the reproduction (the printmaker/photographer) that it is he who has actually made the

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print. Nevertheless, the question of authorship has rarely been posed, a primary reason being modernist thinkings emphasis on sublime original works of art and their makers. Postmodernist thinking subsequently rendered this question redundant in many respects, for it was not only the author who was declared dead by the paradoxically much-quoted philosopher Roland Barthes in his well-known essay The Death of the Author from 1968. The concept of representation has also made reproduction redundant as an independent category of works within the context of visual culture in general.44 In short, where modernism offered little reason to pose the question of a reproductions authorship, postmodernism now offers just as little reason to answer it. Yet this does not negate the fact that the question is an instructive one to ask during initial exploration of the reproduction phenomenon. To what extent does authorship entail being the actual maker or personal maker of an object, for example, in relation to the use of mechanical processes, such as photography? To answer these questions I shall successively discuss the creator/designer and executor as author of a reproduction, after which I shall briefly consider the combination of creator/designer and executor in one and the same person.
the deSigner of the image aS author

Although the creator of the initial image supplies the original, he or she generally does not make the reproduction. If the term author is understood to mean the actual maker of a work, the initial artist seems to be out of the running as author of the reproduction. The question arises, however of whether we should interpret the concept of the author so restrictively. In his well-known essay, What Is an Author?, Foucault emphasised that the author is not a general autonomous constant but should rather be regarded as a socio-cultural construct, determined by cultural and legal factors.45 For this reason it is important briefly to consider the development of the author concept. The transition from anonymous maker to recognisable individual with responsibility for his own creations has been clearly and concisely expressed by Roselind Krauss:
c

Authorship one such derivation of the notion origin is dear to art history, for within the value system of our discipline authorship brings with it a host of privileges. It promotes the works emergence from the anonymity of shop or craft practice, securing its relation to the actions

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of an individual. It underwrites the hermeneutic activity with regard to the work, since the individual is seen as the source of an intention toward meaning. Investing the work with market considerations of scarcity, it also uncovers all those traces through which the author registers his individuality, a set of marks that only the original object can bear. If poststructuralism works against this interest in authorship, it does so by positing the death of the author, reducing him or her to something referred to as an effect as in author-function, author-effect of other structures, and by exchanging the idea of the work (created by the author) for the concept of text (which generates the author-effect).46 In various art disciplines artistic labour was traditionally regarded as a craft, governed by time-honoured rules and possibly guided by divine inspiration. The anonymous craftsmans involvement with his work was generally seen as going no deeper than being the actual maker of an object. However, Enlightenment individualism, combined with the advent of the romantic concept of genius, inspired a new vision of authorship.47 In the field of literature this development can be described as the transition from writer to author. With the concept of the author, the realisation increasingly dawned that the individual maker of an object was the primary and sole person responsible for its creation; more than anyone else it was the author who had a special bond with his work. The traditional view of (craft) production had held that a writer was only responsible for his manuscript, while the book was the province of the publisher. The new vision of authorship now declared that every aspect of the book belonged to the author: not just the manuscript but also the potential for its multiplication or translation. This recognition of the special relationship between the author and his work was accompanied by a call for this relationship to be recognised in law. The authors interests, rather than those of the publisher, state or church, were now the core issue. New views on authorship therefore prompted an important change in the legal sphere of intellectual property. The traditional system of privilege was increasingly replaced by modern laws on intellectual property.48 I shall consider this important legal change more extensively in chapter three, confining myself here to the observation that this change amounted to a legal emancipation of the author, which also had significant implications for painters, engravers and photographers, in addition to writers. This development prompted the advent of a new view of authorship during the nineteenth century.
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According to this new vision the author had a special relationship with his work, which essentially amounted to an intellectual bond. A characteristic of this new notion of authorship was that it entailed much more than simply being the actual maker of a physical object, for it encompassed not only the manuscript but also the published book, plus any multiplication or translation of this. As a result, the advent of the author was above all a conceptual expansion of the authors sphere of influence beyond his physical creation. The crucial change is that the traditional factual approach to the maker was replaced by a more normative outlook. The central issue was no longer who had actually made a work but which individual should be regarded as its author. The concept of the author had thus acquired a prescriptive, moral component, derived directly from the idealistic and normative thinking of the Enlightenment on the subject of man, his property and society.49 It is no coincidence that the advent of the author concept occurred in the same period in which John Locke and Jean-Jacques Rousseau were formulating their views on the rights of man and Adam Smith his new vision of property.50 Within Europe the concept of authorship varied in its implications and gained ground at differing rates. Goethe and Schiller fought for their literary works, as did Hogarth and Vernet for the rights of their paintings, albeit with varying success.51 Distinct traditions developed in England and on the continent. In his historical survey of British copyright law John Feather wrote: the author was a comparative latecomer into the development of copyright in England, rather than being its starting point as was the case in France.52 Visual artists in the Netherlands, unlike writers, continued to be denied any rights to their work.53 Thus the practical implications of intellectual property differed greatly in practice, depending on social, political and legal developments, which are examined more closely below. In general, however, the intellectual importance of the author was no longer denied. The growing consensus on intellectual property is illustrated by the development of international law in this field. This was given expression in the 1886 Berne Convention, which acknowledged not only that intellectual property crossed national borders but also that these rights should be acknowledged in law at international level.54 The primary consideration was the interests of the author. Nevertheless, this normative notion of the author was not always self-evident. After the Russian Revolution, intellectual property was criticised in some quarters on the grounds that the authors interests were fundamentally at odds with the collective good.55 Many Marxists

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thereby proclaimed the death of the author much earlier than Barthes did in his 1968 essay. However, this does not detract from the fact that current national and international law on intellectual property is based upon the normative concept of the author. It is a political and legal principle that the author of the present study endorses with conviction.56 It should be remarked here that the term author is not synonymous with artist, just as the work of an author is not always a work of art. A characteristic of the term is the conceptual relationship between the author and his work, irrespective of the nature or quality of that work. The rise of the author is a general cultural development that occurred across a range of cultural expression, in the fields of fiction and non-fiction. Nevertheless it should not be viewed in total isolation from the artists acquisition of professional status and social independence. Both processes were shaped by the same Enlightenment ideas; both were conceivably reinforced by each others development. Yet the rise of the author implies more than the emancipation of the artist, just as modern laws on intellectual property protect more than simply artists and their work. The rise of the author encouraged the realisation that the author was more than simply the physical maker of a work. The creator/designer of an image was thus no longer excluded from being the author of its reproduction. Artists were interested in the copyright on their work and showed their awareness of the fact that a painting was more than just a canvas covered with paint. Their work was their brainchild, which was connected to its intellectual father by invisible yet unalienable bonds. The authors special bond with his work extended to any adaptations of this work, such as reproductions. It was a system that would henceforth be protected as effectively as possible by laws governing intellectual property. From this perspective the original artist became an increasingly eligible candidate for authorship of any reproduction after his work: although he was generally not the individual who made the material reproduction, there was increasing awareness of the special bond that existed between the artist, his brainchildren and any reproductions of these.
the interPreter of the image aS author

The original artist can be regarded as the author of a reproduction on the grounds of his intellectual connection with his image, irrespective of who has actually made the work in which this image appears. The original image was generally a pre-existing fact for the individual who adapted this image for re-

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production, before transferred it to a printing matrix, ready for multiplication.57 It is precisely this action which generally makes the printmaker or photographer the actual maker of the reproduction, an action that also seems to imply their authorship. Nevertheless their role as the actual maker of a reproduction obscures another problem. During the nineteenth century a large-scale production mechanism developed, extending into the sphere of art reproduction. This was accompanied by a change from graphic to photographic reproduction, in the wake of the Industrial Revolution. So how does authorship of the image interpreter (the printmaker or photographer) mesh with a system of reproduction in which the person of the maker was increasingly assisted or even replaced by impersonal photographic machines? In other words, to what extent does authorship presuppose interpretation by an individual in a context of large-scale mechanical reproduction? The relationship between authorship of a reproduction and the de facto makership of the same has been outlined above. I now intend to discuss the question of the extent to which authorship of a reproduction presupposes de facto makership. For the interpreter of the image the original was generally a pre-existing fact which he endeavoured to copy as he saw fit. In situations where traditional graphic techniques were employed, such a copy was indisputably his personal interpretation of the original. This is illustrated by an 1806 missive from the German Romantic artist Philip Otto Runge (1777-1810) to Goethe (1749-1832), in which he enclosed a number of engravings that he intended to give the great writer an impression of his ideas and work. However, Runge also wrote that the engravings were not by his hand but had been made by several engravers, and that, however exact the prints might be, they were, of course, only interpretations of his work, elements of which he believed had been lost in the engravers interpretations; he therefore promised to send Goethe the original drawings as well.58 However, it could also be argued from the printmakers perspective that interpretation had actually added to the original image, through a subtle play of dots and lines. Numerous printmakers made a name for themselves with their interpretations of works of art. This personal interpretation of existing art is exemplified from the 1860s onwards by the fashion for etched reproductions. Thanks to etchers such as Jacquemart (1837-1880), Bracquemond (1833-1914) and Unger (1837-1932) the revival in etchings popularity as a technique was also reflected in the field

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of art reproduction.59 Max Liebermann (1847-1935), no fan of photographic reproduction, described the etched reproduction as the most artistic means of reproduction.60 Oscar Wilde (1854-1900) aptly expressed his own view of etching in The Critic as Artist:
c

The etcher of a picture robs the painting of its fair colours, but shows us by the use of a new material its true colour-quality, its tones and values, and the relations of its masses, and so is, in his way, a critic of it, for the critic is he who exhibits to us a work of art in a form different from that of the work itself, and the employment of a new material is a critical as well as a creative element.61

Through the personal intervention of the printmaker, a new work was created, as Vincent van Gogh wrote to his brother Theo:
c

If the object represented and the manner of representation are consistent with each other, then it has style and quality. Thus does the serving girl in the large wall painting by Leys become a new work of art when etched by Bracquemont or Meissoniers little reader when Jacquemart makes an engraving of it, for the manner of engraving forms a whole with the subject that is depicted.62

Various individual engravers, etchers and lithographers thus won renown with their interpretations of other artists compositions. In this respect there is also a special relationship between the printmaker and his personal interpretation of a work of art. Although the original was a pre-existing fact, this did not inhibit the printmakers interpretation. A rise of the author can also be detected in the world of the printmaker, who, like painters, could increasingly count on legal recognition via laws on intellectual property. In England and the Netherlands in particular, printmakers gained recognition as the author of a reproduction, with their rights even taking precedence over those of painters. By their very nature, manual reproductive techniques such as engraving, lithography or etching, entail a personal interpretation by the printmaker. This is not so self-evident in photographic techniques, where the image is secured in the printing matrix, not by the flesh-and-blood hand of the printmaker but by an ingenious process of exposing this matrix to light. This gain in precision was

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offset by the loss of personal interpretation. Critics tended to compare photographic reproductions unfavourably with printmakers individual, free interpretations. John Ruskin (1819-1900) once proclaimed:
c

Believe me, photography can do against line engraving just what Madame Tussauds wax works can do against sculpture. That, and no more. I tell you a square inch of mans engraving is worth all the photographs that have ever been dipped in acid.[...] It must be mans engraving, not machines engraving.63

Ruskins view of photography reflected his well-known craft-biased view of art in general.64 He was certainly not alone in his criticism of photographys mechanical character which left little room for a masters hand. The French critic Philippe Burty also emphasised the latest mediums mechanical, impersonal character. Photography did not interpret, Burty declared, and therein lay both its weakness and its strength. The role of the talented engraver and lithographer began precisely where photography failed to idealise.65 Both Ruskin and Burty formulated their vision of photography through comparison with traditional manual graphic techniques, largely ignoring the differences within photography itself. Van Gogh was more qualified in his approach when he wrote to his brother Theo on 21 December 1882:
c

I fear that the new process [photography] is one of those things that cannot satisfy someone completely and that is actually too sweet. I mean an ordinary etching, an ordinary woodcut or an ordinary lithograph has the charm of originality that cannot be replaced by anything mechanical. The same is also true of engraving. The photogravure reproduction of Israels Sewing school, for example, or the painting by Blommers or Artz is superb as published by Goupil & Cie. But if this process were to replace real engraving entirely, I believe one would miss ordinary engravings in the long run, with their drawbacks and imperfections and all.66

On the one hand Van Goghs view concurs with Ruskins opinion, as both attach great value to the printmakers individual hand that cannot be replaced by anything mechanical; on the other hand the painter also draws attention to the diversity of techniques within photography, through his admiration for

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Goupils photogravures. While photography seems to present a uniform face (perhaps even a mechanically uniform one) when compared with traditional manual graphic techniques, the picture is very different when the various kinds of photograph are considered. The wide range of photographic techniques employed during the nineteenth century, each with its own specific qualities, prompts a more qualified view of photographys mechanical representation of artworks.67 Nineteenth-century photographic techniques varied considerably in terms of image stability, colour sensitivity, print run, format and price. Strictly speaking the only genuinely photographic element in these techniques was securing the image in the matrix: the rest remained manual work. Photography was a complicated, mechanical process that fascinated many people but was thoroughly understood only by a few. Although critics such as Ruskin may have disparagingly described photography as a mechanical process, there was scarcely one nineteenth-century painter or printmaker who was capable of photographing (his own) works of art convincingly. The lighting alone was a recurring problem. Whilst the ability to capture an image using light was, of course, a spectacular development, photographers were forced to rely on the sun until the invention of artificial flash lighting. So for many years the lighting, a core element in the photographic process, was as capricious and unreliable as the weather itself. The best option for a photographer, if this was possible and permitted, was to photograph paintings outside, during clear, bright weather. Many an Amsterdam photographer must have looked on enviously when the renowned photographers Braun and Hanfstaengl received permission to photograph The Nightwatch in the garden of the Rijksmuseum.68 Once a photograph had been taken the photographer then needed to obtain the finest prints from the matrix, using a process which he often kept secret, for fear that another photographer would steal it. The specific preparations, choice of material and printing technique employed by each photographer meant that photography was (also) a subjective form of reproduction which clearly left room for an individual style and approach. Kodaks famous advertising slogan, you push the button, we do the rest, dates from the end of the nineteenth century, although it was an illusion to believe that it was possible to create a successful art reproduction simply by pressing a button.69 Although photography may have left less room for individual interpretation than the graphic techniques such as etched reproductions, the potential for this

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was never absent. The photographers Braun and Hanfstaengel became famous for precisely this personal interpretation of the original which Van Gogh also valued in Goupils photogravures.70 Does this mean that individual photographers can also be regarded as authors who enjoyed a special bond with their work? Painters, printmakers and publishers often thought otherwise. Naturally photographers did not agree with them and the balance of opinion eventually came down on their side. In the wake of painters and printmakers they increasingly began to emerge as authors of their work, and their special bond with this work soon prompted them to face the challenge of protecting their intellectual property.71 Such efforts also brought photographers increasing recognition as the author of photographic reproductions. In their capacity as authors photographers found themselves in a similar position to painters and printmakers vis--vis their work. However, there was also an important difference, engendered by the very nature of the photographic medium. As previously observed, photography during the nineteenth century comprised a wide variety of methods and techniques that were still being developed. Photographers often invested a great deal of time and energy in experimentation and in perfecting their materials and techniques. Professional photographers in particular endeavoured to stay ahead of the competition through technical innovations and often invented a specific reproductive technique. It was important for them to safeguard their business interests by protecting any such innovations through patent law. If a photographers invention received official recognition, the state granted him a guaranteed monopoly to employ this technique for a specific period. Once a patent had been granted it could be sold, entirely or in part, or used on licence, depending on the type of invention, the market and the individual entrepreneur. Ancient tradition underpinned this system of industrial property which contributed substantially to successful technical innovation. It is a field barely studied to date and yet one which can offer interesting new insights into the invention and dissemination of technology in general. Photographers also made grateful use of patent law when they invented new techniques, and even an initial impression suggests that it would be hard to overestimate the importance of patent law in the development of photography. However, comprehensive research into the significance of this law system in the history of photography lies beyond the scope of this study. I shall confine myself here to the observation that, in addition to being an author, the photographer often acted as an inventor too, thereby functioning in an inter-

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esting twilight zone that straddled the worlds of artistic and technological creativity, the realms of author and inventor.72 This interface is admirably characterised by the photographer Alfred Stieglitzs description of his colleague Joseph Albert (1825-1886) as a scientific mind combined with a goodly portion of natural artistic feeling.73
the deSigner of the image aS interPreter

During the nineteenth century various artists produced prints and paintings that on closer examination appear to resemble each other considerably. Edvard Munch, for example, should be considered a peintre-graveur as he produced prints after his own paintings, including a print entitled The Sick Child.74 Influenced by Bartsch, many artists were inspired by the concept of the painter who also made prints. Peintres-graveurs were responsible for a complex production comprising works of art in a range of media paintings, drawings, etchings and lithographs all by the same hand. This production is exemplified by Manet, who painted his Les Petits Cavaliers after an existing work, then attributed to Vlazquez. [plate 2] He subsequently made an etching after his painting which prompted Melot to observe in The Impressionist Print:
c

The painted reproduction of Velazquez is a very free reproduction, not a copy, and it is therefore difficult to decide whether, in his etching, Manet is interpreting Velazquez or copying his own work; is it a reproductive print of his own painting or an original etching?75

Similar examples can be identified in the work of Whistler, Degas and Redon.76 The result was a collection of closely related works in various media. Since this is not the place to discuss this phenomenon comprehensively per artist, I shall consider it in relation to reproduction. The artists were responsible for the image and the adaptation of this image in the reproduction. But is this adaptation of the image really a reproduction or a new, original work? Any discussion of this subject should be guided by the concept of reproduction as previously clarified, in which the term reproduction implies a photographic or graphic adaptation of an original work. Drawings, watercolours or paintings after existing works do not therefore qualify for this designation, so it is useful to find a designation for such pieces amongst the copies, repetitions or reductions cited above. What then remains are photographic and graphic

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works designed and executed by the same artist. As previously remarked, photographers rarely took photographs after their own work. Although painters such as Breitner and Degas used a camera as well as a brush, as a rule they produced paintings after photographs, rather than photographs after paintings. I shall therefore concentrate my study on etchings and lithographs produced by painters. Every reproduction requires an original. It is also essential for this original to have been given material form: a concept or proposed subject is not sufficient. Previous reference has been made to the complicated task of reconstructing the original. The traditional studio system, with its assortment of masters, pupils and assistants, had produced a complex body of closely related works; the peintre-graveur, working on his own, was equally capable of sowing the same confusion regarding the nature and order of his work. Sometimes an artist would make an etching after a painting, other times a painting after an etching. The former can be regarded as a reproduction, the latter cannot. So a vital first step is to gain some idea of the order in which works were produced. An original must by its very nature have been produced at an earlier stage than its reproduction, or at most contemporaneously. When an artist produces an etching at a later date than a similar painting, a painting which it resembles in some respects, but differs from in others, this prompts the following question: if the etching postdates the painting, is it also after the painting? When Whistler made a print after one of his paintings for publication in the Gazette des Beaux-Arts, he wrote: One cannot produce the same masterpiece twice over!! I had no inspiration and not working at a new thing from nature, I found it impossible to copy myself.77 For Whistler, therefore, every work was by definition an original, and it is revealing that he regarded his lithographs as drawings.78 In this cultivation of originality, the eccentric Whistler was no exception. Many peintre-graveurs considered virtually everything they produced an original work: the concept of lestampe originale even held that every print was unique. In the context of nineteenth-century art we do not have to search far for artists who were resolved to produce an original (work). Vincent van Gogh, for example, complained to his brother Theo that artist were always expected to supply originals:

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It is always expected of us painters that we compose [everything] ourselves and are just composers. All very well, but in music it doesnt work like that, and when someone plays Beethoven, he adds his personal interpretation; in music and especially in singing the interpretation of a composer is something, and it certainly need not be the case that only the composer plays his own compositions. Well, particularly now Im ill, Im trying to make something to console me, something for my own gratification: I lay out the black-and-white representation after Delacroix or Millet as my motif. And then I improvise on it with colour.[] My brush moves in my fingers like a bow over a violin, entirely for my own gratification.79

Van Gogh viewed musicians with a touch of jealousy, for they could concentrate on performing an existing composition, whilst painters were expected to produce new compositions. However, at this point in his career Van Gogh was also intending to adapt an existing composition.80 The work to which he referred was actually a painted copie, after a reproduction of a painting by Millet. The circumstances surrounding the production of a print determine whether or not this can be regarded as a reproduction. Has a print been made after an existing original? Is it a copy of a tried and trusted composition, or a variation on this? A variation is more likely to be an original print than a reproduction. There are also instances in which a print should be considered a reproduction. Hogarth, for example, made prints after a number of his paintings, Turner produced prints after several of his compositions, for his Liber Studiorum, while his contemporary John Martin made mezzotints after his own apocalyptic paintings.81 On occasion Van Gogh also expressed his intention of reproducing his own works, such as The Potato Eaters; when photography proved too expensive, he decided that he would make his own lithograph of his masterpiece, in the hope that Theo would be able to circulate the image in the Paris art world.82 When an artist makes a reproduction, the question then arises of whether this work is indeed a reproduction or an original print. In practice it is hard to define the boundary between an original and a reproduction, just as it is often unclear whether a painting is an original or a replica. The very question presupposes that artists made a clear distinction between originals, replicas, reductions and reproductions, and strictly adhered to these categories when producing their work. Yet in practice these differences appear gradual rather than

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absolute. Although it was not out of the question for artists to produce a reproduction after their own work, such pieces are exceptions within the world of nineteenth-century art reproduction. There are several feasible answers to the question of who should be regarded as the author of a reproduction. Within the context of nineteenth-century art reproduction it is vital not to exclude potential candidates in advance. Both the image creator/designer and the image interpreter are entitled to be regarded as the author of a reproduction, on the basis of their own particular contribution to a specific physical work. The formers individual intellectual bond with his creation does not detract from the latters individual relation to his personal interpretation of this pre-existing composition. Their individual contributions to the reproductive process can thus produce a form of combined authorship, in which both the original artist and the printmaker/photographer participate. I shall return to this subject in the chapters on reproductions of work by Scheffer, Alma-Tadema and Israls. From this perspective of combined authorship it is thus possible to designate more than one author for a particular reproduction: the painter, who is responsible for the image, and the printmaker, who is responsible for his specific interpretation or adaptation of this. The number of authors could rise still further, for, given the nature of art reproduction in the nineteenth century, it does not seem far-fetched to speculate to what extent a firm should be regarded as an author, particularly in view of the fact that enterprises such as Goupil were awarded medals for their specific contribution to printed art. I shall confine myself to the observation that there is no clear-cut answer to the question of who was the author of a reproduction in the nineteenth century.
reProductionS, tranSlationS, tableaux vivants and forgerieS

A reproduction is by definition never identical to the original. The interaction between original and adaptation gives a print or photograph of a work of art its own internal structure.83 This dualistic character makes reproductions an unusual group of works. Not that they are scarce or uncommon; on the contrary, the nature and function of reproductions means that in practice they were often produced and distributed on an exceptionally large scale, in editions ranging from the thousands to the tens of thousands, although reproductions could also exist in atypical states and variations, some printed on special paper, which

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were exceptionally rare. Nor were reproductions uncommon on account of their exceptional quality, for the nineteenth century was characterised by an unprecedented form of mass production in which price and print run were often more important than aesthetic or technical refinement. We encounter reproductions in a wide variety of forms, from mass-produced carte-de-visite photographs to exclusive engravings. It is this diversity of expression, encompassing examples of both low and high culture, that makes reproductions such an unusual group of historical artefacts, for while they were often mass-produced and distributed, they were sometimes extremely rare.84 Although reproductions possess a characteristic structure within the visual arts, they also display some affinity with other adaptations of cultural forms. Bartsch drew attention to the correspondence between reproducing works of art and translating literature: Lestampe faite par un graveur daprs le dessin dun peintre, peut tre parfaitement compare un ouvrage traduit dans une langue diffrente de celle de lauteur.85 The painter Turner also remarked in this regard: Engraving is or ought to be a translation of a picture, for the nature of each art varies so much in the means of expressing the same objects, that lines become the language of colours.86 Musical arrangements, such as popular nineteenth-century piano transcriptions of orchestral symphonies, are a similar phenomenon. The composer and pianist Frans Liszt, who produced many such musical arrangements, remarked in this regard:
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The relation between piano and orchestra is the same as that between painting and engraving: the piano multiplies the composition, makes this available to everyone, and while it may not reproduce the colours, it at least lets us see the light and dark tones.87

In the sphere of music there is a similar interaction between the original composition and the transcription. Music brings us into the realm of the performing arts, where adaptation and arrangement flow into performance. Playing a musical composition or performing a play necessarily entails an adaptation of the original. The score or text is brought to life as it were by the musician or actors personal interpretation of this. As previously remarked, Van Gogh regarded musicians with a touch of jealousy since they were able to focus on arranging or adapting a pre-existing work of art while painters were always expected

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to compose, and enjoyed no such opportunity. Or did they? Pulchri, the renowned society of artists in The Hague, offered painters a regular diversion from the constant task of devising new, original compositions in the form of presenting, or performing, existing paintings as tableaux vivants. On 4 and 5 May 1865 the society presented a painting by Rembrandt and a contemporary artist, Paul Delaroche. The painter Bosboom wrote enthusiastically about the occasion to this fellow painter J.D. Kruseman:
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These were evenings of pleasure. Never have my eyes beheld something so beguiling, so moving, as several of those tableaux: the Anatomy Lesson by Rembrandt, the Return from Golgotha by Paul de la Roche [-] captivating!88

The highly popular tableau vivant is a curious adaptation of a work of art, a metamorphosis of painting into a type of performance art. Finally there remains one other unusual adaptation in the field of visual art, the forgery.89 Given the wealth of closely related copies, repetitions, reductions, replicationsand reproductions, it is important to be on the alert for forgeries. There was a rich culture of illegal imitations in the nineteenth-century art world.90 The defining element in forgery is the use of deliberate deception to create a false impression as to the author of a work. Sometimes an original piece was copied precisely, with the aim of fraudulently presenting the copy as the original. A more effective approach than exact imitation of a specific work, however, was to produce a painting in the style of the chosen master, displaying characteristic affinity with his other work. For the forger it was a more attractive proposition to add an unknown work to the oeuvre of a famous master than it was to copy a well-known work. This was the tactic employed by the master forger Han van Meegeren with his painting The Disciples in Emmaus, allegedly by Vermeer. In practice, however, a more common forgery technique was to change, remove or add a signature, in order to create a false impression as to the author of a piece. Art forgery is closely associated with the (complex) import of the author. It is no coincidence that the development of legal protection of intellectual property also gave the author the right to take action against forgeries of his work.91 Forgery is characterised by the perpetrators intention to create a false impression of affairs, essential criteria when determining whether works are forgeries or not, particularly within the complex world of nineteenth-century (studio) practice.

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For centuries the painting and signing of works of art had often been the product of complicated teamwork, involving a master, his assistants and any pupils he may have taught. It is known, for example, that Delacroix put his own signature on various works painted by his pupils.92 So are these works forgeries? Hardly, as this would mean that the artist had forged his own work, something that is hard to conceive. If the master himself judged that a work was of sufficient quality to bear his name, in theory such a work cannot be a forgery.93 However, there is certainly an element of falsification in Delacroixs deliberate denial of the contribution made to such works by his pupils who have remained otherwise unknown. Delacroixs work was also copied in contexts far beyond his studio, by artists such as Van Gogh and other admirers. Of course, a copy is not necessarily a forgery, although this is definitely the case when such a copy is made with the intention of being passed off as an original Delacroix, particularly for sale. Intention is a crucial element in forgery and also a defining feature. Imagine that a fan of Delacroix paints a copy of one of the masters work, for his personal edification or to decorate his living room. When that individual dies his property, including the copy, is sold at auction. There the work is bought by a collector who subsequently sells it. The work is then acquired by a dealer who knows that it is a copy but sells it as a real Delacroix to an unsuspecting collector. Does this mean that the dealer is a forger? No, but he is certainly a swindler. Without further discussion of the relationship between forgery and deception, I shall confine myself to applying the term forgery only to those works that have been deliberately made, or altered, with the intention of creating a false impression as to their author. Of course, there are also works not produced as forgeries which have subsequently become the object of deception or other, less sinister misunderstandings. In the field of art reproduction the spectre of forgery has also loomed on occasion. Although it is not very feasible that engravers seriously attempted to counterfeit an original painting with their prints, the differences between the two media being simply too great to allow such an attempt, this was not the case, with reproductions of prints and drawings, where an unpractised eye could easily mistake a reproduction in crayon manner for an original drawing.94 The same is also true of sophisticated colour lithography, which was used for precise reproductions of watercolours. The products of photo-mechanical techniques, such as photolithographs and photogravures, could also be confused with handmade prints, making forgery a potential hazard in this field as well. Neverthe-

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less, during the nineteenth century, forgery of reproductions was largely confined to the field of states and variations, with or without signatures; these varied enormously in price, so it is hardly surprising that such prints were regularly forged.95 The etcher Philip Zilcken complained at length about the forged signatures which the firm of Buffa had added to his etchings after Mauve and Maris.96 Although forgeries may have been distinguished from reproductions and other works by malice of forethought, they formed an integral part of the nineteenth-century art world. This was also the forgers intention. A forgery is often hard to recognise, even by a practised eye, as Van Meegerens The Disciples at Emmaus amply demonstrated. Goodman rightly observed in Languages of Art with regard to distinguishing between a forgery and an original: no one can ever ascertain by merely looking at the pictures that no one ever has been or will be able to tell them apart by merely looking at them.97 Whether or not a work is a reproduction, and if so, who should be regarded as the author, cannot, therefore, be seen by merely looking. Terms such as pinxit and sculpsit may offer an indication, but nothing more than this. It is for this reason that the present study endeavours to view and understand original works, reproductions and authors within a broader cultural context.98 Where reproductions are characterised by their own manner of creation, it is important to study such works in a historical perspective. In his famous essay Walter Benjamin proposed that reproductive technology had taken the reproduced beyond the reach of tradition.99 My objective in the historical reconstruction below is to consider reproductions within their own tradition in the nineteenthcentury art world, in association with original works, repetitions, reductions and copies, described by Arnheim as follows:
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Art is a world of pervasive similarities and dependencies, imitations, remembrances, approximations, and reinterpretations a collective effort to give shape to the common human experience. In such a world copies, reproductions, borrowings, and forgeries are to be considered not only, not even primarily, by what distinguishes them from their models or prototypes, but by how much of a given aesthetic substance they share.100

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chapter 2

From Engraving to PhotograPhy

mEchanics

Mechanics was the term used by painters to designate the engravers who made prints after work by other artists. It was a legal dispute between the painter J.S. Copley (1738-1815) and the engraver J.M. Delatre (1746-1840) which had given rise to this term: Delatre had made a print after one of Copleys paintings, but Copley had been so dissatisfied with the result that he refused to pay the printmaker for his work. Although the dispute was plainly financial in nature, the ensuing court case disguised an underlying struggle for artistic prestige. Painters had long been of the opinion that engraving, whilst admittedly a time-consuming, labour-intensive process, could not be considered art: reproduction, they maintained, was largely a menial, mechanical procedure, the antithesis of the artists creative force. So the opposing sides in the courtroom were more than simply Copley, the painter, and Delatre, the engraver, for the case essentially amounted to a confrontation between two cultural traditions, painting versus printmaking.1 Mechanic may have been a denigrating and inaccurate term, but its use was understandable in the light of the traditions associated with printmaking. From its inception printmaking was regarded as one of the mechanical arts, as was

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fig. 4 Marcantonio Raimondi after Raphael, The Massacre of the Innocents (1513-1515), engraving 28 x 42.5 cm, Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge.

painting, initially. During the Renaissance, however, painting evolved into a liberal art, while printmaking retained its craft status.2 This explains why the first edition of Vasaris Vite (1550) describes the life and work of renowned painters, but pays scant attention to engravers. The second edition of the work, from 1568, does include a chapter on the engraver Marcantonio Raimondi, but Vasaris choice of this specific printmaker was prompted by his belief that printmakings value lay chiefly in its capacity to reproduce existing artworks; he thus ignored original prints, designed and executed by artists such as Mantegna or Parmigianino, believing that it was Raimondis engraved reproductions after Raphael, Michelangelo and Drer which embodied the essence of printmaking as a graphic discipline in the service of painting.3 [fig. 4] This view of the graphic arts continued to resound throughout the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.4 An early sign of changing status dates from 1660, when Louis xiv decreed that printmaking should be classified as one of the liberal arts and as such be encouraged by the French state.5 During the eighteenth century the boundaries between the liberal arts and the applied arts became increasingly blurred.6 The cole Royale des Elves Protgs, for example, founded in 1748, introduced a more craft-based approach to the arts, which greatly irritated members of the traditional academy in Paris.7 Academies elsewhere in France and Europe, however, allowed increasing space for courses in engraving, which were generally

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fig. 5 Thomas Landseer after Edwin Landseer, The Shepherds Bible (1856) mixed method engraving, 48.9 x 62.2 cm,

The Maas Gallery, London.

associated with the applied arts.8 Within these institutions, slowly but surely, printmaking and painting began to draw closer together. In England the Royal Academy was not founded until 1768, much later than its counterparts in France and Italy. The institution aimed to promote the liberal arts, but ignored the graphic profession. Although doors had been cautiously opened to printmaking elsewhere in Europe, the Royal Academy in England held firm to the traditional view of the liberal arts, which did not include the graphic disciplines. One suggested explanation of this attitude is the fact that painting itself was only classified as a liberal art in England at a relatively late date, a delay which may have deferred any recognition of printmaking.9 There was also greater differentiation in England between courses to train artists and more practical, craft-based programmes.10 After the foundation of the Royal Academy, engravers continued to suffer lower status than painters for many decades. When the engraver J.M. Delatre won his case against the painter J.S. Copley, this was a significant step on the road to official recognition for engravers in England. An important figure in this connection was the engraver John Landseer, who dedicated himself to the task of improving engravings status in the early nineteenth century.11 Landseer regarded printmaking and painting as of equal status, just as his two sons, Thomas Landseer (1795-1880), an engraver, and Edwin Landseer (1802-1873), a painter, were equals. The elder Landseer must have been delighted to observe his sons collaborating for many years, with Edwin producing the paintings and Thomas the reproductions of these. [fig. 5] In

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1812, John Landseer, a fierce advocate of printmaking, submitted a petition to the Royal Academy in which he demanded that printmaking and painting be accorded equal status, and described engraving as:
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a profession, which perhaps of all the Fine Arts stands most in need of your Royal Favor & protection, and whose memorandum if acted upon, would have the further power of raising the Art of Engraving in England to the rank of which it holds in all the principle Royal Academies of the Continent.12

However, the Royal Academy responded with a rebuff, declaring that printmaking lacked:
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Those intellectual qualities of invention and composition which painting, sculpture and architecture so eminently possess [] its greatest praise consisting in translating with as little loss as possible the original arts of design.13

So there was to be no question of printmakers and painters enjoying equal standing.14 In his plea for the status of printmaking to be raised to that of painting, John Landseer pointed to the higher standing enjoyed by engravers at academies on the continent. In France, for example, where the Revolution had brought the traditional academy to an end, various reorganisations had led to the emergence of a new permanent Academie de Peinture et Sculpture in 1816, supported by painters, sculptors, composers and printmakers.15 The new French academy inspired the founders of the Dutch Koninklijke Academie, established in Amsterdam in 1817, to make similar space for printmaking.16 The Amsterdam academy was intended to breathe new life into Dutch art, including printmaking. Whilst the English Royal Academy was still taking great pains to exclude printmaking from its premises, its French and Dutch counterparts were fostering painting and printmaking as two artistic disciplines of equal standing. To a large extent the theoretical debate on the position of printmaking and painting was an academic one, chiefly conducted within the various academies walls. Outside these walls it was common practice for printmakers and painters to associate with each other. Aspiring painters and engravers learned their pro-

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fession under the guidance of a master, in a shared studio culture.17 This studio system was based on longstanding tradition, deriving from a period in which both disciplines, painting and printmaking, were still regarded as mechanical arts. Academies had never completely replaced the traditional studio culture, and well into the nineteenth century young printmakers continued to learn their profession under the supervision of a master, whose studio-based instruction they sometimes supplemented with lessons at an academy or institute of drawing.18 On occasion young printmakers literally worked side by side with their painting colleagues: the famous engraver Louis-Pierre Henriquel-Dupont (1797-1892), for example, received his first instruction at the studio of painter Pierre Gurin (1774-1833), alongside the young painters Gericault, Delacroix and Scheffer, before he moved from this painting environment to the studio of the distinguished engraver C.C. Bervic (1756-1822), in order to specialise further in engraving.19 Henriquel-Dupont owed his subsequent renown to his reproductions of work by celebrated contemporaries. Once the academic boundaries between painting and printmaking had become blurred on the continent, this development began to spread to England. In 1855 Samuel Cousins (1801-1887) became the first engraver to be admitted to the prestigious Royal Academy, which thereby accorded equal status to printmaking.20 This late admission of engravers into the Royal Academy occurred at the same time as photographys breakthrough in the world of art reproduction. When the engraver George Thomas Doo (1800-1886) was asked if the Royal Academys support for printmaking was still advisable in the light of recent photographic developments, he confidently adduced the superior value of printmaking over that of impersonal and uncritical photography: an engraver, he contended, could bring a unique, personal vision to an original work, unlike photography which was incapable of correcting the faults of a bad picture, bad drawing, want of keeping, etc., but copies all the vicious with the good.21 Doo thus regarded photographic reproduction as an essentially menial and mechanical replication of artworks a somewhat incongruous criticism on the part of an engraver who would himself, until quite recently, have been dubbed a mechanic by painters. The nineteenth century witnessed the radical shift from graphic to photographic art reproduction. Around 1800 English engravers had still been denigratingly referred to as mechanics; fifty years later they were granted admission to the

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Royal Academy as artists; a further fifty years on, however, circa 1900, they were virtually extinct. Inevitably this shift from graphic to photographic methods was not a smooth process: the world of nineteenth-century art reproduction was characterised by perpetual tension between the disappearance of graphic traditions and large-scale technological innovation.22 Within a relatively short period, changes in the (photo-)graphic landscape could transform the character of a sparticular reproductive technique.23 In order to understand such changes I have chosen to set nineteenth-century graphic and photographic methods within their historical context, rather than simply consider these from a strictly technical point of view. This decision was partly influenced by the fact that the technical and chemical aspects of graphic and photographic methods have already been extensively enumerated in various manuals, to which the present study gratefully refers.24 Moreover, the changes which occurred in the field of graphic art and photography were not simply technical in nature: although an engraved reproduction from 1890 may resemble a print from 1810 in terms of technique, it would have made a very different impression in a world now dominated by photographs. Taking a historical approach to reproductive techniques is not without its difficulties, however. The history of reproductive methods, particularly that of the nineteenth century, is complex and unlimited. In the middle of that century, W.J. Stannard counted 156 graphic and photographic techniques.25 The number of reproductive techniques had never been so great before the nineteenth century; after this period the range of methods employed rapidly diminished. As photography perfected its skills, the traditional techniques of engraving, mezzotinting and lithography exited the scene within a few decades. So the nineteenth century offered a unique range of both graphic and photographic methods for replicating and multiplying artworks. The aim of this chapter is not to provide an encyclopaedic overview of nineteenth-century reproductive techniques, but to sketch a picture of the most important changes in the field of graphic and photographic methods. Two types of change play an important role in this regard. In the first place, there was internal development within commonly used techniques. A certain amount of time necessarily elapsed between the invention of a technique and its (successful) commercial application. Years of experimentation were required before both lithography and photography could be transformed into effective mass media; the quest to develop specific forms of these for the reproduction of

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colour soon followed. However, some reproductive techniques barely survived the experimental phase and quietly disappeared after a time.26 Such processes of innovation and professionalisation occurred throughout the nineteenth century, sometimes evolving smoothly and steadily, often proceeding in fits and starts, according to the specific time and place. This internal development of techniques was also accompanied by external development in the field of reproduction, in the form of interaction between engraving, lithography and photography. This chapter aims to sketch these historical developments by offering a Benjamin-style short history of reproductive techniques in the nineteenth century.

GRaphiC aRT REpRoduCTion: 1800-1835


Engraving; thE traditional mEdium

Une ide de gnie...graphique was the response to the plan proposed by engraver Pierre Laurent (1739-1809) to reproduce in print all the paintings and sculptures in the French royal collection, and thereby breathe new life into French printmaking.27 In 1791 Laurent received permission to proceed with the project, but political instability prevented the first prints from appearing until 1803, when they were published under the title Muse Francais recueil complet des tableaux, statues et bas reliefs qui composent la collection nationale. Although Laurents plan was commendable, there was nothing new about it; the engraver appears to have been directly inspired by similar initiatives during the reign of Louis xiv, the heyday of French printmaking, when famous engravers such as Grard Audran, Edelinck and Peine had made prints after works by Raphael and Veronese, and also after French masters such as Poussin, Vouet and Lebrun.28 An important initiative in the reign of Louis xiv had been the proposed establishment of the Cabinet du Roi, which was to comprise prints of monuments, gardens, palaces and artworks.29 The project was never completed but Laurent breathed new life into the idea with his Muse Francais, published between 1803 and 1811, with contributions by dozens of engravers. The project was continued by Laurents son, Pierre Louis Henri Laurent (1779-1844), under the title Muse Royal, which appeared between 1816 and 1822.30 In early nineteenth-century France the reign of Louis xiv was regarded as a benchmark for engraving, as it was for many other forms of cultural expres-

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fig. 6 Charles-Clment Balvay (Bervic) after pierre Bouillon, Laocoon, (1809) line engraving, 34 x 28 cm, Bibliothque national paris.

sion. Laurents publications thus endeavoured to connect contemporary printmaking with Frances renowned seventeenth-century printmaking tradition. During the nineteenth century, admiration for seventeenth-century prints was closely associated with a widespread aversion to eighteenth-century works.31 Despite the fact that the eighteenth century had also witnessed large-scale reproduction of art with work by Rigaud, Chardin and Watteau, plus prints after Boucher, Greuze and Fragonard32 and although printmaking had flourished during this age of the galante estampe, early nineteenth-century engravers such as C.C. Bervic nevertheless regarded seventeenth-century prints as the prime examples to emulate. [fig. 6] In 1810, when Bervics print after Enlvement de Djanire was declared the best French engraving of the new centurys opening decade, it was regarded as the first print for a long time that could rival the engravings produced by the seventeenth-centurys old masters.33 The fame of French printmaking was closely connected with line engraving on copper. Although engraving had traditionally been the primary technique asso-

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ciated with the reproduction of artworks, by the early nineteenth century this was no longer the case.34 New techniques had undermined the supremacy of traditional engraving, which no longer enjoyed a monopoly in the field of art reproduction. In 1828 an anonymous reviewer wrote in the cultural journal Le Globe:
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Les gravures au burin deviennent presque aussi rares que le traductions en vers. On aime si fort, de nos jours lexpeditif et le bon march, que la lithographie, laquatinta, la maniere noire, se substituent tous les jours a ce pauvre burin, si lent et si couteux, lui arrachent quelques fleurons de sa couronne et sarrogant le monopole de reproduire de toutes les creations de la peinture moderne.35

In 1834 the annual Salon exhibition prompted LArtiste to declare sombrely: La grande gravure penche toujours vers sa ruine.36 That same year the publication proclaimed its admiration for English printmaking: dans cette art, Londres a long-temps possde sur Paris une incontestable superiorit.37 The extensive distribution in France of high-quality prints from England caused critics to regard French engraving with some reticence.38 During the early nineteenth century, English printmaking was still dominated by the golden age it had enjoyed in the late eighteenth century. The mezzotint was to English printmaking what line engraving was to the French. Unlike traditional engraving, the mezzotinting technique had been specially developed for the purpose of reproducing paintings. The origins of the method lay in the Low Countries, but it was perfected in England and soon became known as the maniera anglais.39 The stipple structure of the mezzotint allowed the technique to represent the subtle nuances between light and dark far more successfully than the rigid line-based structure of the line engraving. This made the mezzotint the paramount technique for reproducting texture and chiaroscuro. Printmakers could also make a mezzotint much more quickly than an engraving, which took six times as long to produce. A major drawback to the mezzotint technique, however, was the delicate plate, which could not support the print runs achieved by traditional engravings.40 While mezzotints were printed in batches of several dozen, engraved plates could generate hundreds, even thousands, of prints.41 Yet this does not detract from the fact that the mezzotint

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was an exceptionally successful reproductive technique, employed on a large scale during the golden age of English printmaking in the late eighteenth century. Renowned mezzotinters such as James MacArdell (1728/29-65), Valentine Green (1739-1813) and John Raphael Smith (1752-1812) made Sir Joshua Reynolds one of the most reproduced artists of his age.42 While French printmakers of the early nineteenth century pursued the tradition of seventeenth-century line engravers, English mezzotinters were still working in the Great Age of the Mezzotint. Engravers such as Charles Turner and William Ward perpetuated the typically English tradition, combining the mezzotint technique with etching in their quest for new graphic effects. The most important printmaker of this period was probably S.W. Reynolds (1794-1835).43 [fig. 7] He produced many prints after works by celebrated painters such as Joshua Reynolds (no relation), and also contemporary French masters such as Gericault, Dlaroche, Prudhon and Scheffer.44 After Reynolds death in 1835, LArtiste described him as un graveur de gnie.45 He had gained international renown while working in the typically English mezzotint tradition. On the run from his creditors, the English engraver Charles Howard Hodges (1764-1837) found refuge in the Batavian Republic (now the Netherlands), settling in The Hague in 1792.46 Hodges had learned his profession from the distinguished English mezzotinter John Raphael Smith and was one of the school of engravers associated with the painter Joshua Reynolds. So what did Hodges find in his new home? What was happening in Dutch printing in the early nineteenth century? Hodges probably came into contact with the Vinkeles, a wellknown family of Dutch engravers. The head of the family was Reinier Vinkeles (1741-1816), who had been apprenticed to the French master engraver J.Ph. LeBas and subsequently established a studio in Amsterdam, together with his brother Harmanus and two sons Johannes and Abraham. J.E. Marcus (1774-1826) also trained at Reinier Vinkeles studio, before specialising in engravings after Dutch old masters. Like their foreign colleagues Dutch engravers worked in a combination of techniques, such as etching and copper engraving.47 Hodges did not keep his distance from his Dutch counterparts, but quickly integrated into the Dutch printmaking world, where he developed into a leading printmaker and portrait painter. The Englishman thus made an important contribution to Dutch art in the early nineteenth century. 48 His list of achievements includes his involvement in the founding of the Koninklijke Academie in Amsterdam,

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fig. 7 Samuel William Reynolds after James northcote, Heron and Spaniel (1799), mezzotint with engraving, 47.9 x 59.7 cm, British

Museum, London.

together with the printmakers Reinier Vinkeles and J.E. Marcus.49 Marcus, the first professior of engraving at the Koninklijke Academie, died unexpectedly in 1826. The search for a successor extended to France; William I eventually appointed the talented young French engraver Andr Benot Barrau Taurel (1794-1859) as head of the engraving faculty, in order to stimulate Dutch printmaking.50 Taurel had learned his profession in the studios run by the painter Pierre-Narcisse Gurin and the engraver Charles Clment Bervic, alongside other aspiring, and later distinguished, printmakers such as Louis Henriquel-Dupont. Taurel may be regarded as one of the renowned generation of French engravers associated with Henriquel-Dupont and subsequently dubbed le grand mouvement de 1830.51 Taurel enjoyed even earlier success than the talented Henriquel-Dupont when he and not Henriquel-Dupont was awarded a Prix de Rome. It may have been this award which prompted the decision to invite Taurel, rather than another French engraver, to come to the Netherlands to encourage Dutch printmaking. The Prix de Rome had allowed Taurel to stay in Rome from 1818 to 1823, during which period he became friends with artists such as the French painter Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres.52 On his return to Paris Taurel took the young Italian Luigi Calamatta (1802-1869), later a famous engraver, under his wing.53 Although Taurels son Charles douard was born in

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Paris, he grew up in Amsterdam, where his father was appointed head of the engraving faculty at the Akademie voor Beeldende Kunsten with effect from 1 January 1828. it was a post he would hold until 1855. Although Taurel produced various prints after portraits by Nicolaas Pieneman and J.A. Kruseman, he probably made his most important contribution to Dutch printmaking in his capacity as professor at the academy, where he trained various talented engravers, including his son douard Taurel, J.W. Kaiser and H.W. Couwenberg.54 The influence exercised by the English mezzotinter Hodges and the French line engraver Taurel in the Dutch printmaking world reveals the situation in the early nineteenth century. The renowned printmaking tradition established by Lucas van Leyden and Hendrik Goltzius was little more than a memory. Although not much is known about Dutch printmaking in the early nineteenth century, foreign prints appear to have played a substantial role in this period, as is illustrated by the 1836 dispute between the influential editor of Vaderlandsche Letteroefeningen, J.W. Yntema, and the publisher G.J.A. Beijerinck. The conflict had been prompted by a number of Beijerinck publications whose illustrations, by foreign engravers, had elicited a highly critical reaction in Vaderlandsche Letteroefeningen:
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particularly when the state of national engraving is still much comtemned, yet at present somewhat advancing again, and still unceasingly requires so much encouragement, products of the foreign burin are imported and distributed amongst us through all kinds of means by the well known Stores and also by the above-cited publications, [productis] in which no national artist or workman has participated, and from which no-one in our country derives any advantage, other than publishers bent solely on their gain.55

The publisher Beijerinck responded with a fierce defence in the form of an extensive advertisement which offers an interesting insight into the world of Dutch engraving of the period:
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The general approbation for these costly undertakings has convinced me how far the judgement of the Dutch Public in no way accords with that of the writer of Vaderlandsche Letteroefeningen, who thought that he should censure these and similar undertakings, because he deemed it

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detrimental to our Land, that the plates were engraved by foreign artists. Yet the writer has judged in this matter without understanding, for the number of engravers in the Netherlands is so few [italics, rv] , that meritorious artists in this profession will always have such an abundance of work at home, that with the best will they mostly have to keep the publisher waiting longer than is desired by the same undertakings, so that it would be impossible for them to provide works equivalent to the above in a brief space of time; even if this possibility were to exist, in a Land as small as ours the costs would run too high for steel engravings, equivalent to those supplied here. In order to be able to compete with the Foreigner in this way in costliness and cheapness, one is constrained to procure prints of English engravings [italics, rv] and I believe that I have thus truly done my fatherland a service with cheap publications of these magnificent works, since many a young Artist in our Land will be encouraged to become increasingly proficient in this fine art, the more so because the composition of the text is conferred on men, on whose skill and taste the Netherlands rightly prides herself 56 Beijerincks personal rancour notwithstanding, his defence contains interesting information about the strengths and above all the weaknesses of Dutch engraving during this period. Although there were engravers working in the Netherlands, the modest nature of the Dutch market did not allow them to compete with much cheaper (mainly English) engravings. When Vaderlandsche Letteroefeningen responded to Beijerincks defence with cutting, personal recriminations, the publisher decided to bring in bigger guns. His aim was now to undermine the authority of Vaderlandsche Letteroefeningen structurally, by launching a truly Critical journal. In August 1836 he published the prospectus for a new journal, De Gids, whose less than subtle, secondary title was Nieuwe Vaderlandsche Letteroefeningen. De Gids would evolve into one of the most authoritative cultural journals in the Netherlands. Beijerinck commissioned Dutch printmakers such as J.P. de Lange and J.W. Kaiser to produce the illustrations, thereby actively promoting the development of Dutch printmaking.57 Thus the origins of this renowned journal are directly associated with the (humbler) nature of Dutch printmaking during the early decades of the nineteenth century. Whilst engravers in France were harking back to their renowned seventeenthcentury traditions and mezzotinters in England were still employing their na-

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tional technique, a new school of engraving was being established in the Netherlands, with the aid of the English mezzotinter Hodges and the French line engraver Taurel. Alongside the many mezzotints and engravings printed from metal plates, the early nineteenth century also witnessed an increase in the number of works printed from wood. Although the traditional woodcut was as old as printmaking itself, use of this technique for art reproduction had been relatively limited up to this point, the chief reason probably being the relatively rough character of the woodcuts line structure, in comparison with the fine quality of copper engraving or mezzotinting. However, new opportunities were offered by the wood engraving technique, which was developed in England in the late eighteenth century. By using the much harder, end-grain of the wood (mainly hardwood), the wood engraver was able to achieve a much finer line structure. Thomas Bewick (1753-1828) in particular made a substantial contribution to the use of wood engraving with his well-known illustrations of British fauna in The History of Britsh Quadrupeds (1790) and The History of British Birds (1797-1804). [fig. 8] The use of wood engraving as an illustrative technique was no accident, for the major advantage of this method over other graphic techniques was the potential it offered to print text and illustration together. Thus the development and success of this technique is inextricably associated with the production of illustrated travel guides, scientific treatises and works of prose and poetry.58 Wood engravings in the Bewick tradition flourished particularly in the 1830s, thanks to the many illustrated journals such as The Penny Magazine (1832-1845). After this period the technique also became widely used for the reproduction of art works.
crayon mannEr, stiPPlE Engraving and aquatint

During the final decades of the eighteenth century the traditional line engraving and mezzotint were supplemented with the invention, within a comparatively short period, of several new reproductive techniques, the crayon manner, the stipple engraving and the aquatint. Where the mezzotint had been specially developed for the replication and multiplication of paintings, these new methods were chiefly intended to reproduce chalk drawings and watercolours, thereby constituting a major expansion in the range of graphic techniques available to printmakers.59

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The crayon manner, a method related to etching, was developed in 1757 by the French printmaker J.C. Francois (1717-1769).60 Unlike engraving or etching, the technique did not require the printmaker to incise a plate: instead, he used engraving tools to apply stipple patterns to a prepared ground covering the plate. The acid in a bath etched into the plate through the stipple structure; once the ground was removed, the stipple pattern could be printed onto paper, producing a graphic image resembling a chalk or crayon drawing. This method was particularly used to produce fine reproductions of popular pastels by Watteau, Boucher and Fragonard. [plate 3] William Wynne Ryland (1732/8-1783) soon introduced the crayon manner technique into England, where it quickly became popular; his contribution to Charles Rogers 1778 publication A Collection of Prints in imitation of Drawings subsequently enjoyed great success.61 By the time this work was published Ryland had also developed his own version of the crayon manner, known as stipple engraving.62 This method employed a burin to apply many small dots to the printing matrix, allowing fine tonal variations to be obtained by varying the density of the stipple pattern. Stipple engraving is actually the reverse of the mezzotint. A relatively accessible technique, it is easier for a less-practised hand to master than intractable line engraving, as making a dot in a plate is less demanding than incising a suitable line. As with the crayon manner, the stipple-based character of stipple engraving made the method extremely suitable for reproducing chalk drawings, whose characteristic grainy structure it could imitate exactly. Ryland, the spirfig. 8 Thomas Bewick, The Female Horned Owl, wood engraving proof, from: The history of British Birds (1797), Rijksprentenkabinet, amsterdam.

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itual father of the technique, was even accused of forgery and thrown into gaol.63 The best-known engraver to make a name with stipple engraving was Francesco Bartolozzi (1727-1815), with his prints after work by Reynolds, Romney (1734-1802), Lawrence (1769-1830) and Kaufmann (1741-1807). [plate 4] One example of stipple engraving is the publication Imitations of Original Drawings by Hans Holbein in the Collection of His Majesty (1792-1800). The method was chiefly used in England and even vied with the mezzotint for the title of typically English reproduction technique.64 The French printmaker Jean Baptiste Le Prince (1734-1781) was probably one of the first artists to publicise the aquatint technique with his specimen works from 1768. It is closely related to etching. A drawing is first etched into the plate, which is then covered with an aquatint ground: once the printmaker has worked this ground, the plate is again etched in an acid bath. Printing from the plate produces etchings with a tonal character. As was often the case with new reproductive methods, the precise nature of the aquatint remained obscure for some time. Protection through patents often obliged engravers to speculate as to the new processes employed by their colleagues, leaving them little option than to conduct their own experiments, based on luck and rumour. On 8 September 1775, however, the English artist Paul Sandby (1725-1809) informed his good friend John Clerk: perceive you have been trying at Le Prince Secret. Know my good friend I got a key to it and am perfect master of it.65 [plate 5] Paul Sandby and Thomas Rowlandson then popularised the technique for the reproduction of watercolours, through publications such as Imitations of Modern Drawings.66 The aquatint proved an excellent technique for imitating the fleeting, fluid character of a watercolour. In the Netherlands Cornelis Ploos van Amstel (17261798) experimented with related techniques, publishing 46 drawings in the form of aquatints between 1765 and 1785. The majority of his works, however, were published after his death by Christian Josi in Collection dimitation de Dessins (London 1821), comprising a hundred crayon manner and aquatint prints.67 The crayon manner, stipple engraving and aquatint were three widely used methods for reproducing (highly popular) works on paper: chalk and crayon drawings, pastels and watercolours. These techniques offered more than simply a method for reproducing the original composition, for they also allowed printmakers to approximate the appearance of the original technique. Stipple engraving reproduced the characteristic grainy structure of chalk, while the aq-

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uatint was able to represent the fluid character of a watercolour. The mezzotint had been invented to imitate the chiaroscuro of oil paintings, but this black art technique was not well suited to the light and airy reproduction of drawings. New methods opened the way for a new kind of reproduction, which precisely imitated the original work, in prints that looked like drawings. While these were, of course, still personal interpretations of original works, the printmakers contribution was reduced as far as possible, in an effort to capture the hand of the original artist in the print. In his study, Faksimile und Mimesis. Studien zur Deutschen Reproduktionsgrafik des 18.Jahrhunderts (1981), Rebel shows that this attempt to create the most accurate reproduction possible, using crayon manner, stipple engraving and aquatint, is associated with the advent of the concept of the facsimile, described as a technische Reproduktion einer Bild- oder Schriftvorlage mit Anspruch auf grstmgliche Nachbildungstreue.68 The facsimile concept thus set new standards of fidelity to the original, for the ultimate facsimile is identical to the original. This new vision also entails another approach to reproduction techniques, or, as Ivins saliently put it:
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Up to this time engravings had looked like engravings and nothing else, but now, thanks to the discovery of new techniques, the test of their success began to be the extent to which they looked like something else.69

The facsimile concept can be regarded as the driving force behind graphic innovation whose aim was to reproduce the original, whether this was a drawing or a medieval manuscript, as accurately as possible. The crayon manner, the stipple engraving and the aquatint thus gave printmakers new graphic capabilities, which they employed on a large scale for the reproduction of artworks. Yet the diverse reproductive techniques now available to printmakers were not interchangeable, for they differed as to nature, method and cost, while other, aesthetic considerations also played a role. Linear techniques, such as line engraving, were more highly esteemed from an aesthetic point of view than more tonal methods featuring a stipple structure, such as mezzotints, aquatints and stipple engravings. Circa 1800 there was a clear hierarchy of reproductive techniques, with line engraving at the top, followed by the mezzotint, stipple engraving, and finally the aquatint.70 This classification was supported by diverse arguments. The line engraver Sir Robert Strange declared:

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I cannot help lamenting an innovation of late years has crept into the art of engraving and has in no small degree retarded its progress. Scarce had this art (line engraving) been introduced into this country on a respectable footing when a species of invention took place, best known by the name of stippling or dotting, and has insensibly made so rapid a progress in the course of a few years that it has deluged the metropolis and the country at large with a superfluity of inferior productions. Far be it from me to depreciate this talent when it is confined to the hands of ingenious artists; but what is much to be regretted is that from the nature of the operation and the extreme facility with which it is executed it has got into the hands of every boy of every print-seller in town, and of every manufacturer of prints, however ignorant and unskilful.71

The practical advantage of a simple technique tended to be regarded as a disadvantage when assessing the value of a print. The Algemeene Konst en Letterbode of 1802 likewise regarded stipple engraving as inferior to traditional line engraving:
c

With uncommon pleasure we understand that the mad passion for engraving in the punctuated manner, which has predominated for so long with sacrifice of common sense and good taste, is beginning to decline, and that line style engraving is beginnning to surface again.72

Traditional line engraving was also increasingly associated with history painting, while the mezzotint was mainly used for the less-esteemed genre of portraiture.73 Over the course of the nineteenth century this hierarchy of techniques appears to have blurred, although there are still clear signs well into the century that the various techniques were not yet regarded as interchangeable or equivalent. It is no accident, for example, that LArtiste continued to talk of La grande gravure.74 Even in England, the land of the mezzotint, many critics continued to regard line engraving as the superior technique for many years. Where prints were displayed at exhibitions depended not only on their technique but also on that techniques place in the hierarchy of techniques. Goupil, the renowned firm of art dealers, remained faithful to this normative grading of reproduction techniques in its stock lists until the early twentieth century. Reproductive techniques may have been similar in many respects, but this did not make them of equal value.

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It should be noted, however, that in reproductive practice these normative distinctions were frequently less clear. In the quest for new graphic effects various techniques were combined in an often ingenious fashion, making it almost impossible to tell them apart with the naked eye. Even the terms crayon manner, stipple engraving and aquatint were sometimes used to designate a range of related variations on a technique. Such methods were regularly combined with each other, or with traditional engraving and the mezzotint, to create prints in what was known as the mixed method or mixed manner. Although the various graphic techniques constantly provided printmakers with new ways to reproduce art, these were never enough. By the early nineteenth century printmakers were already experimenting with a new kind of medium that would be even more effective for art reproduction the lithograph.
lithograPhy: a nEw mEdium

According to Alois Senefelder (1771-1834), the inventor of lithography, the reproduction of drawings was one of the chief merits of the new technique.75 [fig. 9] While lithography found its first application in the reproduction of sheet music, the method was soon employed to replicate and multiply works of visual art. The earliest example of this use of lithography is probably the publication of Albrecht Drers Christlich-Mythologische Handzeichnungen in 1808. Another early publication, Les Oeuvres lithographiques. Contenant un choix de dessins daprs les grands matres de toutes les coles, tir des Muses de sa Majest le Roi de Bavire, by Johann
fig. 9 Portrait of Aloys Senefelder.

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Nepomuk Strixner (1782-1855), appeared between 1810 and 1816. Encouraged by this success, Strixner then applied the technique to the reproduction of paintings. In 1817 he published Knigliche Bayerische Gemlde-Saal zu Mnchen und Schleissheim, which comprised two hundred paintings reproduced as lithographs.76 Although lithography would develop into a mass medium for art reproduction, these early publications remained somewhat exclusive in character.77 The first lithographs were printed in southern Germany, in a region where Solenhofen stone, a type of limestone generally used as the printing matrix, occurred. Lithography was also known as stone printing. The first lithographic presses outside Germany were in England. Senefelder had travelled to London as early as 1800 to obtain a patent for his new reproduction method.78 His decision to apply for a patent in England is understandable, given the countrys rich graphic tradition, major technological advancement following the Industrial Revolution and large domestic market. Three years later Specimens of Polyautography (1803) was published (lithography was originally known as polyautography), with original prints by artists such as Benjamin West (1738-1820) and Henry Fuseli (1741-1825). In England the technique was soon employed for art reproduction, unlike in Germany where the medium was also used for other, commercial purposes. Important pioneers in the field of English lithography were the publishers Rudolf Ackermann (1764-1834) and Charles Joseph Hullmandel (1789-1850). Ackermann mainly stimulated lithography in a quantative sense, while Hullmandel, who had started out as an artist, helped to improve the quality of the technique.79 Lithography next arrived in France, where the miniature painter Godefroy Engelmann (1788-1839) brought the first lithographic press into service in Mulhouse in 1814. Prior to this he had gone to Munich in order to study with Clemens Senefelder, the brother of Alois Senefelder. Engelmann made a great success of his lithographic business, prompting him to open another lithographic printing shop in Paris, in June 1816. However, he was not the only person to realise the significance of the new medium, for in April of that year, Baron Charles Philibert de Lasteyrie (1759-1849) had already introduced lithography in Paris. A publicist, philanthropist and liberal, he was soon producing prints after compositions by C. Vernet and Charlet.80 Although the baron contributed significantly to early lithography in France, it was Engelmann who proved the stronger of the two and was responsible for making Paris the European capital of lithography from the 1820s.

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In the Netherlands the Koninklijke Courant of 1 August 1807 contained the first report on Senefelders highly ingenious invention, in which it pointed out the major advantage of the lithographic technique: One of the greatest advantages, which this operation yields, consists of this, that instead of one copy one obtains a perfect impression of the original drawing.81 Despite this enthusiasm the medium was not introduced in the Netherlands until two years later, in 1809. The following year, the Hollandsche Huishoudelijke Maatschappij endeavoured to encourage printmakers to adopt the technique by organising a competition optimistically entitled: The Stone-Print will go far.82 Initially, however, lithography was only employed in one-off experiments.83 Production would not grow until the 1820s, when the technique was promoted through the efforts of the lithographers C.H.G. Steuerwald and Jean Augustin Daiwaille (1786-1850). Daiwaille in particular made a significant contribution to Dutch lithography, ensuring that a lithographic press was installed at the newly founded Koninklijke Academie and instructing the academys first pupils in the technique. He left the academy in 1826 to work as an independent lithographer, producing prints of his own designs and also collaborating closely with other artists, such as the painter B.C. Koekkoek, on the reproduction of their work.84 However, the new medium also encountered criticism. In 1824 Jacob de Vos even warned the Fourth Class of the Koninklijk Instituut [the Royal Advisery Council for Science, Literature and Fine Arts] about the dangers of lithography:
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Are we not inundated daily by the products of [lithography], and does not almost every pupil reckon himself capable of drawing on the Stone? Does he not already deem himself to be an artist, since his scribbles and sketches are so easily multiplied and find a ready market owing to their cheap price? I readily confess that I have been no advocate of Lithography from the beginning, because I foresaw that precisely this ease in manipulation would be the cause of much paltry work, and would cause the study of the noble art of Engraving to flag. Thus far I have seen almost nothing that has recalled me from this prejudice [..] If the Stone-Print had only been employed for examples in Education, for representations of objects of Natural History, for Maps and for more things of this ilk; if only it had been wisely left at sketches, thereby giving artists something of their mind, but no! The desire was to imitate engraving, the desire was to shove all printing arts behind the bench and then vehemently insist to us that this is fine.85

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When the Dutch government asked the members of the Fourth Class to advise on the new lithographic technique, their answer was clear: lithography should be regarded as a threat to the traditional art of engraving. Despite lithographic progress abroad, they could not recommend the method: Thus far lithography has produced still little elsewhere and in our country nothing as yet, which merits keeping in a collection of Printed Art.86 During the 1820s Dutch Romantic artists were not quite familiar with the technique of lithography, although some were experimenting with it, like the talented painter Johannes Schotel.87 Early Dutch lithography received an extra impulse in the form of two professional lithographers from Brussels, Jobard and Desguerrois & Co, who set up shop in Amsterdam in 1827. The following year Desguerrois started work on the prestigious publication Koninklijk Museum van s Gravenhage. This was inspired by the French Galerie de la Duchesse de Berry and comprised an album with sixty lithographs after old masters in the Mauritshuis.88 As the work was to be executed by Dutch printmakers, Desguerrois asked the well-known (Belgian) painter Madou to instruct several young artists of the Northern Netherlands in the lithographic craft., thereby giving C.C.A. Last, N. Pieneman, W.J.J. Nuijen and H. van Hove their first training in lithography. Last, in particular, subsequently developed into a productive lithographer. After a hesistant start, lithography in the Netherlands also evolved rapidly into an effective and widely used reproduction technique. The renowned lithographer Simon Moulijn (1866-1948), who was chiefly interested in producing original works, described this development as: the self-satisfied making of prints, for dull periodicals such as Het Schilder- en Letterkundig Album, De Kunstkronijk etc. So, simultaneously with its technical perfection, the deterioration of the lithographic printing art in effect set in.89 The production of relatively good-quality lithographic reproductions began to get under way from circa 1830 onwards. In general it can be said that in the first quarter of the nineteenth century, lithography remained in an experimental phase. During this period, use of the word lithography should also be regarded as an umbrella term, accommodating a wide range of related techniques.90 Around 1825 Alois Senefelders invention had outgrown the experimental phase and developed into a major new technique for art reproduction, supporting print runs of 30,000 to 40,000 copies without significant loss of quality.91 From the late 1820s onwards lithographic

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reproductions were produced on an industrial scale, becoming the first mass medium for art reproduction and a modern alternative to traditional engraving techniques. Lithography was thus the most significant change in the graphic landscape during the initial decades of the nineteenth century. Constant innovation eventually led to widespread modernisation in the graphic world and caused art reproduction to gain momentum from the 1830s onwards.

GRaphiC innovaTion: 1835-1860


thE stEEl Engraving: a nEw takE on a traditional mEdium

Although copper plates had traditionally been used for engraving, during the 1820s steel plates became an important alternative.92 Steel was much harder than copper and thus much more resistant to wear during the printing process.93 Use of steel plates considerably increased print runs, which could now rise into the thousands, instead of the few hundreds supported by copper plates. So the new material was responsible for a tenfold increase in print runs. Steel plates were soon employed for both line engravings and mezzotints. Although line engravings had originally supported higher print runs than mezzotints, the use of steel plates eliminated this advantage, prompting many line engravers to switch to the production of mezzotints, in order to survive.94 England was the first country to move from copper to steel engraving, a development quickly followed by printmakers on the continent.95 In France and the Netherlands, the use of steel engravings became established during the 1830s, from which point steel plates were used for the majority of prints.96 This change of material constituted a significant qualitative improvement in the nineteenth-century graphic industry, which affected all its products, from banknotes to art reproductions. The adoption of steel plates, however, did more than simply increase print runs. The new opportunities offered by this material encouraged a revival of engraving in France, England and the Netherlands during the 1830s, a revival which also extended into the field of art reproduction. In 1835 the authoritative French art journal LArtiste observed of this revival in engraving:

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10a

fig. 10a Louis henriquel-dupont after paul dlaroche, LHemicycle des Beaux-Arts (1853), engraving (left) 53 x 112.5 cm, Muse Goupil, Bordeaux.

Il est remarquez que les notables progres quelle a faits en France dans ces dernires annes ont concid avec une augmentation sensible dans le nombre des graveurs, preuve que la multiplici des artistes nest pas aussi nuissible aux arts que quelques personnes semblent le croire.97

Leading French engravers of this period were Z. Prvost (1797-1861) and A.J.B.M. Blanchard (1792-1849). The talented Italian engravers Luigi Calamatta (1802-1869) and Paolo Mercuri (1804-1884) had also relocated to Paris where they likewise made a name for themselves with prints after old masters and contemporary works. However, the undisputed leader of this generation of engravers was LouisPierre Henriquel-Dupont, who established his reputation with his 1831 engraving after lAbdication de Gustave Wasa by Hersent in 1831.98 This print laid the foundation for his fame as the chef dune brillante cole, which Charles Blanc also described as le grand mouvement de 1830.99 While engravers of the old guard had largely owed their reputation to prints after old masters, Henriquel-Dupont chiefly specialised in works after contemporaries, many of whom were his friends. Among the artists whose work he reproduced were Gros, Ingres, Decamps, Scheffer and Dlaroche, several of whom

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10c

fig. 10c Louis henriquel-dupont after paul dlaroche, LHemicycle des Beaux-Arts (1853), engraving (right) 53 x 112.5 cm, Muse Goupil, Bordeaux.

10b

fig. 10b Louis henriquel-dupont after paul dlaroche, LHemicycle des Beaux-Arts (1853), engraving (centre) 53 x 65.5 cm, Muse Goupil, Bordeaux.

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he had met in Gurins studio. In particular, Henriquel-Dupont made prints of various works by Dlaroche, including an 1831 engraving after Cromwell devant le cercueil de Charles i, and his successful 1840 print after Lord Strafford.100 The engravers greatest work was undoubtedly his print after Dlaroches muralpainting, LHemicycle du palais des Beaux-arts [fig. 10 a,b,c], a colossal engraving (260 x 56 cm), in three parts. Published in 1852, the print was much admired at home and abroad, and was for many years the most prestigious work in the Goupil stock list.101 Henri Beraldi, the print encyclopedist, regarded Henriquel-Dupont as the most renowned engraver of the nineteenth century; the critic H. Delaborde even believed that his work could be favourably compared with that of his illustrious seventeenth-century predecessors.102 During the nineteenth century, a French engraver could be paid no greater compliment, so such praise set Henriquel-Dupont apart as the primus inter pares amongst the engravers of 1830. Moreover the master engraver taught a number of pupils who would also develop into leading engravers.103 As French printmaking flourished, confidence in the face of English printmaking also grew. In 1845, in a reversal of its position during the early 1830s, LArtiste condemned English engravers for working sans inspiration, sans tudes et sans gout.104 The critic L. Clement de Ris took a more qualified view of relations between English and French graphic art, and also had an eye for the merits of printmakers on the other side of the Channel. Whilst English printmakers continued to live up to their reputation in the field of the mezzotint and the wood engraving, French engravers were now superior in the field of line engraving, the critic proclaimed:
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En fait dillustrations, et en laissant part la manire noire, la GrandeBretagne possde les premiers ouvriers du monde, mais ds quil faut aborder la grande gravure, faire de lart, elle na personne opposer nos Henriquel-Dupont, nos Blanchard, nos Martinet, nos Jules Francois.105

The renowned English printmaker S.W. Reynolds (1773-1835) died in 1835, in the same year as his most talented pupil, Samuel Cousins (1801-1887), signed a contract to reproduce Bolton Abbey in the Olden Time by Edwin Landseer, marking the beginning of a long and successful career.106 Like his French colleagues, Cousins mainly produced prints after works by contemporary masters, such as Edwin Landseer, Frederick Leighton, John Everett Millais, and also the renowned Ger-

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fig. 11 Samuel Cousins after Edwin Long, Portrait of Samuel Cousins (1884), mezzotint 42.5 x 33 cm, British Museum, London.

11

man painter F.X. Winterhalter.107 His fame is demonstrated by the fact that he was the first engraver to be awarded the status of RA from the Royal Academy. Cousins rose to become the uncrowned king of Victorian art reproduction. [fig. 11] In his shadow numerous printmakers worked on reproductions of contemporary English art. The engraver Thomas Landseer no longer needed lessons from his father John Landseer and was already producing a range of engravings after the paintings of his now-famous brother Edwin Landseer. The well-known printmaker C.G. Lewis (1808-1880) made prints after the work of W.P. Frith, while the engravers W.H. Simmons (1811-1882) and T.O. Barlow (18241889) reproduced the paintings of the Pre-Raphaelites Millais, Holman Hunt and D.G. Rossetti.108 Although Cousins made mezzotint prints entirely in the English print tradition, by this time the technique was no longer employed in its pure form. The vast majority of prints from this period were mezzotints and mixed method engravings, which combined various graphic techniques.109 Cousins ended his ca-

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reer in 1870. Unlike Henriquel-Dupont he had only one famous pupil, T.L. Atkinson, who would chiefly become known for his prints after works by Millais.110 Line engravings continued to be published alongside these mezzotints.111 In particular, John Burnet (1784-1868) followed in the footsteps of the renowned engravers Woolett and Strange, producing traditional engravings after works by the popular artists Wilkie, Turner and Landseer until well into the 1850s. In the Netherlands engraving also flourished during the course of the 1830s, largely thanks to the efforts of A.B.B. Taurel. [fig. 12] As previously explained, Taurel had been brought from France during the 1820s to teach engraving at the Koninklijke Akademie voor Beeldende Kunsten in Amsterdam. His instruction soon began to bear fruit, for in 1829 one of his pupils, Johannes de Mare, was awarded the Grand Prize for engraving. De Mare set off for Paris to perfect his drawing skills under the supervision of Ingres, who was a good friend of his professor, Taurel. De Mares decision to use his Dutch prize to finance study abroad did not meet with universal approval. The Board of Governors of the Koninklijke Academie even regarded it as evidence of a lack of confidence in the academys own teaching. Moreover, in 1835, at a new presentation of the Grand Prize for engraving, the Dutch Minister of the Interior openly speculated on whether it was advisable for young, talented engravers to abandon the world of Dutch printmaking so quickly, since the prize was actually intended to stimulate printmaking in the Netherlands. However, the influential critic Jeronimo
fig. 12 andre Benoit Taurel after Cornelis Kruseman, Man (1852), engraving 25.2 x 18.5 cm, private collection.

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de Vries pointed to the beneficial effects of enabling young engravers to train abroad, as later stipulated in the French-style Prix de Rome. In 1836, another of Taurels pupils, H.W. Couwenberg (1814-1845), was also awarded the Grand Prize for engraving. Taurels other pupils included Dirk Juriaan Sluyter (1811-1886), Willem Steelink senior(1826-1913) and, of course, his own son C.E. Taurel (18241892). All of these young engravers went on to produce prints after old and contemporary masters, including Rembrandt, Van der Helst, Pieneman, Kruseman and Bles. It was thanks to these successful pupils that Taurel manage to effect a revival in Dutch engraving during the late 1830s; a development noted by the new art journal De Kunstkronijk in its first year of publication (1840-1841):
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With exceptional satisfaction we see engraving once again reviving in our land. Through this the products of painters become universally known; and we too possess artists, whose names would be glorified abroad, if their work were to be found in art lovers collections, through means of the engraving tool. This not only is true of living masters, but also with regard to many artists from past times, which are less known amongst other peoples, than they really deserve. In Italy, in France, in England, we saw every means being deployed to multiply to infinity a Raphael, a Van Dijck, a Lebrun through the engraving tool. Here nothing of this was happening []. For want of public or special encouragement, we cannot [...] praise the artists enough for erecting memorials to painters, through engraved work, undertaken at their own cost and risk.112

Taurel died in 1859 and was succeeded at the academy by his pupil, J.W. Kaiser. To summarise: from the 1830s onwards, engraving flourished in France, England and the Netherlands. While the master engraver Henriquel-Dupont breathed new life into Frances engraving tradition, Samuel Cousins maintained the reputation of the English mezzotint tradition in Victorian printmaking and Taurel brought engraving to life in the Netherlands. All three worked with different traditions in a different context. Printmakers increasingly replaced traditional copper plates with plates made of steel, which considerably augmented the print run per plate. In the meantime, however, other methods had been found to multiply the plate itself.

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stErEotyPEs and ElEctrotyPEs: multiPlying thE Printing matrix

Although the introduction of steel plates was an important step forward in the quest to obtain higher print runs, it was only one of the innovations. During the eighteenth century, printing establishments were already employing a technique, known as stereotyping, to multiply the printing matrix, with its costly lead letters, in a number of duplicate matrices, or stereotypes. This development made it possible to print the same material from more than one plate simultaneously.113 The advent of the stereotype was also accompanied by other major innovations. In 1799, for example, Louis-Nicolas Robert (1716-1819) introduced his paper machine for papier sans fin, or paper without end, allowing loose sheets of paper to be increasingly replaced by endless paper rolls. Changes in printing press technology also occurred in the same period. Circa 1800 the Englishman Charles Earl Stanhope (1753-1833) introduced the iron printing press, replacing the wooden, hand-operated presses which had changed little since the time of Gutenberg. In 1810 the German mechanical engineers Friedrich Knig (1774-1833) and Andreas Friedrich Bauer (1783-1860) completed their revolutionary printing machine, presenting their invention in England where they were working because of the greater protection afforded by English patent law. From this point onwards the presses literally began to roll. During the 1810s and 1820s various types of printing press appeared on the market. In 1828 the publisher Johan Ensched introduced the Knig and Bauer-style printing machine in the Netherlands. In the mid-nineteenth century this type of press was itself superceded by the cylinder press and the rotary press. By this time, steam power was also replacing the manual operation of presses. In England, The Times had been printed on steam-powered presses from as early as 1814, although the first such press was not brought into service in the Netherlands until 1852, where it was introduced by the firm of Thieme. During the 1830s the stereotype, endless paper and much faster presses made it possible to multiply images on a huge scale, in (almost) unlimited print runs ranging from several hundred thousands of copies to several million and, just as importantly, within a comparatively short time.114 The speed of (re)production was particularly important for illustrated journals which were under pressure to keep abreast of current affairs. Such publications needed both text and illustrations to be multiplied rapidly. The engraver Thomas Bewick had already shown that the wood engraving was the ideal medium for combining words and images. The stereotype technique allowed the

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wood engraving to be rapidly multiplied, producing multiple matrices which could then be used to reproduce the image. In England in particular these developments encouraged a considerable increase in the number of illustrated journals, from as early as the beginning of the 1830s. The Penny Magazine was one of the first successful illustrated journals. The printing matrices for the illustrations, or stereotypes, were rapidly made for the various periodicals, and often used again in later issues or sold to other publishers of illustrated journals. Thus an extensive trade in stereotypes arose during the 1830s and 1840s, with English publishers supplying the majority of images. The range of secondhand illustrations on offer was so great that the editors of many journals found it financially unrealistic to employ their own wood engravers. The volume of cheap foreign illustrations on the market was partially responsible for the failure of the Dutch school for wood engraving, despite the efforts of influential publishers, such as Beijerinck, Fuhri and Sijthoff, to keep this open.115 In chapter four I shall return to the subject of illustrated (art) journals at length, so I shall confine myself here to the observation that the stereotype technique proved a highly successful way to multiply printing matrices. The stereotype received a considerable boost through the introduction of electricity. During the 1830s, scientists such as Michael Faraday (1791-1867) increasingly managed to harness the power of electricity in a range of applications, including the electric motor, the telegraph and lighting. In 1837 Moritz H. von Jakobi (1801-1874) presented his method for duplicating metal printing plates through electrolysis, which created matrices known as galvanographs.116 These duplicate matrices were much stronger than traditional lead stereotypes and supported much greater print runs, producing several thousands prints a day, while ordinary plates could barely yield two hundred. In 1846 the French journal LIllustration reported on a galvanograph from which no less than 1.6 million prints had been printed, without loss of quality.117 The new technique combined the strengths of traditional copper engraving and modern steel engraving, as it allowed the unique qualities of a copper engraving to be transferred to a steel plate capable of supporting much larger print runs, of at least ten thousand.118. Another new technique was the steeling of copper plates. Although soft copper was easier to engrave than hard steel, plates made of steel could produce much greater print runs. During the late 1850s it became possible to apply a thin layer of steel to engraved copper plates, allowing these to support the kind

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of high-volume print run previously only attainable with steel plates.119 From the moment the electrolysis technique was introduced, the benefits for art reproduction were pointed out.120 LArtiste described Jacobis invention as une invention merveilleuse, qui se compare, sous tous les rapports, linvention de M Daguerre.121 The journal also hinted that galvanography could be combined with Daguerres photography, making both painter and engraver redundant:
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Il est certain,[] quaucun artiste ne peut produire des dessins aussi fidles; mais la science a fait agir le doigt de la nature, et au lieu dinscrire sur son oeuvre:- Dessin par Ingres, grav par Calamata, elle y a trac ces mots:- Dessin par la lumire et grav par lelectricit.122

The use of electroplating or galvanoplasty, to produce galvanographs, quickly spread: limportance des rsultats commerciaux a rendu les progrs beaucoup plus rapides. La galvanoplastique a dj fait le tour du monde civilis.123 In 1844 the Dutch journal De Kunstkronijk even predicted: The kingdom of woodcarving is at an end; a great revolution in the field of steel and copper engraving is at hand.124 On further reflection, in 1850, De Kunstkronijk decided that this would not be the case: galvanography (or glyphography) was rather a complement to existing techniques than a threat to them:
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Here in our land this art appears to be attempting to approach copper engraving. We are of the opinion that the art is still too young to be able to pass a definitive judgement on this. It is enough that we have not been misled in our expectations, and that which was represented at its inception has been verified. It [this art] deserves, really deserves an honourable place amidst the fine arts. We believe it will not supplant any kind of engraving, for like every [art], it stands on its own, possesses its own particular character, has its special requirements, demands a special treatment, and produces a special effect in its works. As regards elaborateness, it holds the middle ground between wood and copper engraving, and on account of the durability of its relief forms, it offers important advantages when printing on the printing press. Meanwhile the wood engraving appears to produce warmer tone and colour, and the glyphographic plate, [though] sharp in its lines, is, for want of colour, somewhat round and flat.

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It is equally to be expected, that Mr Binger will gradually manage to introduce all those improvements to which the thing [ie glyphography] is open. Verily, when we consider its practice in our land in the short term, we have to admit that he [Binger] has already made great advances, and we rest assured that [...] it could by degrees actually come very close to copper engraving.125 The stereotype and the galvanograph were thus major innovations in the graphic industry.126 While the adoption of steel plates had already increased the print run by a factor of ten, the duplication of matrices caused a further exponential rise. [fig. 13] Moreover, it was now possible to print from multiple, identical matrices simultaneously, a development that not only produced much higher print runs than previously attained but also saved considerable time. While a wood engraving could theoretically support enormous print runs, ranging from several hundred thousand to several million, the stereotype made it possible for such an output to be achieved in a relatively short time. However, this capacity could now be matched by the lithograph, which had been transformed into a mass medium by a new experimental technique.
lithograPhy as mass mEdium

During the 1830s lithography also experienced a boom. Between 1838 and 1845 the number of lithographers working in Paris rose from 93 to 159.127 In London, lithographic printers quickly outnumbered printers who worked with engraving.128 In 1840 LArtiste drew attention to the growth of the nieuwe medium: Aprs le souvenir, lactualit; aprs la captivit, le triomphe; aprs la gravure, la lithographe.129
fig. 13 adolphe Mouilleron after Gendron, Francesca & Paolo Passant aux Enfers (1856), lithographe

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35.5 x 49.8 cm, private collection.

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Lithography enjoyed unprecedented popularity in France.130 The publisher Engelmann soon faced competition from other successful lithographic publishers, such as Bertauts and Lemercier. The technology was deployed on a large scale for advertisements, decorative prints and cartoons. The enormous success pf lithography quickly caused the process to be viewed in a commercial light.131 LArtiste looked admiringly to Germany, where lithography was valued more as a developed technique for reproducing art works.132 This journal also lamented the fact that French painters sometimes still viewed lithography with:
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ddaigneuse indifference[...]Les peintres se refusent leur contier leurs compositions; ils aspirent tous aux honneurs de la rproduction par la gravure, et perdent ainsi une popularit qui leur serait bien vite par limmense et facile publicit de la lithographie.133

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fig. 14a after Jean-Francois Millet, Les Glaneuses (1890), copper and zinc typogravure, Muse Goupil, Bordeaux.

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It was not a question of talent, for lithographers such as Aubry-Lecomte (17871858), described by Beraldi as le prince des lithographes, Lon Nol (1807-1884) and Adolphe Mouilleron (1820-1881) were causing a great stir with prints after famous masters such as Girodet, Prudhon and Winterhalter.134 [fig. 14 a,b,c] Their prints proved that lithographs no longer had to play second fiddle to traditional engravings.135 Lithography also flourished in England, where the medium was mainly used for the reproduction of watercolours.136 During the course of the 1820s it already began to compete with the older aquatint process; from circa 1840 onwards lithography became the most commonly used reproduction technique for artworks on paper.137 The close association between lithography and watercolour painting is illustrated by the fact that the most important lithographers, such

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fig. 14b after Jean-Francois Millet, Les Glaneuses (1890), copper and zinc typogravure, Muse Goupil, Bordeaux

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fig. 14c after Jean-Francois Millet, Les Glaneuses (1890), copper and zinc typogravure, Muse Goupil, Bordeaux

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fig. 14d after Jean-Francois Millet, Les Glaneuses (1890), copper and zinc typogravure, Muse Goupil, Bordeaux

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fig. 14c after Jean-Francois Millet, Les Glaneuses (1890), chromotypogravure 42 x 56 cm, Muse Goupil, Bordeaux

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fig. 14c after Jean-Francois Millet, Les Glaneuses (1890), chromotypogravure 42 x 56 cm, Muse Goupil, Bordeaux

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fig. 14c after Jean-Francois Millet, Les Glaneuses (1890), chromotypogravure 42 x 56 cm, Muse Goupil, Bordeaux

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as J.D. Harding (1797-1863), came from the watercolour tradition. Harding was a productive reproductive lithographer, whose output included prints after work by the well-known landscape painter R.P. Bonington, including A Series of Subjects from the Works of the Late R.P. Bonington (1829-1830).138 Another influential lithographer was Louis Haghe (1806-1885), who worked for many years with the publisher William Day (1797-1845). Since the 1840s, Day had been the chief rival of the English publisher and lithographic pioneer Charles Joseph Hullmandel. After a hesistant start lithography was also adopted in the Netherlands, around 1830.139 The tone had been set by the above-cited album, Het Koninklijk Museum van s Gravenhage op steen gebracht, printed between 1828 and 1833 by Desguerrois of Amsterdam. The period around 1830 also witnessed the first results of the collaboration between the lithographic publisher J.A. Daiwaille and the painter B.C. Koekkoek. This collaboration, which was probably instigated by Daiwaille, produced three lithographic series of nature studies, entitled Landschap studien.140 During the 1840s other productive lithographers worked in the footsteps of Daiwaille, including the brothers C.C.A. Last (1808-1876), H.W. Last (1817-1873) and A.C. Nunnink (1813-1894), all of whom made prints after popular Dutch masters such as Schelfhout, Kruseman and Rochussen. The stream of lithographs continued, with works such as Het Hollandsche Schilder- en Letterkundige album and Verzameling van teekeningen door onze voornaamste schilders, which were both made and printed by C.W. Mielings Koninklijke Lithografie between 1847 and 1849.141 Attention should also be drawn to the involvement of the artist August Alleb (1838-1927) in Dutch lithography of this period. In 1855 he produced his first lithographs, encouraged by Jozef Israls who also introduced him to his close friend, the French master lithographer Adolphe Mouilleron.142 In Paris, Alleb moved into a house in Rue Cadet, opposite the premises of the renowned lithographic printer and publisher Bertauts, where he had his lithographs printed. Bertauts was commonly regarded as the best printer in Europe. In the Louvre, Alleb made lithographs after works by Rembrandt, Murillo and Chardin; at the cole des Beaux-Arts he took a course in lithography, under the supervision of Mouilleron.143 In 1858 Alleb returned to Amsterdam, where he supplied lithographs to De Kunstkronijk, collaborated on the Scheffer Album and produced folio-format lithographs of Israls Adagio con Espressione and The Pilgrimfathers by J.G. Schwartze. After 1860 lithography would only play a modest role in Alle-

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bs career, although he did continue to make prints, including a lithograph after Lutetia by Alfred Stevens.144 Printmakers from Daiwaille to Alleb made a significant contribution to Dutch lithography, despite the fact that output in the Netherlands was not yet on a par with lithographic production abroad. In 1865 De Kunstkronijk acknowledged that Dutch lithography had not yet reached the eminence, at which we see it abroad; either in the artistic merits of its products, or in the perfection of the technical process in printing.145 At the same time, however, the journal pointed out that the medium was being deployed on such a large scale, that any support by the state would be unnecessary. In general it can be stated that lithography gained momentum in France, England and the Netherlands from the 1830s onwards. The rise of illustrated journals in particular generated a major increase in lithographic production. The best-known example of such a publication is probably the art journal LArtiste, which served as an important showcase for lithographic reproductions of art over many decades.146 The equivalent publication in the Netherlands was the De Kunstkronijk, which incorporated a wealth of works by many lithographers, including J.H. Weissenbruch and J.J. van der Maaten.147 In chapter four I shall return to the subject of the role played by illustrated journals in the production and distribution of art reproductions. The important issue here is that the popularity of such publications with lithographic illustrations should not be viewed in isolation from lithography as a mass medium in the mid-nineteenth century. The development of the lithographic medium also brought a new prospect within reach, the large-scale production of reproductions in colour.
colour lithograPhy

Colouring of prints is a lucrative employment, wrote Priscilla Wakefield (17511832) in 1798.148 For centuries the only way to produce colour engravings, mezzotints or etchings was to colour these by hand. The graphic reproduction of colour was an irksome problem.149 Even lithographs initially had to be coloured by hand. The colouring of prints was rewarding work, particularly for women, the emancipating Wakefield proclaimed in 1798, the same year in which Alois Senefelder developed his form of lithography. This technique offered new opportunities in the quest for a graphic method capable of reproducing colour. After the medium had reached maturity, around 1830, experiments chiefly focused on devel-

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oping an effective colour printing process. Various processes for reproducing prints in colour evolved at a rapid pace, under the umbrella of colour lithograph or chromolithography. In 1835 the English engraver and printer George Baxter (1804-1867) was granted one of the first patents for a colour printing process, which he initially developed for printing wood engravings but soon applied to lithographs as well. Two years later Baxter published the first art reproductions to be made using this method, in The Pictorial Album; or, Cabinet of Paintings, which comprised 11 colour reproductions.150 The watercolour painter and lithographer Thomas Shotter Boys (1783-1874) also made a substantial contribution to the development of colour lithography: by the late 1830s he had already collaborated with the publisher Hullmandel on various colour lithographs. By this point the French had also been experimenting intensively with colour lithography. In 1837 Frances most important lithographer, Engelmann, was granted a patent for a colour printing process.151 Between 1835 and 1840 his major treatise on the new process, Trait theoretique et pratique de lithographie (Mulhouse 1835-1840), was published, heralding a new phase in the development of lithography.152 The products of colour lithography, including colour prints by the distinguished lithographer Louis Haghe, were displayed at the Great Exhibition of 1851 in London.153 During this period the English firms of Day & Sons and Rowney evolved into specialists in the field of chromolithography, mainly employing the technique for the reproduction of watercolours.154 The principle of colour lithography was both simple and effective: each colour was printed using a different stone. No trouble or expense was spared in the quest to reproduce some original works accurately in colour, with colour lithographs being printed from 37 different stones in some instances.155 The quality of these reproductions and the high expections engendered by chromolithography prompted The Art Journal to point out, in 1854, what a threat to the traditional, prestigious technique of line engraving the new medium represented.156 Nevertheless, the publication still envisaged a role for traditional engravings:
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in truth, these coloured prints seem now-a-days to be occupying the windows of the printseller, almost to the entire exclusion of the works of the engraver. We have no fear that however for the latter, inasmuch as there is ample room for both, and each will maintain its own position, and receive its share of public patronage, according to the taste of the purchaser.157

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In the Netherlands the firm of Tresling & Co was conspicuous for its production of colour lithographs. De Kunstkronijk wrote of a print made by Hermann Wolff after Gerard Dous Evening school in the Rijksmuseum:
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Draughtsman and printer have in surprising fashion overcome the great difficulties, which the reproduction of a painting, so vigorous and warm in colour, so complicated in effect as this, must produce. The result obtained gives us the right to bring this truly artistic undertaking to the attention of the art-loving public, to recommend it and to express the wish that the aforesaid firm be encouraged by success to continue along the road it has taken.158

Thus, colour lithography literally introduced long-awaited colour into the history of the graphic arts. The technique found application in many fields, from the reproduction of rare watercolours by Turner to the creation of advertising posters. Nevertheless the advantages were confined to the lithographic medium, for steel engravings and etchings still had to be coloured by hand. Colour lithography was one of the most spectacular innovations in the graphic world during the nineteenth century, and colour lithographs stood out brightly against the somber tones of black-and-white engravings, mezzotints and etchings. Yet all these techniques still shared one thing in common: they demanded a certain degree of drawing skill from the printmaker. The need for such skill would be made redundant, however, by other technologies under development in the same period.
PhotograPhy: thE nEwEst mEdium

In January 2002 an exceptional photograph was put up for auction.159 The image, made by Joseph Nicphore Nipce (1756-1833), dates from 1825 and is thus the earliest -known photograph in history. Since the subject of the photograph is a seventeenth-century print, it is also the earliest-known photographic reproduction. The physicist Nipce was a man of many talents, who had already designed an early type of bicycle. During the 1820s he turned his attention to photography, working with his assistant and pupil, the panorama painter Louis-Jacques-Mand Daguerre (1787-1851).160 However, the pupil would rapidly compete with his master for the title of founder of the newest medium.161 In 1839 LArtiste enthusiastically reported on the new technique developed by

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Daguerre, which convincingly demonstrated that reality could be recorded with the aid of light alone.162 From the moment of its development, the advantages of Daguerres technique for reproducing art works were recognised. In 1839 the critic Jules Janin declared: Le Daguerreotype est destin reproduire les beaux aspects de la nature et de lart, peu prs comme limprimerie reproduit les chefs-doeuvres de lesprit humain.163 Daguerres method was soon used for the reproduction of art works. Given the lighting problems associated with the technique, plus its (lack of) sensitivity to colour, the daguerreotype method proved best suited to photographing outdoor artworks, such as sculpture and architecture.164 It also became popular for portraiture. Although the process produced exceptionally sharp images, these could not initially be reproduced and thus remained unique. Daguerres technique quickly became known outside France, for close contacts existed between English and French pioneers of photography.165 His invention was quickly noticed in the Netherlands as well. On 23 September 1839, the Dutch painter Christiaan Portman exhibited a daguerreotype of the Binnenhof at an exhibition in The Hague.166 The significance of the technique was also recognised with equal speed, for the Nederlandsche Konst en Letterbode noted that same year:
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If painting remains unviolated by Daguerres invention, and rather is able to learn new useful lessons from the same, there is no doubt that the art of begetting Drawings by means of Sunlight will soon be general. The products of Heliography will speedily vie with those of Lithography, and, just as this brought Engraving into a sad decline, a competitor at present awaits it [lithography], who, in speed of execution coupled with the most striking accuracy, surpasses the Lithographic Art, and threatens Wood Engraving with complete contempt.167

Before this point had been reached however, some serious technical problems had to be solved, such as how to multiply the image. Whilst reproducing the print remained a problem for Daguerre, the English pioneers William Henry Fox Talbot (1800-1877) and John Herschel (1792-1871) were already experimenting in the 1830s with the principle of reproduction from a photographic negative.168 When Fox Talbot published his new principle, he promised that one of

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his aims was to reproduce works of art, such as sculptures, reliefs, drawing and engravings. His omission of painting from this list was probably deliberate.169 Polychrome paintings were particularly problematic works to photograph, for it was still impossible to reproduce colours, and even the translation of colour to a black-and-white photograph seemed beset with difficulty. The balance between various colours and tones was hard to capture, and for many decades an engravers eye proved considerably more sensitive to these elements in a painting than a light-sensitive plate. This is why many a photographer commissioned to photograph a painting often preferred to work with an engraved reproduction of the work in question than the painting itself.170 In his Pencil of Nature, Fox Talbot felt obliged to stress that his images had been made purely by light, without any help from engravings.171 He also asserted that his technique was an entirely new method, which he regarded as having more in common with lithography and drawing than Daguerres invention.172 During the 1840s, Fox Talbots calotype was soon employed to reproduce artworks, alongside Dageurres method.173 The photographic negative was the essential factor that allowed images to be reproduced and multiplied. In France Louis-Dsir Blanquart-Evrard (1802-1872) was granted a patent in 1847 for a negative-based process, similar to Fox Talbots method. From 1851 onwards the Frenchman became one of the first photographers to specialise in photographic reproductions of art, publishing albums with photographs of mainly old masters, such as Album Photographique de lartiste et de lamateur, LOeuvre de N. Poussin, Musee photographique (with photographs of seventeenth-century French and Italian engravings and reliefs) and Galerie photographique (with photographs of sixteenth- and seventeenth-century Italian prints). In 1854 Blanquart-Evrard also published the album LArt contemporain, which comprised photographs of twelve modern works displayed at the Salon of the previous year.174 The French photographers success was based to a large degree on his use of negatives, an element whose advantages had already been demonstrated by Fox Talbot. However, they both used paper negatives, which proved highly delicate. This problem was resolved in 1851-1852 when new glass negatives and the collodium process were introduced. Glass negatives were much more resistant to wear during reproduction, required shorter exposure times and also produced prints of a higher quality.175 Photography effected a radical change in the graphic landscape of the nineteenth century. The differences between this new medium and the traditional

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techniques of engraving, mezzotint and photography scarcely require elucidation. Nevertheless photography did not represent a definitive break with the graphic techniques and developments previously described. On the contrary, from its invention, photography was closely associated with these disciplines, a fact illustrated by the photographer Nipces intense collaboration with the printmaker Lematre and the (panorama) painter Daguerre. In the technical field photography was quickly combined with existing relief, intaglio and planographic processes to create what became known as photomechanical techniques.176 In 1853, for example, The Art Journal drew attention to successful experiments with photolithography: Photo-lithography promises much already; the results are of the most favourable kind.177 At the 1855 Exposition Universelle in Paris the well-known firm of Lemercier exhibited admirable examples of photolithography.178 The combination of photography and galvanography had already been suggested in 1845, by LArtiste, which wrote that such a development would make the painter and the printmaker redundant, and could produce exceptional images.179 A little more than ten years later, this idea had become reality and The Art Journal reported on the phenomenon of photogalvanography:
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Photogalvanography [] relieves us from the risk of possessing fading picures. Here we have pictures possessing in the highest degree the perfection of the original photograph, and the permanence of a copperplate print.180

Photomechanical technique thus formed a valuable addition to the (by then) traditional daguerreotypes and calotypes.181 In 1855 the well-known French photographer Louis Dsir Blanquart-Evrard suddenly went bankrupt.182 His financial problems had largely been caused by the rise of the new (photomechanical) techniques. His bankruptcy is perhaps symbolic of the phase that photography had now entered. The period of enthusiastic experimentation was over and photography had evolved into a successful new medium in the graphic world. Blanquart-Evrard, a pioneer in the field of photography, unfortunately became one of the first victims of its success. Clearly, photography was destined to become the technique of the future and radically change the graphic landscape.

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1860-1900: GRaphiC vERSuS phoToGRaphiC aRT REpRoduCTion


Engraving undEr thrEat

On 1 February 1859 the leading printmakers Henriquel-Dupont, Adolphe Mouilleron and Lon Nol, together with the publishers Goupil, submitted a petition to Napoleon iii, in which they requested protection for traditional reproduction techniques from the threat of technical innovations such as photography.183 This call to save traditional techniques illustrates an awareness that increasingly resounds in various commentaries during this period: that traditional engraving was menaced by innovation in the graphic world, with photography representing the greatest threat. In 1863, for example, the critic Philippe Burty wrote of the prints displayed at the Salon, where there was a profusion of cheap photographic reproductions:
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Ceci tuera cela murmure un des personnages du pote. La photographie tuera la gravure, pouvons-nous dire avec non moins de certitude. Oui, le jour est proche o les graveurs au burin ne seront pas plus nombreux quapres le XVe sicle ne le furent les scribes et les enlumineurs de manuscrits. Niepce et Daguerre auront t, leur facon, les Faust et les Gutenberg des temps nouveaux. Leur invention, la fois si merveilleuse et si imparfait, ne rpond que trop bien aux besoin dconomie et des rapidit de notre poque. Que la science, demain donn lhliographie le moyen de reproduire les tons, au moins dans leurs rapports dintensit lumineuse, et le dernier buriniste, quel que soit son gnie, naura plus qu briser son burin, jug inutile et trompeur par une gnration affole dexactitude littrale.184

In the mid-1860s Burty proclaimed the death of engraving.185 He was moved to tears as he responded to the Salon of 1865:
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Sil fallait prendre au srieux la Gravure, telle quelle est rpresente au Salon de 1865, il ne resterait plus qu crire en tte de cet article: Consummatum esttout est fini! Et se livrer de longues lamentations! Mais, en matire de critique, la philosophie doit lemporter sur le sentiment. Si les conseils nont quune influence limite, les lamentations sont

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plus vaines encore. Les larmes que nous aurions verses dans les deux grandes salles qui ont t consacres cette anne lexhibition des gravures au burin, leau-forte ou sur bois ainsi que des lithographies, nauraient eu dailleurs pour tmoins que les gardiens du Palais.[]la Gravure se meurt!186 Engraving had been murdered and the culprit was photography, Burty asserted. He was not the only critic to think this: M. de Saint-Santin also contended that the latest medium had produced disastrous effects for traditional techniques with their long history.187 In England there was equal concern about the future of traditional line engraving.188 In 1850 John Burnet, the grand old man of English line engravers, had already foreseen the demise of English line engraving. He believed that things had started to go awry with the adoption of steel plates instead of the familiar copper ones:
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It brought the art of mezzotinto into the field, in competition with the more laborious and expensive style of line engraving, and has at present nearly extinguished the production of large works executed by the graver. Since the career of Wilkie (who was a great advocate for the superiority of line engravings) there has been a gradual falling off in this branch of art, while mezzotinto engraving, on the other hand, has rapidly increased.189

The disappearance of line engraving thus threatened the existence of a rich print tradition.190 In 1864 The Art Journal wrote:
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Photography and chromo-lithography have interfered sadly with engraving of all kinds, and in lieu of line, the highest and purest style of engraving, we now find it, in the great majority of prints, exchanged for mezzotinto, or that stipple is incorporated with it.191

The eighteenth-century hierarchy of techniques, described above, still echoes through such comments, although the superior art of line engraving had in practice been increasingly overshadowed by stipple techniques, such as mezzotints. Lithography and photography were simply administering the coup de grace. Renowned English engravers such as Charles William Sharp (1818-1899)

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had become a rarity.192 The situation in England was not helped by the fact that any prints that were still commissioned were regularly sent to French engravers for execution. Gambart, for example, sent the popular Frith paintings Derby Day and The Railway Station to the engravers M. Francois and Auguste Blanchard.193 When Holman Hunts painting The Afterglow in Egypt also went to a French engraver, The Art Journal anxiously wrote in 1864:
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It may, or may not be, a fancy of the owner to have the work done abroad; but it seems as if line-engraving was at a low ebb in this country, when preference is given to a foreigner. Our line-engravers are not so burdened with work as to compel them to refuse commissions.194

In the late 1860s The Art Journal called on publishers not to ignore English engravers any longer. The editors of the publication felt that they had every right to speak out in this matter as for decades they had pursued a policy of commissioning engravings after modern masters. Nevertheless their responsible behaviour had done little to prevent the increasing threat to engraving: except in our own Journal the line-engravers of England are nowhere.195 Naturally the opinions quoted should not be taken too literally, for the printmakers Samuel Cousins, Henriquel-Dupont and their pupils were still active. Nevertheless, both in France and England, two superpowers in the graphic worlds, concern as to the future of traditional techniques was now being expressed. Previous reference has been made to the Dutch publisher Beijerinck, who had to admit during the 1830s that Dutch engravers had little chance of finding work amidst the profusion of prints produced by foreign in particular English engravers. Three decades later, however, the uncertain future of traditional printmaking was also causing unease in France and England. Various efforts were made to save the endangered art of engraving from total ruin.196 The Louvre granted commissions for engravings after old masters, to the great satisfaction of Philippe Burty, the renowned critic quoted above.197 These engravings were to be the kind of large-format print that many publishers no longer dared to invest in.198 Burty himself even proposed a plan for the state to organise major commissions, envisaging that such an arrangement would provide significant opportunities to compile extensive publications, comprising prints after artworks, the French palace interiors and art works from the Muse Luxembourg.199 His idea may have been inspired by similar plans

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during the reign of Louis xiv or the engraver Pierre Laurents Muse Francais project in the early nineteenth century. Engraving eventually received organised support in 1868, with the founding of the Socit Francaise de Gravure. A year later Burty wrote hopefully: Le burin compte cependant encore des amis. Le succs rapide et srieux de la Socit francaise de gravure la bien prouv.200 The critic approvingly quoted the words of the societys founder E. Galichon (the society was a private initiative, unlike the Louvres department of chalcography which had state connections):
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Bien des esprits faciles salarmer ont prdit la mort de la gravure par le fait de lengouement du public pour la photographie. Il nen sera rien cependant. Si la photographie sert merveille nos besoins de curiosit, de renseignements exacts, elle ne rpond aucune des conditions srieuses de lart; et nous en avons la certitude, prochainnement, il se produira une raction favorable la gravure. Mais, jusqu ce jour, qui ne peut tre loign, il est bon, il est ncesaire de maintenir le burin dans la main de nos graveurs, pour ne perdre les bnfices dune tradition si longuement et si pniblement acquise.201

It is hard to determine in retrospect to what extent the Socit Franaise de Gravure actually managed to keep engraving going. The organisation certainly commissioned various engravings, at a time when many publishers were no longer willing to risk such projects.202 However, its objective was more than simply to create work for contemporary engravers, as historical considerations were also of primary importance: the ancient tradition of engraving had to be maintained, in defiance of technical innovation if necessary. By the mid-nineteenth century, a period in which photography was experiencing explosive development, the threat to engraving had become clear. At the same time, however, another graphic trend was emerging, closely associated with traditional engraving.
the etched reproduction: a new trend

In his outline work Les Graveurs du xix Siecle Henri Beraldi wrote: Apres la rforme, la rvolution: lart absolument libre de nos peintre-graveurs, si clatant depuis 1850, tente les graveurs de reproduction; ils se font graveurs leauforte.203 In the mid-nineteenth century a new trend materialised in the

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fig. 15 Flix Braquemond after Corot, Le cheval blanc (1858), etching 26 x 19.9 cm, van Gogh Museum, amsterdam.

15

printmaking world: a penchant for reproducing art works through pure etching. Instead of traditional engraving techniques, printmakers such as Charles Albert Waltner, Felix Bracquemond, Jules Jacquemart and Lopold Flameng now preferred to use the convenient art of etching.204 [fig. 15] Naturally the etching technique as such was nothing new. For centuries engravers had been accustomed to commence an engraving by etching a sketch onto the plate, often using the etching technique to work up details during the finishing stages. So the technique had already been widely used in the multiplication of art works in the sixteenth and especially seventeenth centuries.205 Printmakers of this period were also aware of etchings advantages over engraving: not only was it a much faster technique, it also possessed its own interesting qualities. During the second half of the seventeenth century in particular, the sketchy character of the etching in the reproduction of art works was favourably compared with the somewhat stiff appearance of engravings, as the French engraver Abraham Bosse noted in his influential treatise on etching

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from 1645.206 A disadvantage of etching, however, was that the delicate matrix could produce far fewer prints than engraved plates: while several hundred to several thousand copies could be printed from an engraving, the etching plate showed signs of wear after only several dozen prints. This was one reason why the traditional techniques of engraving and etching were often combined to compensate for their inherent weaknesses. During the Estampe Galante period in eighteenth-century France this combination became standard procedure. Once the contours of an image had been lightly etched into the plate, engraving was employed to work this image up.207 Etching was also combined with the aquatint and mezzotint techniques, a practice that continued into the nineteenth century.208 Etching was thus a technique that was generally deployed in the service of other graphic techniques when reproducing art works.209 Over the course of the nineteenth century, however, it became increasingly used as an independent technique for the creation of original graphic works and art reproductions.210 The rise of the etched reproduction is evident at the print section of Salons during the 1860s. The critic Philippe Burty wrote of the graphic works submitted to the Salon of 1863:
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Or, leau-forte est le trat dunion entre la peinture et la gravure. Lbauche doit tre trace de main dartiste, et par artiste jentends toujours dsigner celui qui obit immdiatement linspiration, et nose sapprocher des matres que lorsquune tude sincre et intelligente de la nature leurs enseignements varis.211

An enthusiastic champion of the etching, Burty regularly reviewed prints in this technique. He pointed out that etching was a relatively simple graphic process, with major advantages for printmakers when compared with the labour-intensive and relatively troublesome technique of engraving.212 The dynamic etching process appeared to be taking the place of the inflexible line engraving as the latter slid into decline: Si le burin priclite, jamais au contraire leauforte na triomph comme de nos jours.213 A year later Burty opened his article La Gravure au Salon de 1866 with a proclamation: Leau-forte triomphe cette anne toute la ligne, et ce Salon pourrait tre appel le Salon des Aquafortistes.214 Etching was increasingly used as an independent technique for reproducing art works, instead of simply playing a supporting role.

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Although the trend for etched reproductions initially arose in French printmaking circles, this development quickly spread to England. A number of French printmakers, including Felix Braquemond and Charles Albert Waltner, spent some time in London, a few escaping there from the 1870 Franco-Prussian War. During the 1870s Braquemonds pupil Paul Rajon was also active in the English capital, where he made his name both with etchings after old masters and Grome, and after the English masters Gainsborough, Romney and AlmaTadema.215 The influential critic (and great fan of etching) P.G. Hamerton declared in his Etching and Etchers: M. Rajon is one of the most productive of the modern etchers from pictures and at the same time one of the surest.216 Alongside the French etchers in London there were also two Dutchmen, P.J. Arendzen and L. Lwenstam. Although etched reproductions may have been popular in England, it was hard to find English reproduction etchers. One of the few was the printmaker C.O. Murray. Unlike their French colleagues, English printmakers largely continued to use etching as a subsidiary technique in the service of the more prestigious art of engraving or mezzotinting.217 The English attitude to the technique of etching is illustrated by a reference in The Art Journal to the well-known artist Hubert von Herkomer: having arrived at the conclusion that etching was not a suitable medium for the reproduction of subjects depending for their effect on subtle gradations of tone and high finish, set to learn mezzotint.218 Following developments in France and England, the etched reproduction also came into vogue in the Netherlands. In this country, too, etching had already been used for the reproduction of artworks during the sixteenth and seventeenth century, mainly in combination with other techniques.219 Engravers such as Jacob Ernst Marcus continued this tradition into the nineteenth century. During the final decades of the century the etched reproduction enjoyed a golden age in the Netherlands, as it also did elsewhere in Europe. Among the new generation of Dutch printmakers to use etching was L. Lwenstam, who trained as an engraver at the Koninklijke Akademie in Amsterdam and specialised in the etching technique from the early 1860s onwards. In 1873 he moved to London where he collaborated closely with Alma-Tadema. At this point etching had not yet attained its period of greatest success in the Netherlands. As late as 1870, fine etched reproductions after old masters in the Braunschweig Galerie by the German printmaker William Unger (1837-1932) prompted Carel Vosmaer

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to exclaim : Oh, if only we had such albums of our museums! Is it for want of publishers, public or artists, who know how to wield an etching needle? There is certainly no lack of objects.220 During the 1890s, in his capacity as editor of De Kunstkronijk, Vosmaer endeavoured to set a good example by regularly including etchings by Unger in the publication.221 However, the 1880s were the principal period in which the etching technique was widely applied in the reproduction of art works. The engraver Willem Steelink senior produced several etched reproductions, but was surpassed in output by his son Willem Steelink junior (1856-1928). C.L. Dake, J.M. Graadt van Roggen and Philip Zilcken were also productive printmakers who reproduced many works of Dutch contemporary art in etching.222 In France, England and the Netherlands a number of artists made a name with etchings after works of visual art. Some were specialists in art reproduction, such as Paul Rajon and William Unger, others, such as Lopold Flameng and Jules Jacquemart, produced both reproductions and original etchings.223 Philip Zilcken also alternated between etching works by others and his own compositions, as he himself recounted in an interview for Elseviers Geillustreerd Maandschrift in 1896:
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In those days I was one of the first in Holland who tackled several large etchings after old and modern masters, although I also continued to create original works with the needle.224

While the etcher Graadt van Roggen had originally specialised in art reproductions, over the course of his career he increasingly produced original works. Throughout its history the etching technique was used both to adapt existing works for reproduction and to create new, original compositions. The accessibility of the etching technique ensured that it did not remain exclusive to the guild of printmakers. Etching was also popular with a number of painters, who were inspired by the concept of the peintre-graveur in general or Rembrandt in particular. Eugne Delacroix, Alexandre Decamps, many Barbizon School painters, Edouard Manet and the impressionists wielded both the brush and the etching needle. They generally produced original etchings, occasionally sometimes reproductions and sometimes both. During the 1850s the young painter Charles-Franois Daubigny made various etchings after old masters in the Louvre, including Le Buisson after Jacob Ruysdael, a work much admired by

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Vincent van Gogh.225 Daubigny was so fascinated by the technique that in 1862 he decided to concentrate on etching original compositions, rather than adapting works by others.226 Clearly, the rise in popularity of the etched reproduction cannot be viewed in isolation from the popularity enjoyed by etching in general during the nineteenth century.227 This popularity is attested by the numerous etching societies which were founded in the nineteenth century, particularly during its second half.228 The Socit des Aquafortistes, founded in 1862 by the printer Alfred Cadart and the artists Edouard Manet and Felix Braquemond, was typical of these organisations. Daubigny was one of the first artists to join this society, whose aim, formulated by the writer-critic Thophile Gautier, was to stimulate the use of etching and dam the flood of mass-produced, mass-distributed photographs, lithographs, aquatints and steel engravings, techniques widely used in this period for the reproduction of art works.229 The societys response to this largescale art reproduction was to cultivate the etching technique.230 The relationship between original etchings and reproductions was fairly complex in such societies. Although their chief aim seems to have been to stimulate the creation of original etchings, their founders also made etched reproductions. Braquemond, for example, produced both original works and reproductions after Camille Corot.231 Although the fanatical etcher Philip Zilcken preached the gospel of the original etching, he also made many reproductions after masters of the Hague School. This shows that it was not frowned on for representatives of the modern school to make reproductions, a fact also illustrated by Mathijs Maris etched reproductions after The Sower by Jean-Franois Millet and Karl Koeppings etching after Rembrandts The Syndics, which were displayed at exhibitions organised by the Nederlandse Etsclub (the Netherlands etching club). Etching societies may have stimulated use of the etching technique in the creation of original works, but they do not seem to have rejected reproductions as a matter of principle. In order to grasp the complex relationship between original etchings and etched reproductions, it is prudent to review the concept of reproduction, as expounded in the previous chapter Pinxit et Sculpsit. The terms reproduction and original should be considered independently of the medium be this engraving, etching, lithography or photography as it is not the nature of the medium but the context in which a work is produced that determines whether this

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may be regarded as an original or a reproduction. Nineteenth-century critics such as Thophile Gautier and Philippe Burty, however, were less systematic in their use of these concepts. Gautier, for example, regarded every etching as an original work, whilst Burtys ideology of the original print also associated the etching technique with originality.232 In the mid-1870s Burty developed his eulogies of etchings at the Salons of the 1860s into the concept of the belle epreuve, which proposed that the etching technique was in itself original, irrespective of its application.233 Other graphic or photographic techniques were identified with their most usual application, so engraving, lithography and photography were reproductive in character, while etching enjoyed an aura of originality, regardless of whether the technique was used to create a new image or a reproduction after an existing artwork. The concept of the belle epreuve accorded etching an exceptional status in the world of nineteenth-century art reproduction. Although etching and engraving had been almost inextricably associated for more than two centuries, the emergence of the peintre-graveur and the development of the concept of original graphic art drove a wedge between the two. Engraving and etching grew apart, to a point where it was difficult to imagine that they had been used in combination for so many years. Their relationship also grew more complex. On the one hand etching was a reaction to stiff, traditional engraving, on the other it represented a continuation of manual graphic techniques for reproduction, including engraving, and thereby served to counterbalance mass photographic art reproduction. For this was the period in which photography was developing into the leading reproductive technique, to a point where lithography was no longer regarded as a self-evident choice.
lithograPhy undEr thrEat

In 1859 the critic Clment de Ris pointed out how photography seemed to be affecting lithography; he believed that forms of cheap, commercial lithography would soon disappear, something he did not particularly regret, for he hoped that that photography might call a halt to the proliferation of lithography, and optimistically wrote:
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Linvention de Daguerre nest pas plus destine tuer celle de Senefelder, que celle-ci ntait capable de porter un coup mortel la gravure. Graveurs, lithographes et photographes peuvent donc vivre en paix ct les uns des autres.234
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However, De Ris also thought that the high-quality lithographs produced by Adolphe Mouilleron and Celestin Nanteuil would not be affected by photography and continue to exist alongside the new medium.235 Two years later, in 1861, the critic Philippe Burty was far less optimistic about lithographys future.236 He pointed out that the technique was mainly used for cheap prints, if at all: La Lithographie, [] est devenue la poie des reproducteurs bas pris[.]237 Burty believed that high-quality lithographs by Mouilleron, Nanteuil or Eugene le Roux would suffer badly from new graphic developments.238 In 1866 he even wrote that lithography would disappear as quickly as traditional engraving: Finis lithographiae.239 Which critic was accurate in his predictions of lithographys future? Well, both Clement de Ris and Burty were partially correct. During the 1850s and 1860s lithography was in decline: the future of high-quality lithographic reproductions was less self-evident than Clement de Ris thought, although such works continued to be published. Nevertheless, Burty was too pessimistic in his view: Adolphe Mouilleron, Karl Bodmer and Celestin Nanteuil would continue to produce high-quality lithographs which were printed and published by Bertauts and Lemercier, while the success of chromolithography remained undiminished, outshining photography for many decades to come.240 During the final decades of the eighteenth century, lithography, like etching, was influenced by the rise of original graphic art. Although Burty had been thinking primarily of etching when he conceived the concept of la belle preuve in 1875, he certainly acknowledged that handmade lithographs were also artistic in character.241 Original lithographs by Romantic artists such as Eugne Delacroix, Richard Parkes Bonington, Eugne Isabey and the realist Honor Daumier were particularly popular in this period. Edouard Manet, Camille Pissarro, Edgar Degas and James McNeill Whistler followed their example and experimented widely with (colour) lithography, mainly using the technique to create original prints and thus contribute substantially during the late 1870s to the acceptance of lithography as a medium with its own artistic qualities. Odilon Redon, another important artist in this connection, initially used the lithographic technique to reproduce his own drawings, before shifting to the creation of original lithographs in the late 1880s.242 During this period, colour lithography, used in advertising and art reproduction for some time, now found favour with the avant-garde through series such as LEstampe Originale (March 1893 and 1895),

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fig. 16 William Thornley after degas, Dancer (1889-1890), lithograph 58.5 x 41 cm, Muse Goupil, Bordeaux.

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LAlbum de la Revue Blanche (July 1893-December 1894) and LImage (December 1896-1897).243 In the meantime lithographic reproductions continued to be published. Thophile Chauvel (1831-1909) made lithographs after work by Camille Corot and Constant Troyon; Auguste Lauzet (c.1865-1898) translated Adolphe Monticellis paintings into lithographs which were much admired by Vincent van Gogh; and William Thornley (1857-1935) produced fine lithographs after work by Degas, Puvis de Chavannes, Monet and Pissarro.244 [fig. 16] However, such lithographic reproductions had now become exclusive prints. By 1891 the medium had become so rare that an extensive exhibition was organised to prove that lithography was not yet dead. This exhibition included reproductions after French masters in the section Lithographes de traductions.245 Although these developments chiefly occurred in France, the land of lithography, they can also be seen on other countries, including the Netherlands. When the artist-writer Jan Veth (1864-1925) wanted to become proficient at lithogra-

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phy, he immediately thought of his old tutor, August Alleb. Alleb had taught many painters at the Koninklijke Akademie voor Beeldende Kunst, by then the Rijksacademie, and had himself learned lithography from the famous French lithographer Mouilleron. On 16 April 1889 Veth wrote to Alleb:
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I would very much like to do some stone drawing it may be a whim, because everyone nowadays is etching but yet Im brought to this by a fierce inclination. Now Im old-fashioned in that I would like to know some technical tips regarding this sort of thing, or officious in that I like to be conversant with a metier, and I would like to ask you: is there not a good Traite de la lithographie or something? It seems to me that Mouilleron or other great stone drawers will have written something down about their art (P.S.) in default of any literature on the subject I hardly dare ask you for much appreciated instructions from your hand, though I should certainly be the best for them.246

Veth was extremely aware of the fact that etching was particularly in vogue amongst his artist colleagues and was also involved in such initiatives as the founding of the Nederlandse Etsclub.247 In his missive to Alleb he seems slightly apologetic about his whim to try old-fashioned lithography, although he was not the only artist with such an inclination. Just as Burty never forgot lithography in his love for etching, so Veths contemporaries displayed an interest in lithography alongside their preoccupation with etching. The Nederlandse Etsclub also contributed to the survival of lithography, although its name might not suggest this. The clubs exhibitions and albums included lithographs by J. Toorop (1858-1928), R.N. Roland Holst (1868-1938) and H.J. Haverman (18571928); its second exhibition in 1888 also presented several lithographs by George Thornley after Degas.248 During the late nineteenth century Alois Senefelders lithographic technique, which had proved so suitable for reproducing art works, finally lost favour as a reproductive process. Lithography was eclipsed by photographic art reproduction, which had taken over the role of mass medium.249 Lithographic art reproduction had become a rare phenomenon. The technique seems to disappear at the end of nineteenth century, just as quickly as it had emerged at the beginning. The critics Clement de Ris and Philippe Burty had anticipated lithographys demise. Several decades after their predictions, Vincent van Gogh was

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fig. 17a after Jean-Lon Grme, Femmes Turques au bain (1876), Woodburytype Goupil Carte album 10.6 x 9.1 cm, Muse Goupil, Bordeaux.

17a

witnessing the end of the technique with his own eyes. On 8 August 1888 he wrote to his brother Theo:
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I am curious whether you know De Lemuds lithographs. At present there are still many fine lithographs to be had, Daumiers, reproductions after Delacroix, Decamps, Diaz, Rousseau, Dupre etc. That will soon be over however; what a terrible pity that this art is disappearing!250

PhotograPhy as mass mEdium

The imminent demise of traditional engraving, the rise of the etched reproduction, the changing status of lithography: these were all developments that emerged from the 1860s onwards. They have regularly been associated with the rise of photography, and with good reason, for this was the period in which photography was evolving at a tremendous rate. So what was happening in the photographic world in the period following the Blanquart-Evrard bankruptcy in 1855?

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fig. 17b after Jean-Lon Grme, Odalisques au bain (1876), Woodburytype Goupil Carte album 10.6 x 9.1 cm, Muse Goupil, Bordeaux.

17b

The photographer Louis Dsir Blanquart-Evrard was an early victim of expansion. New photographic and photomechanical techniques, products and competitors appeared on the market at a rapid pace. The volume of photographic art reproduction also increased rapidly. In 1853 photographic reproductions in France accounted for approximately 5.5 per cent of photographic production as a whole; in 1860 that share had risen to 28.5 per cent. The increase in the volume of photographic art reproduction in France during the early 1860s can be attributed to a large extent to the firm of Goupil, which was evolving in this period into a leading player in the field.251 [fig. 17 a,b] Technical innovations, such as the introduction of the Woodburytype, made photographic art reproductions commercially profitable, prompting various firms to specialise in this field.252 An early well-known specialist was Robert Bingham who produced photographs after contemporary masters such as Paul Dlaroche, Ary Scheffer, Jean-Louis Meissonier, Camille Corot and Gustave Courbet.253 Other firms active in the field of art reproduction were the Italian firm Alinari and the German entreprises Braun and Hanfstaengl, who quickly grew into prominent companies. In

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the shadow of these international companies, however, increasing numbers of photographers were becoming involved in art reproduction at national and even local level.254 Developments in technique and chemicals increasingly improved photographers ability to solve troublesome questions. A recurrent problem was the discolouration of photographs. It was one thing to capture a subject, quite another to retain it, for photographs often deteriorated into a ghost of their original image within a short time. Many photographers must have been frustrated by their inability to capture colour and the sight of their images discolouring. The problem of discolouration was solved by the introduction of the carbon process for printing photographs in permanent pigment. In 1864 the photographer Joseph Wilson Swan (1828-1914) was granted the first patent for this technique which produced stable prints that did not discolour. Swans technique quickly came into the hands of two renowned firms, Hanfstaengl and Braun. From the late 1860s onwards, Braun in particular used this method on a large scale to photograph various European museum collections.255 [fig. 18] In 1868 The Art Journal pointed to examples of its powers which surpass in softness mezzotinto, and far exceed in beauty and clearness the kind of engraving called mixed.256 Braun owned the patent for carbon printing in France, while the Autotype Company, established in 1868, held possession of the patent for England.257 This company made wide use of carbon printing for the reproduction of chalk drawings, reliefs and sculptures. In 1878 The Art Journal wrote in a hopeful vein:
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We are [] persuaded that modern artists will ere long adopt this process as the best means of publishing their works, as the more moderate cost of reproduction by this method will insure a wider circulation, and consequently a more extented reputation.258

The quality of carbon-printed photographs was so high that The Art Journal deemed them worthy successors to traditional engravings: if the business of the engraver be, as it certainly is, dying out, it is fortunate that so well will these printed pictures take their place, that mourning for a dead art will be at all events materially lessened.259 Brauns carbon-printed photographs made even the popular etched reproduction redundant, or so Jan Veth believed. He voiced this opinion in a debate with Carel Vosmaer, prompted by Charles Albert Waltners etched reproduction after Rembrandts Nightwatch. Vosmaer ex-

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pressed his admiration for the etching in De Nederlandsche Spectator, to which Veth responded in De Nieuwe Gids:
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In our time, in which one can obtain such perfect reproductions of paintings as the Braun photographs are, there is no reason for the existence of an assiduous etching, so spiritless, so cold, such a failure in terms of colour.260

Another important, new photographic technique was heliogravure.261 This was a photomechanical process which involved the photographic transfer of the image to a metal plate (generally copper or steel), where it was fixed using aquatint and etching, before printing with ink. During the 1870s heliogravure grew into one of the most widely used photomechanical reproduction techniques. There were numerous variations on the heliogravure technique, which was also known as photogravure. The well-known photographer Edouard Baldus was one of the first to use the method.262 The firm of Armand-Durand also made fine heliogravures, described by De Kunstkronijk in 1872:
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Seldom or never has the art of imitating old prints gone as far as in the heliography of Amand-Durand of Paris. The twenty plates that comprise the first two instalments, published in Paris by Amand-Durand and by
fig. 18 detail of Rembrandt, The Nightwatch from: Le Muse de ltat Amsterdam (1887-1894), carbon print, a. Braun 46.8 x 36.6 cm, Rijksprentenkabinet, amsterdam.

18

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Goupil (also obtainable at the latters premises in The Hague), likewise restore to us many masterpieces of old etching and engraving for the truly trifling sum of 20 guilders. The fidelity of the reproduction has been carried to an astonishing height: the lined and brownish or subtly tinted paper perfectly imitates that of old prints; the sheet is laid out as these; but what is of more consequence, through photographic process and printing ink, the print is so fine and so similar to the original that these new methods deserve the very highest praise.[...] in short the finest works of the first masters, works that are only to be had in fine, original prints for formidable prices, as once they were to be had.263 As De Kunstkronijk reported, heliogravures by Amand-Durand could be obtained in the Netherlands from the well-known firm of Goupil. However, Goupil also produced its own photographs, using a technique related to heliography. In Asnires, near Paris, the firm had its own photographic works where it made many photogravures of (modern) French art works.264 English firms such as the publishing house of Tooth also produced heliogravures after works by the PreRaphaelites and their followers.265 In the late 1870s photogravure had become the most prominent photographic reproduction technique.266 By this time the range of photographic reproductive processes was incalculable, leading to great terminological confusion. Scaling up of activity in the midnineteenth century had been followed by many efforts to introduce technological improvements into the photographic profession. As mentioned above, photographers were often the inventors of new techniques. In order to secure protection under patent law they would give a new name to every new process they developed, even when they had only made a minimal change to an existing process or its chemicals, for each new process brought a new monopoly. The result was a continually rising torrent of new processes, as The Art Journal wrote in 1885: Photographic processes, which are already numerous, seem almost daily to increase in number, although not a few of these so-called new processes appear to be novelties chiefly in name.267 Amidst this torrent of technological innovation photographic techniques were increasingly perfected. Looking back on the final decades of the nineteenth century, the etcher C.L. Dake declared in 1913:

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And now in the last thirty years the industry, which reproduces artists work, has developed so incredibly through the dazzling techniques of photogravure, and phototype, that within a short time graphic drawing work can be reproduced in thousands of facsimile copies and distributed throughout the world. In books, in portfolios, on circulars, in newspapers and journals, as illustrations to advertisements, etc. etc. The world is being inundated, by graphic art.268

Photographers managed to improve light sensitivity, sharpness of focus, image stability and productivity, and progressively reduced the exposure times required to secure a successful image. Moreover, they even made headway in tackling perhaps the greatest challenge of all: the invention of colour photography.
colour PhotograPhy

As printmakers already knew, reproducing colour was a major problem. Lithography was the exception that proved this rule. To obtain a reproduction in colour generally left no other option than for the image to be coloured by hand. Even the advent of photography brought no change in this situation for a long time; daguerrotypes and calotypes were handcoloured in watercolour on a large scale, with varying results.269 Nevertheless, intensive efforts were made to find a technological solution to this problem. In England, and particularly in France, photographers had experimented with colour images from the moment photography had first been invented, although convincing results would not be achieved until the 1860s.270 In 1862 the Frenchman Louis Ducos du Hauron (1837-1920) published his Solution Physique du Problme de la Reproduction des Couleurs par la Photography, mainly illustrating his colour photography process with images of old Italian masters. His contemporary, Charles Cros (1842-1882), was working on a similar process, using modern artists for his reproductions. Both techniques were based on the same principle. Three colour filters were used to produce three negatives which were printed in the primary colours and subsequently combined to create a colour picture. These pioneers of colour photography were followed by other photographers with similar techniques, including Louis Dsir Blanquart-Evrard, who had not been discouraged by his earlier bankruptcy. An important step was taken by the photographer Joseph Albert (1825-1886), whose albertype or albertotype process, a form of collotype, was also used in colour photography dur-

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ing the course of the 1870s. Combining prints in different colours was a familiar principle, employed by the still highly successful technique of colour lithography, which also merged images in diverse colours to create a colour picture.271 Despite the best efforts of diverse photographers, colour photography barely went beyond the experimental phase during the nineteenth century. Colour photography remained an interesting, yet marginal phenomenon, producing results that were regarded as curiosities rather than examples of successful innovation. Colour lithography retained its status as the most commonly used method for colour reproduction until the end of the nineteenth century.272 The photomechanical replication of art works in colour would not become feasible until the early twentieth century. In 1907 the renowned photographer Alfred Stieglitz could write: Color photography is an accomplished fact. The seemingly everlasting question whether color would ever be within the reach of the photographer has been definitely answered.273 The answer was provided by the Lumires brothers who had presented their Autochrome process earlier that year. Photographic colour reproduction gained increasing ground. In 1912 C.L. Dake wrote:
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For five or six years now [] the colour reproductions, which were once regarded as undesirable, have now become accepted in our land too, so that even artists here, who were then violently opposed to them, were later (not very much later) pleased if their own work appeared in threecolour print (fairly dismal) in German publications.274

However, large-scale, mass production of colour photographs would not develop until after the Second World War.

FRoM GRaphiC To phoToGRaphiC aRT REpRoduCTion


Looking back on art reproduction during the nineteenth century, The Art Journal wrote in 1887:
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The changes which have been experienced during the century have not been changes uniformly indicating progress, for in some departments of

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the reproductive arts a retrograde movement has to be chronicled. The art of line-engraving, [] is fast becoming a thing of the past. [] the field formerly occupied by line-engraving is gradually being taken possession of by the modern and partly automatic process of photogravure. A similar fate seems also to be overtaking both mezzotint and stipple engraving.275 If we survey the field of graphic and photographic processes, the recurring tension between the disappearance of traditional techniques and the rise of photographic methods for reproducing artworks is more than evident. During the final decades of the nineteeth century, engraving increasingly displayed the characteristics of an endangered species: there was no doubt it would become extinct; the only question was when. If we are to believe the critics, by the early 1860s visitors to the Salons and other exhibitions were less than enthusiastic about this traditional graphic art.276 Was Philippe Burty correct when he accused photography of murdering traditional engraving? It seems obvious to make a causal connection between the rise of new processes such as photography and the demise of traditional engraving and lithography.277 The production costs of handcrafted engravings were unprecedentedly high in comparison with photographic reproductions, especially once photography had evolved into a successful mass medium. Yet there were also clear differences between an engraving and an etching in terms of time and cost. The critic J.S. Hodson, writing in The Art Journal, pointed out how economic factors could influence changes in the graphic world:
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Etching, has in a degree supplanted line engraving, and it is quite possible that the modern process of photogravure may in turn displace etching. It should not, however, from this circumstance, be inferred that any superiority in quality is implied by the modern process taking the place of the older; but merely that there are other circumstances such as economy of time or cost of production that give its special advantage.278

Economic factors thus played a major role in the rapidly growing international market for printed matter. Circa 1800 Adam Smiths principles for a free market economy were widely disseminated through various translations of his Wealth of Nations.279 Influential economists such as Jean-Baptiste Say, David Ricardo (1772-1832) and John Stuart Mill (1806-1873) had adapted Smiths ideas but were

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already living in a world that had been substantially shaped by liberal ideas associated with the concept of the free market economy. In his Principles of Political Economy and Taxation, published as early as 1817, Ricardo had explained the important role played by differences in production costs in the development of international trade. During the course of the nineteenth century the print market also began increasingly to reflect Ricardos theory of comparative cost differences. Inventors of new processes, such as the lithographer Alois Senefelder, the printer Friedrich Koenig and the photographer Louis-Jacques Mand Daguerre, took an international approach in their quest for patents to apply their technical innovations. Print dealers and printers bought prints in an international print market: Beijerinck imported his engravings from England, English publishers looked to French engravers for their illustrations, while the firm of Braun travelled all over Europe to photograph the work of famous masters. This open economy was a factor which contributed substantially to the continual introduction of technical innovations in the field of (reproduction) technology. New methods and processes were constantly supplemented by further new inventions, or, as the mathematician-philosopher Alfred North Whitehead put it in 1932: the greatest invention of the nineteenth century was the invention of the method of invention.280 Economic considerations increasingly forced labour-intensive engravings to lose ground to photographic reproductions that were much cheaper to produce. The introduction of new processes made it possible to turn out a higher volume of images at lower cost and a faster rate. Differences in production costs undoubtedly played a major role in the shift from graphic to photographic reproductive processes. From this perspective, it does seem plausible to lay all responsibility for engravings demise at photographys door. However, there are other considerations which undermine the theory of a direct connection between the rise of photography and the demise of engraving. Le Globe was already drawing attention to the decline of engraving as early as 1828, a time at which photography barely existed, let alone presented any kind of threat. Moreover, expensive engravings continued to be made after photography had evolved into a successful mass medium. If cost was the deciding factor, these high-priced prints would surely have made way for cheaper photographs at a much earlier stage. Why did printmakers continue to produce engravings in traditional techniques when there were so many, much cheaper photographic processes available? Although engraving may have been in decline, it contin-

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ued to be used for a relatively long period, despite the costs: engraved prints were published alongside photographs for many decades. Some publishers employed both traditional techniques and modern photographic processes, a practice exemplified by the firm of Goupil which published the latest photographic reproductions alongside traditional engravings by Henriquel-Dupont and his pupils. Contrary to expectation, this dual production does not appear to have caused any tension in the firms activities. Nor does there seem to have been any bias in Goupils choice of these competing techniques: on the contrary, the firms stock lists demonstrate its careful policy of targeting a wide public, through the sale of both cheap photographs and expensive traditional engravings. Graphic and photographic techniques were largely born of the same graphic tradition. Exposing photosensitive material to light had made it possible to capture an image as accurately as possible. But the desire to produce an exact copy of an original work emerged much earlier in graphic history, well before Nicphore Nipce and Louis Daguerre invented their processes. The ambition to produce an image faithful to the original can be discerned in the development of the facsimile concept, described above.281 In his study Ernst Rebel described the importance of this concept in the development of new graphic techniques, such as the crayon manner, aquatint and stipple engraving, during the second half of the eighteenth century. These methods were characterised by their facility for reproducing the structure of (chalk) drawings as precisely as possible. Decades later lithography would be widely used for the accurate duplication of drawings and watercolours. Photography can also be placed in this tradition, for through photography the long-cherished desire for accurate reproduction of artworks finally became reality. The fact that the earliest known photograph by Nipce is a reproduction of a print possibly reveals the background to this new medium. From this perspective photography can be regarded as the nineteenth-century realisation of a longing for an exact reproduction voiced in the previous century. Thus photography is not so much the cause of new requirements in the reproductive industry, as the consequence of these.282 The concept of the facsimile seems to have acted as a driving force in the field of graphic and photographic change, paradoxically contributing to two contrary developments: in the first place the quest to achieve an exact copy caused the range of reproductive techniques to be expanded, with the addition of the crayon manner, aquatint, stipple engraving, lithography and photography, which

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shattered engravings monopoly; in the second place it appears to have subsequently fostered a contraction in the range of reproductive techniques, which were ultimately reduced to purely photographic reproductions. Photography proved the ideal way to create a facsimile, which also explains why engravings, mezzotints, lithographs and ultimately even etchings became irrelevant in the multiplication of artworks. Photography acquired a monopoly in the field of art reproduction because it was more capable of reproducing an original work in facsimile than any other technique. Photography made it possible to represent an artwork as it really was, apparently without the intervention of an interpretor. Alfred de Lostalots 1888 analysis of the situation is illustrative:
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le burin languit, le burin se meurt.[...] Et puis, le genre lui-mme a vieilli; il jure par les rgles troites de sa technique avec toutes les ides dindpendance dont lart moderne est imprgn; procd de convention et de mode par consquent, il a perdu tout pouvoir sur le public le jour o la mode sest loigne de lui. Par ce sicle de photographie et dexactitude documentaire, le burin classique devient presque sans emploi; ce nest pas loutil qui convient au naturalisme triomphant.283

According to Lostalot the stern, rigid technique of engraving did not lend itself to art from the modern period. It is interesting to see that he made a connection between the triumph of photography and naturalism. At the time of writing, in 1888, naturalism reigned supreme in visual art. Since the development of realism in the mid nineteenth century, painters had endeavoured to suggest a direct rendition from nature in their work. Gustave Courbet and his circle strove to obtain a merciless reproduction of the world around them, apparently free from the academic conventions that governed subject, composition and colour. Photography offered a parallel way to reproduce artworks as realistically as possible. It seems no accident that Courbet, the supreme realist, attempted to photograph his paintings during the same period in which he was writing his realist manifesto. Photography released art reproduction from the academic conventions of traditional engravers. In the words of an anonymous reviewer, the photographer made it possible to reproduce: the picture, the whole picture and nothing but the picture.284 However, just as the realists and the naturalists arrived at a highly personal reading of reality, so photographic art reproduction could never be completely free of the photographers individual interpretation.

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Nevertheless, the newest reproductive technique offered unparalleled potential to satisfy the desire for a process which could achieve the most faithful reproduction of an artwork possible. The disappearance of traditional graphic techniques and the rise of new photographic methods for the reproduction of artworks were brought about by the interplay of various factors at the level of use, distribution and reception of reproductive techniques. In the first place, when engravers disappeared, their studios vanished, too, and therewith the traditional environment in which to learn or teach the graphic profession.285 In the second place, considerably improved facilities for communication and distribution ensured rapid distribution of new methods and processes. Finally, reproductive techniques were naturally influenced by their reception, so public diversity also explains the diversity of reproductive techniques. The line engraving or mezzotint may have been expensive, but they were also imbued with a rich graphic tradition that continued to be valued for a long time, much longer than expected. In the world of nineteenth-century art reproduction there was graphic crosspollination rather than straightforward competition.286 The individual character of the various graphic and photographic techniques did not prevent the combination of these. A. Dyson points to a number of variations on this crosspollination.287 In the first place, printmakers and photographers were often proficient at a range of techniques: Thomas Shotter Boys is generally associated with (colour) lithography, but also made etchings and engravings; the master engraver Henriquel-Dupont sometimes produced etchings, while the wellknown lithographer Alophe was also active as a photographer. So the various techniques were never isolated in reproductive practice. In the second place, techniques were not chosen on account of their own specific character, but in order to imitate the character of another technique. The origins of various graphic techniques lay in the reproduction of oil paintings, drawings, watercolours and pastels, as already observed. Graphic techniques were used to imitate other graphic methods, and as early as the seventeenth century, printmakers were producing etchings that looked like engravings. The imitative aspect of graphic techniques is also illustrated by Hullmandels prospectus from 1824, with reference to lithography: to all commercial purposesWhether required as facsimiles or in a Superior character in imitation of Engraving.288 Such graphic imitations were often associated with aesthetic considerations governed by

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the traditional hierarchical classification of techniques. Finally, the interaction between diverse techniques took the form of combinations: engraving, etching and the mezzotint were often combined in graphic hybrids, to which photographic processes were sometimes added, creating photomechanical techniques, such as photolithography and photogravure. Some critics viewed the rise of photography as a graphic revolution that offered unprecedented opportunities to reproduce images exactly on a large scale. Others took a more qualified view, regarding photography as merely an interesting addition to existing techniques. A third group responded by emphasising the unique handcrafted graphic character of traditional media when compared with photographic innovation.289 Photographic processes did not, therefore, render existing manual graphic methods immediately redundant. On the contrary, at the end of the nineteenth century there was an unprecedentedly rich range of graphic and photographic reproductive techniques, which largely managed to co-exist. In 1893 Jules Adeline declared in his Les Arts de reproduction vulgarises:
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Les procds de reproduction, purement mcanique, ont donc rendu dja dimmenses services et en rendront peut-tre de bien plus grands encore. Est-ce dire quils doivent conduire labandon complet des anciens precds de gravure? Oh! Que non pas. Les uns donnent un rsultat et les autres en donnent un autre.290

This does not alter the fact that circa 1900 photography was the dominant reproductive technique. At the beginning of the nineteenth century the monopoly of line engraving had definitively been broken; by the end of the century photography had established a new monopoly. The plan to publish the Gedenkboek der Nederlandsche Schilderkunst tusschen 1860 en 1890 is a revealing episode. The book was intended to provide a textual and visual overview of modern Dutch painting. The artist-critic Jan Veth was to write the work which was to be published by the firm of Van Gogh. Well-known artists such as Marius Bauer, George Hendrik Breitner, Roland Holst, Isaac Israls and Veth himself were to supply reproductions of Dutch paintings in the form of etchings, lithographs and wood engravings; Antoon Derkinderen would provide any other illustrations. However, the project was undermined by a difference of opinion between Veth and Derkinderen regarding the reproductions in the book, of which Johan Huizinga later wrote:
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Free reproduction of impressionistic paintings was in itself already a lost cause in 1892, not on account of its disharmony with decoration, Derkinderens objection, but owing to the invincibility of the photographic reproduction.291

As a result of this conflict, the book was never published. In the early nineteenth century, engravers had still been regarded as Mechanics on occasion; by the end of the century their profession had been virtually obliterated by mechanical reproductive techniques. The graphic changes outlined above offer an impression of the graphic worlds rich and fascinating landscape during the nineteenth century. Although numerous graphic and photographic processes set the boundaries in which the act of art reproduction occurred, these processes were themselves in a constant state of flux. The methods and processes chosen depended on the nature and function of the intended reproduction. This brief history of nineteenth-century reproduction technology thus provides a historical framework in which the actual process of art reproduction occurred. The following chapter will explain how this process functioned in practice.

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chapter 3

From original to reproduction

a process oF diFFicult management

As he worked on his engraving after David Wilkies painting The Village Politicians (1806), the engraver Abraham Raimbach (1776-1843) was already engaged in correspondence with publishers and printmakers at home and abroad, with a view to publishing his work. In his own words:
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A good deal of time was necessarily occupied in superintending the publication, and maintaining a rather extensive correspondence with dealers, English and foreign; but the interruption in itself was more agreeable than otherwise, and made a cheerful and animated break in the usual secluded and monotonous course of the unsocial life of an engraver.1

Making arrangements for the publication of his prints thus provided Raimbach with a welcome change from the monotonous, labour-intensive task of engraving the metal plate. The practical aspects of nineteenth-century art reproduction are the central subject of this chapter. In 1836 the English engraver John Burnet described the making of reproduc-

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tions as a process of difficult management.2 So what were the stages in this process, and who was involved in it? The following analysis of the production and distribution of art reproductions in the nineteenth century derives its inspiration from Robert Darntons treatment of the history of the book, in his well-known essay What Is the History of Books? Darnton believed that the specialised study of publishers, printers and writers tended to fragment the history of the book, which is why he was determined to take the book itself as the starting point from which he would proceed to examine the parties and processes involved in its overall creation. His paramount theme was thus the book itself, or rather the life of a book. Darnton described this life of the book as a communications circuit that runs from the author to the publisher (if the bookseller does not assume that role), the printer, the shipper, the bookseller, and the reader.3 By examining the life of the book, he contended, it was thus possible to analyse these diverse parties in relation to each other.

The life of The reproducTion


A reproduction is not a book, but it is a printed work. So we encounter the same parties authors, publishers, printers and booksellers in the world of prints and photographs as we do in the world of the book. As with the printed word, these parties play their own role in the production and distribution of the printed image. Darntons treatment of the book assumes the existence of discrete parties author, publisher, reader, and so on but in historical practice these parties often coincided: the author could also be the reader, the publisher could often be the bookseller. While Darnton does acknowledge this coincidence of function, he does not apply the theoretical consequences of such coincidence to his model. Yet the reality of historical practice can be reflected more accurately by taking a more function-based approach to the relevant parties. I have already explained in the chapter Pinxit et Sculpsit, for example, that various individuals the painter, the printmaker and the photographer should be regarded as potential candidates for the authorship of a reproduction. I have also opted for a more function-based communications model, in which it is not the author but the function of author, not the publisher but the function of publisher, that is the decisive factor. My model is not, therefore, organised according to individu-

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al or party, but according to the functions that successively play a role in the life of the reproduction [diagram ii], which can be divided into five successive phases.

v reception of the reproduction -individuals -art academies -museums -libraries -associations

i initiating the reproduction -publisher -painter -printmaker -photographer -other

iv distributing the reproduction -publishers -printsellers and art dealers -museums -associations -individuals cultural, legal, economic and social context

ii organising the reproduction -authorship rights -original -adaptation -timescale -remuneration

iii producing the reproduction -reproductive process

diagram 2 communication Model of nineteenth-century Art reproduction.

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The initial phase comprises the initiative, the intention to make a reproduction. Which party conceives the plan and sets the wheels of the reproductive process in motion? This first step down the road of reproduction could be taken both by the creator of the original work, the painter, and the potential adaptor of that work, the printmaker or photographer. A public body, such as the state or various organisations, could also take the initiative. Within the nineteenthcentury context, however, it was generally the publisher who instigated the reproductive process. By this period centuries of specialisation within the world of art reproduction meant that various parties had to be involved in the multiplication of art works. A painter could not manage without an engraver, an engraver could not manage without a printer and a printer could not manage without a publisher. Art reproduction in the nineteenth century was thus a question of collaboration. The organisation of this collaboration between the various parties should be regarded as the second phase in the life of the reproduction. Various issues played a role in this organisation. First and foremost, the reproduction of art works increasingly presupposed the right to reproduce these. So copyright formed an important factor in the agreements reached between the publisher, printmaker, photographer and owner of a work. The parties involved in reproducing an artwork also had to agree which visual material would be used (the original or an alternative) as the basis for the reproduction, which printmaker or photographer would adapt the image for reproduction, which reproduction technique would be employed, what the deadline for completion would be and what remuneration would be paid. These agreements were generally verbal, although they were sometimes set down in a written contract. Once all this had been organised, work could begin. The third phase in the life of the reproduction therefore consists of the actual reproductive process.4 Printmakers and photographers would set about their task, using the visual material supplied to them. How did they treat this material? How did they prepare the printing matrix? What role was played by proofs? These are questions that will be examined in the context of historical reproduction practice. The result of the reproductive process was the reproduction itself. By now it should be evident that any attempt to gain a comprehensive view of the total volume of nineteenth-century art reproduction is a virtually impossible task: the previous chapter has already delineated the enormous range of reproduction techniques available, and the total output of prints and photographs was many times this.

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Nevertheless, I intend to offer some idea of the number of reproductions on the market, by considering the stock lists issued by a leading publisher in the field of art reproduction, the French firm of Goupil. For decades this company played a significant role in the international print market, so its stock lists offer an interesting insight into the tremendous numbers of reproductions that were being sold in the nineteenth century. Once a reproduction had been included in a publishers list, it became available for distribution to the public. This distribution stage can be regarded as the fourth phase in the life of a reproduction. Publishers used various instruments to bring their prints to the publics attention. An extensive distribution network of print dealers and publishers was then required to ensure that the reproductions offered for sale actually reached the individuals interested in acquiring them. Large firms such as Goupil had their own networks which sometimes included a number of foreign branches. Smaller local publishers sold prints doorto-door, operating either independently or in collaboration with colleagues. The result was a complex, intricate network for distributing reproductions to a wealth of print amateurs, connoisseurs and institutional collectors, as will be examined in the next chapter, For Connoisseurs and Amateurs. This brings us to the use and reception of reproductions, the fifth and final phase in their life. Who was interested in these works? Private individuals and institutions such as academies, libraries and print galleries purchased prints and photographs after works of visual art. Sometimes they bought a single print, sometimes they assembled enormous collections. They kept their reproductions in albums and portfolios, or framed and hung them on the wall, with their primary consideration being that these reproductions should be looked at. The reception of reproductions thereby constitutes the end of their life. Of course reproductions did not lead an isolated life, so it is essential to consider their production and distribution in a wider social context; a context shaped by social, legal and socio-economic factors. As with Darntons model for books, this context is also integrated into the communications model for nineteenthcentury art reproductions. The diverse parties involved in art reproduction were both determined by their context, but they also determined their context. Print publishers operated in a market which they had partially created; artists similarly profited from the copyright laws which they themselves had promoted. Individuals were subject to the influence of a context which they had helped

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to shape. To indicate this interaction between the life of the reproduction and its context the arrows in the diagram point in two directions, as they do not in Darntons model. So is the proposed communications model valid for all reproductions? No, not always.5 The purpose of this model is to provide an impression of nineteenthcentury art reproduction in general. The life of a reproduction, as outlined above, applies to a range of reproductions, from engravings to photographs, made in 1820 or 1880, in London, Paris or Amsterdam. Nevertheless, a word of caution is in order here. As the previous chapter explained, engravings and mezzotints formed part of a longstanding graphic tradition that continued well into the nineteenth century. Traditional engravings, etchings and photographs mostly appeared in the same form, as one-off, independent reproductions. However, the new range of reproductive techniques also gave rise to new forms of publication. Illustrated catalogues, periodicals and other deluxe albums generated an exceptionally wide and diverse range of graphic works. The illustrated periodical in particular rapidly developed into a new, important form of publication for reproductions, and the life of a reproduction model also applies to reproductions published in this manner. However, the development of illustrated periodicals constituted such a radical change in the field of reproduction that this subject merits special attention. In the following chapter I therefore wish to consider an early and, in many respects, exemplary illustrated publication, The Penny Magazine, plus three rather more specialised art magazines: LArtiste, The Art Journal and De Kunstkronijk.

iniTiATing The reproducTion


painters

In the autumn of 1806 the young English painter J.M.W. Turner (1775-1851) came up with a plan to publish a prestigious series of reproductions, the Liber Studiorum, comprising prints after a range of landscape drawings. The idea was inspired by the Liber Veritatis, an album of prints after landscape drawings by Claude Lorrain (1600-1682), engraved by Richard Earlom (1743-1822), and published in 1777 by the renowned publisher John Boydell. In emulation of this graphic monument, Turner made a number of drawings and etchings which were then reproduced by various engravers. His interest in the graphic arts also

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prompted the artist to reproduce several of the compositions himself. Turners Liber Studiorum ultimately consisted of 71 plates, mostly mezzotints, and was completed in 1819.6 Several years later, in 1824, John Constable (1776-1837) proposed a similar plan for a series of twenty plates of the English landscape. His initial choice of engraver was the renowned master mezzotinter S.W. Reynolds, who referred him, however, to one of his pupils, David Lucas (1802-1881). The original plan for twenty reproductions was expanded, but the project encountered all kinds of difficulty. Constable was beset by problems, and despondently wrote to Lucas that he wished to revise the plan:
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I have thought much on my book; and all my reflections on the subject go to oppress me; its duration, its expense, its hopelessness of remuneration; added to which, I now discover that the printsellers are watching it as a prey, and they alone can help me. I can only dispose of it by giving it away.[...] It harasses my days, and disturbs my rest at nights. The expense is too enormous for a work that has nothing but your beautiful feeling and execution to recommend it. The painter himself is totally unpopular, and even will be on this side of the grave; the subjects nothing but art, and the buyers wholly ignorant of that. I am harassed by the lengthened prospect of its duration; therefore I go back to my first plan of twenty, including frontispiece and vignette, and we can now see our way out of the wood. I can bear the irritation of delay [] no longer, consider, not a real fortnights work has been done towards the whole for the last four months. Years must roll on to produce the twenty-six prints, and all this time I shall not sell a copy. Remember, Lucas, I mean not, nor think one reflection on you. Everything, with the plan, is my own, and I want to relieve my mind of that which harasses it like a disease. Do not for a moment think I blame you.7

Turner and Constable are two examples of English artists who saw the opportunities offered by art reproduction.8 They both initiated the process of reproducing their work, albeit with dissimilar outcomes, for Turner met with great success, while Constable suffered sleepless nights. In 1825 the French painter Horace Vernet took the initiative, like Turner and Constable, and approached the young, talented engraver Luigi Calamatta with a

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request to engrave his picture Voeu de Louis xiii.9 Once photographic processes had been invented, painters also asked photographers to reproduce their work. Around 1842, for example, Vernet had one of his pictures committed to daguerrotype. Several years later Eugne Delacroix also had the first photograph taken of one of his paintings, on 5 June 1847. Other examples of artists who turned to photography for reproductions of their work include Dante Gabriel Rossetti, who had a daguerreotype made of his painting Girlhood of Mary (1848) in 1853, and Gustave Courbet, who commissioned photographs of his paintings by the well-known photographer Robert Bingham, also in 1853.10 Once the painter Jean-Louis-Ernest Meissonnier had met Bingham (in the early 1860s), he allowed no work to leave his studio before it had been photographed.11 During the final decades of the nineteenth century, artists increasingly tended to have photographs taken of their work. Vincent van Gogh made various attempts to have his work photographed; his friend Gauguin was more structural in his approach.12 Despite the possibilities offered by photographic processes, many painters were still interested in traditional engravings after their work, even in the final decades of the century. In 1874, for example, the Dutch painter Hendrik W. Mesdag wrote to his art dealer and publisher Frans Buffa:
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Now you have made a new gallery there is perhaps more occasion for business henceforth. Perhaps also through the making of engravings after my work. At this moment 2 of my paintings (Shrimp fishing) are being engraved in London by the house of Graves & C. At this moment I am engaged on a couple of subjects that would be particularly appropriate for this Putting out the Lifeboat, The return Both with many figures. Unger would also make a fine engraving of the painting which you shall now receive. Enfin, if you are coming to The Hague sometime then come and see.13

Constable, Vernet, Van Gogh and Mesdag are just a few of the nineteenth-century painters who clearly took the initiative in reproducing their work.
printmakers and photographers

Sometimes printmakers initiated the plan to reproduce a work. After the engraver James Heath (1757-1834) had made a print of The Dead Soldier by the painter Joseph Wright of Derby (1734-1797), he decided to produce a second print in

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order to publish both works as pendants.14 As Wright had not painted any other picture that could function as a pendant to The Dead Soldier, Heath wrote to him in March 1797, requesting him to paint such a work:
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As I am going to publish The Dead Soldier, I wish to announce The Shipwrecked Sailor as a companion. I should therefore be much obliged to you to inform me whether your health will permit you painting it.15

However, Wrights poor health prevented him from acceding to Heaths request and he died in the summer of 1797. The engraver then asked the painter Robert Smirke (1752-1845) to produce an original work that he could use for his reproduction to accompany Wrights The Dead Soldier. So Heath not only initiated the reproduction, he even instigated the creation of the original painting he required. James Heath was not the only printmaker to cherish plans to reproduce specific works. The renowned engraver S.W. Reynolds made a print after Constables The Lock, at his own expense. The painter was pleasantly surprised and delightedly wrote to a good friend: I am at no expense, and it cannot fail to advance my reputation.16 The etcher Philip Zilcken is also known to have regularly instigated etched reproductions. In the summer of 1885, for example, on a visit to a large international exhibition in Antwerp, he was attracted by the painting The Bridge by Jacob Maris, of which he wrote:
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a fresh, clear, luminous painting, deep in colour, full of life and clarity. This canvas particularly attracted me to etch it; through the benevolence of Mister Tersteeg [who worked for goupils branch in the hague, rv], after the end of the exhibition, I obtained that painting in my studio, where working hard without interruption, I made the large etching in a relatively short time.17

Following in the printmakers footsteps, photographers also decided to reproduce artworks. From the early 1840s onwards, photographers travelled around in order to photograph paintings. Well-known companies such as Disderi or Bingham regularly initiated the reproduction of artworks. From the late 1860s onwards, the renowned firms of Braun and Hanfstaengl even travelled throughout Europe to photograph celebrated collections of art. Large museums such as

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the Louvre, the British Museum and the Rijksmuseum were regularly approached by photographers with requests to reproduce their masterpieces. The number of requests received reached such heights that museums were obliged to set limits on art reproduction by referring to their statutes.18
publishers

The many painters, printmakers and photographers who initiated reproductions were overshadowed, however, by one other party involved in the reproductive process the publishers. In his biography of the art dealer and publisher Ernest Gambart, Jeremy Maas emphasises the influence of such figures in the Victorian art world:
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It is impossible to over-estimate the importance of this trade in the Victorian art world.[] it was the printsellers who were the un-acknowledged legislators of the art world. It was they who carried an artists reputation into every home in the country and to all the four corners of the globe.19

The influential publisher John Boydell (1719-1804) had laid the foundations for Victorian print publishing in the nineteenth century. Although he had started out as an engraver, during the 1760s Boydell increasingly applied his energies to importing large numbers of prints, mainly from France. At this time French publishers were the leading producers and distributors of prints in the international market, while the French domestic market remained carefully shielded from foreign (i.e. English) prints through high customs duties, for the French wanted money, not English prints.20 Despite these import restrictions Boydell engaged the well-known engraver William Woolett (1735-1785) to make prints for export to the Continent.21 They achieved major successes in 1776 with Wooletts prints after Battle of La Hogue and The Death of General Wolfe, by the first American painter Benjamin West, which were published in the same year the United States declared its independence. These prints after West were responsible for Boydells international breakthrough in the print trade, which symbolically coincided with the publication of Adam Smiths analysis of the international economy, Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations. From this moment onwards Boydells prints enjoyed wide distribution in an international market. In 1787, for example, during a visit to Paris, Boydell was pleased

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to observe that even in the French capital the tone was being set by his prints, made by well-known English engravers such as Woollett and Earlom (1743-1822) after work by leading contemporary English artists. Boydell was partially responsible for economic relations between the French and English print trades being turned on their head. Where once the English print trade had consisted of importing mainly French prints, by 1785 English print exports to the Continent were many times greater than these.22 English prints, published by Boydell and others, enjoyed enormous popularity in large areas of Europe.23 On the basis of this success Boydell embarked on his most famous undertaking, the creation of the Shakespeare Gallery. He commissioned contemporary painters to depict famous scenes from plays by the legendary English writer, and displayed these pictures in a purpose-built gallery, which later accommodated the British Institution. The paintings were also reproduced as prints, in a range of techniques and formats, sold for varying prices. However, the project almost ruined Boydell financially. A flourishing print publishing industry subsequently developed in England in Boydells footsteps. Francis Moon and Thomas Agnew founded publishing concerns and generated a stream of reproductions. Like Boydell they tended to specialise in works by living masters. Moon collaborated with leading English painters such as David Wilkie (1785-1841), Edwin Landseer and William Mulready (1786-1863).24 During the 1840s in particular the English print publishing industry and print trade evolved rapidly, and the market was dominated by a group of publishers and dealers Rudolph Ackermann, Martin Colnaghi, Ernest Gambart, Joseph Dickinson, Henry Graves, Thomas McLean and Arthur Tooth who quickly made a name for themselves both nationally and internationally.25 All fitted the profile expounded by The Art Journal in 1850:
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The print-publisher must be a man of taste and judgement, as well as a capitalist, to select such works as are adapted for engraving, and such as will be able to afford him a return for the large sums invested in bringing them out.26

In order to produce successful reproductions, publishers had to combine an eye for art with a nose for business. A degree of commercial opportunism was a typical quality, as the artist Millais noted in his writing on 17 May 1859:

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Whatever I do, no matter how succesfull, it will always be the same story. Why dont you give us the Huguenot again? Yet I will be bound the cunning fellow is looking forward to engraving this very picture. You see he says, at the end of his note, he will risque engraving it if I like!27

Millais much-reproduced painting The Huguenot (1857) had been responsible for his initial rise to fame. The flourishing Victorian print industry also compelled admiration in other quarters. In 1834 the French art magazine LArtiste wrote:
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Les imprimeurs, forcs de fournir des tirages plus nombreux, devrons amliorer leurs procds dimpressions; ils devront apprendre des Anglais le secrt et lemploi des ces beaux noirs aux gravures anglaises, car en Angleterre les imprimries, excites par le besoin de fournir aux demandes dun public nombreux, ont amlior leurs moyens matriels un degr dont les imprimeurs francais sont encore loin.28

During the initial decades of the nineteenth century the Napoleonic wars and political instability had undermined the French print market. Moreover the Industrial Revolution had been slow to take a hold in France, leaving socio-economic relationships in the grip of Ancien Rgime structures for many years. These relationships stabilised somewhat in the wake of the 1830 July Revolution, and trade came to life, including the print trade. An important figure in this respect was Adolphe Goupil, who, together with the German print dealer Joseph Henry Rittner (1802-1840) founded the firm of Rittner & Goupil in 1828. The firm was based in Paris, at 12 Boulevard Montmartre, and its purpose was to:
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contracter tous marchs pour la vente, lachat, la commission, la confection et ldition de toutes gravures et lithographies et gnralement pour tout ce qui concerne le dit commerce [...] en quelque pays qul soit situ, notamment en France, Angleterre et en Allemagne.29

During the 1830s the company steadily gained ground in the field of nineteenthcentury art reproduction.30 When Rittner died in 1840 he was succeeded by

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Thodore Vibert, and the firm was renamed Goupil & Vibert, then, from 1846, Goupil, Vibert & Cie.31 The company commissioned reproductions of works by the most important contemporary French artists, Horace Vernet, Ary Scheffer, Paul Delaroche and Jean-Leon Grme, and worked with leading French engravers from Henriquel Duponts school. Goupil was often praised for its support of French printmaking and LArtiste claimed that the firm had even brought back the glory days of the seventeeth century:
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Elle [rittner & goupil, rv] contribuera maintenir la haute rputation que sest acquise de notre cole de gravure dans tous les temps. Nous ne devons pas oublier que des artistes du talent de MM. H. Calamatta, Desnoyers, Dupont, Forster, Mercuri soutiennent dignement le renom quon acquis la gravure francaise les oeuvres des Callot, des Nanteuil, des Morin, des Edelinck et des Berwick.32

In addition to promoting reproductions in traditional techniques, Goupil also worked with the best photographers, such as Robert Bingham. The company specialised in contemporary art, mainly French, and published numerous engravings, lithographs and photographs over many decades. Goupils stock lists will be considered in greater detail below. In Goupils shadow other well-known French firms, such as Petit and Vollard, also instigated reproductions of contemporary art.33 In the Netherlands as well, publishers developed plans to issue reproductions, albeit within the limited Dutch (print) market. The most important publishing concern was the Amsterdam firm of Buffa. The brothers Pieter and Frans Buffa originally came from the small Italian town of Pieve Tesino, close to Bassano, where the famous Remondini publishing house was based. They arrived in Amsterdam as itinerant print sellers and decided to stay.34 In 1806 they opened their own shop in Kalverstraat, a street where several other Italian print dealers also had premises. The Buffas quickly acquired a fine reputation. As early as 1816 the English painter David Wilkie wrote of his time in Amsterdam: Mynheer Buffa, an Italian printseller long established in that city, was the most respectable person in that line in the whole country.35 Wilkie also recorded that Buffa talked of old Boydell as if they were well acquainted. We do not know if Buffa was really on close terms with the famous English publisher, just as we

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know very little about the firm as a whole, as its archives have been lost. However, the name of Buffa regularly crops up in connection with reproductions, and the Buffas did business for many years with successful Dutch artists such as Jozef Israls. Wilkie was not the only person who respected the firm. In 1847 De Kunstkronijk reported: We have seen with pleasure, that Messrs. F Buffa and sons are still continuing with their best and so often entirely disinterested efforts to stir up Engraving in Holland.36 The writer Potgieter also praised the firms work at a time when cheap foreign prints were streaming into the country: Buffas on the other hand, Buffas publish real art, satisfying the most particular of connoisseurs []37 Although Buffa was probably the most important publisher of reproductions in the Netherlands, it was certainly not the only firm, for Josi, Maaskamp and the well-known Immerzeel concern published art reproductions as well. In 1838 Immerzeel was taken over by H.J. van Wisselingh, who also published diverse reproductions.38 Little is known of these Dutch publishers, however, including whether they initiated reproductions on a large scale. Reference was made in the previous chapter to the publisher G.J.A. Beijerinck, who apologised for not being in a position to commission reproductions from Dutch engravers, as the flood of (mainly English) prints from abroad was simply too great. Despite the best efforts of some Dutch firms, Buffa in particular, the limitations of the Dutch market remained obvious. In 1865 De Kunstkronijk openly criticised Dutch publishers (or middle-men) for their inadequate commitment to the production of engravings:
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Our school of engraving shelters more talent, more ardour, more tenacity, than one would infer from the number of its important works. Shelters, we say, for the fact that the cited qualities are there is attested by several reproductions on a wide scale of our old masters, which would in truth not have come into being without it [the school]. However, engraving needs middle-men, who bring its products onto the market and, for whatever reason, but experience teaches this, we cannot now expect of them that which could put it [Dutch engraving] in a position to fly high and strong. Publishing important engravings is, we believe, an extremely costly affair. To compensate for this, the first step is to economise on the price, which the artist is paid for his work, and to such a degree, that if his ardour is not already cooled, tenacity is rendered nigh on impossible for him. He

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has to live and when he wishes to devote to his work that care, that prolonged diligence, which he knows is necessary for a good result, he runs the risk of suffering want. There thus remains just one choice: either to do a careless job, or to accept no work of this nature, but to confine himself to works of which the public and he himself demand less high standards; works which are suitable for an ampler sale and more profitable for the dealer, who is then willing to pay a reasonable price.39 In the opinion of De Kunstkronijk, it was not the engravers but the print publishers who were failing in the field of engraving. This cannot be said, however, of the publishers Buffa (later Slagmulder), Van Wisselingh, C.M. van Gogh, Schalekamp (who specialised in photographic reproduction) and J.H. De Bois, all of whom circulated a range of reproductions.40
the state

The French state had a long tradition of publicly sponsoring printmaking, from the reign of Louis xiv until well into the nineteenth century. Although the French economist Jean-Baptiste Say supported the ideas expressed by Adam Smith in his Wealth of Nations and Traite de lconomie politique (1803), his advocacy, around 1800, of no state intervention in the market was only partially heeded.41 Protectionist legislation made it hard for the free market in France to extricate itself from the governments invisible hand. In the field of printmaking the French state also retained a large measure of control, and initiated major projects, particularly during the early decades of the nineteenth century, when publications such as Le grand ouvrage de lEgypte, Le Sacre de Napoleon, lIconographie grecque et romain and Le Sacre de Charles x appeared. However, the stormy political developments of the Restoration and the July Revolution were followed by the reign of the liberally inclined, bourgeois King Louis-Philippe, and the stream of government-sponsored projects rapidly subsided.42 Although the connection between the French state and printmaking was no longer self-evident, it was never entirely severed during the nineteenth century. In the 1830s and 1840s, for example, there were repeated calls for the state to protect the traditional and valued art of printmaking, especially from the baneful influence of commerce. LArtiste regularly published articles which underlined government responsibility for traditional engraving on the one hand and the dangers represented by the commercial market on the other: Sous le rap-

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port commercial, cet art mriterait donc la protection du gouvernement.43 Where the government failed to act, engraving was left to the mercy of market impulses.44 Contributors to the art magazines often laid the blame at the door of commercial publishers:
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La gravure du commerce! Savez-vous le consquence qui en rsulte? La consquence, cest ce qui existe dj, le protectorat des diteurs, le rgime absolu de leurs bonnes comme de leurs mauvaises inspirations, et nous vous demandons si le bien lemporte ici-bas sur le mal. Ce protectorat, bas sur des ides purement mercantiles, asservit lhomme de coeur aux dmarches les plus humilaintes, aux mortifications les plus pnibles.45

However LArtiste also published more liberal-minded articles which assigned considerably less responsibility to the government and admiringly wrote of the role played by publishers such as Goupil.46 One example of the French states involvement in printmaking was Napoleon iiis 1853 project to reorganise the Chalcography department at the Louvre, where major art works were reproduced in print, in imitation of Louis xivs original initiatives (the Cabinet dEstampes and the Cabinet du Roi).47 During the 1860s the French government decided to issue commissions for the reproductions of paintings in government buildings and churches. These plates would remain the property of the city of Paris and the prints from these were published in collaboration with the printroom at the Louvre.48 Thus new prints were published by order of the French state which, as The Art Journal wrote in 1862, seems to have become alarmed at the state of line engraving, and is now determined to support it by all means in its power.49 In contrast with the situation in France the English government generally kept its distance from (the reproduction) of art. When a special House of Commons committee investigated the position of English printmaking in 1836, the engraver John Pye declared: as far as I know, except for a few private patrons, no encouragement is extended to art, besides that which comes through the printsellers.50 The English state, unlike the French, did not systematically instigate the reproduction of art works, although Queen Victoria and her husband Prince Albert did encourage photography. The royal couple, Prince Albert in particular, displayed an interest in the new medium from its inception. Albert even ini-

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tiated a comprehensive catalogue raisonnee with reproductions of Raphaels work entitled Works of Raphael Santi da Urbino As Represented in the Raphael Collection in The Royal Library at Windsor Castle, formed by H.R.H. The Prince Consort 18531861 and Completed by Her Majesty Queen Victoria, an imposing publication, which contained a number of prints and no less than 2,000 photographs. Although this catalogue was not published until after Prince Alberts death, it may be considered one of the few publically instigated art reproduction projects in England during the nineteenth century. What was the Dutch states attitude to art reproduction? Initially there were various public initiatives to stimulate printmaking, in imitation of France. However, rather than issuing specific commissions, the Dutch government encouraged printmaking through more indirect means, by establishing a department of engraving at the Koninklijke Akademie voor Beeldende Kunsten in Amsterdam. Young, talented printmakers were also motivated by the Grand Prix. Although William i continued centralist government on the French model, the constitutional crisis of 1840 was followed by a liberal offensive in public administration, led by Johan Thorbecke.51 The 1848 Constitution eventually confirmed and laid down the new political relations. In 1851 this was followed by a somewhat symbolic change, when the centralist Koninklijke Instituut was abolished and the new Local Government Act, designed to bring greater centralisation, came into force. The governments new attitude to the arts in general was succintly summarised in Thorbeckes famous declaration, that art is not a matter for government.52 This does not mean, however, that Thorbecke was not interested in the arts. On the contrary, he was a great fan of the arts but an opponent of centralist government, so he believed that it was in the interest of those arts for government to keep its distance from them.53 At most the government could take measures to encourage the arts, although any role in this field lay primarily with the local authorities.54 Being one of the driving forces behind the new Local Government Act, Thorbecke clearly understood the importance of this layer of government, with central government merely playing a supplementary role. While French printmakers were reproducing old masters in the Louvre, by order of the French state, and even travelling to the Rijksmuseum for this purpose, the Dutch state refrained from such initiatives. Art was not a matter for government, and neither was the reproduction of art.

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associations

In addition to private initiatives by painters, printmakers and publishers on the one hand, and state efforts on the other, there were numerous associations which contributed to the reproduction of art works. In the tradition of eighteenth-century association-based culture, many private organisations developed, such as the Art Unions which sprang up in Europe, particularly during the 1830s.55 Such societies were especially common in England. They often shared a similar objective: to promote art and culture in general. Many of these organisations often had a lottery-style structure: the annual fee paid by members was used to purchase works of modern art which were then raffled among them. Anyone who did not win this lottery was generally allocated a presentation plate, in many cases a specially commissioned engraved reproduction after works of modern art. Thanks to the fees paid by their members, Art Unions became wealthy organisations which commissioned numerous reproductions over the decades. Although London was the home of the most influential Art Union, founded in 1837, the Art Union format, including the presentation plate, enjoyed wide international distribution in Europe and the United States. Many other associations also contributed to the production of reproductions. In 1838, for example, the Maatschappij tot bevordering van de Beeldende Kunsten (Society for the promotion of the Visual Arts) was established in the Netherlands. A presentation plate for the societys members was to be made by Taurel, the most authoritative engraver of the period. However, other commitments prompted Taurel to entrust this task to his most talented pupil, Henricus Couwenberg. Although the Maatschappij was dissolved after several years, owing to financial problems, the organisation returned under a different name, as De Vereniging ter Bevordering van de Beeldende Kunsten (Association to promote the Visual Arts) (1845). In this new guise it met with greater success and commissioned dozens of reproductions as presentation plates for its lottery.56 Alongside these general cultural organisations there were more specialised associations, such as the French Socit des gravure Francais, founded for the purpose of producing and distributing fine engraved reproductions, and the English Arundel Society which commissioned many prints after old Italian masters.57 To summarise: various parties were responsible for initiating the reproductive process, including the painter John Constable, the etcher Philip Zilcken, the

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photographer Adolphe Braun, the publishers Adolphe Goupil and Ernest Gambart, the French state and numerous associations. A single overriding motive for deciding to reproduce one work and not another cannot be established. In some instances a painting had met with exhibition success or formed part of a popular series, in others it did not even exist, as the engraver James Heath discovered. The decision to reproduce a specific work as a print must be considered in the context of each reproduction. I shall return to this subject at length in the chapters on Ary Scheffer, Jozef Israls and Lawrence Alma-Tadema. With different characters and different backgrounds, the various parties were inspired by varying motives to set in motion the first steps in the manufacture of a reproduction. After this the same rules applied: if you wanted to make a reproduction, you needed the cooperation of other parties. It was then essential to reach agreement with these parties concerning the various preconditions that governed the actual reproductive process; in other words, it was necessary to organise the reproduction, the second phase in its lifecycle.

orgAnising The reproducTion


On 7 May 1827 the painter David Wilkie wrote from Italy to his brother: Martin Colnaghi wrote me at Rome, wishing to purchase the copyright of the Chelsea Pensioners.58 The well-known print dealer was hoping to obtain the exclusive rights of reproduction for this painting. Reproducing an artwork increasingly presupposed the right to be allowed to do this.59 Since the late eighteenth century there had been a fundamental change in the legal system, involving the transformation of the traditional privilege system into modern laws on authorship rights and copyright. This cultural change had far-reaching consequences for the artist, his work and reproductions of this work. With the advent of the author a new approach to the question of makership arose, previously discussed in the chapter Pinxit et Sculpsit. As has been stated, the author, or originator, possessed a unique intellectual connection with his work. But what was the nature of authorship? To answer this question I would first like to consider the transition from the traditional privilege system to copyright law, during the nineteenth century in general, then more particularly with regard to English copyright, French droit de reproduction and Dutch reproductierecht. Once the right to reproduce a work had been secured, the following step was to agree on the

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printmaker, the technique, the timescale and the remuneration. These agreements were sometimes committed to a written contract.
From privilege to authorship rights

The traditional privilege system dates from the early years of printing.60 Printing books demanded major investments on the part of printer and publisher. In order to make these investments pay, extra protection was required in the form of a privilege, or exclusive permission to multiply a work. The philosopher Johann Fichte once described privilege as an exception to the general rule of reprinting books.61 This monopoly allowed a publisher to distribute a book amongst the public on a large scale. Church and secular authorities soon perceived a danger in this widescale distribution, and generally treated the privilege system as a powerful tool for censorship and a way to obtain income.62 Although the interests of publisher and authorities (church and state) did not always concur, the system served both, whilst ignoring the writers interests.63 A writer could also apply for a privilege, but had to wait and see if the authorities were favourably disposed towards him. A privilege entailed the right to publish and exploit a work, independently of the writer, and allowed the printer, publisher and bookseller in particular to distribute a specific work within a specific period and region.64 This system was widespread in Europe, where its objectives and organisation were largely similar in various countries.65 Although the system was primarily of consequence in the production and distribution of words, it also played a role in the production and distribution of images. When Albrecht Drer discovered that prints after his compositions were being distributed in Italy without his permission, he travelled south to tackle the problem. The culprit was the renowned Italian engraver Marcantonio Raimondi, known for his prints after Raphael and Michelangelo. Raimondi had also been making prints after Drers woodcuts and had even been putting the German masters monogram on these. Drer found that he was powerless to stop him. The only concession he could obtain from the local authorities was that Raimondi was forbidden to sign his prints with another artists signature.66 Drer is thus an early example of an artist who sought to secure legal protection for his work, albeit without much success. At this point he could not yet refer to his rights as an author; neither does he appear to have secured a privilege to his own work. During the course of the sixteenth and especially the

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seventeenth century, it became increasingly common for painters and printmakers to apply for such privileges. In 1607, for example, the painter Mierevelt secured a privilege for prints after one of his paintings; a few years later the engraver Jacob Matham also obtained a privilege for a print after one of Mierevelts works.67 Rubens is known to have made pointed efforts to secure privileges for the publication of prints after his pictures.68 In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries the publishing of prints, like that of books, was closely associated with the privilege system, which offered protection to publishers, engravers and painters when producing and distributing prints.69 It should be noted, however, that under this system painters and printmakers were not protected as authors but as publishers. Despite this small measure of protection offered to painters and printmakers, there was, as yet, no such thing as a law that acknowledged authorship rights and protected them as the originator, or author, of a work. This changed over the course of the eighteenth century, when new ideas about individuality and intellectual property, propounded by John Locke and J.J. Rousseau, made an important contribution to the rise of the author. This new vision of the originator, governed by the authors connection with his brainchild, forms an essential element in the development of authorship rights. Once the special bond between the originator and his work had been acknowledged, protection of this bond became advisable. This was an international development, within which various national traditions became apparent. An Anglo-American tradition, shaped by copyright ideology, essentially developed the traditional privilege system, while recognising the author as the party with primary entitlement to this commercial right of reproduction, a right that the author was also free to transfer to another party. On the continent, however, a French-dominated tradition evolved, in which authorship rights were rather regarded as a droit moral, closely associated with the originator.70 In several respects Dutch law fell between the English and French traditions. A brief comparison can offer more insight into the nature and implications of nineteenth-century authorship rights. For centuries the judicial relationship between law and rights in general has been the subject of a discussion that also encompasses the field of authorship rights. In the context of the present study, however, I do not intend to consider this question of jurisprudence and shall confine myself to the observation that (authorship) rights amount to more than simply applying the law. The core issue is not the application of the law but the construction, or finding, of the law, as

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the professor of law Paul Scholten wrote in his famous Algemeen Deel: The law is there, yet it must be found; the innovation lies in the finding.71 The forces that shape authorship rights are legislation, jurisprudence, treaties, contemporary opinions, customary or common law and individual oral or written agreements between pertinent parties. Bearing these forces in mind, I shall outline the importance of copyright, droit de reproduction and reproductierecht in the organisation of the reproductive process.72
copyright

In 1863 the art dealer and publisher Ernest Gambart wrote in his critical pamphlet On Piracy of Artistic Copyright (1863): It is now a question for the legislature and the public to decide whether or not the school of English line-engraving, once occupying so high a position, shall perish or be maintained.73 Gambart was responding to large-scale, illegal reproduction with a passionate plea for improved authorship rights. During this period English authorship rights were still largely determined by eighteenth-century legislation, whose foundations had been laid by Queen Annes Act of 1710, in which the (literary) author had been acknowledged for the first time.74 Protection for the author had subsequently been extended to printmaking, through the efforts of the artist William Hogarth. In his battle to reduce the might of publishers, Hogarth had proclaimed that he was the primary party entitled to exploit his work and eventually saw his efforts rewarded with the Engraving Copyright Act of 24 June 1735, also known as the Hogarth Act:
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every person who shall invent and design, engrave, etch or worked, in mezzotinto or chiaro oscuro, or from his own works and invention shall caused to be designed and engraved, etched or worked, in mezzotinto or chiaro oscuro, any historical or other print or prints, shall have the sole right and liberty of printing and reprinting the same for the term of fourteen years, to commence from the day of the first publishing thereof, which shall be engraved with the name of the proprietor on each plate, and printed on every such print or prints75

The law offered protection to anyone who made prints after their own design or commissioned other to produce such prints. It thus reflected the interests of Hogarth, who was both a painter and engraver, originator and executor of many

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of his prints, such as A Rakes Progress, which he regularly published himself. [fig. 19] Naturally there were many other engravers who reproduced his work without permission and received no such protection.76 Where protection did exist, this applied for a period of fourteen years after initial publication, and offered the right to act against publishers or others who attempted to copy, print, trade, publish or exhibit prints, or incited third parties to do so, without permission of the person with legal title to do this.77 On his death Hogarth left his possessions (including the rights to his work) to his widow Jane Hogarth. In 1767 this situation partly inspired a remarkable amendment to the original Hogarth Act, which proclaimed:
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[] that Jane Hogarth, widow and executrix of the said William Hogarth, shall have the sole right and liberty of printing and reprinting all the said prints, etchings, and engravings of the design and invention of the said William Hogarth, for and during the term of twenty years[]78

From this point onwards the rights of the author were extended beyond his death and transferred to his legal heirs, such as his widow and children. Legal protection was also extended to include engravers who made prints after other artists work, for a new period of 28 years. Moreover, this amendment to the Hogarth Act of 1767 contained an interesting redefinition of the prints to be protected. Where the Hogarth Act had offered protection to any historical or other print, in the new law the definition was explicitly expanded to encompass any portrait, conversation, landscape, or architecture, map, chart, or plan or any other print []. It was precisely in this period that history painting lost its importance within the traditional hierarchy to lower subjects such as portraiture, landscape and genre pieces, a fundamental change in the art world, which also left its traces in the law. Thanks to the Hogarth Act, and its subsequent amendments, authorship rights enjoyed a rare degree of protection in England during the eighteenth century, especially when compared with the situation on the European continent and in the United States.79 In 1800 Joseph Farington wrote in his Diary about the Hogarth Act: This was an important step as it encouraged speculations. Before such security was obtained plates intended to be published were through the intrigues of Artists copied & the Copies preceded the Originals.80 In The Art Union (predecessor to The Art Journal ) of 1846 the lawyer Richard

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fig. 19 William hogarth, A Rakes Progress, plate 3 (1735), etching and engraving, 35.5 x 40.8 cm,

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British Museum, london.

Godson emphasised the importance of authorship rights, but admitted that much in this field was still unclear: Copyright in prints This subject although one of great inportance, seems to be uncertain and unsettled: it is difficult to say how the right is required and in what it consists.81 The Hogarth Act, together with its amendments, continued to apply in the nineteenth century. If a painter made his own prints after one of his paintings, or commissioned such prints, these were protected. Yet strangely, the painting itself was not protected, so a painter was powerless in the face of prints produced by a printmaker on the printmakers own initiative. The curious outcome of this anomaly was that reproductions were better protected than original works. However, legal protection was not initially extended to cover original work. In 1819 such protection was even explicitly rejected, on the grounds that it would destroy all competition in art, and thus posed a threat to the free development of the arts.82 The interests of the artist were essentially deemed of secondary importance to the interests of art in general: the painters rights did not extend beyond that of possession of the paint-covered canvas.83 Arguments against expanded legal protection of artworks were heard in England even after authorship rights had received further form. In 1849, for example, The Art Journal wrote:

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There is a tendency in the present age to legislate for everybody and for everything, and to estimate the productions of the mind by their pecunairy value. The consequence of this utilitarian policy must be to lower Art, and, as such, we beg to protest against it. In our own day, we are begining to perceive that all adventitious modes of fostering Art, founded upon pecuniary motives, only cause its degeneracy. Public opinion, in a highly civilised society like that of England, is itself the highest species of legislation. To this the Artist, like every other citizen, can appeal, and successfully, when he is injured. The laws of Copyright, however, assume that artists are unable to take care of their own rights, and by heaping together a mass of technicality, really may be said to encumber them with assistence.84

According to The Art Journal the artist was only entitled to the sum derived from the sale of his work and did not require any further protection; after all, did he not benefit from reproductions through the dissemination of his name and reputation?85 Moreover, the painting was further protected by its intrinsic qualities which were impossible to copy and thus needless to protect, unlike other art forms, such as literature, which did not possess such internal protection, for copying and reprinting the written word did not require any literary talent. The Art Journal supplemented these arguments against authorship rights for painters with the much adduced primacy of common law over legislation in general. This argument was characterised by an enormous confidence in public common sense, and traditionally regarded the codification of law as unnecessary, and even incompatible with the dynamics of law itself. In several respects The Art Journals vision of authorship rights is a typically English attitude towards law in general and the rights of the artist in particular. Thus, in English law a curious situation emerged in which engravers enjoyed the protection denied to painters. Indeed, the protection accorded to printmakers was increasingly extended. The Hogarth Act, and its 1767 amendment, had offered protection to the makers of engravings, etchings and mezzotints. This protection was soon expanded to encompass the makers of lithographs.86 However, the development of photography generated new problems. Once a popular painting had been photographed by fraudulent photographers, the publisher of an engraving after this original work could forget his income.87 So it was highly important for publishers to improve protection of their rights acquired for a

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great deal of money in the face of what Gambart described as artistic piracy. In his article On Piracy of Artistic Copyright (1863), the publisher emphasised: It is not, [] against competition that protection for copyright in art-works is demanded, [] but against robbers.88 During the 1850s and 1860s Gambart and other publishers took many photographers to court; Gambart instigated more than twenty lawsuits in connection with William Holman Hunts world-famous painting The Light of the World alone.89 According to the historian A.J. Hamber, the many lawsuits brought against photographers in England discredited the phenomenon of photographic reproduction.90 Thus the problematic legal situation even affected the image of the photographic medium. A conflict about photographs of engraved reproductions after The Light of the World and Rosa Bonheurs The Horse Fair once again provoked the question of how much protection against photography the Hogarth Act could provide. The photographer defended himself with the remark that photography was not mentioned in current laws, an argument refuted by the judge who cited the objective of copyright law: although the Hogarth Act might not specifically refer to photography, this did not exclude the latest reproductive medium from being subject to its principles, which had been generally accepted.91 Henceforth a photographer was also required to seek permission to photograph prints. This was an important verdict, which clearly established that the core issue was the act of reproduction, rather than the nature of the technique.92 The principles of authorship rights and copyright had yet to be applied to original works. When the artist John Everett Millais wished to establish explicit claim to a work as its author, he asked the dealer Gambart to sign a declaration to this effect. Gambart refused, however, as the inadequate legislation of the period did not allow for this. On 3 May 1856 Millais wrote in his:
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Gambart [the dealer] has been here, but I cannot get him to sign the paper. No one will, under the present state of the copyright law. If he signed it he would be responsible for the action of others, which no man would do. Besides there would always be such a drag in the sale of the picture, for men will not purchase anything with a claim on it. There is a great stir in the matter of copyright, and I think something will be done. As it stands I hear it is impossible to obtain any, legal, hold in the matter. But enough of shop I must be off to the Royal Academy again, to make sketches of the heads in Autumn Leaves for the Illustrated London News93
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In protest against this unequal protection a petition was presented to the House of Lords in 1858 by the Society of Arts and the Royal Institute of British Architects. This was followed a few years later by the long-awaited amendment to the law, with the act of 29 July 1862, which stated:
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The author, being a British subject or resident within the dominions of the Crown, of every original painting, drawing and photograph which shall be or shall have been made either in the British dominions or elsewhere, and which shall not have been sold or disposed of before the commencement of the Act, and his assigns shall have the sole and exclusive right of copying, engraving, reproducing, and multiplying such painting or drawing, and the design thereof, or such photograph, and the negative thereof, by any means and of any size, for the term of the natural life of such author, and seven years after his death94

Before an author could claim this right, he first had to register his work at the Hall of the Stationers Company, a formality which shows that an authors title to a work did not belong to him as a matter of course: he could only have legal recourse to his right once he had explicitly laid claim to it. Copyright law allowed an author to take action against attempts to [] repeat, copy, colourably imitate, or otherwise multiply for sale, hire, exhibition, or distribution, any such work or the design thereof [].95 It should be emphasised that the core issue was the authors right to reproductions of his work. Thus an artist was enabled to act against the exhibition of illegal reproductions of his work, a measure which probably did not apply to the original work. The law also prohibited the forging of an artists signature or monogram on a painting, drawing or photograph, and incitement to do this.96 This prohibition of forgery shows how closely the world of art forgery was associated with authorship rights. Taking action against illegal reproductions, however, assumed that an artists copyright had been registered, and that the plaintiff still possessed this right. If an artist had sold the copyright to a work (to an art dealer and publisher, for example), the artist himself was no longer entitled to duplicate the work, or commission its duplication, without the permission of the copyright holder. He also lost the right to take action against reproductions made without his knowledge or consent. In order for an artist to be able to protect his work against illegal reproductions, he had to hold and keep the copyright to this.97 An

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interesting development is that the period for which a copyright applied no longer consisted of a set number of years but was dynamically associated with the life of the author. In this respect too, the originator of a work constituted the basis for the existence of the right to reproduce that work. Moreover, this approach also considered the interests of an artists legal heirs, such as his wife or children. The 1862 Act was an important step in the development of English copyright law in the field of visual art. The tone had been set by Hogarth more than a hundred years previously, and resounded well into the nineteenth century, thanks to various new laws. Alongside the Act of 1862, however, others laws remained in force. In the late nineteenth century, for example, engravers were still obliged to have recourse to the Hogarth Act and its 1767 amendment. English law in the field of authorship rights can be regarded as a patchwork of legal rulings relating to literature, printmaking, painting, sculpture and applied art, with various inconsistencies. For prints the period protected by copyright law was twenty-eight years, for paintings, drawings and photographs, the life of the artist plus seven years, for sculpture fourteen years with the option to extend this for the same length of time. In 1891 the lawyer G. Haven Putnam ironically remarked: We do not think it desirable that these distinctions should continue.98 The much-desired standardisation of copyright law in England was partially encouraged, as elsewhere, by the development of international law in the field of authorship rights, a subject to which I shall return below. What did these changes in the law governing authorship rights mean in practical terms for the English art world? As in the age of the traditional privilege system, financial motives prompted publishers to seek the exclusive right to reproduce an artwork. However, the development of copyright law meant that they now had to apply to the artist to obtain this, rather than to the church or state. This new situation is illustrated by the art dealer and publisher Colnaghi, who directly approached the painter Wilkie when he wished to obtain the copyright to Wilkies Chelsea Pensioners. The Victorian art dealer and publisher Ernest Gambart in particular was often interested in copyrights to works by popular artists. At one point he approached the painter Holman Hunt with an eye to acquiring his work The Light of the World (1850-1853).99 However, the painting had already been sold, so he inquired about the copyrights. Holman Hunt had already received an offer of 300 pounds for these, from two engravers, but even-

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tually agreed to transfer the copyrights to Gambart for the sum of 200 pounds, on condition that a good engraver be commissioned for the print.100 The Light of the W orld would ultimately become one of the most reproduced artworks of the nineteenth century. During the first year the art dealer earned around 10,000 pounds from the reproduction: a tolerably succesfull speculation in the words of The Art Journal. By the early 1860s, however, his sales had collapsed as a result of the many illegal photographs of the print.101 Holman Hunts The Light of the World also illustrates the interaction between the law and the economy. The law required Gambart to apply to the painter for the right to reproduce Hunts painting. Whether he had to pay for this, and if so, how much, was then a purely economic question of supply and demand. The copyright to the painting was a legal (moveable) property, whose price was established through economic channels, like the price for (possession of) the painting itself. In the mid-nineteenth century the price of copyrights increased explosively as a result of the huge demand for rights to works by popular masters. Celebrated artists such as William P. Frith and David Wilkie earned a fortune with the sale of copyrights. The famous animal painter Sir Edwin Landseer (1802-1873) also owed more than half of his considerable fortune to the sale of reproduction rights.102 The price of copyrights regularly exceeded that paid for (possession of) the painting itself. In 1846, for example, Landseer received 2,400 pounds for four paintings, and 4,400 pounds for the copyrights. The painter Sir Thomas Lawrence (1769-1830) had an exclusive continuous contract with his publisher, who enjoyed the exclusive right to reproduce Lawrences work for the sum of 3,000 pounds per annum.103 Thus, these artists were already earning a great deal of money from copyrights before this right had been convincingly guaranteed in law. As early as 1850 the experienced engraver John Burnet was concerned about the detrimental effects which expensive copyrights would have on art reproduction.104 He believed that the high costs would make it impossible for many engravers to publish prints themselves, while publishers would be unable to finance the production of many different prints at the same time. Burnet also maintained that copyright law would cause the art world to become disproportionately dominated by the work of artists such as Wilkie, Landseer and Morland. The high costs of copyrights would require savings to be made in other areas. The engraver Abraham Raimbach, for example, pointed out that the high prices paid for copyrights often resulted in the use of cheaper techniques.105 Nevertheless the level of such sums should not be overestimated, as it is more

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than likely that only the most popular artists could demand such high prices for copyrights, for they were in a position to play interested publishers against each other. For the winning publisher the considerable sum paid for a copyright was an investment in what he hoped would become a successful print publication. Although our insight into the income derived from publishing prints is still limited, the revenue from a successful reproduction could be many times that of the publishers investment, as was the case with the reproduction of The Light of the World. Undoubtedly many other painters demanded such high prices in vain. It is also quite feasible that some artists were willing to waive such a fee. For example, John Everett Millais wrote with regard to the reproduction of his work The Return of the Dove to the Ark:
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I would not ask anything for the copyright, as the engraving will cost nearly five hundred pounds. That in itself is a great risk, particularly as it is the first that I shall have engraved. I shall not permit it to be published unless I am perfectly satisfied with the capabilities of the etcher. It is to be done entirely in line, without mezzotint. I am myself confident of its success; but it is natural that men without the slightest knowledge should be a little shy of giving money for the copyright.106

Millais was probably not the only artist who did not ask a fee for his reproduction rights. It may have been common practice for artists to forgo income in the short term, in order to spread their reputation and gain a higher price for their work in the long term. While paying a high price for copyright can be regarded as an investment on the part of the publisher, willingness to waive the copyright fee should be viewed as a similar investment on the part of the artist. At any rate, copyright law had become rooted in the English art world. In 1879 The Art Journal described the phenomenon as one of the very deepest importance to the future of British Art, to Art all over the world, and of all time.107
droit de reproduction

Come to France, and travel from Calais to Marseilles, and you will not find any pirated copies of English engravings for sale, declared the art dealer and publisher Ernest Gambart.108 In his criticism of English legislation Gambart often turned for comparison to its French counterpart. From the sixteenth century onwards the privilege system also existed in France, where it had been used as

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an important tool for censorship, more than in any other country. Permission from the state was thus required for the publication of printed matter, including prints. The system remained largely unchanged, even during the eighteenth century. While in England the first steps towards recognition of the author were being taken as early as 1710, such measures would fail to emerge in France for many years to come. However, the political momentum of the French Revolution did leave its mark in the field of intellectual property. On the one hand the traditional system of privilege, closely associated with the guild structure and censorship under the Ancien Rgime, was overthrown; on the other the rights of the individual were acknowledged and laid down in the Dclaration des Droits de lhomme et du citoyen (1789).109 This acknowledgement of the individual was soon translated to the individual artist as author, as can be seen in a decree from 1793, which proclaims in article 3:
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Les auteurs dcrits en tout genre, les compositeurs de musique, les peintres et dessinateurs qui feront graver des tableaux ou dessins, jouiront, durant leur vie entire, du droit exclusif de vendre, faire vendre, distribuer leurs ouvrages dans le territoire de la Rpublique, et den cder la proprit en tout ou en partie.110

The article gave the author title to his own work: unlawfully published prints could be confiscated and handed over to him.111 The decree of 1793 provided protection for a range of authors.112 Alongside writers and composers, painters were also recognised as authors and protected against reproduction of their work without their permission. Protection also extended to designers of prints, the draughtsmen who supplied compositions for reproduction. The continental tradition is characterised by the fact that it immediately offered legal protection to the author for the duration of his life. French authorship rights were thus inherently and closely associated with the concept of the maker or originator of a work, unlike the English system of copyright which was long regarded as a commercial monopoly, granted to the author, but nevertheless terminated after a specific period. Under French legislation the originator owned the authorship rights to his work throughout his life. His legal heirs, his widow and/or his children, enjoyed a further ten years of protection after his death. The decree of 1793 probably did not apply to engravers who produced prints after another artists compositions, for it seems that

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printmakers were not accorded equivalent recognition as authors until the decree of 1810 which declared: Les auteurs, soit nationaux, soit trangers, de tout ouvrage imprim ou grav, peuvent cder leur droit un imprimeur ou libraire, ou toute autre personne[].113 This amendment to the law also extended the period to which authorship rights applied to twenty years after the authors death.114 In the early 1840s the French Court of Cassation made an important ruling, which was summarised in the Dutch artjournal De Kunstkronijk:
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The Court of Cassation in Paris, has recently decided, that if the Painter, when selling his paintings, does not expressely reserve the right of having the same engraved, then through the act of selling itself, he relinquishes that right to the buyer.- The grounds are principally these: a. that the painter, having reason to fear that the right of engraving will be made over by the buyer to unskilled hands, by the sale has freedom and power, to make all such stipulations as his interests require, and neglecting this has no further claim. b. that in all instances an agreement, in which the right of engraving is not mentioned, should be interpreted according to the principles of rights in favour of the buyer.115

Although the Court took account of the artists interests in the reproduction of his work, it also underlined his own responsibility in this regard. In the event that the artist did not explicitly mention his rights of reproduction when selling a work, the purchaser was protected against this lack of clarity.116 As a result of this ruling it became immediately important for an artist to be aware of the authorship rights associated with his work. Inattention in this regard would result in those rights evaporating, to the irritation of the renowned painter Horace Vernet who fiercely resisted this prospect in his essay Du droit des peintres et des sculpteurs. Sur leurs ouvrages (1841).117 The core of the problem lay in the legal relationship between authorship rights and ownership rights, which I shall consider in more depth below. In France, as in England, the question arose of whether a photographer could count on the same protection as a painter or printmaker. During the 1850s it was made clear in various lawsuits that the photographic reproduction of artworks was not permissible without the consent of the artist. Photographers in

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France were therefore required to obtain (written) consent from the artist.118 But were photographers also protected? The problem was complicated by the fact that during the 1850s it was far from clear what was meant by the term photography. As previously observed, there was no single photographic technique. The rapid accumulation of methods was constantly accompanied by the question of whether these were techniques or art, prompting an unpredictable and often specious debate on which photographers should receive protection, and which should not. In its quest to obtain protection for authorship rights, the photographic firm of Mayer and Pierson brought an end to this uncertainty with two legal victories in 1862 and 1863. From this point onwards photographers, like painters and printmakers, could also protect their rights through reference to the decree of 1793.119 The droit de reproduction soon became an accepted right in the French art world, as can be seen from such evidence as the commercial processes surrounding art reproduction, described by LArtiste in 1839:
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Nous aurons examiner, non-seulement les travaux des artistes, mais encore la marche que suivront les diteurs dont les spculations et les vues commerciales ont plus dinfluence quon ne semble le croire, sur ltat et les perfectionnements de lart. Sagit-il, en effet, de faire graver un tableau: le peintre traite avec un diteur et lui vend le droit de reproduire son ouvrage. Ce droit dvient pour le commercant une proprit exclusive.120

As in England publishers played a decisive role in the French art world. However, artists were also extremely conscious of the legal aspects to their work. In 1841, for example, Horace Vernet had already pointed to the legal and financial importance of reproduction rights for contemporary artists, in his essay Du droit des peintres et des sculpteurs Sur leurs ouvrages.121 Artists such as Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres, Paul Dlaroche and Ary Scheffer enjoyed substantial revenues from the sale of their droit de reproduction. Alongside these popular masters, there is also the example of Henri Toulouse-Lautrec, who informed his friend Leon Dechamps in a letter: Reu de la Societe anonyme La Plume la somme de deux cent francs pour droits de reproduction dun affiche demi colombier The Chap Book.122 Although the actual level of income is often hard to ascertain, French artists appear to have earned less from droit de reproduction than their English contemporaries Edward Landseer or William Powell Frith from

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their copyrights. Dlaroche, for example, received 20 pounds for the droit de reproduction for his portrait of Napoleon, while Landseer in the same period received 200 pounds for the copyrights to Highland Drovers.123 However, the fact that English artists were earning more than their French counterparts may have had more to do with the market for which they were working, than the legislation which applied to them. Moreover, popular French artists could also pick and choose their publishers. Henri Toulouse-Lautrec, for example was approached by two publishers who wished to publish one of his prints, Javal (who published LArt Francais) and Roques (who published Le Courrier Francais). The painter had already relinquished the droit de reproduction to Javal, when Roques applied to him. Toulouse-Lautrecs response was to urge Roques to reach agreement with his fellow publisher Javal; he also assured Roques that he would take action if Roques attempted to publish the print before Javal.124 Toulouse-Lautrecs self-assurance attests to the development of authorship rights in France which reached maturity during the nineteenth century, or as Emile Cantrel wrote in LArtiste as early as 1860: Ce procs, sil est gagn par le droit, sera lun des plus beaux triomphes de la raison au dix-neuvime sicle.125
RepRoductieRecht (the right oF reproduction)

To a certain degree the law governing authorship rights in the Netherlands fell between the English and Dutch legal traditions.126 During the sixteenth and seventeenth century the Netherlands had developed into the publishing house of Europe, thanks to an extensive trade in printed matter that chiefly comprised the mass reprinting of foreign publications. The privilege system played an essential role in this large-scale publication of printed matter. While the system had long been maintained in France as a tool for censorship, in the Netherlands it tended to be exploited by the publishers as an effective instrument for monopolising the market. The Dutch publishing industry flourished in the liberal political climate, where progressive ideas could appear in print without a problem. As a result the privilege system remained intact in the Netherlands for many years, much longer than elsewhere in Europe. In the spring of 1795 the French Revolution echoed through the velvet Batavian Revolution in the Netherlands, where there were also evident consequences in the field of intellectual property, albeit in considerably diluted form. Instead of the unconditional recognition of authorship rights enshrined in French law, the Dutch law of 1796 only made a small breach in the publishing front

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with its limited acknowledgement of Dutch authors rights. The principles of the privilege system remained largely intact. Thus reprinting without permission of the author and wild translation (the translation of foreign works without the authors consent) were expressly permitted, which they were not abroad.127 The arrival of Napoleonic rule under Louis Napoleon led to a further increase in French influence, particularly in the legal sphere.128 In 1810 Louis Napoleons Kingdom of Holland was transformed into a province of his brothers French empire, and Dutch legislation was replaced by French codifications which also brought into force Frances progressive 1793 decree on authorship rights, cited above.129 Once the French had been driven out of the Netherlands, the French legal system was also abandoned. Although this made French-style censorship a thing of the past, it constituted a backwards step in the development of authorship rights, for such rights were not longer accorded directly to the originator of a work, but to the publisher (once again). Legally speaking this amounted to volte-face, a return to the eighteenth-century privilege system. Although the law of 28 September 1817 (Stb. No. 5) once more represented a cautious step in the direction of authorship rights, this legislation was still largely dominated by publishing interests.130 The authors liberal rights remained minimal; in 1864 the Catholic conservative leader Alberdingk Thijm still wanted nothing to do with them: Amongst the most irksome inconsequences to which the liberalism of our time is reduced, is certainly the increasingly strict control of so-called literary property.131 He mainly regarded authorship rights the rights of the individual deriving from the revolutionary ideas of the Enlightenment as an objectionable crusade against reproduction, intended to prevent the limitless reproduction of other peoples work which he believed was in the interests of the community. However, the critical writer Eduard Douwes Dekker, alias Multatuli, was a fierce advocate of the individual author. Although he had relinquished his manuscript of Max Havelaar to Jacob van Lennep in order to get this published, he was determined to judge the results himself, as he wrote on 12 October 1860: on the treatment of M.H. it is I who can and must pass judgement. That right has neither been sold, nor paid for. That right is not for sale, and cannot be paid for.132 On 16 August 1871 he wrote in similar vein to the publisher G.L. Funke: Ignoring an author in a reprint of his work abroad this would be unheard of is a mistake.133 He could find little support in the law. Dutch legislation on authorship rights was still summary in the field of litera-

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ture. A writers only comfort was that the situation was even worse for visual artists. In protest at legislations failure to protect authorship rights in the field of visual art, a group of well-known artists, led by Jozef Israls, submitted a petition to the Dutch Lower House in 1879. This petition had been signed by twenty contemporary artists: D.A.C. Artz, H.W. Mesdag, P. van der Velden, O. Eerelman, J. Vrolijk, B. Hppe, J.J. van de Sande Bakhuyzen, J. Maris, J.A. Neuhuijs, F.P. ter Meulen, J. van Gorkum, J.M. Schmidt Crans, T. Offermans, J.H. Neuhuijs, E. Verveer, F.J. van Rossum du Chattel, H.J. van der Weele, C.L.Ph. Zilcken and J. Bosboom.134 The petition was intended to draw attention to the fact that works of visual art were still not covered by the protection afforded by legislation governing authorship rights.
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They are pointing out that the rights of the practioners of the visual arts should be guaranteed by the law as much as the rights of writers, composers and authors of plays [] Just as in other countries so should here the free and untrammeled reproduction of artworks by publishers, only mindful of personal advantage, be curbed by the law; hereby shall the law be respected, art exalted and the artists social standing improved; and that, just as the artists spirit is filled with the noblest and most exalted inspirations, just as his heart knows no other impulse than that which elevates him to the beautiful and the true, so the artist, no less than other authors, belongs in the first place to his own family, which more than others has claim to the fruits of his labour obtained through study and exertion.135

In De Nederlandsche Spectator, the artist, critic and lawyer Carel Vosmaer called for artists to be supported in their efforts to secure legal protection. Authorship rights belonged to the artist: he should know and decide whether his work should be duplicated or not, Vosmaer declared.136 The law of 1817 offered no protection to visual artists. Vosmaer proposed to grant artists the right of reproduction, similar to writers rights over translation. At the time of writing, in 1879, artists did not possess such rights and he described the Dutch situation as follows:

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At present the artist must passively look on while his work is reproduced in exceedingly unlovely or sometimes entirely defective prints, that do not represent the faintest glimmer of his masterpiece. And this occurs all too often. Not every engraver or lithographer may simply fling himself on a work of art and copy this in his own, sometimes imperfect fashion. The author should be allowed to decide whether he is able, should examine the proofs and approve these. That is the principal issue. But the monetary side is also far from insignificant. Engravings after a painting sometimes produce a great deal of profit; it is therefore equitable that the author enjoys something of this. Thus is the matter conceived in civilised lands in Europe, and the Netherlands alone makes an exception to this. Denied a share in the proceeds of interpretation, here the artist must calmly tolerate that his work is distributed in often extremely poor copies and thereby his name sorely injured, in foreign lands as well.137

While Vosmaer pointed out the similarities between visual artists and men of letters, others took an opposite tack and adduced the differences between these arts. In his recommendations for the new law of 1881 on authorship rights, the lawyer Fresemann Vitor declared that since the very nature of art works made their mechanical reproduction impossible, there were no grounds for independent authorship rights for painters. However, graphic works, such as engravings, lithographs and photographs could be reproduced using such means, so printmakers and photographers did require legal protection. Another lawyer, De Ridder, also made a fundamental distinction between visual art (paintings, drawings and sculptures) on the one hand and literary and graphic works on the other. The makers of paintings, drawings and sculptures drew the short straw. With reference to German legislation, where separate laws governed authorship rights in the visual and literary arts, the new Dutch law on authorship rights of 28 June 1881 was only to apply to authors of printed matter, as stated in article 1:
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The right to make public through print writings, plates, charts, musical works, plays and oral performances, also to put on or perform works of musical drama and plays in public, belongs exclusively to the author and his heirs.138

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The law thus offered authors of works on plates protection against unwanted reproduction, although they were required to register this right with the Ministry of Justice, after which they were protected for a period of fifty years.139 So while legislation in other countries now associated this right with the lifetime of the author, in the Netherlands there was still a fixed period. Authors of visual art works (paintings, drawings and sculptures) remained unprotected. During discussion of this new law in the Dutch Lower House, arguments against every form of protection for authors continued to be raised. Some representatives still regarded authorship rights as an undesirable tax on reading, which kept the price of printed matter artificially high and prevented many sections of the population from acquiring knowledge.140 So while the neighbouring countries of England and France had employed a system of authorship rights for many years, the principle of such a system was still being contested in the Netherlands in the late nineteenth century. The illustrious past of Dutch publishing in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries was one factor which caused echoes of the traditional privilege system to resound for a long time to come. Possibly influenced by the artists petition of 1878, the Dutch government decided to accede to their request, by making separate provision for the visual arts, to supplement the law of 1881. This was intended to offer special protection for works of painting, drawing and sculpture.141 Article 1 of this separate provision for artists stated:
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The right to copy, imitate, represent and multiply a work of visual art in its original size, on a larger or smaller scale, either entirely or in part, or to have this done by others, either by means of the same or another visual art, or through mechanical process, exclusively belongs to the original maker of the work of art and his heirs.

Article 4 stressed that anyone who reproduced a work of art photographically should enjoy the same protection as the maker of work, in accordance with article. 1. This separate provision was inspired by German legislation which had also incorporated such protection for works of visual art since 1876.142 Nevertheless this special measure to protect authorship rights in the visual arts still met with criticism.143 A major point of contention was that the Dutch government had refused to give (visual) artists the same protection for writers as Vosmaer had envisioned. At the same time it was feared that artists would claim their

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rights in another way, through patent law for example.144 The special provision died a silent death and did not become law, creating a peculiar situation in which prints were protected in the Netherlands, but not works of painting, drawing and sculpture.145 Although similar situations had once existed in neighbouring countries, as outlined above, by the end of the nineteenth century they had long been superceded in France and England. In the Netherlands visual artists did not receive true recognition as authors in the legal sense until 1912. The lawyer H.L. de Beaufort, spiritual father of the 1912 law and specialist in authorship rights, described the legal change as the conversion from tow-boat to automobile.146 The development of this law was partially prompted by the Berne Convention (1886), which the Netherlands eventually joined after lengthy procrastination. I shall return to the subject of international authorship rights below, confining myself here to the observation that countries were expected to have national laws on authorship rights in place before they signed this international treaty. It is not easy to assess the economic ramifications of reproductierecht in Dutch art. Although Vosmaer described the financial aspects of art reproduction as far from insignificant, the actual level of income generated remains unclear. English artists such as Frith and Landseer had proved that an artist could make a fortune from copyright agreements, even without the benefit of legal protection. Yet it is highly debatable whether this was also the case for Dutch artists. As previously remarked, prices were determined by market forces rather than laws on authorship rights. In many respects the Dutch print trade was modest in scale, and a seemingly small number of publishers exhaustively pursued the reproduction rights to works by popular artists. However, there are a few examples that show that the Dutch print business was serious business too. The Dutch engraver J.W. Kaiser and his publisher Frans Buffa signed a contract on 26 January 1853 to engrave the famous painting, The Celebration of the Peace of Munster, 18 June 1648 in the Headquarters of the Crossbowmans Civi (1648) by Bartolomeus van der Helst for 15,000 guilders. A few years later, on 15 March 1864, Kaiser signed a contract with this publisher to sell his engraved plate after Rembrandts Nightwatch for 12,000 guilders.147 Remarkably, the engraver earned a lot of money, which the publisher apparantly could afford. Unlike the select company of individuals in England, France and the Netherlands who earned a great deal from copyrights, the majority of artists in the nineteenth century probably did not profit in any way, or only to a limited de-

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gree, from the rights to their work. They may not have been consulted at all, or may have agreed to their work being reproduced without asking for any money in return, as in the case of Millais who clearly explained his reasons for this. More important than economic interests, however, is the fact that during the nineteenth century authorship rights had become a permanent feature in the artistic and commercial landscape, redefining and prescribing the relationship between an author and his work.148
international regulation to protect authorship rights

The pirating of printed works was a phenomenon that transcended national borders, so an international response to the problem was required.149 An author might be protected in country x, but this counted for little if country x was being flooded with illegal reprints from country y. France especially tended to suffer from illegal prints made abroad. For centuries there had been a strong tradition in the Netherlands of reprinting foreign works, a practice that continued in the nineteenth century; Belgium was also known as an ocean of literary and artistic piracy.150 Initially individual countries had made efforts to protect against such foreign influences through national legislation. During the course of the nineteenth century, however, such measures were supplemented by a series of treaties intended to provide more international protection for intellectual property. Within a short period, France in particular made a number of agreements with various (neighbouring) countries in order to secure protection for its authors rights abroad.151 During the final quarter of the nineteenth century this international recognition of authorship rights caused the Anglo-American and European Continental traditions to grow closer together. A series of bilateral treaties was followed by efforts to achieve uniform international regulation of authorship rights.152 At the congress of Rome in 1882 delegates decided to draw up a treaty of union, an agreement between diverse nations in the sphere of intellectual property, to be based on the principle of equality, whereby foreign authors received the same protection as each countrys own, domestic authors. This treaty established a permanent context of international law, guaranteeing participating countries a basic level of protection in the field of authorship rights, which was accorded to the originator of a work for a period of up to thirty years after his death. Such protection required no formalities and belonged to the author by right. It should be remarked here, that this international treaty assumed that each participating country had al-

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ready introduced some form of national law pertaining to authorship rights. The treaty was signed in Berne by ten countries, including England, France and Germany, on 9 September 1886. Although the Netherlands had already concluded several bilateral treaties, this international agreement on authorship rights was viewed with apprehension as a threat to the lucrative practice of unauthorised prints and translations of foreign works.153 Circa 1900, however, the tide of opinion turned and realisation grew that the Netherlands could no longer lag behind in the field of international authorship rights. Nevertherless, it took until 1908 before the laywer Robbers could write in De Gids: At last! At last that bill for our admission to the Berne Convention!154 The Netherlands had finally joined the international community of nations which subscribed to the basic principles of modern authorship rights.155 Yet it was not the last country to seek admission to this union, for the United States did not join until 1989. Founded in 1886 by ten countries, by 1993 the Union of Berne had 95 members.156 The development of (international) laws regulating authorship rights introduced an important change in the position of the author. Where once the state, church or publisher had been the crucial party in the privilege system, recognition of authorship rights now accorded this role to the author in laws governing the legal protection of intellectual property. The shift toward the rights of the author did not leave the interests of other parties, such as the publishers or purchasers of a work, unaffected, with tension concentrating around the relationship between the new legislation on authorship rights and traditional property rights. An exhaustive analysis of this legal question exceeds the scope of the present study. Nevertheless, when considering the organisation of a reproduction, it is useful to have some idea of the complex relationship between the artist and the owner of an artwork, between authorship rights and property rights.
authorship rights versus property rights

In his essay Du droit des peintres et des sculpteurs sur leurs ouvrages (1841), Horace Vernet underscored the importance of authorship rights to the artist. His observations were prompted by a judgement delivered by the French court which prescribed that when a painting was sold, the right to reproduce this painting was also transferred to the purchaser, unless otherwise explicitly stipulated. The painter emphasised the porte immense pour les artistes of this decision, taking the standpoint that a basic separation should be made between authorship rights and property rights157:

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Le peintre a deux moyens de tirer de son tableau des avantages pcunaires, savoir: La vente du tableau mme Et la cession du droit de la graver.158

The strict, legal separation of the property rights and authorship rights associated with an artwork made it possible for artists to make money from the same painting in two ways: they could sell the property rights and/or the reproduction rights to the work, independently of each other. However, the French courts pronouncement had created a dangerous situation in which artists might inadvertently alienate their reproduction rights when selling their work. Although this probably did not happen to Vernet himself, the painter was nevertheless indignant that it was even possible for an artist to lose his rights in such a manner.159 His colleague Paul Dlaroche and various English contemporaries were of the same opinion.160 Dutch artists emphasised in their petition that authorship rights should be separate from property rights, and even declared that artists should be able to avail themselves of their reproduction rights at any time, irrespective of the interests of an art works owner. At the International Congress on authorship rights, held in Paris in 1878 and chaired by the renowned artist Jean-Louis-Ernest Meissonier, the artists present unanimously declared: La cession dune oeuvre dart nentrane pas par elle mme le droit de reproduction.161 The radical view of authorship rights held by Vernet and his colleagues constituted a direct encroachment on the rights of the owner. The Enlightenment ideas propounded in John Lockes Two Treatises of Civil Government and the 1789 Dclaration des droits de lhomme et du citoyen in France had helped the right to property to acquire the status of a right that was virtually equated with the essence of individual freedom. The right to property was sacred, inviolable and formed the core of many an Englightenment constitution.162 Yet now this right of rights was being threatened by the development of authorship rights. In theory this was a conflict between the basic rights of the owner and the basic rights of the artist, both of which derived from the same tradition.163 In 1858 The Art drew attention to the precarious relationship between the artist and the owner, a relationship on which both were equally dependent:

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The subject is, indeed, environed by difficulties that must be treated with exceeding care, with a view, certainly, to protect and increase the interests of artists by every possible means; but not to prejudice or to ruin them by such restrictions as may alarm collectors especially such collectors as, being merchants, manufactures, and dealers, are very sensitive of any interference with a right to do what they like with their own.164

Contradicting the views held by many an artist, The Art Journal repeatedly wrote that it would be fundamentally unjust for property rights to be harmed by authorship rights. Athough the publication had always championed the cause of art and its makers, the now put the interests of the owner above those of the artist, even predicting that authorship rights, which only upheld the interests of artists, would ultimately turn against these same artists, for authorship rights would deter many potential buyers from purchasing art.165 The Art Journal adduced the following comparison to support its contention:
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We knew a gentleman who, when completing the sale of a large estate, sought to reserve a right of walking in the park: the contracting party at once declined the purchase; very gladly would he have accorded the permission, but he objected to have concede the right.166

The engraver Abraham Raimbach also warned against an overly radical application of copyright law in the fragile relationship between artist and owner, in the interests of the artist:
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As far as I am aware, this claim of copyright in pictures has only been put forward recently, and is not unlikely to become a Quaestio Vexate between painter and their patrons, whenever one of the latter shall feel disposed to stand upon his hitherto unquestioned power in these matters of doing what he likes with his own. A noble lord, a great collector of the modern as well as of the old masters, was desirous of befriending a young engraver of talent by allowing him to make an engraving from a picture in his gallery; when the painter, hearing of the circumstance, interfered and prevented the fulfilment of his lordships benevolent intention, the patron was unwilling to enter into a contest on the subject. How far the

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painters claim may ultimately be established is not to be predicted; but in my opinion it will scarcely survive the first collision it might have to encounter in a court of law. Be that as it may, the policy of the painters proceedings may well admit of a doubt. The patronage of the fine arts is a plant of too sensitive a nature to bear the rude touch of legal discussion, and many gentlemen well inclined to foster and encourage genius, would perhaps rather forego their inclination than indulge it, coupled with the chance of a lawsuit, if resolved to maintain the ordinairy privileges identified with property.167 Even if the painter was in the right legally speaking, it was debatable whether he would be wise to press this point. The experienced engraver therefore advised:
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At all events, the artist should distinctly make known to the purchaser the conditions with which his picture is encumbered before the bargain is completed, to the end that the unsuspecting Maecenas may not have just reason to complain of uncandid, if not dishonourable dealing, when, after years of possesion, the claim of copyright is put forward. Another form in which this claim has been urged is, that the proprietor of the picture, having given up the copyright to the painter, thereby precludes himself from the power of bestowing the privilege to any other person at a future time. Although perhaps less presumptuous than the first mode, this has been in two or three instances somewhat contemptuously resisted.168

Despite the efforts of various artists the fundamental separation of property rights and authorship rights was not laid down in legislation. Carel Vosmaers appeal to the Dutch legislative body, cited above, was also in vain. Both in France and England artists were expected to safeguard their own authorship rights. If they sold a painting they were required to make explicit reservation of their rights. The unwitting buyer was thereby protected in the possession of his newly acquired property. However the English Copyright Act of 1862 did offer some protection to the unwitting artist: although artists were required to make explicit reservation of their rights, buyers were also expected to make their desire for the rights of reproduction explicitly known.169 Nevertheless, problems could still occur, as the painter John Everett Millais knew only too well. He had

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fig. 20 george h. every after Millais, Bubbles (1887), mezzotint 45.7 x 32.4 cm, The Maas gallery, london.

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sold his painting Bubbles to The Illustrated London News with a view to its reproduction in the newspapers supplement; the newspaper, however, then sold the work to Pears, the well-known soap manufacturer, who used the picture in an advertising poster, to the great annoyance of the (legally) powerless painter.170 [fig. 20, plate 6] If Millais had followed Raimbachs sensible advice, and made clear that the painting was only to be reproduced in The Illustrated London News when he parted with the picture, he might have been able to avoid the problem. The renowned collector W.H. Vanderbilt left no opportunity for misunderstanding: any works he bought were not allowed to be reproduced.171 Legal misunderstandings were mainly a hazard for professional art dealers, who worked as intermediaries in transactions between artist and buyer. Use of a copy or replica could avoid many problems, as the original work could be sold without jeopardy to copyright and yet be reproduced.172

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If no special agreements had been made regarding an artwork, artists had no alternative but to approach the owner of their brainchild with a cordial request to be allowed to reproduce this. Gustave Courbet, for example, asked the Comte de Morny, owner of his Les Demoiselles de village, for permission to reproduce the painting in a publication by Thophile Silvestre (1823-1876), who wished to incorporate a photograph and woodcut of the picture in a work on living masters. Courbet was eager to obtain the Comtes permission in writing, and submitted the following declaration to the him for signature: Jautorise Monsieur Thophile Silvestre reproduire par la photographie et la gravure sur bois le tableau Les Demoiselles de village dont M.G. Courbet est lauteur et moi le propritaire. Paris leetc.173 The artist then had to hope that the Comte would accede to his request. Tension between authorship rights and property rights did not only exist when artworks were reproduced, for the exhibition of work could also produce similar friction. In the shadow of reproduction rights another exclusive right emerged during the nineteenth century: the right to be allowed to display a work, or the exhibition rights. The exhibition of art formed another important and lucrative way to exploit work. Englands rich exhibition culture in particular offered artists and dealers the opportunity to derive a threefold income from the same painting: through sale of the property rights, the reproduction rights and the exhibition rights. Similar problems arose between artists and owners regarding the exhibition of artworks. If a painter wished to display his brainchild, he usually had no other recourse than to meekly apply to the owner with a cordial yet insistent request that the latter relinquish possession of the work for some time. To what extent was an owner expected to comply with such a request? Although legislation generally did not explicitly acknowledge exhibition rights, these were implied to some degree in authorship rights, or copyright law.174 The Hogarth Act of 1735, for example, allowed artists to take action against the exhibition of unlawful reproductions. Yet the exhibition of original paintings remained unregulated for many years.175 Nevertheless, some artists claimed fundamental exhibition rights vis--vis the owner. James McNeill Whistler stirringly declared: [] I do not acknowledge that a picture once bought merely belongs to the man who pays the money, but that it is property of the whole world, I consider that I have a right to exhibit such picture [].176 When the collector Henry S. Theobald was not inclined to release work by

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Whistler for an exhibition, the painter expounded his views in a detailed letter:

Dear Mr. Theobald, It cannot be that you really mean to withhold pictures of mine from the recognition that the occasion of exhibition offers them, for the mere accidental reason that you happen to possess them. Surely dear Mr. Theobald this view is absolutely unworthy of the keen sense of things that you showed me in buying them. You were on the former occasion charming to me, immediately lending the pictures, but this is the privilege of the man, who, like yourself acquires a work of art and knows that he has the care of what really belongs to the world and to posterity. Dont you see, dear Mr.Theobald that when a picture is purchased by the Louvre or the National gallery, all can come and see it on the walls, but when a painting is bought by a private gentleman, it is, so to speak, withdrawn from circulation, and for public fame is missing from the story of the painters reputation. Your role here in, as the patron, certainly is that of taking every occasion of spreading his fame by showing them, and is pleased and proud to do so thereby achieving also for himself, the esteem and affection of history. Do let me send those lovely things to Munich. I dont believe that they will be absent much more than a month or two, (they will be insured until returned to you) and next year when the great International Exhibition takes place, do not the cruelty to me, and to yourself the injustice of proposing to hold back these dainty pictures that should take their part before my confrres in the chapter of my work. After all you have these beautiful things with you like the poor! and seldom indeed shall I have troubled you for their loan!177

Whistler was entirely dependent on the owners cooperation. It was not until the twentieth century that exhibition rights would be explicitly incorporated in laws on authorship rights, as formulated in article 1 of the Dutch law of 1912: Copyright is the exclusive right of the maker of a work [] to make this work public and to multiply the same [] According to this new law the sale of a work was not automatically accompanied by the copyright, a basic principle that still applies today. Article 23, however, subsequently laid down an exception to this

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rule: the owner of an artwork was entitled to exhibit this in public without permission, and was even allowed, with a view to selling the work, to reproduce this in a catalogue without permission, unless otherwise agreed. However, even this provision was not unable to entirely dispel the tension between property rights and authorship rights.178 To summarise: during the nineteenth century the rise of authorship rights was a universal, cultural development, which took different forms in different countries. In England this development began early and moved gradually, in France it was late and intense, in the Netherlands even later and gradual. Although time and place affected the tenor of the legislation regulating authorship rights, it increasingly became a factor to consider when organising the reproductive process. Acknowledgement of authorship rights introduced drastic changes in the relationship between an author, his work and reproductions of this work, and also perceptibly affected the other parties involved in the reproductive process. The publisher depended more than ever on the artists cooperation. If a work was already hanging on a collectors wall, the owners interests had to be taken into consideration. Moreover, a sharp eye had to be kept on the rights that would accrue to printmakers through their prints and to photographers through their photographic reproductions. These diverse interests made it vital to establish effective agreements about the rights of reproduction when organising the reproductive process. The legal protection of authorship rights thus constituted a far-reaching change in the graphic world and became a significant factor in the production and distribution of reproductions, as the art dealer and publisher Ernest Gambart repeatedly stressed. Nevertheless, some qualification of the situation is appropriate. Although the same Gambart knew better than anyone else that many (illegal) reproductions were being distributed, despite the law, the fact that he and other publishers and artists were well aware of this drastic legal change does little to change the probability that many others in the graphic and publishing worlds would have been largely ignorant of this development. So it is not inconceivable that during the nineteenth century many reproductions were still produced and distributed as if nothing had changed, in other words without regard for the proper legal interests.
reaching agreement

Once the engraver Abraham Raimbach and the painter David Wilkie had decided to make an engraved reproduction after The Village Politicians, their first step

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was to enter into negotiations with S.W. Reynolds, the engraver to whom Wilkie had already granted the rights of reproduction. Raimbach wrote:
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A negociation was therefor entered upon with Reynolds for the purchase of his right to publish &c, which ended in Wilkies payment to Reynolds of one hundred guineas for his claims, and receiving from him the plate, which remains unused and unserviceable, and is likely so to remain. This sum was intended to be charged on our joint concern, but Wilkie subsequently took it most liberally upon himself.179

In 1905 Holman Hunt also described his negotiations with the art dealer Ernest Gambart concerning the copyright to The Light of the World, cited above:
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I asked him the sum hitherto mentioned [300 pounds]; but he [Gambart] objected on the ground that there was the chance of the public not liking the print, and then no one would divide his loss, while if it became popular, photographers throughout England would pirate the work, and the prosecution of each would cost him 70 [pounds]; the only penalty to them would be the loss of a simple camera. In France, where the law treated piracy as a penal offence, the publisher was safe from such a violation of his rights, and so could pay the artist better. With this conclusion to the debate the business ended for the time; but in a few months the monetary pressure upon me became more stringent, and I was induced to accept 200 as my reward.180

Although reproduction rights were important, they were certainly not the only element that had to be agreed upon when organising a reproduction. The choice of printmaker, for example, was naturally of great importance. Some publishers had regular printmakers. The firm of Dixon & Ross, for example, often worked with the well-known engraver Samuel Cousins, while Gambart did a great deal of business with the French printmaker Auguste Blanchard. Gambart also made a curiously international effort to employ French engravers, wherever possible, to engrave English prints and English engravers to engrave French prints.181 Painters similarly had their preferences: Ingres liked to have all his work engraved by the celebrated Luigi Calamatta.182 Frith always preferred manual reproduction techniques to photographic methods, while the painter Edward

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Burne-Jones remained true to the use of traditional copper plates, instead of their widely used steel counterparts.183 For a critical painter it was not always easy to find a suitable printmaker, as Holman Hunt discovered when he wished to have his painting The Light of the World reproduced:
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The difficulty in the way will be the obtaining of a first rate engraver who is disengaged; for my part I would rather wait three or four years that it be done properly, but I know those business men are always impatient to turn over their profits, and so he might make an objection.184

If it had been up to Hunt, he would have preferred to wait patiently until an expert printmaker could be hired for the work. After he had asked his good friend John Everett Millais for advice about a suitable engraver, the religious painter considered using T.O. Barlow: He is religious too, I think, which is not likely to be any Frenchmans merit.185 The critical Burne-Jones even looked abroad for suitable engravers to reproduce his work, as he considered foreign printmakers better than engravers from his own circle.186 Family loyalty prompted the renowned painter Edwin Landseer to give preference to his brother Thomas. When the publisher H. Graves suggested that he work with another (and better) engraver, the painter was provoked into replying: If anyone has a right to the benefit of my signature, it is my brother, the engraver of your fortune; this you must be well aware of.187 The kind of collaboration required could also play a role in the choice of printmaker. Turner, a demanding painter, worked a great deal with young, largely unknown printmakers, and relatively little with renowned engravers such as John Landseer (1769-1853), John Pye (1782-1874) or John Burnet (1784-1868).188 Undoubtedly his preference was inspired by the fact that young printmakers would be more willing to receive his instruction and less likely to argue with him. Rubens had been similarly motivated in his choice of engraver. Collaborations between painters and printmakers took various forms. In some instances they were ad hoc coalitions, in others they lasted for years, as was the case with the painter John Constable and his printmaker David Lucas (1802-1881).189 Publishers often had the final say in the choice of a printmaker, as can be seen from a description of preparatory negotiations, published by LArtiste in 1839:

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Nous aurons examiner, non-seulement les travaux des artistes, mais encore la marche que suivront les diteurs dont les spculations et les vues commerciales ont plus dinfluence quon ne semble le croire, sur ltat et les perfectionnements de lart. Sagit-il, en effet, de faire graver un tableau: le peintre traite avec un diteur et lui vend le droit de reproduire son ouvrage. Ce droit dvient pour le commercant une proprit exclusive. Lauteur du tableau est ordinairement consult sur le choix du graveur; mais ses conseils sont fort peu suivis, et le choix du reproducteur, choix importante et grave, est presque toujours dtermin par lintert bien ou mal entendu de lediteur.190

Publishers thus played a decisive role in the negotiations surrounding the droit de reproduire and selection of a printmaker. For artists and publishers who had no clear preference (yet) for a specific printmaker or photographer, there were special publications to guide them in their choice, such as Hector Maclean, Photography for Artists (Bradford London 1896), whose extensive appendix listed the names and addresses of photographers, together with their specialities, which included art reproduction.191 It was also advisable to reach agreement concerning the time required to produce the reproduction and the remuneration. Generally speaking, the factors which determined the amount of money paid to printmakers were the type of print required (its format and technique) and the printmakers own reputation.192 These sums could vary considerably. The Dutch printmaker August Alleb, for example, received forty guilders for an ordinary lithograph for De Kunstkritiek, 100 guilders for a presentation print after Israls Adagio con espressione, and the princely sum of 1,000 guilders for a large-format lithograph after The Pilgrim Fathers by J.G. Schwartze.193 As mentioned before, his collegue J.W. Kaiser even earned 15,000 guilders for his engraving after The Celebration of the Peace of Munster, 18 June 1648 in the Headquarters of the Crossbowmans Civi (1648) of Bartolomeus van der Helst, which made it one of the most expensive works of art in the Netherlands. The historian A. Dyson has pointed out that engravers income rose as a result of the printmakers increasing status and explosive growth in the print trade, although this was a development from which the best printmakers mainly profited.194 The nature of the remuneration could also vary: printmakers could receive cash sums, which were sometimes supplemented by

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a number of prints, and sometimes paid in different instalments. On 3 December 1825, for example, Ingres entered into a contract with the engraver Luigi Calamatta for the reproduction of his painting Voeu de Louis xiii; the engraver was expected to complete the engraving within five years for the sum of 15,000 francs, to be paid in ten instalments; painter and engraver would jointly own the printing plate, but the engraver would be responsible for any retouching, to be financed from the sale of the prints. Annick Bergeon has drawn attention to an 1832 contract between the firm of Goupil and the engraver Paul Mercuri for reproduction of the painting Ste Amlie Reine de Hongrie/ Offrande la Vierge by Paul Dlaroche. The two parties had agreed that the work would be completed in ten months for the sum of 2,000 francs, to be paid in instalments of 150 francs a month; the publisher would also return twelve prints (preuves avant la lettre) and all proofs to the engraver. A revisal of the contract agreed upon a smaller format and stipulated that all the proofs were to be destroyed, to prevent these from coming on the market.195 Similar agreements were reached between the publisher Hogdson-Graves and the engraver Samuel Cousins concerning reproduction of Abercorn Children: Cousins was to deliver an engraving within ten months and was allowed to choose the printer, provided that he supervised the printing process himself; he also had to guarantee a print run of a 1,000 copies; the engraver was to receive a total of 300 pounds in payment (100 pounds at the first proof, 100 pounds during the first three months of printing and 100 pounds when the last proofs were supplied); he was also to receive an additional five guineas for every 100 prints (after the first 200 to 800 prints).196 Other agreements that regularly appeared in contracts related to the printing matrix, which represented a considerable investment and could even be used as the basis for new editions of a print. Reproduction was primarily a task for the printmaker or photographer, who sometimes worked closely with the publisher and painter. Rodney Engen has drawn attention to an interesting case, the reproduction of The Shadow of Death by Holman Hunt, for which the firm of Agnew secured the painters cooperation in advance. On 26 June 1873 the publisher and painter agreed that:
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The said picture and the sketch or study thereof shall be forthwith delivered to the said William Agnew and Thomas Agnew who shall have the entire and sole property in and control of the same and they shall at their own costs and charges undertake the Exhibition of the same and the

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engraving thereof and the publication and sales of the impressions of the engraving.197 Holman Hunt was expected:
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[to] give all necessary instructions for and superintend the production of a copy of the said picture for the use of the engraver and shall be paid for only the days he expends in painting upon it and from time to time inspect and touch upon the engravers proofs if and when necessary for the effective finishing and perfection of the said engraving and when required by the said Wm Agnew and Thomas Agnew sign the Artist Proofs and to do all things which they may require to promote the success of the said engraving and the sale of the impressions thereof.

These are just a few examples of contracts associated with the making of engraved reproductions. Naturally the agreements reached by the various parties were governed to a major degree by the technique chosen. While the period of ten months, mentioned above, was usual for an engraving, a lithograph or photograph required considerably less time. Moreover, photography, more than any other technique, depended on an amply supply of daylight, so additional agreements were sometimes made regarding carriage of the original work to a location with sufficient sunlight.198 All in all, the parties involved in the reproductive process had to reach agreement on varying aspects of this process: the reproduction rights, the choice of engraver and technique, the trajectory and timescale and, of course, the payment. Moreover, agreements were sometimes made concerning the sale or exhibition of the work. These different factors were not, of course, independent of each other and so were always considered together in reproduction practice. Holman Hunt once wrote on the subject of reproducing his painting The Finding of the Saviour in the Temple [fig. 21]:
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[] I have no inclination to work to enrich picture dealers and publishers alone. I have many reasons to think that the public will be really interested in it, although the canvas is not a large one; I wish it were three times as big, it would have cost me less labour; I am told it will make an

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fig. 21 Auguste Blanchard after holman hunt, Finding the Saviour in the Temple (1858) engraving and etching 85 x 110 including size frame, private collection.

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attractive and remunerative exhibition, and this will persuade some publisher to buy the copyright. I have no doubt that it will help my position as an artist, and bring purchasers for my other works. I shall soon pay outstanding claims, and have this picture to the good, yet I dont want to waste my time on business, and I should be very glad to find some dealer to take it off my hands.199 The art dealer Ernest Gambart paid the unprecedentedly high sum of 5,500 pounds for the painting, including the copyright.200 He described his plans for the work in a letter of 12 November 1860 to his fellow printdealer George Pennell, and offered his colleague a chance to become involved in the project. This letter offers a rare insight into Gambarts view of reproduction practices and is therefore quoted at length:
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Holman Hunts Picture of the Finding of the Saviour in the Temple is now exhibiting in New Bond Street at no.168 under the charge of Mr Nutter & I propose that it remains there until a drawing which Mr Morelli is making, in black chalk from it, be finished the Picture will then be free to travel all over the provinces, & the Engraving will be made entirely from the Said Drawing, which, being made with the assistance of Hunt, will be in every way satisfactory to engrave from

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the Engraving from the Drawing if done by either Simmonds or any other Chalk engraver will cost 1,000 Gs [guineas] & take two years; if done by Blanchard, Morelli or any other pure line Engraver, will cost 2,000 Gs take 4 years to do The Printing of the Plate will cost about 10 Gs per hundred, including the paper, or say 1000 Gs for 10,000 impressions the whole future outlay will be about 3,000 Gs at most. I trust we can reckon on receiving at least 5 a day during 4 years from its exhibition alone being only 100 visitors per diem at 1/This would produce 6,000 & would be sufficient to pay for the Engraving & the printing as we go on & also Mr Nutters Commission of 1% on all orders received & 2l per week additional I propose to Print from 1,000 to 2,000 artist Proofs at 15 Gs [guineas], 1,000 Before letters Proofs at 12 Gs, & I hope 10,000 Prints at 5 Gs I have now already orders which I can Submit to you for verification amunting to 10,000 Gs, & I have no doubt these orders will reach 50,000 Gs in 4 years. I offer half the property in the Copyright & receipts from admissions & Sale of the Engravings, deducting the charges named above, for 10,000 Gs Cash down. The Picture I will reserve for six years so as to exhibit it, also if desirable in America & other Parts My own labours, or those of my executors & assignees in case of death, to be given gratis & I will carry this arrangement out fairly & equitably to the best of my ability.201 This letter shows how Gambart commanded an overall view of an art reproduction. A drawing was to be made of the painting by one Morelli, about whose work the painter later declared: it was a wondrously exact and elaborate transcript of the original.202 Morellis drawing was to be used as the basis for the engraving, which would be made with Hunts assistance. A major advantage of this strategy was that it left the painting available for exhibition. As has been remarked, the choice of technique and printmaker had a significant influence on the timescale and cost. The publisher also had clear ideas concerning the actual prints, such as the various states proposed, the print runs and the price. While the reproduction was being made, the original painting would be sent

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on the road for exhibition, possibly for a period of six years, which could prove highly lucrative. Although the route had not been finalised, the United States was one of the possible destinations. Exhibiting the original painting on tour could assist the reproduction, both financially and in terms of publicity. It is not known if Gambart managed to persuade his colleague George Pennell to become involved in the reproduction. At any rate the enterprise proved exceedingly successful. Payment of a shilling allowed visitors entry to the travelling exhibition, where they viewed the painting in a dark room with subdued lighting, hanging in a frame specially designed by Hunt and sparkling like a jewel in a gorgeous setting, as his fellow painter Millais later remarked.203 The public flocked to the exhibition where they could sign up for the reproductions and also purchase a pamphlet, specially written by F.G. Stephens, about the painting and the ideas of the Pre-Raphaelites. Thus Gambart made 4,000 pounds from exhibition of the painting alone.204 The actual manufacture of reproductions, exhibition of original works and the importance of publicity will be discussed in more detail below. At this point, however, it is essential simply to bear in mind that the publisher had a clear picture of the reproductive process, including all the associated factors, before a single mark had been made on the printing matrix. In some instances agreements were quickly reached, in others tough negotiation was required. Once the painter Holman Hunt and the publisher and art dealer Gambart had reached basic agreement regarding the reproduction, sale and exhibition of The Finding of the Saviour in the Temple, the negotiating process was continued by both parties lawyers, and the results of this eventually committed to paper.205 Contracts concerning art reproduction are an extremely rare phenomenon in historical practice. There may be two reasons for this. In the first place, they may have been lost, like the archives kept by the publishing house of Goupil, in which little remains in the way of contracts in the surviving portions of the archive that otherwise contains many prints, stock lists and information on printing presses.206 Another reason for the rarity of this kind of contract is the possibility that they may not have been drawn up very often. Publishers, painter and engravers regularly collaborated for years on the reproduction of artworks. Given these personal relationships, it is not inconceivable that most agreements were verbal in such informal contexts.207 Verbal agreements were no less binding than written agreements, but have naturally left fewer traces of their existence.208

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The agreements entered into by the various parties can be regarded as the final event in the organisation of the reproductive process. This organisation was crucial to the subsequent life of the reproduction. Substance had now been given to the intention to reproduce an artwork, the first phase. The actual context of rights and custom had required that the painter, publisher, printmaker, photographer and owner be brought together. Each then made his own essential contribution to the reproductive process: the publisher had his plan, the painter his rights, the engraver his skill and the owner the original work. After some negotiation the organisational framework for the actual reproduction had been completed. This marked the beginning of a new phase in the life of the reproduction: the actual production of the reproduction.

The producTion of The reproducTion


the original or an alternative

Although every reproduction presupposes the existence of an original work, the availability of this original could not be taken for granted. A painting might be unfinished, hanging at an exhibition or already on display in a collectors home.209 A range of often conflicting interests were therefore associated with the original work. Good contacts with the owner of a painting were essential in order to gain access to the work destined for reproduction. The painter David Wilkie, for example, asked the collector Samuel Dobree to receive the engraver John Burnet and allow him to reproduce a work from his collection:
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Agreeable to a request which I formerly made to you respecting the engraving of your picture of The Letter of Introduction, as one of the series of engravings from my works, I write to say that I am now desirous of having it engraved by Mr Burnet, as a companion to one lately published of The Rabbit on the Wall. With your permission, therefore, I should be glad if Mr Burnet could be allowed to see the picture; and, if convenient to you, will be happy myself to accompany him.210

When the Dutch firm of Buffa wished to publish Vermeers View of Delft in print, it had to pull out all the stops in order to gain access to the popular masterpiece. At this time the painting was owned by the Six family, who rarely gave permis-

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sion for their works of art to be copied and multiplied. The publisher had pinned all his hope on Philip Zilcken, the etcher, who recalled:
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it once happened, that they [the firm of buffa, rv] commissioned me to make an etching after the famous City View by the Delftenaar Vermeer, then in the Six collection; they asked me to do this so forcefully that they said that the money was no object if I could just obtain leave. At that time the Six family categorically gave no leave to reproduce its paintings; even Bode was refused permission to include Burgomaster Six in his great work on Rembrandt! Chance, which has often played a role in my life, had it that I was befriended with Dr. Vote and his wife. The latter was exceedingly well-disposed towards me and knew the Six familys drawing master; in my interest as an artist permission was asked to be allowed to make the etching after Vermeer; I soon received this permission on condition, that I would not work in the halls where the paintings hung; that was a great burden, but I solved the difficulty by having a photograph taken, on the scale of my etching, while Jacob Maris loaned me an extremely fine copy of the painting, by Brugman , that enabled me to verify the colours and tone.211

So Zilcken received permission to make his etching, but had to work within the Six familys restrictions. Well-known printmakers would sometimes send their assistant ahead to examine the original work. The renowned engraver S.W. Reynolds regularly dispatched the young Samuel Cousins to make meticulous drawings which served as the basis for his prints.212 This form of delegation was probably the preserve of only the most successful printmakers: others would have relied on their own drawing skills. Photographers used similar collaborative patterns. During the heyday of photography, from the early 1860s onwards, some photographic studios grew into organisations that employed more than ten members of staff.213 Renowned photographers such as Adolphe Braun or Franz Hanfstaengl often sent their assistants ahead to make initial preparations. While the printmaker, photographer or assistant sometimes went to the original, in other cases the work came to them. When the painter Henry Raeburn (1756-1823) sent a painting to a printmaker for reproduction in 1821, he asked him to take extreme care with the new work as it was still wet:

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I regret having kept Lord Hopetouns portrait for so long from you, but I would not venture to send it sooner, it has now received its last touch and varnished, and I therefore hope you will take the utmost care of it, if any dust should get upon it, do not allow it to be rubbed off, but merely blown off with the wind of a soft silk handkerchief.214

When the printmaker William Simmons had a valuable painting in his house, he promised George Agnew the publisher to take every care of the picture, locking it in his bedroom every night.215 Sometimes things went wrong, however. The etcher Philip Zilcken found himself in an awkward situation when he lost an original work (a valuable watercolour by Willem Maris) which he had been loaned by the well-known collector Van Eeghen. On completion of his etching Zilcken had sent the plate, a final print and the watercolour to Buffa, the publisher. He was horrified when he then received a letter from Buffa in which the publisher reported that while the plate and print had arrived, the Willem Maris watercolour had not:
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I was terribly startled; chance had it, that Willem Maris was staying close by me to make studies in the polder, as was sometimes his wont in fine weather. I went directly to him with the letter and he advised me to go to Amsterdam as speedily as possible in order to put the affair in the hands of the police. On arriving in Amsterdam I went immedately to call on Mr Biederlack, who counselled me first to go and talk with the art dealer again; the latter ordered the institution of a further investigation in the store-room; before my eyes the package was brought forth, but nothing was to be found of the watercolour. I was beseeched not to pursue the matter, as this would be so unpleasant for the firm, and I relented; the final straw was, that after some time I was requested to go and present Mister van Eeghen with a new watercolour, of entirely different colour and character, that Willem Maris had largely made after my etching, to replace the little jewel that has probably ended up in another part of the world. Mister van Eeghen was extremely accommodating; he accepted the matter with a nicely ironic smile, full knowing what goes on at some art dealers.216

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The image depicted by the original work was often supported by a rich collection of replicas, repetitions, reductions and copies, as already noted in the chapter Pinxit et Sculpsit. There were thus sufficient alternatives from which a reproduction could be made when an original work was unavailable.217 The major advantage of this option was that other interests associated with the original could be better accommodated. The original work remained free from reproduction (even from a legal point of view) and could continue to hang in its owners salon or be viewed at an exhibition. The major disadvantage, as has been said, is that it is now often hard to establish the identity of the original used in the reproductive process.218 During the second half of the nineteenth century photographs were regularly used as supporting material. For example, Ernest Gambart and the painter William Powell Frith agreed that for the reproduction of three paintings from the series The Streets of London the painter shall touch up the Photographs of the said Pictures in order to assist the Engravers in engraving the said Pictures.219 Although such photographs were sometimes made available by the painter, the publisher generally provided the printmaker with these. In other instances painters supplied the printmaker with drawings, prints or watercolours, as supporting material. Where possible, the original would be used, if only for commercial reasons, as reproductions after an original work were often preferred to prints after an intermediary drawing or sketch.220 On occasion not even the original would suffice: when the engraver Henriquel-Dupont made a print after a portrait painting of the French king, he also used the king himself as the model for his engraving.221 Although printmakers had a natural predilection for making prints from the original painting, this was not the case with photographers, for the technical limitations of their medium caused them to prefer working with a black-and-white reproduction, rather than the colour original, gleaming with varnish.
sketches, engravings and photographs

In his handbook for the engraver, Nouveau manuel complet du graveur ou traite de lart de la gravure (1825), A.-M. Perrot described the printmakers ideal studio:
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Le local destin servir datelier de gravure doit tre assez vaste; il est important que le jour y soit direct et pur; une seule croise, grande, et perce dans une direction libre de toute interception de la lumire, doit tre prfre plusieurs ouvertures dont les jours se croisent et deviennent faux.222
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The actual process of reproduction was largely conducted in the printmakers studio. Sufficient space and daylight were essential here. Although printmakers sometimes worked with pupils or assistants, the engraver Abraham Raimbach describes how they generally led a lonely and monotonous existence.223 Photographers too, initially worked in a modest studio. Around 1860, however, some photographic studios expanded and took on more employees.224 In their studios the engraver, mezzotinter or etcher kept an extensive range of burins and other tools for working metal, plus the necessary chemicals.225 Printmakers also had access to specialised manuals and other reference works with practical information about the various techniques, including Perrots book, the traditional manual by A. Bosse, Traite des manires de graver (Paris 1645), and other publications such as A. Fokke, De Graveur (1796), T.H. Fielding, The Art of Engraving (1841) and J. Roller, Praktische Handleiding bij het etsen op koper (1889).226 Anthony Dysons study Pictures to print provides an extensive insight into the workings of a printmakers studio.227 Before a single scratch was put on the plate it was customary to make a precise drawing of the original work.228 The young Samuel Cousins regularly produced drawings for his master S.W. Reynolds, just as Anthony van Dyke had once done for the engravers in Rubens studio. Sometimes the painter had already lent a helping hand by reducing the original image to the format of the reproduction as a painted reduction. Generally, however, it was the printmaker who had to reduce the image. In The Art of Engraving (1841) Theodore Henry Fielding described how a watercolour grid was often painted over the original, as an aid to producing the drawing. Once the the drawing had been finished, the image was transferred to the plate in mirror image.229 After printing the print was identical to the original.230 With woodcuts the image was sometimes sketched directly onto the woodblock, producing a mirror-image print of the original. Once the image had been transferred to the plate, the engraving could begin. This was described by John Ruskin as follows: Engraving, then, is, in brief terms, the Art of Scratch. It is essentially the cutting into a solid substance for the sake of making your ideas as permanent as possible, graven with an iron pen in the Rock for ever.231 The principle lines in the engraving were generally etched in first, a procedure already common in the eighteenth century. The print was then worked up in the final technique line engraving, mezzotint, aquatint, etching, drypoint or a combination of these methods, as outlined in the previous chapter.232 In general the composition was developed from the ma-

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jor forms into the details. Figures were inserted into the background, their most detailed elements, such as the hands and face, usually being left to the final stage.233 This method of working is illustrated by the fact that the Scottish portrait painter Henry Raeburn was briefly able to borrow his painting for an exhibition from the stipple engraver William Walker; in the absence of the painting the engraver worked on the background to his print, intending to fill in the details once the original was available again.234 Lithography removed the need for a great deal of laborious scraping and scratching, for in many instances the lithographer could draw the image directly on the stone or simply transfer this using transfer paper. This translation of the painted or drawn original into a graphic reproduction prompted the question of to what degree the image adapter (i.e. the printmaker) should remain faithful to his own profession or should actually endeavour to suggest another technique and the hand of the original maker.235 Printmakers held varying opinions on this subject, and could be divided into two camps, those of the moderate and those of the orthodox persuasion. The prominent English engraver W.J. Linton applauded the former view, that the printmaker should be free in interpreting the original technique, while an advocate for the other orthodox camp was the American engraver J.P. Davis:
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The more the original artists work appears in the engraving, unobscured by the personality of the engraver the more brush marks there are and the fewer tool marks the better is the effect produced.236

The engraver Luigi Calamatta emphasised the fact that when he was engraving he never wished to modify or beautify details in the original.237 Printmakers from the orthodox camp considered themselves to be entirely at the service of the original work and the original artist. This was also Philip Zilckens aspiration. When the man of letters Frans Netscher once reproached him for not sufficiently setting his personal stamp on his etchings, Zilcken wrote:
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When I read this, I wrote a letter to Netscher, in which I said, that my opinion was, that in an interpretation one should not show ones self, but in the first place the character of the artist, after which one has worked, and finally I cited the words of Willem Smalt (in the R. Nieuwsblad), is not a silent homage done to the designer [of the print, rv] , when

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one, looking around, forgets his name, and that of Rembrandt or Stevens, Maris or Israels and so many others hovers on the lips?238 Despite Zilckens clearly stated objective, his etched reproductions often tell another story, as his prints after Jozef Israls will show. If engraving sometimes required years of patience, the photographer largely pinned his hopes on several minutes of clear daylight. A.-M. Perrot had already stressed the importance of having a large window in the engravers studio, to provide sufficient daylight; for the photographer, however, this was often not enough. Good lighting was essential for the production of a successful photographic image, and lack of this was a recurring challenge. Lighting problems probably caused Courbet difficulties when photographing his works, for he wrote:
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Nous avons tres occups, ces temps-ci, faire les photographies des Lutteurs, de La Fileuse, des Baigneuses et [de] mon portrait. Il ny a rien de si difficile que ces oprations-l. Nous avons essayer par trois ou quatre photographes, qui ny pouvaient rien. Mon portrait est superbe, quand jen aurai des exemplaires je vous en enverrai ainsi que de mes tableaux.239

When the Dutch art historian Abraham Bredius approached the director of the Rijksmuseum to inquire about the facilities for having a number of paintings photographed, he requested that the photographer be allowed to do his work on the next clear day:
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With this dark weather it will be quite a feat to obtain a good photograph. Which photographer do you recommend? W.A. Mottu? Or Oosterhout or Hof? And could it be arranged thus that, for example: it is agreed that he can come on the first clear day? Should this not take place in the garden? In the building it will always go less well.240

The business of photographing artworks was literally as changeable as the weather. In order to make optimum use of the scarce Dutch sunlight, the firms of Braun and Hanfstaengl even received permission to photograph Rembrandts Nightwatch in the museum garden. The Amsterdam photographer Jager also

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knew that photographing artworks outdoors would produce the best results: in 1885, when the Rijksmuseums paintings were due to be moved from the Trippenhuis to the new building designed by Pierre Cuypers, he pointed out to the museums director that the move offered a unique opportunity to photograph the works. Although his plan came to nothing, this suggestion shows the creative spirit of photographers who were always in search of suitable lighting for reproducing artworks. Only the brightest sunlight was sufficient for a convincing reproduction. Successful photographers occupied ingenious studios with plenty of sunlight. The famous French photographer Felix Nadar built a photographic studio whose facade was made almost entirely of glass, while his colleague Paul Gueuvin even removed most of his studios facade in order to obtain maximum light.241 After taking photographs in full sunlight the photographer retired to his dark room to develop the image, using an arsenal of chemicals.
prooFs, states and False variations

Once the plate had somewhat advanced, it was time to print proofs. The choice of printer was vital in this regard. McQueen, Lemercier, Cadart and Brugman were several well-known printshops for printing engravings, lithographs or etchings. Given the printers influence on the final result, artists had their own particular preferences.242 In many instances, however, the printer remained an anonymous presence in the shadow of the publisher.243 Proofs were needed in order to be able to assess the progress of the plate. With the engraving technique especially, the image was easier to assess on paper than on the plate, unlike lithographs. Naturally proofs were primarily important for the printmaker, who needed to check the composition and the tonal balance between black, gray and white. Proofs were also submitted to other parties for assessment and approval. When the painter J.M.W. Turner received a proof of a reproduction for the Liber Studiorum by the printmaker William Miller (1796-1882), through his publisher F.G. Moon, he wrote to the printmaker in a letter of 22 October 1841:
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so now to business. It appeares to me that you have advanced so far that I do think I could now recollect sufficiently without the Picture before me but will now point out turn over and answer your questions viz. If the sky you feel [is] right you could advance more confidently therefore do not touch the sky at present but work the rest upon to it. The distance may be

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fig. 22 W. r. smith after Turner, Saltash, Cornwall (1827), engraving proof 16.3 x 23.3 cm, Yale center for British Art, new haven, connecticut.

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too dark, tho it wants more fine work, more character of woods down to the very campagna of Rome a bare sterile flat much lighter in tone.244 Turner, who was notorious for his strict supervision of printmakers work, continued his letter with painstaking commentary, writing optimistically:
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I am glad to hear you say I can have the picture after the first touched proof and that [deleted] this long letter of directions will be equal to one and you will be able to proceed with confidence-write if you feel any difficulty and believe me truly yours, J.M.W. Turner.

Turner is just one example of an artist who meticulously checked proofs of prints after his paintings, making comments in the margin and returning the annotated print to his printmaker. [fig. 22] In his Herinneringen, Philip Zilcken described how Jacob Maris employed a similar practice:
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Whenever I showed a state of an etching to Jacob Maris, he immediately took charcoal and white chalk and in a minimum of time he managed to introduce repose and harmony into such a proof. I still possess several of those states, some of which have been elaborated with much love, as well as several treated in the same fashion by J. Israels. Once I had then made

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the improvements, I repaired to the artist again, until he declared, that I need do nothing more to my plate.245 The painter Hendrik W. Mesdag likewise checked Zilckens etched reproductions for the album H.W. Mesdag. The Painter of the North Sea (1896), while his wife supervised the etchers captions.246 His French contemporary Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec also kept his finger on the pulse. An intermediary wrote to the painters printseller A. Arnould on his behalf: Monsieur de Toulouse-Lautrec me charge de vous dire quil autorise reproduire toutes les affiches que vous voudrez condition de lui montrer les preuves avant limpression.247 Any comments were then incorporated into the plate, from which another proof was sometimes printed and submitted to the painter, until he was satisfied with the result. An engraving by James Ward after the painting Lady Heathcote as Hebe (1804) by John Hoppner provides a remarkable example of a printmakers influence on a painter: after Ward had submitted a proof to Hoppner, the painter corrected the print, but left several details untouched, subsequently deciding to adapt his original to the reproduction, as he informed the engraver via a remark on the proof.248 Proofs were also submitted to the publisher as evidence that the reproductive process was progressing, thereby affording the publisher an opportunity to remain in control of the process. This is illustrated by the fact that printmakers were sometimes paid according to the various proofs delivered.249 The nature of the photographic reproductive process made proofs less of an option, although similar procedures were also followed. Dante Gabriel Rossetti, for example, is known to have taken great pains to have his work reproduced photographically, and to have retouched the negatives and photographs: My own impression is that there is no chance of a full success with the Lady of the Window unless by the retouching process.250 Writing with regard to photographic reproductions of his work, Whistler made clear to David Croal Thompson, Goupils representative: However first I must see the photographs themselves.251 The painter Anton Mauve used comparable terms in his letter of 12 July 1886 to the art dealers and print publishers Tripp & Arnold: Je dsire de voir les photographies daprs mes tableaux.252 On 13 August 1903 the painter August Alleb wrote in a similar vein to H.P. Bremmer concerning reproductions of his work for the popular series Beeldende Kunst in Nederland:

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Will you permit me courteously to remind you of our agreement and your promise to publish no kind of sketches by me without my having seen the proofs, I should also like to be consulted concerning the order.253

During the nineteenth century there appears to have been widescale circulation of proofs, which travelled between printmakers, artists, printers and publishers. In many instances such proofs formed the linchpin in the reproductive process, particularly when this involved traditional engraving rather than lithography or photography.254 The engraved techniques were the most labour intensive and therefore the most expensive reproduction methods. Given the considerable investments associated with these techniques, supervising the progress of the reproductive process was vital. So it was fairly common practice for various artists to check the proofs of prints after their work. This is not to say that this was the case with all artists and all reproductions, although the letter sent by the painter August Alleb to the critic H.P. Bremmer, cited above, reminding Bremmer that he wished to check the reproductions carefully, may best illustrate actual practice.255 The fact that the painter took the trouble to write such a letter shows his personal interest in the reproductive process, while the fact that he needed to write it seems to indicate that he was not being involved in this. As the first products of the reproductive process, proofs were not without commercial significance, as Ernest Gambart remarked:
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The unfinished Proofs publishers are in the habit to canvass with, are generally only shown to the Trade with all due intimation of their unfinished state [and this is] rather a favourable circumstance than otherwise since it leaves to the imagination to fancy the wonders that are coming When a plate is finished the illusion ceases, there is the fact, and in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred the interest abates.256

An unfinished print had the charm of a graphic sketch, appreciated for its own intrinsic qualities. It was precisely this unfinished, sketchy character which gave such prints an artistic and economic value completely unrelated to their function. This was also the case with the notes made by the painter in the margin of the print; although such remarques were essentially no more than instruc-

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tions to the printmaker, in practice they also acquired their own aesthetic value independent of the reproductive process. The proofs were followed by various states of the print. At a certain point, depending on the technique, printing from the plate began to cause wear and the quality of the image deteriorated. In order to make new prints, the plate was regularly worked up for a second life. The publishers Hodgson-Graves and the engraver Samuel Cousins, for example, agreed that Cousins would work up the plate of his print after Abercorn Children to guarantee a run of a thousand prints.257 With popular prints, it was regular practice for the plate to be regularly worked up to produce more images. The engraver Abraham Raimbach emphasised the amount of work this sometimes entailed:
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Very considerable and constant reparations were of course rendered necessary by the wear and tear of the plates in the process of printing, amounting in some cases to as much time probably in their execution as might have sufficed for a re-engraving of the plate.258

signatures

Finished reproductions were regularly signed by the painter, the printmaker or both. On completion of Kratkes etching after Jules Bretons LAlouette the art dealer George A. Lucas invited both the painter and the printmaker to his home in order to sign a number of proofs.259 James McNeill Whistler signed photographs after his work, as he indicated in a letter to David Croal Thompson, who worked at Goupils London branch:
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In signing to proofs I find considerable difference in their condition There is no doubt that the negatives have given most remarkably beautiful proofs If you only sift them out and insist upon it you can have perfect collections. At present some of the Carlyles are too pale-and some of the Valparaiso Crepuscules are too black Otherwise seriously I think when they are seen they will be a success.260

In his Herinneringen Philip Zilcken also refers to this practice of signing prints, with reference to his print after The Bridge by Jacob Maris:

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when van Wisselingh bought the epreuves dartiste from this plate, [jacob maris, rv] agreed to set his signature alongside mine on 25 copies, (if I recall correctly), as proof of approval and to give a special value to these copies. These have now become rare and precious, as in our time more than ever and rightly so, great value is attached to the handwriting or signature of a renowned artist.261

The signing of reproductions (both prints and photographs) was general practice in the nineteenth century. It is interesting that Zilcken points out two functions of the signature: as proof of the painters approval and to give the print a special value. The artists signature may be regarded as the crowning moment of the reproductive process and the artists involvement in this. The fact that the painter may not have made the print himself did not detract from his involvement with his brainchild. The popularity of signed prints also reflected the enormous popularity of autographs in general: trade in signed photographs, letters and reproductions flourished in the nineteenth century, particularly from the 1860s onwards. The painter John Everett Millais wondered despairingly: Do they suppose I have nothing else to do than to sit and write my name all day?262 Naturally a signature affected the price of the print, for it made a reproduction unique. It could even turn a reproduceable print or photograph into a scarce item with a higher price. The signatures value sometimes led to abuse and deception, as Zilcken described:
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On one subsequent occasion, I noticed at an art dealers in The Hague that there were so-called epreuves dartiste of my etchings, on which an apocryphal signature appeared, which drew my attention and proved counterfeit. Such artifice had been employed, that this did not immediately strike the eye, because my pencil signature had been precisely counterfeited and had not been put on the proof by me. When I inquired into the matter, it became evident that the art dealer in Amsterdam, had proceeded so cleverly, that there could be no question of prosecution. I had gone to consult one of our best and most art-loving lawyers, Mr. V., [vosmaer, rv]; he followed my information with interest, but instantly said that nothing was to done about this deception, because my signature had not of course been registered. If the contrary had been the case, it would have been possible to have prosecuted the art dealers immediately, for, registering

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my signature as a trademark, such as the well-known Liebig one, would have placed all the rights in my hands, while now I have no other recourse than to request the cessation of these practices. When I subsequently discussed the matter with my friend Mr. Louis Israels (a cousin of Jozef Israls), then attached to the Bureau voor Auteursrecht [Bureau for Authorship Rights], he likewise told me, that there was nothing to be done, thereby adding in other countries such a thing would be an impossibility.263 The practice of forging signatures on reproductions was not an isolated abuse. In England, for example, publishers tended to print more copies from exclusive states than from later states, creating a paradoxical situation in which more prints from exclusive states were published while less exclusive states were sometimes relatively scarce. The natural relationship between states and print runs was therefore deliberately manipulated in commercial practice, within the margins set by the limitations of technology. The publisher Mary Parkes fiercely condemned these fraudulent practices in her pamphlet Art Monopoly. Deception in the publication of engravings (1850), in which she criticised publishers for modifying the plate after lettered prints had been produced, in order to print off more copies avant la lettre.264 The actual extent of these dubious practices is hard to ascertain, as those responsible tended not to flaunt them. Various collective measures were taken in an attempt to combat fraud in the print world. Competitors or not, publishers and printsellers had a common interest in the legitimate distribution of reproductions. In 1847 a number of leading publishers founded the Printsellers Association, in order to protect the print trade in England. The aim of the organisation was:
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to ascertain and record the number of proof impressions of each grade, taken from plates of Steel, Copper or other materials, engraved, etched or otherwise prepared for the purpose of Printing or otherwise reproducing Pictures, Drawings, and other works of art.265

Members of the association Publishers of Prints, Printsellers, Artists, Engravers, and Printers of Steel, Copper and other plates, and other, who in the opinion of the Committee are connected with the Print trade (but no other persons) were expected to register prints for publication, specifying the subject, the

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name of the painter, the name of the engraver, the format and the style of engraving.266 Also registered were the numbers to be published, classified according to the four recognised states: Artists Proofs, Proofs before Letters, Lettered Proofs and Prints.267 The association was the print trades own initiative, aimed at self-regulation, and as such resembles the guild structures of previous eras. The organisation rapidly evolved into the fulcrum of the printworld in Victorian England, where it was used by all the leading printsellers and publishers. In 1894 there were 126 publishers affiliated to the association.268 The organisations growing influence soon prompted criticism of the powerful monopoly position enjoyed by the new publishers guild. The publisher Mary Parkes, for example, cited above, was highly critical of the Printsellers Association, and particularly disapproved of the permission required from the association for any print publication:
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This is, in fact, tantamount to an imperial decree that nobody shall buy and nobody shall sell without permission of the Printsellers Association, which is in its way a democracy of absolutism, for its numbers only increase the amount of its dictation, while its tyranny is crushing over all whom it can bring under its way.269

Her irritation focused on her many colleagues for complying with the associations stipulations without demur. An exception was the headstrong Ernest Gambart, who was not afraid to confront the organisation.270 The primary aim of the Printsellers Association was to protect the English printworld, by overseeing the production and distribution of prints by English and foreign publishers. On the European continent there were also structures for controlling print publishing. These included private trade organisations, such as the Nederlandse Vereniging ter bevordering van de belangen des Boekhandels [Dutch Association for the Promotion of Booksellers Interests], which fostered self-regulation, and more public bodies responsible for supervising print publishing and the print trade, such as the Dpt lgal for registering new publications, books and print, established in France in 1852. The objective of such organisations was everywhere the same: to regulate and protect the market for publishing and selling prints.

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the Firm oF goupil: a producer oF reproductions

It is virtually impossible to gain a comprehensive view of the total range and volume of reproductions produced during the nineteenth century. We can obtain some idea, however, by briefly considering the production of an internationally prominent firm, Goupil, the French art dealers and publishers. [fig. 23] Once a reproduction had been completed, it was entered into the firms stock list. Over time this list steadily expanded; during the final decades of the nineteenth century the firm even published entire books with comprehensive lists of all the publications available at that moment.271 Complete reconstruction of the Goupil stock greatly exceeds the scope of this study: a few general characteristics will suffice here.272 The Goupil stock list for 1878 is prefaced by the statement that of course the firms stock consisted of prints registered with the Dpt lgal:
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Le dpt lgal, exig par le dcret-loi du 17 fvrier 1852, a t fait pour toutes les publications figurant dans ce catalogue, et en consquence, la vente en a t autorise pour toute la France par le Ministre de lIntrieur.273

This formal reference to the Dpt lgal is not without significance, and should be interpreted against the background of large-scale fraudulent practices in the
fig. 23 Boussod, Valadon & cie Branche (before goupil & cie) in 1898 in The hague.

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fig. 24 After henry scheffer, Marie et Marthe, Woodburytype goupil carte Album 10.6 x 9.1 cm, Woodburytype, Muse goupil, Bordeaux.

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nineteenth-century print trade. This statement gave anyone who used the stock list, be they private individuals or dealers, the guarantee of doing business with a bona fide firm, which was only involved in the legal production and distribution of prints. To bring some order into the enormous range of prints, the Goupil stock list for 1878 was divided into three sections according to the three primary techniques: engraving, lithography and photography. The engraving section comprised line engravings, etchings, aquatints, mezzotints and photogravures respectively. The inclusion of photogravure, a photomechanical technique, in the category of engraving, rather than photography, is curious and is discussed further below. The total number of engravings in the 1878 stock list was 982 titles, approximately twelve per cent of the entire stock. The number of titles in the li-

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thography section totalled 2,161, or approximately twenty-seven per cent of the stock. However, the Goupil stock list in this period seems to be dominated by photographic reproductions, with 4,897 titles representing approximately sixty-one per cent of the total stock. The photography section comprised various photographic series, Galerie Photographique, Muse Goupil, Cartes Album and Cartes de Visite. [fig. 24] Such series had featured in the Goupil stock list from 1860 onwards and were regularly expanded with new variations.274 Although the ratio between the total number of engravings, lithographs and photographs was roughly 1:2:4, this was the ratio between the total number of titles. Per title various states and variations of engravings, aquatints, mezzotints en lithographs were published, as previously described, including states designated epreuve dartiste, avant la lettre and aprs la lettre, prints on varying kinds of paper and sometimes even prints in colour. With photography only one version of an image was usually published.275 So when the various versions of graphic works are brought into the equation, the ratio between the different kinds of reproduction in the Goupil stock is very different: the total number of engravings amounts to thirty-seven per cent of the stock, lithographs twenty-five per cent and photographs approximately thirty-eight per cent. From this perspective, the various techniques share in the stock list is less divergent. The Goupil stock list presented potential buyers with a wide variety of subjects, ranging from historical, religious, mythological or military scenes to countless portraits, genre works, animal pictures, landscapes, urban views, vehicles, costumes and ornamental prints.276 Although the works were roughly arranged according to subject, not every type was specified. In the engravings section, for example, history pieces, genre pieces and portraits were amalgamated in a single category, while photographic reproductions were not subdivided into subject at all. Even a cursory examination of the stock list reveals the dominance of genre art, followed at some distance by religious subjects. Given the general popularity of genre paintings, a popularity also evident at exhibitions and in illustrated magazines, this predominance is hardly surprising. The many prints of portraits, history pieces and military subjects display a similar pattern. However, the modest number of landscapes in the stock list is more remarkable, as this category of paintings was also extremely popular, yet not widely available from Goupil in reproduction form. Only close examination of the stock list reveals a few works by the Barbizon School, amongst many sentimental and religious genre pieces.

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An interesting facet of the classification employed in the stock list is that this not only offers an overall view of the works sold by Goupil, but also reflects implicit hierarchical relationships. Thus the ordering of techniques in the list largely corresponds with the late-eighteenth century hierarchy of techniques, in which line engraving was considered superior to techniques such as the aquatint and mezzotint. Even the development of lithography and photography in the nineteenth century had not managed to erase this hierarchy entirely. It is indicative of photogravures status that this photomechanical technique was deemed to be more closely affiliated with engraving techniques than photographic ones. In a similar vein the prescriptive ordering of subjects continued to echo through the Goupil stock list, which largely adhered to the traditional hierarchy of genres within the ordering of prints by technique, successively listing history pictures, genre pictures, portraits, animal pictures and still lifes. It is known that these prescriptive hierarchies (of technique and subject) gradually fell out of use during the course of the nineteenth century, when such theoretical art systems lost their meaning, both at traditional academies and Salon exhibitions. So it is remarkable that such notions were still being employed by a modern, commercial print firm as late as the eve of the twentieth century. The structure of Goupils stock list thus displays an interesting combination of a functional layout with a traditional, prescriptive ordering of prints and paintings. For the most part Goupils stock consisted of reproductions, with original graphic works playing a virtually negligible role. Amongst the exceptions was the print series La Hollande with six etchings of landscapes by the Dutch etcher C.N. Storm van Gravensande (1841-1924). Surveying the stock list of reproductions with an eye to the originators, the artists responsible for the original works, even a cursory examination reveals that Goupils stock was dominated by nineteenth-century artists: old masters are sparingly represented and account for barely five per cent of the total. Where old masters are present, the tone is set by the ever-famous Raphael, although even he cannot compete with the range of work by popular nineteenth-century masters such as Paul Dlaroche, Horace Vernet, Ary Scheffer, Jean-Leon Grme, Constant Brochart, Franois Compte-Calix and William Adolphe Bouguereau. In the ample selection of genre pieces, it is mainly genre painters from the juste milieu who dominate, in all three sections, engravings, lithographs and photographs. Work by realists such as Camille Corot, Gustave Courbet, Charles-Franois Daubigny or

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Jean- Franois Millet are not to be found in the Goupil canon, which had not been penetrated by the impressionists either in the late 1870s. Another striking feature of the Goupil stock list is that contemporary art is dominated by French painters, while artists from other countries are manifestly rare. Conspicuous absentees are popular Victorian artists such as David Wilkie, Willian Powell Frith or Edward Landseer. Neither does the stock list mention any reproductions by Pre-Raphaelites, although the firm of Goupil does appear to have sold diverse reproductions by the popular German artist Franz Xavier Winterhalter and several works by Hendrik W. Mesdag, Jozef Israls, Henritte Ronner and Johannes Bosboom. The dominance of French masters is also evident in the names of the printmakers, where the tone of Goupil stock is mainly set by the master engraver Louis-Pierre Henriquel-Dupont and his pupils. The very first print in the stock list, Henriquel-Duponts own engraving after LHemicycle du Palais des Beaux-Arts by Paul Dlaroche, is possibly symbolic. This is followed by works by various pupils of the master, such as the brothers Alphonse and Jules Francois, Jules Levasseur, Jules and Achille Jacquet (1846-1908), and Pierre Rousseau (1812-1867).277 Other engravers with a number of prints to their name include Auguste Blanchard (1819-1898), Z. Prvost, Jean Jazet (1788-1871) and the etcher Paul Rajon (1843-1888). Productive lithographers in Goupils stock are E. Lassalle, Alophe, and Lon Nol. Amongst the many French printmakers are several of their foreign counterparts, such as the Belgian Leopold Flameng (1831-1911), the German Joseph Keller (1811-1873) and the Italian Paolo Mercuri (1804-1884). English printmakers, however, are largely absent. We do not know who produced the many photographs in the stock list, for the photographers remain anonymous, although we do know that the well-known photographer Robert Bingham took a number of photos for Goupil. It is possible that the photographs in the various series were mainly produced by unknown employees at Goupils photographic workshop in Asnires. Goupils art reproductions appeared in various published forms, from single prints to prestigious albums. By far the largest number could be obtained as autonomous images an engraving, a lithograph or a photo, or possibly a state or a variation of this image. Nevertheless, the many independent prints were far from being random, isolated publications. Many titles in the stock list are grouped as pendants.278 These are related prints after paintings by the same

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original painter, or prints with a related subject. Some prints are listed as triptychs, or in even longer series of associated titles. It is only a small step from a series of related prints to a series bound in an album, so the Goupil stock also included diverse albums with reproductions of subjects such as sculptures in the Louvre, paintings in the new Opera House, picturesque landscapes and modern art.279 There were also special albums devoted to Salon exhibitions, produced by Goupil to commemorate the highpoints once an exhibition had closed. Although such albums were associated with a specific year, they do not appear to have dated quickly: albums for the Salon exhibition of 1873, for example, continued to appear in Goupils stock lists until well into the 1880s. The firm also published monographic albums devoted to the work of a single artist, such as Jean-Leon Grme, Paul Dlaroche, Ary Scheffer, Mariano Fortuny and Gustave Dor. And just as various versions of a single print were available, so it was often possible to obtain albums in various finishes.280 Goupil published a range of albums associated with the Salon exhibitions, from plain and simple works to stylish, beautifully executed volumes; the firm had built up a name as a purveyor of what were known as deluxe albums. Philip Zilcken also noted this when he planned to publish a series of his etched reproductions after Jacob Maris as a deluxe edition for Goupil:
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During that winter [1888, rv] I carried on finishing a series of twelve etchings after landscapes by Jacob Maris, a de luxe portfolio, which was being published by the house of Goupil in London. [] As evidence of the difficulties which stand in the way of a young artist at the beginning of his career, I must add here that, for the original publication of these etchings in portifolio, I had to part with the not inconsiderable sum of 70 per cent, while I had to bear all the costs. Regarding this it was suggested that I should be happy, that such an important firm was distributing my work over the world, something which can only do good to my name.281

The different kinds of reproduction varied greatly in price. Henriquel-Duponts engraving after LHemicycle by Paul Dlaroche cost 150 francs when printed lettered on ordinary paper, 200 francs when lettered on Chinese paper and 800 francs before the letter. Prints in the most exclusive preuves dart state were as much as 1,000 francs, although this was an exceptional print that may be regarded as the flagship of Goupils stock. As a rule the price for an engraving var-

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fig. 25 paul rajon after Jean-lon grme, Un duel aprs le bal (1869), etching 15.8 x 23 cm, Muse

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goupil, Bordeaux.

ied from around fifteen francs for ordinary lettered prints to between 100 to 200 francs for the most expensive preuve dart state. Lithographs belonged in a cheaper class with prices varying between five and thirty francs. Photographic reproductions were even cheaper. While photogravures were relatively expensive, with prices ranging between ten to forty francs, countless photographs from the varying series were available for between one to ten francs. Much more expensive than autonomous images, of course, were Goupils range of albums, at prices varying from 100 to 400 francs, with Dcorations du Foyer du Nouvel Opra de Paul Baudry (an album with twenty-four large-format photographs), costing no less than 1,500 francs.282 It should be emphasised, however, that these are only rough indications. The price for a print mainly depended on the format, the technique, the engraver, the painter, the subject and other such factors. A striking feature of the stock list is the diversity of reproductions which also translates into a diversity of prices. Roughly speaking, Goupils reproductions ranged in price from 1 to 1,000 francs, and thus targeted both individuals with a limited budget and the well-to-do. The most popular paintings could be supplied in every price class: LHemicycle by Paul Dlaroche, mentioned above, was available as an engraving (preuves dart) for 1,000 francs and a photograph for 20 francs; a reproduction of Dlaroches painting Martyre Chrtienne could be purchased in the form of an engraving in various states, an aquatint and a pho-

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tograph. Goupil even published fifteen different reproductions of Gromes Un duel aprs le bal.283 [fig. 25] All in all the stock held by the firm of Goupil largely consisted of art reproductions of mainly French contemporary art, interpreted by French printmakers and photographers. Although this predominantly French tone might seem self-evident in a French firm, based in Paris, it is less so when we remember that Goupil, more than any other firm of art dealers, operated on an international scale, with branches in cities such as London, Vienna, Brussels, The Hague and New York. In this light Goupils overwhelmingly French stock seems curious. An explanation for the firms French orientation can be sought, however, in the collaborative nature of the international print trade. Like many other firms, Goupil belonged to an international network of publishers, in which English firms mainly distributed English prints, Dutch firms Dutch prints and Goupil thus French prints. So the French character of Goupils stock could be a result of the firms extreme specialisation in the international print publishing world.

froM originAl To reproducTion


The production of art reproductions in the nineteenth century offers fascinating glimpses of intriguing legal problems, ingenious reproduction techniques, critical artists, commercial publishers and an endless stream of reproductions in diverse forms, sold at diverse prices. This chapter has endeavoured to use the first three phases in the lifecycle of a reproduction initiating the reproduction, organising the reproduction and producing the reproduction to consider these aspects in association, within the historical context of the nineteenth century. In many respects this period forms an exceptional episode in the history of art reproduction, and was characterised by two fundamental changes in the production of reproductions, which largely occurred in this period. In the first place there was an important change in the field of intellectual property. In Europe and the United States the traditional privilege system was definitively transformed into the modern system of authorship rights. Henceforth the maker, author or originators personal and intellectual connection with his work would form the anchor for the new system. The author or originator, rather than the publisher, acquired an increasingly central position in the system of legal protection. This legal emancipation of the artist through au-

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thorship rights brought about major changes. In the first place, the new system turned the legal relationship between the government and the individual originator upside down, as it were. Where Rubens in the seventeenth century had been required to ask the state for permission to be allowed to publish prints after his own work, during the nineteenth century the state was increasingly obliged to guarantee the artists rights. Moreover the advent of authorship rights led to tensions in the sphere of property law. The property rights of the collector, for example, were subject to increasing pressure from authorship rights, not only in the form of reproduction rights but also through exhibition rights. However, the most important change in authorship rights during the nineteenth century was the legalisation of art itself. The artwork as an object was increasingly transformed into an abstract collection of different rights, which could function independently of each other in the art world. The property rights could be sold to a collector, while the reproduction rights could be sold to a publisher. The exhibition rights to a painting were similarly independent. Thanks to these different rights it was now possible to exploit artworks in a way that had not previously been the case. Of course the sale of paintings still generated a great deal of money. What was new were the expanding opportunities offered by these independent rights to earn money without selling a work, in various circuits for the reproduction, exhibition and collection of artworks. In the second place, there was an important shift from graphic to photographic reproduction techniques, as outlined in the previous chapter. As a result reproductions were produced in many different ways, ranging from traditional manual methods to modern mechanical techniques. In the field of manual reproduction, painters, printmakers and publishers continued to rely on centuries-old graphic traditions and still referred to Abraham Bosses seventeenth-century handbook.284 At the same time various photographers were experimenting with the latest chemical discoveries to produce their reproductions. While an engraver could spend several years making his printing matrix, a photographer only needed one sunny afternoon. In the manual techniques proofs played an important role, for they allowed the printmaker, painter and publisher an opportunity to check and correct the reproductive process. Moreover, proofs were commercially profitable in the production of various states and variations. Together, the manual and mechanical techniques generated an enormous range of reproductions. Goupil alone sold a huge diversity of reproductions, featuring varying subjects, in varying techniques and formats, at varying

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prices. The production of reproductions was thus greater in volume and diversity than ever before. Although these changes gouged deep trails through the landscape of nineteenth-century art reproduction, they should be viewed in their proper perspective. The processes outlined above can be observed in England, France and the Netherlands, but varied in character according to time and place. Moreover, some profound changes occurred within a relatively small, closed environment. The shift from graphic to photographic art reproduction, for example, may have been a sweeping change, but it was a change which largely occurred at the level of the small-scale workshop or studio, rather than that of the factory.285 Many reproductions continued to be made using methods from the seventeenth or eighteenth centuries.286 Engraving the plate, making proofs, correcting proofs and publishing the image in various print states are only a few of the elements entailed in the reproductive process, which formed part of a centuries-old tradition of printmaking that continued deep into the nineteenth century.287 Turner and Whistlers critical supervision of the reproductive process readily recalls that of Joshua Reynolds or Rubens. Moreover, the continued use of traditional reproduction techniques meant that the print runs for independent reproductions remained modest for many years, ranging from a few hundred copies to a few thousand at most. However, one crucial element in the field of art reproduction remained unchanged, even during the nineteenth century: the reproduction of artworks continued to be a task for specialists. Even the development of photography did not change this. The extensive production of art reproductions created a huge and diverse range of works, ready for distribution to the nineteenth-century public. The following chapter will consider the next two stages in the lifecycle of a reproduction: its distribution and reception. Where did reproductions end up, who was interested in acquiring such works, and how were they received?

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chapter 4

For Connoisseurs and amateurs

PubliCation

Were the two plates done, we must next think of their publication, the painter David Wilkie wrote on 12 September 1827 to his brother Thomas.1 It was essential to reach the public in order for a reproduction to be a success.2 The extensive networks established by printsellers and publishing houses ensured that reproductions were distributed on a considerable scale to all corners of society. This chapter follows the final two phases in the life of the reproduction: its distribution and reception.

The disTribuTion of a reproducTion


PubliCity

Prior to distribution it was important to bring completed prints to the publics attention. Entrepreneurs in the graphic world used various ways to inform the public about their new publications. Art criticism was a primary instrument for publicising reproductions, as it was for many other art forms. Many journals had a regular section which discussed new publications, ranging from novels

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fig. 26 anonymous after detail of paul dlaroche, Lady Jane Gray (1859), litho graphy 62.5 x 49 cm, Muse Goupil, bordeaux.

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and poetry collections to engravings, lithographs or photographs of artworks. In extensive reviews of varying length, critics discussed the original work, its subject and the specific technique employed in the reproductive print. Their observations offer an interesting insight into how reproductions were viewed and will be discussed further below. At this point it is important to be aware that such reviews were an important instrument for publicity when publishing new reproductions. It mattered a great deal to publishers that their prints were discussed and preferably judged as favourably as possible. We know from the world of literature and visual art that publishers and art dealers often enjoyed close contacts with art critics. Similar relationships seem to have existed with regard to art reproduction. Journals were inevitably interested in the latest publications, while publishers could gain significantly from favourable reviews of their new prints in widely circulated journals. The publisher Ernest Gambart is

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known to have regularly sent reproductions to The Art Journal in order to have these reviewed.3 The artist John Everett Millais also noticed a connection between a particular publisher of reproductions and the world of art criticism: curiously enough, whenever an engraving comes out from his firm there is always a favourable article in the papers.4 The broad stream of new reproductions generated a considerable collection of reviews. In 1852 the wealth of prints after the work of Edwin Landseer caused an anonymous critic to sigh in The Art Journal: It is almost impossible to write anything new respecting to the engravings after Landseer.5 Publishers regularly advertised new publications at an early stage in their production, by distributing prints showing details from the picture. In France in particular this was a common way to offer the public an initial impression of a future publication. Ernest Gambart became one of the first publishers in England to use this method when he published parts of his print after William Powell Friths The Derby Day.6 There were various advantages to this piecemeal publication of prints. Details provided an impression of the future print at an early stage in the reproductive process. A print could easily take a year or longer to produce, particularly in the case of traditional engravings. So detail prints could provide publicity and a first opportunity to earn back investments. The details were also carefully chosen to give the detail print its own particular charm, making this both an advertisement for the completed work and an addition to the range of prints on offer. [fig. 26] Once the new print had been published, this could be followed by a pendant, a series of prints or even an entire album.7 A tried and tested method for generating publicity was the commercial exhibition of the original painting, sometimes in combination with the reproduction. It was a practice already employed in the eighteenth century by the publisher John Boydell, who organised exhibitions of the original work together with its reproductions, so that the public may judge how far he has succeeded in his Endeavors to improve the Arts of Engraving.8 In Boydells wake a number of nineteenth-century art dealers organised similar exhibitions of an original work to launch its reproduction. Although we still know little about this particular exhibition culture, it must have been fairly widespread, for The Art Journal wrote in 1858: This practice of introducing an engraving by exhibiting the picture of which it is the popular translation is becoming general, as well in our provincial cities and towns as in the metropolis.9 Once again it was the print-

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seller and publisher Ernest Gambart who regularly organised exhibitions with an eye to selling reproductions. A well-known example is The Light of the World by Holman Hunt, which spent eighteen months touring England and the Channel Islands. Gambart even sent Friths Derby Day to Australia.10 Naturally such tours were highly commercial in their intention. Once curious visitors had secured admission and admired an original work, they were then able to purchase various reproductions of this. [fig. 27] The great success enjoyed by The Light of the World prompted Gambarts decision to have a new, small-format print of the painting made by the engraver William Ridgeway.11 In 1905 a replica of The Light of the World left England for a lengthy tour of Canada, Australia, New Zealand and South Africa, accompanied by reproductions.12 The publishing and exhibition of artworks thus went hand in hand and sometimes even seemed synonymous. The engraver John Landseer, for example, regarded the exhibition of work as a form of publishing, while the critic P.G. Hamerton described artists greatest preoccupation as: How are they to publish their pictures.13 Finally, another way to obtain publicity was to organise the public destruction of a printing plate. Once a plate had been destroyed, no more prints could be made from it.14 This was an act that deliberately negated a defining characteristic of graphic works, their ability to be reproduced, in order to guarantee the exclusive nature of the existing impression. A principle much applied to reproductions, it was also found to be effective with original graphic works: for example, the concept of lestampe original inspired Semour Haden and other etchers to destroy their plates. Whistler aptly declared: To destroy is to remain.15 Destruction of the plate also opened the way for new prints. Once Ernest Gambart had deliberately destroyed the original plate after the renowned painting The Horse Fair (1853) by Rosa Bonheur, a new, smaller-format print of the work was published.16 The deliberate destruction of valuable plates constituted a commercial show of strength which only strong and wealthy companies could afford. The only form of publicity available to most publishers and printsellers was to peg up a new print on the washing line in their shop window, in the hope it would catch the attention of passing trade.
networks For distribution

The painter David Wilkie sometimes set out to sell reproductions of his work. During his stay in Paris he noted in his journal entry for 23 June 1814: Called on a printseller of the name of Delpech, [] whom I requested to call upon me to-

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fig. 27 William ridgway after holman hunt, The Light of the World (1863), engraving 30.5 x 15.3 cm, The Maas Gallery, London.

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morrow at 10 oclock to see the print of The Village Politicians.17 He subsequently wrote on 2 July:
c[...]

I had this morning taken to M. Delpech two prints and one proof of The Village Politicians, to put in his windows, he called me this morning to give me a receipt of the prints. He told me that a number of people had been looking at the prints, and that some English people had told him of the prints of Blindmans Buff they had seen in London.18

When Wilkie was in Amsterdam, he visited the firm of Buffa in Kalverstraat, reporting on his visit to his engraver Abraham Raimbach:
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Mynheer Buffa, an Italian printseller long established in that city, was the most respectable person in that line in the whole country. I accordingly called upon him, and found both himself and his son, to all appearance very respectable in point of stability and connexion in their trade, and very willing to do what they could for our concern. They showed me impressions both of The Politicians and The Blind Fiddler which they had had from the Boydells, whom they talked of as very old acquaintances in the way of business. They told me they would rather not give me an order for the Politicians, as it would be better for them to have it with The Fiddler of Boydell; they would subscribe for half a dozen prints and one proof of The Rent Day, on the terms which I offered, and at their request I left the etching and one of the proofs of the Politicians; the former to be shown by way of gaining suscribers, and the latter to be accounted for to us. The terms of payment I also arranged with them, and will explain when I see you.19

Thus the painter Wilkie personally applied himself to the task of distributing and selling reproductions after his work.20 The distribution of reproductions was effected through an ingenious network of printsellers, booksellers and publishers. In A New Introduction to Bibliography Philip Gaskell identifed the tripartite structure of publisher-wholesaler, printer and bookseller as the determining parties in the distribution of books in the nineteenth century.21 We can recognise the same structure in the distribution of prints. The publisher was the central figure who prescribed the distri-

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bution of prints to dealers and sellers. As previously observed, the role of publisher was not always an exclusive activity, for publishers could also function as dealers and sellers of prints, books and paintings, and sometimes ran a gallery for exhibitions and auctions. Print publishers thus developed a range of activities connected with the production and distribution of prints, supplying booksellers and printsellers with the latest publications which they often sold themselves in their retail capacity. Thanks to the growth of the international print trade in the second quarter of the nineteenth century, print publishers and art dealers increasingly opened branches in other cities. During the 1840s new forms of transport and communication, such as steam trains and postal and telegraph services, increasingly allowed firms and their branches, at home and abroad, to participate in print publishing and dealing at an international level. In the early 1840s, for example, Goupil sent its young representative Ernest Gambart to London to conquer the English market.22 The firm also had contacts with the London-based publishers Ackerman & Co, and Hering & Remington, and Sachse in Berlin. In 1852 Goupil opened a branch in Berlin, followed several years later by a branch in London (1857). Goupil subsequently purchased the firm owned by Vincent van Gogh (also known as Uncle Cent) and converted this into its branch in The Hague (1861); further branches followed in Brussels and Vienna.23 The brothers Vincent and Theo van Gogh both worked at various branches of Goupil: Vincent began his career at Goupils branch in The Hague, then transferred to the firms London establishment where he was employed between 1873 and 1875. From here he wrote to his brother and colleague Theo, inquiring about the sale of certain new prints at Goupils branch in The Hague:
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How go the nouveauts in Holland? Here there is literally nothing to be done with the ordinary engravings after Brochart & co. The good burin engravings were selling rather well, among the things weve already sold are +/- 20 epr. dartiste of the Venus Anadryomene after Ingres. But it is a delight to see how the photogravures are being sold, particularly the coloured ones, & theres a fine profit on those.24

After his time in London the firm transferred Vincent to its Paris establishment where his career with Goupil came to an end in April 1876. Several years later, in November 1879, Theo was also appointed to the firms Paris establishment.

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Publishers activities were not confined to Europe. The development of propeller-driven steamships during the 1840s considerably simplified seaborne transport, as this no longer depended on the wind. Henceforth the American market could also be accessed by the print trade. Goupil was one of the first companies to undertake the conquest of the New World. In 1846 Michael Knoedler crossed the Atlantic Ocean on behalf of the firm, in search of new markets for prints, in particular reproductions. In 1848, after two years of preparatory research, he opened a branch of Goupil in New York for the promotion of the taste for the fine arts in the United States of America.25 The firm initially operated there on a wholesale basis, as attested by an advertisement in a local newspaper of 12 February 1848:
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Goupil & Vibert & co., Printpublishers in Paris, having established a branch of their business in this city, beg to call the attention of the Trade to their extensive assortment of French, English, German, and Italian engravings and lithographs. (The Trade only supplied).26

The company both stimulated American interest in European art and introduced prints by American artists to the European market. In 1857 Knoedler bought himself out of Goupil and subsequently became a renowned dealer in prints, and later also in paintings, under his own name.27 In Goupils wake other firms tried their luck in America, from the 1850s onwards: Colnaghi and Gambart, for example, regularly travelled there on business.28 American dealers also began coming to Europe to buy prints, the best known of these being George Lucas and Samuel Avery, who were often to be found on transatlantic steamers.29 Technological developments in transport and communications advanced so rapidly that in 1856, De Gids even ventured to suggest that the traditional trade in prints and photographs would soon become obsolete, predicting that, in the foreseeable future, it should become possible to send photographs at lightning speed: Or might it remain impossible to transfer the photographic portrait through the electro-magnetic telegraph?30 When firms distributed reproductions they relied in the first instance on the resources of their own imperium. Correspondence between Vincent and Theo van Gogh gives us an insight into how close the ties were between Goupils establishments in London and Paris. We may assume that there was intensive in-

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ternal traffic in prints and photographs between the firms various branches. Publishers also worked with other firms on a regular basis when distributing their publications.31 Michael Knoedler, for example, continued to look after Goupils interests in New York after he had bought himself out of the firm; he also did business with Ernest Gambart.32 The art dealer George Lucas regularly reported in his journal on the work he had done for other firms. In both London and Paris a range of companies collaborated on various fronts:33 prints ordered from one firm could often be collected from another.34 Moreover, firms sometimes embarked on joint publications, with each firm being responsible for the prints distribution in its own country. All this seems to show that there was not only competition between the various entrepreneurs, there was also some degree of collaboration and perhaps even cartel forming. Such instances of cooperation between firms raise a number of questions. What authority did one dealer have when acting on behalf of colleagues? The interaction between competition and cartel forming seems an important factor in the print and art market. In historico-economic research, however, insufficient attention appears to have been paid to competition and cartel forming, as the economist E.J. Fisher has observed.35 Moreover, market relations in the nineteenth-century art sector remain largely unclear in this regard. However, an extensive international print trade does seem to have existed from as early as the 1840s, thanks to the international network of publishers.36 In 1850 The Art Journal even feared that the flood of prints from abroad would threaten the continued existences of Englands own print culture.37 Circa 1900, however, the Dutch art dealer J.M. Schalekamp declared that he was mainly targeting the foreign market with expensive reproductions, as the Dutch market was too small.38 Reproductions were distributed widely and sometimes ended up in the most exotic locations, as the son of the artist John Everett Millais observed in connection with prints after well-known works by his father:
c

Considering the vast number of cheap, and generally excellent prints of Millais works that have passed into the hands of people of all nations, it is not surprising to hear some of the most popular have found their way into places where one would least expect to come across them; Cherry Ripe, for instance, in a Tartars hut, and Cinderella (gorgeously framed) in the house of a Samoan chief. The North-West Passage I met myself in the remote wilds of South Africa. I had been shooting springbuck on the Great

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Karroo, when a tropical thunderstorm compelled me to gallop off to the nearest shelter a hut of a Hottentot shepherd, some miles away and there before me hung a gaudy German Oleograph of this picture nailed to the mud walls the only adornment of the place. Anywhere else I should have been disposed to laugh at it as a ludicrous travesty of the original; but here it seemed like the face of an old friend bidding me welcome in the wilderness.39 According to Millais junior, his father received countless letters from fans all over the works, expressing thanks and admiration for the reproductions of his work.40 In the shadow of multinationals such as Goupil and Colnaghi, with their networks for large-scale international distribution, there were numerous regional and local publishers operating on a considerably more humble scale. Some engravers still made prints on their own initiative and sold these door-todoor; many modest photographic studios faced the same challenges with their reproductions.41 In fact, little had changed in the world of small-scale publishing since the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. Alongside all these commercial enterprises, societies of artists and museums also circulated reproductions.42 Neither should the small-scale, informal distribution of reproductions by artists be forgotten: David Wilkie was certainly not the only artist who sold his own reproductions, while it appears to have been fairly common practice for artists to distribute reproductions amongst their friends and acquaintances. So reproductions were not only a source of income, they were also a tool for building up and expanding an artists own personal networks, as will be seen in the chapters on Ary Scheffer, Lawrence Alma-Tadema and Jozef Israls. Van Gogh mailed lithographs of his Potato Eaters to his brother Theo to distribute in Paris art circles; he also sent prints to the influential art dealer E.J. van Wisselingh in Amsterdam, and used small-format photographs of his work to strike up some connections in another way than through words.43 Thus artists made their own informal contribution to the distribution of reproductions.44 To summarise: during the nineteenth century the distribution of reproductions was effected via a close-knit, international network in which the efforts of individual entrepreneurs linked continents, countries, cities and villages. In Van Goghs career we can identify the extremes of nineteenth-century print distri-

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bution: on the one hand he was involved at various branches of Goupil in the mass production and international distribution of reproductions, on the other hand, later in life, he applied himself, on a more modest scale, to the task of making reproductions of his work (or having these made) and personally despatching these. While major enterprises such as Goupil and Gambart despatched reproductions from London and Paris to America, Australia and New Zealand, individual printmakers and photographers hoped to sell a few prints to casual passersby.

inTerMezzo: arT reproducTion in iLLusTraTed periodicaLs


The nineteenth century saw the emergence of many new kinds of publication that incorporated reproductions, such as almanacs, illustrated sale and exhibitions catalogues and illustrated (art) journals. These new publications made an important contribution to the production and distribution of reproductions. As with reproductions in their traditional, independent form, the life of the reproduction in these new publications can be roughly divided into the same five phases: initiative, organisation, production, distribution and reception. However, to simply include these publications in the general five-phase framework would not do justice to the changes which these brought about in the production and distribution of reproductions. The most striking development was the rise of the illustrated (art) journal, which emerged as a new medium and rich source of art reproductions simultaneously throughout Europe within a short period.45 Although the illustrated periodical was a nineteenth-century invention, the phenomenon as such had existed for quite some time. In his study De barometer van de smaak. Tijdschriften in Nederland 1770-1830, G.J. Johannes identifies two parallel developments that occurred in the periodical market in various European countries during the course of the eighteenth century: an explosive growth in the total number of periodicals, caused by a substantial increase in titles and print runs, on the one hand, and a rise in diversity on the other, with publications ranging from magazines concerned with general news and commentary, amusement, satire, academic subjects or the theatre, to highly specialised trade and professional journals.46

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The Penny Magazine (1832-1845) set the tone for the development of the illustrated periodical in the nineteenth century. An early example of these publications, its contents and function would prove exemplary. The magazine soon enjoyed success in England and abroad, both in terms of quality and quantity, thereby establishing the most common format for illustrated periodicals. In Europe The Penny Magazine was translated sometimes literally into all kinds of variations on the format. Alongside this type of general, cultural magazine there were numerous specialised periodicals with illustrations: in the field of art and culture, for example, there were illustrated art journals such as LArtiste, The Art Journal and De Kunstkronijk. For many decades these publications informed their readers about art in words and images, using countless reproductions. Thus the illustrated periodical made an important contribution to the production and distribution of art reproductions in the nineteenth century, a contribution supplemented by the many illustrations in almanacs, exhibition catalogues, auction catalogues, museum catalogues and other deluxe albums.
the Penny magazine

The Penny Magazine was founded in 1832 at the behest of the Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge (founded in 1826), in collaboration with the wellknown publisher Charles Knight (1791-1873). The publisher set out the purpose of the magazine in an explanatory preface:
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The subjects which have uniformly been treated have been of the broadest and simplest character. Striking points of Natural History Accounts of the great Works of Art in Sculpture and Painting Descriptions of such Antiquities as possess historical interest Personal Narratives of Travellers Biographies of Men who have had a permanent influence on the condition of the world Elementary Principles of Language and Numbers established facts in Statistics and Political Economy these have supplied the materials for exciting the curiosity of a million readers. This consideration furnishes the most convincing answer to the few (if any there now remain) who assert that General Education is an evil. The people will not abuse the power they have acquired to read, and therefore to think.47

The objective of The Penny Magazine, in a nutshell, was to provide useful knowledge for everyone, and thereby contribute to the civilising offensive of the peri-

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od. It was internationally oriented, encyclopaedic in character and appeared every Saturday with articles on every possible subject. The text was enlivened with a rich range of illustrations: It must not, however, be forgotten that some of the unexampled success of this little work is to be ascribed to the liberal employment of illustrations, by means of Wood-cuts, the publisher proclaimed.48 Although The Penny Magazine initially used illustrations previously published in other periodicals issued by the Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge, its success increased the publications need to generate its own images:
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But as the public encouragement enabled the conductors to make greater exertions to give permanency to the success which the Penny Magazine had attained, it became necessary to engage artists of eminence, both as draughtsmen and wood-engravers, to gratify a proper curiosity, and cultivate an increasing taste, by giving representations of the finest
fig. 28 front page from The Penny

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Magazine (17 January 1835).

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Works of Art, of Monuments of Antiquity, and of subjects of Natural History, in a style that had been previously considered to belong only to expensive books.49 The Penny Magazine used wood engravings for its reproductions and illustrations, the chief advantage of this technique being that the images could be printed together with the text and even inserted between blocks of text, removing the need for an additional print run and thereby saving time and money.50 It is partly thanks to The Penny Magazine that wood engraving enjoyed a heyday in England. In 1833, for example, there were more than a hundred wood engravers working in London alone, compared with twelve just twenty years previously.51
[fig. 28]

A wood engraving of Raphaels famous painting Madonna della Sedia in The Penny Magazine of 1833 is an interesting example of nineteenth-century reproduction practice. Although modern art lovers instantly recognise Raphaels masterpiece, closer inspection reveals that the print is not a reproduction of Raphaels original painting but of an existing engraved reproduction of the picture by the renowned engraver Rafael Morghen. As previously observed, it was regular practice for an existing reproduction to be used as the basis for a new print instead of the original work. The explanatory text that accompanies this print stresses that the wood engraving is a reproduction of Morghens engraving, not of Raphaels painting: This wood-cut is copied from one of the finest line-engravings of Raphael Morghen, and furnishes a true notion of the bold style of cross-hatching which that great artist adopted.52 So it was not Raphaels original painting but Morghens interpretation of this which furnished the original for this wood engraving, which reproduced the printmakers copper engraving after Madonna della Sedia on a large scale.53 The Penny Magazine regularly published wood engravings of artworks, particularly paintings by old Italian masters from the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, supplemented by works by Hogarth or more recent pictures such as The Death of General Wolfe by Benjamin West.54 However, work by contemporary masters rarely appeared in the magazine. Rich English collections owned by private individuals and museums formed an important source of reproductions. In 1841 The Penny Magazine promised readers works from the National Gallery, Hampton Court Palace and Dulwich College: It is our intention, from time to time, to present our readers with copies of some of the masterpieces of these collections,

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carefully drawn on the spot by competent artists and engraved with every possible excellence attainable by wood-engraving.55 The illustrations were generally accompanied by an explanatory text with information about the painter and the subject. However, these were sometimes omitted and readers were required to use their own eyes. For example, Hogarths lively work The Election Feast was simply accompanied by the remark: We cannot attempt any minute description of the print: it will bear a carefull study.56 New technology allowed The Penny Magazine to increasingly realise its objective, that of publishing useful knowledge for everyone. The use of cylinder printing presses made it possible to turn out 16,000 copies a day, as opposed to the approximately 100 copies produced by traditional, manually operated presses. A circulation of 60,000 to 70,000 copies was required to cover costs.57 However, The Penny Magazines circulation quickly rose from 160,000 to an average of 200,000 copies sold a week.58 In conformance with liberal commercial philosophy, the publisher endeavoured to reach the greatest possible public while keeping the price as low as possible.59 Naturally developing the ideas formulated by Adam Smith and David Ricardo, The Penny Magazine confidently entered into the free market competition of the book and journal sector:
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Some people have foolishly said the Penny Magazine is a monopoly. There were formerly a great many monopolies of literature in this country; that is, certain priviliges were granted by the government to particular individuals, with the intent of diminishing the circulation of books by keeping up the price. Then the government was afraid that the people would learn to think. The object of those concerned in the Penny Magazine is, contrary to the spirit of a monopoly, to circulate as many copies as they can, as cheaply as they can. This Work has no exclusive privileges, and can have no exclusive privileges. It stands upon the commercial principle alone; and if its sale did not pay its expences, with a profit to all concerned in it (except to the individual members of the Society who give it the benefit of their superintendence), it would not stand at all.60

Although the periodical was called The Penny Magazine, a contemporary allusion to the traditional penny print, it was relatively expensive and probably not within everyones budget.61 For a complete years worth of issues, comprising twelve monthly volumes, the reader paid six shillings, and seven shillings six-

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pence for the bound version. Charles Knight, publisher of the magazine, estimated that the readership was around a million a week, although this figure is probably too optimistic, given the total reading public.62 Nevertheless, the readership must rapidly have become a multiple of 200,000 (the number of copies sold). The publisher stressed that The Penny Magazine only existed thanks to its readers, for it had no other sources of income (not even from advertisements): The public, who buy the Penny Magazine to the extent of two hundred thousand, are its only pecuniary supporters.63
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No one who wishes for a copy of this Magazine, whether in England, Scotland, or Ireland, can have any difficulty in getting it, if he can find a bookseller. The communication between the capital and the country, between large towns in the country and villages, is so perfect, that wherever there is a sufficient demand of any commodity there will be a supply. But the Penny Magazine is still a Penny Magazine all over the country. No one charges three-halfpence or two-pence for it. The wholesale dealer and the retailer derive their profit from the publisher; and the carriage is covered by that profit. But that could not be if there were not cheap as well as ready communication through all parts of the United Kingdom. The steam-boat upon the seas- the canal-the railway-the quick van- these as well as the stage-coach and mail- place the Penny Magazine within every ones reach in the farest part of the kingdom, as certainly as if he lived in London, and without any additional cost.64

According to the publisher The Penny Magazine was readily available to anyone, thanks to steamships, canals and railways. Even if we somewhat qualify this remark, it still offers us an impression of how efficient and successful the distribution of printed matter was in England, as early as circa 1832. It is important to bear this in mind when considering the distribution of reproductions. The Penny Magazine was widely imitated abroad. In Ireland people reacted to the English character of the magazine by starting their own, more Irish version, the Dublin Penny Journal. By 1832 The Saturday Magazine of the Society for the Propagation of Christian Knowledge and The Irish Penny Journal were also being published, both comparable to The Penny Magazine in terms of nature and content, although with wood engravings of lesser quality.65 These Irish magazines are typical of

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the publications that copied The Penny Magazines format. Moreover the journal was published almost simultaneously in the United States, epigones appeared in France, Belgium and Germany, and there were plans as early as 1833 for similar publications in Italy, the Netherlands, Poland and Brazil.66 The magazines German counterpart was entitled the Pfennig-Magasin (1833), the Dutch version the Nederlandsche Magazijn (1834). All these publications bore a strong resemblance to the original magazine, as regards objective, nature and content: sometimes their content was adapted to suit the national context, sometimes they were, quite literally, translations of The Penny Magazine (including the title). The international success enjoyed by The Penny Magazine can be largely attributed to its use of high-quality visual material. As previously observed, the magazine made a substantial contribution to the revival of wood engraving, and English engravers led the field in Europe. This generated an extensive international trade in wood engravings (particularly in the form of stereoclichs), with England as the principal supplier. The publisher of The Penny Magazine also sold many images to colleagues, as he himself remarked as early as 1833:
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The impulse which the extension of the demand for reading has communicated to the business of wood-cutting in England has not yet been proportionately felt on the Continent. We ourselves supply metal casts to France, Germany, and Russia, not only to assist those countries in producing works similar to the Penny Magazine at a cheap rate, but because, however excellent France and Germany may be in other branches of engraving, they have not at present scarcely any woodcutters amongst them.67

Thus The Penny Magazine made a major contribution to the international trade in secondhand images, including art reproductions. Although The Penny Magazine may have set the tone, it soon became part of a broad spectrum of illustrated periodicals at home and abroad.68 In 1837, in London alone, there were some fifty weekly magazines and journals of various sorts, devoted to religion, literature, music, medicine, sport, humour and science.69 The more general periodicals in particular enjoyed great popularity, although the range on sale was in a constant state of flux, as The Penny Magazine remarked: New ones are constantly added, and perish in a few weeks.70 Other successful illustrated periodicals include a later publication much admired by Vincent van Gogh, The Illustrated London News (1842), and The Graphic.71 During

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the second half of the nineteenth century the number of illustrated periodicals increased rapidly: by the turn of the century 2,328 periodicals were being published in England and Wales.72 In other countries, too, foreign versions of The Penny Magazine soon became part of a broader range of periodicals. In France, for example, there were popular publications such as Le Charivari (1832), Magasin Pittoresque (1833) and LIllustration (1843).73 In the Netherlands the range of magazines and journals on offer may have been more limited, but even in this much smaller language region a lively periodical culture arose, for which the requisite images were mostly imported from abroad.74 In 1845 The Penny Magazine published its final issue. Prior to this a total of 106 issues of the magazine had appeared, and millions of copies must have been sold.75 The production and distribution of professional journals became increasingly professionalised. The images alone demanded an efficient organisation. The popular periodical The Illustrated London News, for example, relied on complex interaction between its staff and various kinds of draughtsmen: special artists acted as correspondents, reporting on major events at home and abroad;76 the sketches they made on location were then worked up into final drawings by copyist draughtsmen; a third and separate group comprised artists who specialised in images largely unconnected with the hectic pace of news, such as art reproductions. Although these artists sometimes drew their images directly onto wooden blocks, it became possible, circa 1860, to transfer the image to the wood block using photography; this image was then engraved into the wood to create the printing matrix.77 A sketch was often engraved over the entire block, which was then divided into smaller blocks, for further engraving by several artists simultaneously, thereby gaining valuable time. The separate blocks were then reassembled under the watchful eye of an artistical manager who communicated any corrections required to the graveur retoucheur. Once the printing matrix was finished, it was copied and multiplied through the galvano process, creating a number of identical matrices that could be printed from simultaneously, generating enormous print runs. In the wake of The Penny Magazine the illustrated periodical evolved into an important cultural phenomenon during the nineteenth century. New technology had made it possible to supply a huge international public with a range of illustrated periodicals on widely divergent subjects. Whether the subject was a battle in Central Africa, the discovery of a hitherto unknown species of bird, the development of a new steam locomotive or a visit by a friendly head of state,

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a written report would no longer suffice: readers wanted pictures, as many as possible. Illustrated periodicals thus played an essential role in nineteenth-century visual culture, a development which The Art Journal pithily described as: mens eyes are drawn from the contemplation of types to pictures.78 In 1875 De Kunstkronijk, itself an illustrated periodical, drew attention to the success enjoyed by illustrated publications:
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No civilising device works more rapidly and effectively, and as the illustrated periodical nowadays is conceived in France, England and Germany, it is a source of civilisation for all classes of society.79

illustrated art journals: LArtiste, the Art JournAL and De KunstKroniJK

In 1832, the year in which The Penny Magazine was founded, the editors of the French art journal LArtiste were reflecting on the first year of their publications existence:
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Le moment tait mauvais pour notre journal, cest justement pour cela que nous lavons choisi. Nous avons voulu prouver nos risques et prils que nous ne dsesprions pas de lart en France! Lart cependant dsesprait de lui-mme; quand notre part, tout ce qui soutenait le monde artiste tait perdu. Plus de cour, plus dglise, plus de toute puissance de prfecture, plus de dauphin, plus de bals au Pavillon Marsan, plus de clerg, plus de noblesse, plus aucune de ces riches et lgantes varits qui ont besoin pour sembellir de soccuper des travaux de lartiste.80

In those revolutionary times LArtiste regarded its task as that of stimulating a wide range of (French) art: the visual arts, literature, theatre and music:81 the publications objective was to inform a broad public about art: Chaque numro sera fait de manire pouvoir intresser les savans, les artistes, les hommes du monde et les femmes.82 The editors were thus following an independent but essentially liberally tinted vision of art, popular amongst artists and intellectuals in the wake of the July Revolution.83 LArtiste set the tone for journals dedicated to (visual) art. In 1839, following the example of this French publication, the publisher Samuel Carter Hall founded an English art journal called The Art Union. Renamed The Art Journal in 1849, this publication rapidly became one of the most authoritative art journals in

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the nineteenth century. In 1840 an illustrated art journal, De Kunstkronijk, had also been launched in the Netherlands by the Maatschappij ter bevordering van de Beeldende Kunsten (Society for the Promotion of the Visual Arts).84 The objective of these publications largely corresponded with the vision already formulated by LArtiste: that of informing a broad public about artists and their work, major museums and exhibitions, and other news in the field of the (visual) arts, or, as The Art Journal put it: to advance the interests of the Artist, the Manufacturer, and the Artisan, and to function as a medium of communication between Artproducers and the public.85 These journals mainly addressed their respective countrys national art, without, however, losing sight of important events abroad, such as exhibitions. The visual material was a vital element in art journals. Both LArtiste and De Kunstkronijk used wood engravings for vignettes and lithographs for the reproduction of art works.86 [fig. 29, 30] The editorial staff carefully supervised the production of this material. The editors of LArtiste stressed that: les lithographies et gravures seront desines et graves par les meilleurs artistes de la France et de ltranger.87 In the Dutch journal De Kunstkronijk many of the wood engravings were supplied by pupils of the wood engraving academy (founded in 1840), whose director was the English wood engraver Henry Brown (1816-1870). However, the Dutch engraving academy struggled to survive from its inception.88 Despite the efforts of several talented wood engravers, such as Van Arum, J.F. Stam and J. Weissenbruch, the production of wood engravings in the Netherlands remained limited and many prints in Dutch publications came from for-

fig. 29 e. Tudot, Lithographie en maniere noire from LArtiste (1831), lithograph 14.6 x 19.3 cm.

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fig. 30 Jan Mesker after Jacob Maris, Italian Girl, from De Kunstkronijk (1868).

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eign studios.89 In addition to woodcuts De Kunstkronijk also published lithographs by productive lithographers such as C.A. Last (1808-1876), A.C. Nunnink (1813-1894) and J.J. Mesker (1843-1890).90 The Art Journal mainly chose steel engravings for the reproduction of art works, a choice that should be viewed in the context of the hierarchy of techniques, outlined in the previous chapter, as it was precisely the decline of the traditional technique of line engraving that made the journals editors determined to use this fine but fragile medium:
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The plates of this journal might be produced with greater ease and at less expense by the process of mezzotinto but would they have the same effect? Would they be equally true to the picture? Assuredly not.91

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Like a true patron of the arts The Art Journal endeavoured to do its bit to preserve the English engraving tradition by commissioning 24 engravings a year, thereby keeping some 24 engravers employed for the best part of twelve months. Over many years the publication worked with a regular team of artists, which included Edward Goodall (1795-1870), Charles W. Sharpe (1818-1899) and Peter Lightfoot (1805-1885).92 In 1868, however, the journal disappointedly observed: except in our own Journal the line-engravers of England are nowhere.93 Although there was an extensive trade in visual matter, many art reproductions were specially commissioned by the art journals.94 The Art Journal gave commissions to engravers, while LArtiste and De Kunstkronijk deployed lithographers to produce their reproductions. The first task was to select original works for reproduction. There was plenty of material to choose from. A wide range of exhibitions offered a wealth of paintings by various masters. LArtiste regularly drew its reproductions from works on display at the periodical Salon exhibitions, thereby granting its readers a visual impression of selected pieces, to supplement the countless written reviews. The art journals were also in close contact with private collectors and museums. During the first sixteen years of its existence, for example, The Art Journal chose its reproductions from the collection assembled by Robert Vernon, who made his works available for reproduction and checked the engravings in person.95 In 1854 the British Royal Family even made its private collection available for publication in the journal.96 Among the works subsequently reproduced by The Art Journal were many pieces from the William Turner collection in the National Gallery.97 The editors of De Kunstkronijk sent their lithographers to the Mauritshuis in search of works for reproduction.98 Unlike the reproductions published in The Penny Magazine the old masters were entirely overshadowed in LArtiste, The Art Journal and De Kunstkronijk by contemporary masters. In their quest for art to reproduce, the editors of these publications were often in contact with individual artists. During its second year of publication De Kunstkronijk proudly reported:
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None of our readers will but learn with pleasure, that most painters have promised us, to make drawings for the ornamentation of the Kunstkronijk, and with the text one thus imperceptibly acquires an album of drawings after the most able masters []99

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Over the years LArtiste, The Art Journal and De Kunstkronijk published many lithographs and engravings after modern art in their respective countries. The French journal published lithographs after contemporary romantic genre painters from the juste milieu, such as Horace Vernet (1789-1863), Leopold Robert (17941835) and Thodore Gudin (1802-1880); De Kunstkronijk mainly opted for romantic and realistic genre and landscape painters, such as David Bles, Johannes Bosboom and Andreas Schelfhout, whom the publication later supplemented with work by Alexander Bakker Korff (1824-1882), Jozef Israls (1824-1911) and Hendrik Valkenburg (1826-1896); the English Art Journal mainly presented works after William Turner, James Ward (1769-1859) and Clarkson Stanfield (17931867).100 If we survey the masters whose work these publications reproduced, it is immediately evident that they mainly focused on work by established, popular painters, with a proven reputation at exhibitions; they rarely make a daring or unusual choice of image. So painters whose work had been refused at an exhibition were not reproduced, for the illustrated art journals were not Salons des Refuss on paper. Published reproductions were generally accompanied by a concise description of the artist, the subject and the provenance of the original artwork, plus an opinion, albeit a summary one, on the quality of the reproduction.101 Art reproduction was not without its problems. In 1831 LArtiste received verbal permission from the painter Lopold Robert to reproduce his picture Les moissonneurs. However, when the engraver Paul Mercuri set to work on the reproduction in the Louvre, Robert immediately protested. In a letter to the journals editors he wrote: Je nai pas besoin de vous parles, monsieur, des droits que les peintres ont et des arrangements qui doivent tre pris avec eux pour graver leurs ouvrages: vous les connaissez.102 Although the painter had given permission for a reproduction, he had assumed that this would be a lithograph, not an engraving, and asserted that permission for a lithograph did not automatically imply consent for an engraving as well.103 In addition to legal complications, more technical problems also cropped up. In 1859, for example, the experienced lithographer F.H. Weissenbruch and the well-known printer J.D. Steuerwald apologised to the readers of De Kunstkronijk for the failure of their lithograph:

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The undersigned hereby declare that the lithograph after the painting by H.A. van Trigt, representing: Moses abandoned, and intended as the presentation plate for the nineteenth volume of the Kunstkronijk , through circumstances independent of their will and despite the efforts of publisher and editor of the aforesaid monthly, after it had been completed on the stone, during printing became unfit for the specified purpose.

De Kunstkronijk regretted the affair but was fortunately soon able to promise its disappointed readers an alternative print.104 Sometimes artists threw their own spanner in the works with artistic objections. When the American painter James McNeill Whistler gave permission to the Gazette des Beaux-Arts (a rival to LArtiste, founded in 1859) to reproduce one of his works, the resulting print was so poor that he immediately decided to make his own reproduction. However, this was no easy task, as Whistler himself wrote to David Croal Thompson:
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They had asked me to let them reproduce the Count, and he also had been asked I had agreed The end of it was such an infamous etching by a man of distinction here that I went down in a fury and made them put aside on the promise that I would myself do them an etching or lithograph- This I did my very impossible to execute But I was so bored to death with it that I had to give it up after keeping them waiting One cannot produce the same masterpiece twice over!! I had no inspiration and not working at a new thing from nature, I found it impossible to copy myself! I wish Mr Hole joy when he begins (by the way you know he came here and was charming and has engaged to do the etching) In despair therefore I sent the Gazette word that I would give them a clich from London.105

In addition to problems with the French Gazette des Beaux-Arts, the eccentric Whistler also faced difficulties when the English publication The Art Journal decided to publish one of his lithographs but refused to use the painters favourite printer Thomas Way, much to Whistlers annoyance:
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You really are grieving me greatly about this unhappy business of the lithograph for the Art Journal. I have done every possible thing to please you and we are no nearer to the result. You of course must know yourself

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that I would not possibly allow my work to be treated by any one else but Mr Way These things are of great delicacy and I could not dream of running risks in other hands.106 Although Whistler was an exceptional artist in many respects, he was certainly not the only artist who kept a critical eye on the illustrated art journals. Colleagues who were similarly wary included the painter Leopold Robert, cited above, Matthijs Maris and Lawrence Alma-Tadema, who will be discussed in detail below.107 Adorned with countless reproductions, journals such as LArtiste, The Art Journal and De Kunstkronijk enjoyed wide distribution, although it is often hard to establish the actual extent of this, as circulation figures have rarely survived. In 1880 some 600,000 copies seem to have been sold of the colour reproduction of John Everett Millais painting Cherry Ripe in The Graphic; technical drawbacks during production prevented the print run from extending to one million copies.108 The Penny Magazine achieved circulations of more than 100,000, The Illustrated London New reached 70,000 copies a week in 1870 and Punch 40,000.109 The more specialised art journals probably did not achieve such figures. In the case of both LArtiste and De Kunstkronijk, we should think in terms of several thousand copies.110 The English publication The Art Journal probably enjoyed wider distribution and had 15,000 subscribers in 1860.111 The actual number of readers is more interesting than the circulation figures, however, for we can be sure that readership would have been several times the number of copies actually printed and distributed. Illustrated periodicals published at home and abroad formed part of the permanent collections in libraries and reading rooms runs by various associations.112 When Vincent van Gogh wished to arrange a review of illustrations and reproductions from illustrated journals at the Pulchri society of artists in Amsterdam, the societys board rejected this plan, for they had no interest in those things that sometimes lie in in the Zuidhollands Koffiehuis, Van Gogh informed his brother: this type of publication was essentially deemed too ordinary to be the subject of an elitist art review.113 Van Gogh was deeply disappointed, but the affair reveals the wide distribution enjoyed by this kind of periodical. It was probably relatively easy for art lovers to obtain such publications for their own private libraries. The publisher of The Penny Magazine even declared that finding the magazine was as easy as finding the nearest bookshop,

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while the editorial staff of De Kunstkronijk promised art lovers that they could subscribe to the publication at all reputable Book and Art dealers; the journal was also distributed through agents.114 The Art Journal even enjoyed wide international distribution: in 1860 it had subscribers in the Netherlands, France, Spain, Portugal, the United States, Canada, Venezuela, Bermuda, China, Australia and New Zealand, as well as in Britain.115 The publications success was so great that some people tried to abuse this: a message printed in The Art Journal warned against swindlers who were falsely acting as the journals representatives.116 Some illustrated art journals proved successful for decades, making effective use of new technologies and keeping up with cultural trends in the art world.117 As early as 1848 The Art Union (predecessor to The Art Journal) published a Talbotype, one of the first photographs to be incorporated in an illustrated periodical. Several copies of this issue (with corresponding volume, issue and page number) feature different photographs, however, probably as a result of the practicalities of printing such an image.118 LArtiste was also quick off the mark in the 1850s, taking advantage of the new opportunities offered by photography in the production of visual material through increasing use of photographs, instead of original works, as the basis for its reproductions.119 However, there were limitations to the latest medium for reproduction, as delineated in the preceding chapter. Photographic images may have been very sharp, but for many years they were not suited to large-scale multiplication or easy to accommodate in a periodicals printing process. Lithographs and engravings remained superior in these respects.120 During the 1870s, however, etched reproductions began to supplement more traditional forms of illustration. Fine examples of such etchings are provided by the prints in De Kunstkronijk by William Unger after old masters in museums in Kassel and the Stedelijk Museum in Haarlem (now the the Frans Hals Museum).121 It was thanks to the efforts of De Kunstkronijks editor Carel Vosmaer that the journal was embellished with the work of this master etcher who enjoyed international standing; the inclusion of these etchings in De Kunstkronijk was even a first in Europe, subsequently followed by various etchings after work by contemporary artists such as Jozef Israls, Willem Roelofs and August Alleb, plus several original etchings by these artists. By publishing original etchings and etched reproductions the Dutch art journal was taking advantage of the enormous popularity enjoyed by the etching technique during this period. Attention should also be drawn in this connection to the chic French journal LArt, which published many etched reproductions following its founding in

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1875. However, The Art Journal continued to use mainly steel engravings, a choice that was not reconsidered until 1881, from which point the publication also began to feature etchings, both original works and etched reproductions. A major benefit of this technique, of course, was that etchings could be made much more quickly than traditional engravings, a definite advantage when pictures have to be borrowed, and leave blank spaces on the owners wall for the purpose of reproduction.122 Not long after this, photographic reproductions also began to appear on a wider scale in illustrated art journals. Thanks to the development of the photogravure technique, and especially the collotype, journals were able to publish photographs of artworks with increasing frequency during the 1880s and 1890s.123 LArtiste, The Art Journal and De Kunstkronijk formed part of an extremely wide range of art journals. In the field of the visual arts there were various alternatives, such as the Gazette des Beaux-Arts and the English publications The Atheneum and The Magazine of Art, all journals with an international outlook and an eye for the most important developments in the (visual) arts, which should also be considered in an international context.124 As previously observed, there had been an extensive trade in visual material since the 1830s, while editors regularly reproduced articles from other journals, sometimes adapting these for their own readership. This international interaction between journals was reinforced by their discussion of each others material: the English journals, for example, regularly reviewed the latest issues published by their French counterparts, and vice-versa; De Kunstkronijk also kept Dutch readers informed of the most important news from international journals,125 while regular reference was also made to reproductions in foreign publications.126 These international relations are illustrated by Whistlers simultaneous involvement in reproductions after his work in The Art Journal and the Gazette des Beaux Arts. Illustrated (art) journals thus formed part of an international network that was closely associated with the print trade and publishing industry, and made a major contribution to the distribution of art reproductions. The publications cited should be considered the most successful of these, as they survived for years, and sometimes decades, unlike many other journals which vanished from the scene after only a few issues. In a letter of 8 April 1894, the painter John Everett Millais remarked to George du Maurier, a well-known printmaker for various publications: [] it seems that there are already too many illustrated publications. Every novelty has a success; but it is the staying power which is wanted in everything.127

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To summarise: the illustrated art journal provided an important stimulus to the production and distribution of reproductions.128 Reproductions in these publications underwent the same lifecycle as loose prints and photographs. The initiative to make a reproduction often came from a journals editorial staff. Agreement then had to be reached with other parties concerning authorship rights, the availability of the original, the choice of reproduction technique, and so on. As with independent reproductions, artists were frequently involved in the production of images for journals. Once a reproduction had been completed, it enjoyed wide circulation, in relatively high print runs, to an international public. The illustrated (art) journal gave a new dimension to nineteenthcentury art reproduction in general. Nevertheless the two forms of publication traditional independent reproductions on the one hand, reproductions in illustrated periodicals on the other existed in the same context and were often closely associated with each other. The English publication The Art Journal championed the endangered technique of engraving by commissioning engravers, while De Kunstkronijk opted to publish various etched reproductions during a period in which etching had become extremely popular. Although the illustrated periodical was a nineteenth-century invention, it often proved more than equal to the changes which occurred in the art world over time: publishers, editors, engraver and photographers came and went; the (technical) facilities for production and distribution changed rapidly and radically, whilst the subject of these the world of visual art experienced a boom in various respects. Many publications could not cope with all these changes and foundered after a time. However, other periodicals managed to adapt to the new challenges and opportunities in the constantly changing context of the visual arts.129

The recepTion of a reproducTion


For anyone interested in art reproductions, there was choice enough in Kalverstraat, a popular street in Amsterdam. A wide range of shops selling prints had been based here for many years, including the well-known firm of Buffa. Their window displays attracted a great deal of interest, described by De Gids in 1870:
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[] just look upon that incessantly replenishing crowd, which besets the shop-windows of printsellers in Kalverstraat the whole day long, gentle-

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men, commoners, tradesmen pausing for a moment on the way home, butchers men and bakers men, shop boys and urchins []130 The crammed windows of printshops such as Graves, Buffa and Goupil were a familiar element in the nineteenth-century street scene.131 [plate 7, fig. 31, 32] Behind the glass they displayed the latest engravings, lithographs and etchings, often pegged on a washing line. These shop windows, sometimes appropriately described as poor mens art galleries, were objects of interest for many people.132 In 1889 the chronicler Johan Gram described the window of Goupils premises in The Hague:
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Every week The Hague is treated to a new display of plates, etchings, engravings and phototypes, that fit the time and events of the year. The middle window is reserved for an oil painting. Everyone that passes by, be they an important magistrate or a mason with his lime, a fashionable lady or a blushing maid-servant with her basket, stops here to look at all the news, and it is very amusing to slip between them and to listen to the sober or witty comments.133

Having considered the distribution of reproductions, we have now arrived at the fifth and final phase in the life of a reproduction, its reception. Where were prints and photographs of artworks to be found? Who was interested in them, and how were they viewed?
exhibiting reProduCtions

In 1836 the engraver John Burnet had already stressed the importance of exhibitions to the printed arts, for they offered the public an excellent opportunity to become acquainted with all kinds of graphic work.134 The rich exhibition culture of the nineteenth century is a fascinating element in this periods visual culture as a whole, and is increasingly forming the subject of recent research in the field of art history and cultural history.135 The results of this reseach emphasise how rich and diverse the array of exhibitions must have been, ranging from local shows to events with an international profile. In addition to paintings and drawings, art lovers had ample opportunity to view a wealth of prints and photographs; in other words originals and reproductions. One of the places the public could see reproductions was at large general ex-

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fig. 31 a. Lutz after a. Toselli, Vues choisies dAmsterdam et ses environs (chez Fr. Buffa & Fils) (1829), engraving (Kalverstraat 39 / corner Gapersteeg amsterdam), rijks prentenkabinet, amster dam.

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hibitions. The various worlds fairs and international exhibitions organised during the second half of the nineteenth century regularly allowed space for prints and photographs of artworks, starting with the first of these events, the Great Exhibition of 1851, held in the Crystal Palace in London.136 No original artworks were displayed at the Great Exhibition, however. During the course of the 1860s the number of photographic reproductions increased considerably.137 In 1889 visitors to the Exposition Universelle in Paris, held in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, could even find a display which offered an overview of nineteenth-century print-based art.138 Prints were also regularly displayed at large exhibitions of art. The famous Paris Salons presented a wide range of reproductions, mainly after works of contemporary art, with engravings by members of the Henriquel-Dupont school, lithographs by Celestin Nanteuil and Adolphe Mouilleron, etchings by Charles Albert Waltner and Paul Rajon, and many photo-

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graphs by diverse photographers.139 One of the highlights of the 1853 Salon was Louis Henriquel-Duponts reproduction after LHemicycle by Paul Dlaroche, described by The Art Journal as a splendid monument of Art.140 From 1859 there was a separate section for photography at the Salons.141 However, reproductions enjoyed a less prominent position than paintings at the Salon for they were displayed in the corridors, so printmakers suffered even more than painters from poor presentation of their work at these events. Philippe Burty wrote of the appalling arrangements at the 1861 Salon:
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De tous les artistes lss dans leurs droits et dans dignit par lappropriation provisoire et mal tudie du palais de lIndustrie, il nen est pas qui aient eu plus justement se plaindre que les graveurs et les lithographes. Les burins, les eaux-fortes, les bois sont disposs banalement le long de corridors de dgagement; les cadres sont accrochrs perpendiculairement; la lumire, en les frappant directement, miroite sur la glace qui protge les preuves, ou, en pntrant abondamment chaque taille, dtruit, dvore toute lharmonie de la demi-teinte.142

Like paintings, reproductions were regularly rejected by obstreperous juries. For example Felix Bracquemonds etching after Hans Holbeins portrait of Erasmus was not admitted to the official Salon, but instead displayed at the infamous Salon des Refuss in 1863.143 Unlike painters, printmakers were less defig. 32 petrus Johannes arendzen, shopwindow of Scheltema & Holkema (1882), etching 10.5 x 14 cm, private collection.

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pendent for the sale of their work on the Salon jurys capricious, unpredictable attitude: prints traditionally enjoyed a close association with the print and publishing trade, which allowed printmakers access to major alternative circuits for the distribution of their work. It is significant that the explosive increase in print production is not reflected at the Salon, where the number of reproductions decreased during the nineteenth century.144 In the Netherlands reproductions could also be viewed at various exhibitions of living masters, as was the practice at French Salons. Alongside these substantial general exhibitions, the public could also see reproductions at special exhibitions of graphic work. During the 1870s Black-andWhite exhibitions were organised in England, featuring works such as prints and drawings in black-and-white media. No distinction was made between original prints, reproduction prints and applied graphics in the form of book or journal illustrations. The first Black-and-White exhibition, held at the Dudley Gallery in London in 1872, displayed more than five hundred prints, ranging from original graphic works by James McNeill Whistler, Jules Jacquemart and Felix Braquemond to etched reproductions by Paul Rajon and drawings commissioned by illustrated journals such as The Illustrated London News, Punch and The Graphic.145 From 1876 the well-known French firm of art dealers Durand-Ruel organised similar exhibitions along English lines.146 In 1887 the gallery run by Georges Petit even presented a survey of nineteenth-century printed art, with engravings by Louis Henriquel-Dupont after Paul Dlaroche, lithographs by Lon Nol and original etchings by Felix Bracquemond and Jean-Franois Millet.147 On occasion reproductions were refused admission to such events, as was the case with the peintres-graveurs exhibition of graphic work held in 1889 at the Durand-Ruel gallery.148 The public could also visit exhibitions devoted to a specific graphic technique, which featured diverse prints that had all been produced using the same method.149 Various societies of etchers, for example, organised exhibitions of original etchings and etched reproductions, while the Socit de Gravure Francaise arranged special presentations of the (endangered) art of engraving.150 The centenary of Alois Senefelders lithographic technique was celebrated at the end of the nineteenth century with a large-scale exhibition of lithographs in Paris; this presented an enormous selection of works, ranging from the earliest lithographs produced by Senefelder himself to the latest examples of this technique, and featured both original pictures and reproductions, in colour and black-and-

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white, from all over Europe.151 These exhibitions of works produced in a specific technique also included exhibitions devoted to photography. Exhibitions largely dominated by this new medium were organised from the 1840s onwards, particularly in France; and generally featured art reproductions, amidst the many daguerreotypes and other photographic images.152 The various photographic associations established during the 1840s provided an especially important stimulus for such exhibitions.153 On occasion exhibitions focused on the work of a single master. As early as 1800 artists such as Thomas Gainsborough, John Singleton Copley and Benjamin West were organising one-man shows.154 Among the artists to copy this idea was David Wilkie who held a show of 29 well-known works in 1812.155 There was a particularly rich tradition of such individual exhibitions in England, where these were held in well-known galleries such as the Egyptian Hall, the Grosvenor Gallery and the French Gallery; some of these were organised in collaboration with art dealers. When Courbet arranged a similar show, the critic Champfleury described this as an exhibition in the English manner.156 Private initiatives of this kind were often financed by the proceeds from admission charges and the sale of paintings and reproductions on display.157 A survey of Dlaroches work held in London in 1857 exhibited both original paintings and reproductions.158 Other examples of one-man shows held by printmakers are an 1880 exhibition of prints by Thomas Landseer after paintings by his famous brother Edwin Landseer and an 1878 exhibition of the complete works of the renowned mezzotint engraver Samuel Cousins.159 A curious type of show was the single-picture exhibition. As early as 1806 Benjamin West presented his painting The Death of Nelson in his own studio, prompting Thodore Gricault to make his painting The Raft of the Medusa available for exhibition at the Egyptian Hall in London, together with a lithographic reproduction of the work.160 Over a six-month period the painting attracted 30,000 visitors.161 Once curious art lovers had purchased a ticket and admired an original work at a single-picture exhibition, they were generally able to buy a range of reproductions to take home. In 1862 as many as 60,000 people visited the exhibition of William Powell Friths painting The Railway Station, where they could subscribe to the forthcoming engraving.162 A frequent motive for organising such commercial exhibitions, discussed above, was to obtain publicity for a new reproduction. The public came to view paintings in crowds, and paintings

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were sometimes brought to crowds of people: from the 1860s in particular, exhibition tours were organised on a wide scale, taking paintings to towns and villages at home and abroad, accompanied by their reproductions.163 World tours of popular works such as The Light of the World still stir the imagination today. They appear to have been a fairly common aspect of nineteenth-century visual culture.164 Such exhibitions brought visitors into contact with an orginal work and its adaptation, as The Art Journal explained in 1858:
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This practice of introducing an engraving by exhibiting the picture of which it is the popular translation is becoming general, as well in our provincial cities and towns as in the metropolis; and we readily understand upon what principles such a practice should secure the public favour. People like to see the pictures which live again in engravings; they like to compare the engraving with the original, and thus the engraving attains to a peculiar interest through the power of association. Besides, in London, it is always a boon to be able to study a good picture without the glare, and crowding, and excitement of a regular exhibition; and in the provinces good pictures, which have achieved a metropolitan reputation, are sure to command the welcome that is ever afforded to strangers of distinction.165

The journals remarks were prompted by an exhibition organised by the firm of Colnaghi, which displayed a painting by Franz Xavier Winterhalter (1805?-1873), a group portrait with the French Empress, in combination with lithographic reproductions by Lon Nol in colour and black-and-white.166 At some exhibitions, various states of a print were also hung alongside the original work, while instances of an original work and its reproduction being displayed side by side are also known from France.167 Finally, in 1883, a unique international exhibition of reproductions was organised in Vienna by the Society for the Reproduction of Works of Art. This exhibition displayed works which ranged from prints in traditional techniques to products of the very latest photographic processes. After a visit to the exhibition, The Art Journal stressed the supremacy of the French in the field of art reproduction, which it attributed to leading etchers such as Leopold Flameng and Charles Albert Waltner, and the engravers A.T.M. Blanchard, G.N. Bertinot and Louis Pierre Henriquel-Dupont: There are individuals, of course, such as Jacoby,

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who rival them; but, as a school, France in these arts has no compeer.168 Only the English wood engraver Hubert Herkomer received a medal at the event. Alongside awards for individual printmakers there were also prizes for firms and organisations: the publishers Cassle & Co and The Fine Art Society, the art dealers and publishers Goupil & Co and L.H. Lfvre (successor to Ernest Gambart), and the illustrated journal The Graphic all received awards as if they were the authors of the reproductions. This recognition underlined the fact that a firm or organisations authorship was more than simply a theoretical construction. Given the range and quality of the works displayed at the Vienna exhibition, this event was probably the finest exhibition of reproductions to be held in the nineteenth century, although it was certainly not the only exhibition of prints and photographs after artworks. Two points should be borne in mind here. Firstly, this vibrant exhibition culture of prints largely existed outside the confines of museums. Public collections may have become increasingly accessible to the general public during the nineteenth century, but inside their doors visitors mainly saw paintings. Although many museums owned rich collections of prints in their print rooms, exhibitions of graphic works were a rarity. Reproductions in printrooms tended to be treated in the same way as they were in art academies and libraries, as works of reference. Such institutions were a place for the serious study of prints, rather than a venue where the general public could view reproductions as a cultural activity. Secondly, reproductions could also be seen outside the framework of exhibtions. As previously observed, reproductions were traditionally associated with the world of publishing and bookselling, a world that often merged seamlessly with the structures of the art trade. Many booksellers often kept prints, either loose or bound, in their stock and in their windows. Art dealers were often publishers; publishers were often art dealers. However, this does not mean that these networks corresponded completely. Reproductions could also be seen at other traditional locations for print and booksellers: along the river Seine by the Pont Neuf in Paris, in front of St Pauls Cathedral in London, down Kalverstraat in Amsterdam, or at the bookstall run by Blok on the Grote Markt in The Hague, where printed matter, including prints after artworks, appears to have been sold at rockbottom prices. Vincent van Gogh wrote enthusiastically to his brother Theo:

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And whats more Ive acquired another ornament for my studio, Ive had an amazing bargain in splendid woodcuts from the Graphic, partial prints not from the cliches but from the blocks themselves. Precisely the things Ive been longing for for years. The drawings by Herkomer, Frank Holl, Walker and others. I bought them from Blok the book Jew and took the pick of what was best from an enormous pile of Graphics and London News for five guilders.169

Of course these permanent venues for book and printsellers were also supplemented by various temporary markets with a wealth of books and prints, plus itinerant salesmen with prints displayed on their umbrella.170 Thanks to exhibitions, publishers, art dealers galleries and booksellers shops and stalls, it was easy for many people to see reproductions. These structures mainly functioned within urban culture. At an international level the tone was set by metropolises such as London and Paris, followed at a respectable distance by The Hague and Amsterdam. Exhibitions were also organised in the provinces, albeit on a more modest scale. In the second quarter of the nineteenth century alone, exhibitions were held in the Dutch provincial towns of s-Hertogenbosch, Groningen and Zwolle.171 In her study Industrial Madness E.A. McCauley has drawn attention to the organisation of regional and local photographic exhibitions, mainly in England.172 Such events must have meant that reproductions were also regularly seen in the provinces, especially certain works, as Emile Zola noted with regard to Jean-Leon Grme: Il ny a pas de salon de province o ne soit pendue une gravure reprsentant le Duel au sortir dun bal masqu ou Louis xiv et Molire[...]173 When art lovers were unable to visit an exhibition in person, they still had recourse to photographs of the event, for photography was used as early as the 1850s to record and promote exhibitions.174 Extensive photographic records were made of large arrays of work at major exhibitions and their highlights. From the early 1850s onward many photographs of international exhibitions and Salons began to appear.175 The situation must have been very different in the countryside where it was undoubtedly much harder to see reproductions. We can only guess what a simple farmer might have seen in the way of prints and photographs as he returned home from his fields. Prints were not entirely absent from the rural scene, however, as itinerant salesmen extended the book trades network well beyond urban areas. Given the book trades close association with the print world it seems

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likely that such systems would also have distributed reproductions outside towns and cities. Improved infrastructures and new means of transport made it progressively simpler to traverse the distance between town and country. So it would have been increasingly easier for the rural population to come into contact with the visual culture of towns and villages. In 1850 the art critic tienneJean Delecluze declared that for 25 years it had been impossible to remain completely ignorant of art: everyone was now informed of everything, thanks to lectures, books, museums and, not in the least place, prints.176 Reproductions could not only be seen, they could generally be bought as well. Who bought prints in the nineteenth century, who collected them and why? In offering an impression of this nineteenth-century public, I shall distinguish between private collectors ranging from connoisseurs to simple amateurs and institutional collectors, such as libraries, academies and museums.
ColleCting reProduCtions

In his introduction to The Print-Collectors Handbook (1903), the author Alfred Whitman wrote:
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we shall suppose the reader to desire to become a printcollector; but, being a beginner, and his knowledge of the subject being limited to the printsellers window, he will be in need of advice as to how he shall proceed177

You could see prints everywhere but what should you buy? Whitman wrote his handbook for the inexperienced collector who wished to acquire prints. He maintained that it was essential for a print collector to have an elementary knowledge of reproduction techniques, in order to be able to distinguish between the various methods and know the most important engravers. But that was not enough, Whitman contended, for he believed that aspiring collectors should have a specific aim in mind, instead of simply buying prints at random: Shall he take a school or a period; a class of prints, such as portraits; a method of engraving, as stipple [...] shall he take a painter and collect engravings after his pictures?178 Armed with their knowledge, a clear view of what they wished to achieve with their collection and of course a magnifying glass, amateurs could then set out in search of a suitable print. Before buying a work, Whitman advised them to consider the quality of the plate, the impression, the paper, the margin and the state.179
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The Print-Collectors Handbook offers an impression of the considerations that could play a role when collecting prints. Whitman believed that collecting prints was more than simply the purchase of such works, it was a systematic, rational activity based on a thorough knowledge of technique and art history. He was not the only author to hold such a view. In fact, his Print-Collectors Handbook is only one of a wide range of collectors handbooks, published on a large scale during the nineteenth century. According to the print expert W.G. Rawlinson collecting prints was a popular activity in the nineteenth century, particularly for people in the city, where it was much more difficult to enjoy sport or nature.180 Who were the collectors? Before considering this question, it is useful to describe what is meant by the term collecting. In her study On Collecting (1995) Susan Pearce discusses the complexity of collecting as an activity, and the collections which results from this activity; she maintains that planning in advance is not necessary, as even casually assembled works can grow into a collection, for there is always some kind of reasoning behind the selection:
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We take collecting to be the selective, active, and longitudinal acquisition, possession and disposition of an interrelated set of differentiated objects (material things, ideas, beings, or experiences) that contribute to and derive extraordinary meaning from the entity (the collection) that this set is perceived to constitute.181

The selection gives structure to the collection of objects, freely described as an interrelated set of diffentiated objects. Pearces definition can also be applied to the divergent approaches to collecting prints employed in the nineteenth century, as it encompasses both the individuals who collected as a collector and those who bought prints purely for decorative purposes.182 Amateurs of prints should be sought first and foremost in the social middle class, which had grown substantially since the eighteenth century and was increasingly interested in (visual) art, including the collection of this. In her article on collecting prints in the eighteenth century A.M. Link wrote: Collecting is now to include the middle ranks of society, that is the Buergertum, a group also often referred to in the eighteenth century as the reading public.183 Roughly speaking this term covers everyone from the man-on-the-street to aris-

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tocrats, and includes civil servants, tradesmen, commercial representatives and related professional groups. Peter Gay also points to an important social denominator: The burgeoning new middle class desperately insisted on its identity: it was not part of the proletariat.184 The middle class felt superior to the proletariat, yet was aware of its exclusion from the elite. Yet is was precisely this social middle class which enjoyed increasing financial opportunities in the nineteenth century to afford cultural activities, thanks to its increasing prosperity. New theatres, concert halls, exhibitions and museums offered every stimulus to go out, while the plethora of societies in the field of literature, music and visual art provided a wide range of cultural entertainment. In domestic circles, too, almanacs, illustrated periodicals, works of prose and poetry, and possibly a piano, were instruments of relaxation and cultural improvement. Art reproductions also lay within reach of this class, as Gay explained: In the Victorian century, art, literature and music were inching their way toward a consumer culture that provided for everyone with money to spare, no matter how little, a culture of book clubs, massive supplies of reproductions, reduced admission fees catering to students or impecunious families.185
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A characteristic of this new print-loving public was that their interests, ambitions and financial resources were not matched by any experience and expertise. It was for this public that special collectors handbooks were published, to introduce new amateurs into the world of print-based art and provide a rational basis for their collection. An early specimen, Erste Grundlage zu einer ausgesuchten Sammlung neuer Kupferstiche (1776), was written by Carl Ludwig Junker, who listed print collectors various motives for collecting: one hoped to gain a reputation as a true connoisseur, another collected purely for pleasure while a third wanted to develop his taste.186 Junker chiefly concentrated on reproductions of work by living masters, his main reason being that he thought prints by or after old masters would be beyond the reach of the aspiring collector, as these had either fallen prey to real connoisseurs or were simply too expensive.187 We also encounter this preference for contemporary artists over old masters in the print trade. It seems more than fortuitous that in the late eighteenth century the major print publisher and dealer John Boydell began increasingly to specialise in prints after contemporary artists. Although old masters such as Raphael and Rembrandt remained popular, the end of the eighteenth century

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marked the beginning of a period that is sometimes described as the golden age of the living artist.188 Publications like Junkers handbook familiarised the reader with the subjects, composition, technique and aesthetics of contemporary art. These collectors books made their own contribution to this age, described by A. M. Link:
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collectors handbook [...] and the periodical press and the reproductive print itself all aided in the spread of Kunst- related ideas, responding to, but also creating the needs of a new art consumer. The reproductive print provided this new consumer with the opportunity to experience knowledge and collecting that is, to partake of the aesthetic sensibility and the connoisseurial judgement of commonly acclaimed works of art as well to undertake the culturally significant role of the collector itself. As part of an eighteenth century print culture the reproductive engraving thus takes its place in the forging of a new audience for high art.189

During the course of the nineteenth century countless publications upheld the tradition of Junkers handbook for collectors, with instructions for interested laymen on how to create their own print collection. Several examples are Joubert, Manuel de lamateur destampes faisant suite au manuel du libraire (Paris 1820), Maberly, The Printcollector. An Introduction to the Knowledge Necessary for Forming a Collection of Ancient Prints (London 1844) and Whitmans 1903 handbook, cited above. Amateurs could also consult the many (art) journals for tips and instructions on how to establish a print collection. Reviews informed them about the latest prints and their subject, technique, composition and use of colour. Moreover such journals regularly published articles on collecting prints, auctions, exhibitions, museums, artists and printmakers.190 A unique journal was The Print Collectors Quarterly which had been specifically founded to cover the collection of prints.191 Finally, the stock lists published by print dealers and publishers offered various tips to potential print buyers, discussed above in relation to Goupils stock list. Operating alongside the numerous amateurs from the social middle class were elite art collectors with a special interest in prints. As a result of their social background such collectors were generally at home in the world of art and print-based art. They did not need the advice of handbooks and bought the

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prints they wanted for their valuable collections with an expert eye. Two types of elite print collector can be distinguished: the atlas collector and the connoisseur. The former still employed the traditional structure of the atlas collection or historical atlas, defined by Frederik Muller in 1858 as: a chronologically arranged collection of prints, charts and portraits, which represent the events of a single country, and depict the places and persons, which bear upon these incidents.192 Use of this structure derives from the seventeenth century when wealthy art lovers began to assemble substantial print collections.193 Atlas collections were encyclopaedic in character, comprising geographical charts, historical prints, portraits and other printed matter, carefully sorted into categories such as geography, history and mythology. Thematic classification was often combined with chronological structures, which illustrated developments in the history of the world, and of art, sculpture and printmaking.194 The universal nature of an atlas collection made it a powerful tool in the formation of the individual intellect. The scope of atlas collections ensured that they always contained art reproductions, although these were often divided over various categories. Atlas collections persisted into the nineteenth century, as evidenced by the collections assembled by Frederik Muller, Bodel Nijenhuis and Abraham van Stolk, which incorporated many reproductions.195 While the atlas collector was interested in a comprehensive approach, the connoisseur had an eye for detail. Connoisseurs assembled specialist collections centred around a specific subject or artist, and always sought the finest state on the finest paper. W.W. Robinson dates the origin for this style of collection to circa 1700.196 During the course of the eighteenth century there was a boom in the connoisseurship of prints. With the advent of a connoisseur tradition appreciation grew for the specific qualities of individual printmakers and individual prints. The quest for rare states intensified the problem of authenticity. Was a print an original, or a reproduction by another hand? Had a print been made by the artist himself, by another artist, or was it actually a later impression from a reworked plate? During the nineteenth century it was these print experts who were interested in exceptional, exclusive prints, such as the rare states of Louis Henriquel-Duponts engraving after LHemicycle by Paul Delaroche, for which no less than 1,000 francs had to be paid, or for Goupils expensive albums of prints. These publications lay beyond the reach of the ordinary print amateur and were intended for the genuine connoisseur, who recognised the value of such reproductions and were able to afford them.

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Although the specialist approach of the connoisseur differed from the documentary mentality of the atlas collector, there was an overlap between the two. Assembling an atlas collection was a demanding activity, both financially and intellectually, and had thus been the traditional preserve of the cultural elite; assessing the suitability of prints for inclusion in such a collection presupposed knowledge of the world and its history. Connoisseurship required a similar knowledge of all prints, techniques and printmakers, in order for the collector to be able to recognise an exceptional piece. Both styles of collection required insight, experience and the financial wherewithal to purchase prints. Unlike the extensive band of middle class amateurs, elite collectors were a select company, with fanciful personal preferences and ancient collecting traditions. There was also another group of collectors with a special interest in reproductions of artworks, the artists themselves. Prints traditionally formed part of an artists basic material, being essential to his own visual education and that of of his pupils.On occasion a print collection could serve as a kind of visual inventory of an artists own oeuvre: Sir Joshua Reynolds, for example, owned an extensive collection of reproductions after his own works, which allowed him to offer potential patrons an impression of those paintings that had already quit his studio.197 Photography would later prove highly suitable for this purpose, too, as De Gids wrote in 1856:
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[] the painter, who is sorry to part with the work of art, on which he has expended so much care, so much time, and all this to see it pass into strange hands, he will be able to purchase faithful prints of his work and thus to make a keepsake in a shorter time than he required to develop the idea for one of his masterpieces.198

Thus various nineteenth-century artists assembled (substantial) collections of prints and photographs after (their own) artworks and other visual material to aid their work. Several examples of such artist collectors are Lawrence Alma-Tadema, William Holman Hunt, Anton Mauve and the Maris brothers.199 Vincent van Gogh, another enthusiastic collector, buying many different art reproductions, which eventually formed a substantial collection of some 1500 works, ranging from woodcuts from illustrated journals, to individual lithographs, etchings and engravings.200 Printmakers also collected reproductions. Surviving catalogues from the sale of their collections show that they possessed work

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by printmaking colleague, alongside their own output: the renowned engraver Abraham Raimbach owned work by his French colleague Louis Henriquel-Dupont, C.Ed. Taurel had prints by Luigi Calamatta and Philip Zilcken owned etchings by Jules Jacquemart.201 Amateurs, connoisseurs and artists were all interested in prints and photographs of artworks for different reasons. So were there any people in the nineteenth century who were not interested in reproductions? Despite all the radical social changes and the spread of visual culture, it remains possible that some people barely participated in cultural life. However, this does not negate the fact that prints traditionally enjoyed wide distribution; simple, popular prints, such as Images dEpinal, featuring accessible religious or genre scenes and published for education and entertainment, had existed since printmakings inception.202 Although this print culture of stampe ordinarie can also be observed in the nineteenth century, further study is required in order to gain a deeper insight into this field.203 Prints may have been within the financial reach of virtually everyone, but this does not mean they were actually bought by everyone. Research into the collection of prints in eighteenth-century France has demonstrated that, despite the relatively low prices, the lowest social classes hardly collected prints.204 Such inventory-based research has yet to be applied to the nineteenth century, but it seem probable that even in this period there were still people who hardly bought prints. In 1834, for example, LArtiste wrote in a disappointed vein that lithographs made for the masses were actually being purchased mainly by a smaller group of amateurs.205 There was thus a varied public who collected prints. What was the relationship between this public for reproductions and the public for original artworks? In his study The Use of Images E.H. Gombrich wrote: Those who could afford it had a full-sized copy of an admired masterpiece; those who could not afford a painted copy bought a reproduction.206 Undoubtedly, for many amateurs a graphic reproduction was the only affordable alternative to an expensive and thus unattainable oil original. In 1751 an anonymous art lover wrote: where I have not pictures, I must have prints.207 In her 1900 handbook for discerning members of the middle class Costanze von Franken also advised:
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If you can afford good oil paintings, they will become the loveliest ornament in your home, a refreshment for your and others eyes. If good

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paintings are too expensive for you, then prefer beautiful photographs, steel engravings, and similar reproductions of famous paintings that you can nowadays aquire in rare perfection and at small expense to poor paintings or worthless chromolithographs.208 Nevertheless, the question arises of whether reproductions were regarded merely as surrogates for paintings. The Victorian writer William Hazlitt (17781830) plainly declared: Good prints are no doubt better than bad paintings.209 This brings us to the relationship between the demand for paintings on the one hand and reproductions on the other. The German statistician Friederich Engels (1820-1895) laid the foundation for research into this kind of consumption pattern, observing that when income rises, people spend relatively less money on food and relatively more money on luxury goods. It is important to briefly consider this phenomenon, also known as Engels Law. Roughly speaking, during the nineteenth century the consumption of luxury goods simply increased.210 Did people buy more prints because they had more money to spend? Or did they buy fewer prints, because they could now afford paintings in a higher price class? Or did the ratio between the acquisition of paintings and prints remain stable? In other words, were reproductions a substitute for paintings or were they complementary to the original works? Extensive research into nineteenth-century patterns of consumption is required in order to be able to provide a clear answer to these questions. As observed above, collecting prints was not only limited to people with a restricted budget, for wealthy elite collectors also purchased reproductions for their exclusive collections; they did not hesitate to buy prints, despite being able to afford original paintings.211 So apparently reproductions were not regarded merely exclusively as cheap substitutes for paintings. Thus there was a wide public for reproductions, wider than the public for paintings, which extended downwards from the cultural elite, through the social middle classes to the lower sections of society where oil paintings were scarcely to be found. As the Pre-Raphaelite artist F.G. Stephens remarked: Where the picture cannot go, the engravings penetrate.212
libraries, aCademies and museums

When a substantial collection of reproductions after work by the renowned animal painter Edwin Landseer was auctioned in 1856, The Art Journal lamented: It is a great pity such a history of this painters art should be dispersed. What an

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acquisition would the collection have been to some public gallery or museum.213 The auction split the collection between various collectors, a situation which an institutional collector, such as a museum, could have prevented by purchasing the collection of reproductions in its entirety. This brings us to the role of institutional collectors libraries, (art) academies and museums and their activities in the field of printed art during the nineteenth century. Libraries were the first public institutions to take an interest in prints. In 1667 Louis xiv acquired the substantial collection assembled by Abb de Marolles, which contained many reproductions after Raphael, Michelangelo, Titiaan, De Carraci and Rubens, plus original graphic works by artists such as Albrecht Drer and Jacques Callot; the collection of 234 albums was subsequently accommodated in the Bibliothque Nationale.214 From this point onwards this library would remain a dominant institution in the field of printed art, including reproductions. The Bibliothque Nationales position was further reinforced in 1852 when it became a legal requirement for all new publications to be registered with the Depot Lgal in the library. Louis Napoleon was largely responsible for the creation of the Dutch version of the Bibliothque Nationale, the Nationale Bibliotheek, developing the Dutch national library founded in 1798 under William v, and opening this to the public. In the tradition of the renowned Bibliothque National in France, the Koninklijke Bibliotheek, then housed in the Mauritshuis, also collected prints.215 In addition to these large, national institutions there were also many local reading libraries and libraries attached to societies of artists, with collections of prints and illustrated (art) journals from home and abroad.216 (Art) academies also assembled print collections which were used as study material for young artists. For centuries academic training had been based around the imitation of famous masters, with reproductions (and plaster casts) forming the core study material.217 The need for this sometimes costly visual material soon prompted the Koninklijke Academie voor Beeldende Kunsten in Amsterdam to acquire a lithographic press, in order to create its own images for students to copy.218 Nevertheless, the institution continued to seek out reproductions, with its director Auguste Alleb playing an active role in the collection of such prints for his pupils at what had by now become the Rijksacademie. He was particularly interested in the high-quality photographs produced by the German firm of Braun, commissioning the painter Jacobus van Looy, on his travels through Italy and Spain as winner of the Prix de Rome, to keep an eye

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out for suitable reproductions for the Rijksacademie.219 On 6 June 1886 Alleb sent a postcard to Van Looy, listing the Braun numbers after works by Velazquez already in the academys collection; he also expressed the hope that Van Looy would encounter a Braun depot where he would be able to order other photographs after Velasquez.220 Unfortunately Van Looy came across no such depot, but he did find a fine collection of reproductions after Spanish masters, including the photographs after Velazquez and Murillo so coveted by Alleb; he informed the Rijksacademie director of this, receiving a speedy reply to his missive, on 22 June 1886:
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Amice, thanks for your notice regarding numbers to be purchased. That a photograph be a good rendering of the original, is desirable, but is of secondary importance: in this respect ordering such photographs always remains a lottery. The main issue is to be well informed as to the artistic value of these things; so I rely on your specifications. But now four or five Murillos (catalogue number and brief description), once again please in order of fineness. To avoid seeming partial the Academy must also have, and be able to show, several Murillos, on which the preference for V. [Velazquez] rests. So another four or five of the best Ms et merci davance!! 2 naturalistic and 2 heavenly.221

Allebs interest in reproductions in his capacity as director of the Rijksacademie illustrates the importance and function of reproductions within academic art education in general.222 Museums also collected reproductions for their print rooms. The first print rooms date from the late eighteenth century, and include the Museum Fridericianum in Kassel, founded in 1779, and the Uffizi in Florence. Even the Alte Museum was, according to Von Humbolt, not complete until it had incorporated a special print room for prints and drawings.223 In the meantime the print expert Adam Bartsch restructured the printroom of the Keizerlijke Hofbibliotheek in Vienna as the printroom of the Albertina Museum.224 In England the British Museum opened a printroom in 1808, while in the Netherlands the printroom at the Teylers Museum made this institution one of the first museums with such a facility.225 In 1825 this was followed by the Kabinet van Prenten en Pleisterbeelden (Cabinet of Prints and Plaster Sculptures) at the Rijksuniversiteit in Leiden; this is still the universitys printroom today.226 Nevertheless, it should be noted

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that such institutions were not always active collectors, and often received their works as gifts and legacies from private print collections. The basis for the Leidse Prentenkabinet, for example, was established when ownership of the collection assembled by J.T. Royer was transferred to the institution.227 The British Museums initial policy was expressly not to acquire reproductions after modern masters, in the hope that the artists or owners of these would leave their collections to the museum; an expectation fulfilled in 1872 when the mezzotinter Samuel Cousins signed over a virtually complete series of his mezzotint reproductions to the museum.228 A year later, in 1873, the Teylers Museum in Haarlem was presented with the collection assembled by Voorhelm Schneevoogt, which included a considerable number of reproductions after works by Rubens. The Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam initially pursued an active policy of collection in the field of prints, under its director Cornelis Apostool: the institution regularly purchased reproductions after old Italian and French masters, as well as English art, in order to expand the printrooms collection of mainly Dutch art.229 However this active policy of collection was an exception rather than a rule, for museums tended to pin their hopes on the generosity of private collectors. The predominantly wait and see policy pursued by institutional collectors also explains why they did not feel compelled to buy the collection of Landseer reproductions, cited above, when these were sold at auction. Like the print collections owned by libraries and academies, the printrooms at museums were intended for research and education: their print collections served as art historical references to complement the painting collection, and were consulted by amateurs, collectors, artists, printmakers and dealers. The South Kensington Museum, founded in 1857 and renamed the Victoria & Albert Museum in 1899, also possessed a substantial print collection, with, in the words of The Art Journal many treasuries for instruction.230 In the British Museum prints and drawings were carefully sorted according to national schools and subdivided into original graphic works and reproductions.231 In 1823 Humbert de Superville advocated the use of a similar system of classification at the Leidse Prentenkabinet, an institution that had yet to be established; he believed that a historical print collection, with images of people and events of historical interest, should be complemented by a department with an exclusively art-based collection, which should comprise engravings after paintings by the first masters of the various Italian, old German, Hollandish, Flemish and French schools, separately school by school.232 After some time, however, a debate arose con-

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cerning the function of the Leidse Prentenkabinet, which became known as the Leiden question. At issue was the question of whether Leiden Universitys (print) collections should remain where they were or be transferred to a museum whose collections also included paintings. The influential civil servant Victor de Stuers contended that the Leiden University printroom was undesirably isolated when divorced from a prominent painting collection; the Mauritshuis had an important collection of paintings but no printroom, which is why De Steurs proposed, in his well-known article Holland op zijn Smalst (1873), that :
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the virtually unvisited Leiden printroom should be moved, preferably to The Hague, where nothing of that nature is found, and where the Mauritshuis has urgent need of a collection of engravings and etchings. For a print collection is to a collection of paintings what a dictionary is to a library.233

The Leiden question soon developed into a complex struggle for supremacy between Leiden University on the one hand and the department of education, arts and sciences on the other. The Mauritshuis undoubtedly hoped to acquire a printroom to complement and support its collection of paintings. Nevertheless, De Stuers proposal did not receive sufficent backing, and the printroom remained in the possession of Leiden University. On the death of its director J.L. Cornet, in 1882, no successor was appointed, however, and large portions of the collection were transferred to the management of a museum after all, not the Mauritshuis in The Hague, but the Rijksprentenkabinet at the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam.234 The Leiden question underlined the educational function of reprofig. 33 nicolaas pieneman, Familie Rijnbende (ca.1850), oil on canvas 120 x 150, private collection.

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ductions in the service of (painting) collections within institutions, a function attested by the fact that exhibitions of these prints were rarely organised.235 To summarise: libraries, art academies and museums were important institutional collectors who were prompted by their own background and objectives to assemble collections with reproductions. Engravings, mezzotints, etchings, lithographs and later photographs constituted an important reservoir of visual knowledge. Reproductions were principally regarded as visual references in the field of nature, history and painting. In this sense they were made available to the general public including the private print collector. It is not without reason that Whitman devoted the final chapter of his Print-Collectors Handbook to the British Museum printroom. He was then director and advised the aspiring collector to make regular use of the collection, which he had helped to assemble and still managed.236
in albums and on walls

Traditionally there were two ways to keep a print: in an album or on a wall. How prints were actually kept during the nineteenth century is an interesting facet to the everyday use of reproductions, and thus to the way in which reproductions were viewed, a subject to which I shall return below. From its inception print-based art was closely associated with the printed book, an association that continued down the centuries. Prints were traditionally kept in book form, in special albums or portfolios. Successful collectors assembled enormous collections in many albums. The renowed eighteenth-century collector Pierre-Jean Mariette, for example, left 470 portfolios with around 250 prints in each. Since the earliest atlas collections were established, prints had been stored in special portfolios, which were sometimes kept in atlas cabinets or art cabinets.237 Portfolios continued to be used in the nineteenth century, as can be seen from various paintings of interiors.238 One such painting, by Nicolaas Pieneman, De familie Rijnbende (The Rijnbende Family), depicts children taking prints from an album to show to their parents. [fig. 33] Vincent van Gogh also kept many of his prints in eighteen portfolios, classified according to subject (Irish character types, landscapes, miners, factories, fishermen), artist (Dor, Barnard, Lancon, Fildes and Green) or size (large pages from The Graphic, The Illustrated London News, Harpers Weekly, LIllustration, etc.).239 His brother Theo also collected prints in an album. [plate 8]

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The custom of keeping prints in portfolios prompted many publishers to produce special collectors albums: Goupil, for example, sold albums for small photographs in Cartes-de-Visite and Cartes Albums format, at varying prices, while the Dutch publisher J.M. Schalekamp produced unusual harmonica albums to store reproductions.240 Publishers regularly issued albums complete with reproductions, too: the firm of Binger, for example, published albums containing photographs of drawings by living masters, one of which was praised by De Kunstkronijk: Bingers deluxe album belongs in the salon of every civilised Dutch citizen.241 Also relevant here are the binders produced by periodical publishers for readers to store their copies in, although many people tended to remove the reproductions and illustrations from these, to keep in their own portfolios. Nevertheless, cutting illustrations out of periodicals could present problems, as Van Gogh well knew: although it allowed him to arrange these illustrations in order of artist, it also deprived him of much interesting information in the reviews that accompanied these prints.242 Removing reproductions from illustrated journals appears to have been fairly common practice, given the many ransacked journals now found in libraries. Keeping reproductions in portfolios allowed collectors to leaf through their own paper museums at their leisure, then store these in a bookcases or set them aside on portfolio stands: practical, often custom-made pieces of furniture on which a heavy album could be examined or displayed.243 Luxury albums were sometimes given as gifts, too, a practice encouraged by De Gids in 1879:
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In our Amsterdam society it befits our good breeding to possess such etchings by Unger, and if one wishes to make a genteel gift to foreigners, the red portfolio, with Ungers etchings of the Trippenhuis, will cross frontiers.244

Naturally, reproductions were also hung on the wall as decorations; the nineteenth-century interior was not complete without a few prints on the wall.245 Displaying prints in this manner became so popular that many an album perished.246 In 1842, Thophile Gautier even complained that wealthy art lovers might furnish their apartments with expensive furniture and prints on the wall, but good paintings were hard to find amonst the French.247 Nevertheless, in the mid-nineteenth century there were still many people who preferred to own a second-rate painting rather than a first-rate print, as De Gids reported in 1857:
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The art of engraving, so long neglected in the Netherlands, seems to be held in particularly low esteem, so that many people, who think they love art, would rather decorate the walls of their home with the products of an extremely mediocre brush than the masterpieces of art, interpreted by the graver.248

Engravings, mezzotints and etchings were eminently suitable for embellishing an interior, as were lithographs, including the colour prints by the well-known English firm of Rowney, described by The Art Journal:
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Generally they are of a cheerful and agreeable order; subjects selected being such as are pleasant to look upon, lighting up well, and giving an aspect of comfort to a dwelling, for few things are more gloomy and depressing than bare walls at home. We know many houses, every sitting-room of which is enlivened by the productions of this firm, and where perpetual enjoyment is obtained by the outlay of a few pounds.249

During the final decades of the nineteenth century photographs were increasingly hung on the wall, especially large-format works in frames.250 Yet for many years this was not common practice. As late as 1884, for example, Carel Vosmaer advised his readers in De kunst in het daaglijksch leven not to hesitate to hang up fine photographs in their interior.251 Under the motto de gustibus EST disputandum there is accounting for taste Vosmaer described how modern people could tastefully furnish their homes, and also decorate their walls:
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For ordinary usage may one not be afraid to hang with several paintings also prints and even photographs, provided their spirit be consonant. [] It is an error of many, to have rather a mediocre or poor oil painting, rather an expensive banal engraving than a photograph. Photography is at such a height at present, that it surpasses many an engraving. Brauns Mona Lisa and Sistine Madonna reflect the original better than any engraving. No-one need now have insignificant prints; Brauns carbon prints after drawings by the great masters or famous paintings allow everyone to surround themselve with a number of the most sublime creations of art at slight cost.252

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fig. 34 sleeping room of the Teixeira de Mattos family in amsterdam (ca. 1890), photograph 291 x 23.5 cm, Gemeente archief, amsterdam.

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According to the print expert W.G. Rawlinson it was better to hang prints on the walls than keep them in portfolios, in which they were not always flat and free of dust.253 Special frames were also made for prints.254 In the final decades of the nineteenth century black frames with rounded profiles were often used for prints.255 Framed or unframed, engravings, etchings and lithographs were popular wall decorations.256 Many a famous masterpiece adorned an interior in reproduction, such as the engraving of The Huguenot by John Everett Millais, which hung in the bedroom of the Teixeira de Mattos family at 5 Sarphatistraat in Amsterdam.257 [fig. 34] Alongside independent prints, images from illustrated journals were also hung on the wall, a practice described by Van Gogh in a letter to his brother Theo:
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What an exceptionally fine wood-engraving there was recently in lIllustration, of Un jeune citoyen de lan V by Jules Goupil! Have you set eyes on it? Got hold of it and its hanging at present on the wall of the little room where Im allowed to reside.258

In 1881 Rawlinson advised hanging prints in horizontal and vertical rows, completely clothing the walls.259 This recalls eighteenth-century printrooms in which prints were hung on the wall from ceiling to skirting board. However, in

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1882 L.F. Day, another authority in the field of applied art and home furnishing, advised against hanging too many works on the wall: We must limit the number of [pictures] in our rooms. Does anyone really want his walls plastered with them like a patchwork of big postage stamps?260 Nevertheless, profuse decoration with prints and photographs continued to be popular, as can be seen from surviving nineteenth-century interiors. At a much later date Anne Frank aimed for the same effect when she determined, under perilous circumstances, to decorate the walls of her room in the secret annex, including several art reproductions in the scheme. On 11 July 1942 she wrote in her diary:
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Up till now our bedroom, with its blank walls, was very bare. Thanks to Father who brought my entire postcard and film-star collection here beforehand and to a brush and a pot of glue, I was able to plaster the walls with pictures. It looks much more cheerful.261

looking at reProduCtions

Whether a collector kept his reproductions in albums or framed on the wall, the most important thing of course was to look at them, as De Gids wrote: Nothing has a more powerful effect than daily contact with the masterpieces of art or with reproductions of these.262 In his handbook for collectors, French Prints of the Eighteenth Century (1908), R. Nevill also advised the amateur not to pass up any opportunity for examining prints:
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The best method of training the eye is never to lose an opportunity of inspecting as many prints as possible. Looking through dealers portfolios, attendance at sales, and even casual glances in the windows of old print shops can do nothing but good, imparting as they do a familiarity with the whole subject which can only be obtained by some sort of personal experience. After a short time the best engravings become old friends, whilst those devoid of merit are regarded with the indifference which they deserve.263

This raises the question of what people actually saw when they looked at reproductions in the nineteenth century. What went through their mind as they stood in front of a print, leafed through an album or, like Van Gogh, perused woodcuts when unable to sleep?264

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In his Inleiding tot het zien van beeldende kunst (1906) the art educator H.P. Bremmer wrote on the subject of looking at reproductions:
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That attentive looking is what is once again required. If one beholds a reproduction, as most people behold paintings and sculptors, that is thinking they have seen it when they know what it represents, of course this leads to nothing; it is a superficialness, for which the reproduction is not to blame but only he who beholds such a reproduction and does not draw from it what there is to be drawn. It is self-evident, that someone who looks well and lets his mind work as he does so, can observe a great deal more in a reproduction, and penetrate a great deal deeper into the essence of such a work of art, than many who lovelessly and superficially view the original.265

As an art educator Bremmer enthusiastically used reproductions, both in his well-known reviews and his publications Moderne Kunst and Beeldende Kunst.266 So how did people in the nineteenth century regard reproductions? This instantly brings us to the lack of any sources recording such information, for patterns of observation are rarely described in historical sources. However, we can gain some idea of how reproductions were appreciated from the reviews regularly published in art journals, in which critics described the qualities to be looked for in a reproduction, sometimes at length, sometimes in passing. Naturally vigilance is required when using such sources, for a critics judgement was shaped by a range of factors, as in other fields of art criticism. Apart from a critics personal aesthetic preferences, the journals social context and the critics contact with publishers and artists should also to be borne in mind. Nevertheless, this does not detract from the fact that the judgements of art critics still contain interesting information on the reception of reproductions. Of more interest than the critics final judgement on whether a reproduction was good or bad, however, are the reasons they adduce in support of this view. How did art critics assess the adaptation of the composition, the translation of colour into black and white and the change in technique and format? Not every amateur blindly followed the critics judgements, of course, and even Bremmers students were no slavish disciples of his views on the visual arts. Neither is the exploration of how reproductions were appreciated in the nineteenth century an attempt to establish a general aesthetics of art reproduction: it is rather an en-

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deavour to reconstruct how reproductions were regarded in the nineteenth century, by considering several important aspects of a reproduction. Before further examining the reception of reproductions, I wish to recall the dual nature of reproductions, as discussed in the chapter Pinxit et Sculpsit. Every reproduction is shaped on the one hand by the original image on which it is based, and on the other by the adaptation of that image. The viewer looks at the original, as it were, through the reproduction, as if through a window with a view of the original painting. So the reproduction functions as an een aide-memoir, as Roger de Pilles aptly put it, to renew and refresh the impression made by the absent original. Goethe wrote in similar vein regarding his prints by Marcantonio Raimondi after works by Raphael.267 The role of the reproduction as a representation of the original has been repeatedly stressed from Vasari onwards, also in the nineteenth century.268 Vincent van Gogh, for example, wrote to his brother Theo regarding prints after Jean-Franois Millet:
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It always does me pleasure that the Millets continue to do well. But what I should really like is for there to be more good reproductions of Millet, so that he reaches the people. His oeuvre is particularly sublime when you view it in its entirety and it becomes increasingly difficult to form an idea of it as the paintings get scattered.269

The reproduction was like a reflection of the original, or, as E.H. Gombrich put it, in The Use of Images: It is intended to serve as a reminder, a souvenir and to rival the book as a source of knowledge.270 Conversely reproductions were also appreciated as specific forms of adaptation with their own intrinsic qualities. Goethe, for example, once compared a sepia drawing by Rubens of The Four Fathers of the Church with Cornelius Galles engraving after the same; imagining that he had both the original and the reproduction before him, Goethe stressed their intrinsic qualities: comparing the original with the reproduction enabled him to identify the qualities peculiar to the original work and the adaptation of this work.271 This recalls nineteenthcentury exhibitions at which the original painting was displayed alongside its reproduction. Looking at such prints, people must have been aware of their specific qualities and the individuals who made them.272 In De Gids Jan Veth discussed the qualities of a good engraved reproduction, quoting Gautiers view on this subject:
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[The engraving] is more than a copy; it is an interpretation; it is a work of patience, of love. The engraver must love, admire, understand his original; he must have absorbed the spirit of it in him and be penetrated by it in his innermost being; for it is not enough accurately to render the lines of the composition, the contours of the forms, to apply light and shadow in their correct place, to let the half tones melt away with talent; no, more is demanded of the engraver! With a few black tones he must render the entire colour of the master, must convey whether these are clear or hazy, warm or cool in tone; he must make the objects stand out in their relative value and render all the peculiarities of the brush with the engraving tool. No small task, indeed! And one cannot fulfil this in worthy fashion, than through tireless study, perserverance, talent, yes, even true genius!273

Van Gogh also had an eye for the intrinsic qualities of a reproduction, as he wrote to this brother Theo:
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If the object represented and the manner of representation correspond with each other, then it has style and quality. Thus the servant girl in the large wallpainting by Leys, when etched by Bracquemont, becomes a new work of art or the little reader by Meissonier, when Jacquemart makes an engraving of this, for the manner of engraving forms a whole with the subject that is being depicted.274

Depending on the viewers perspective, a reproduction was a reflection of the original picture on the one hand and an independent work with its own qualities on the other. Both points of view can also be found in combination. In 1840 Henry Josi distinguished two groups of visitors to the print collections at the British Museum: the first of these came:
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merely to hunt out a subject, the continual reference and rapid turning of the leaves by them causes a great wear of the prints. These persons naturally care little about the beauty of impression, earliness of state or intrinsic value of the prints, beyond the subject it represents.275

The other group came: to compare the work of the engraver: [] With these it is an object of deep interest to place the plate from its beginning in the etching

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by various degrees of advancement, to its perfection. This class naturally examines the print with a critical eye, and are fully apprised of the value and necessity of careful handling.276 In practice one approach did not necessarily exclude the other, as illustrated by Goethe who, leafing through his reproductions, saw Raphaels original work in Raimondis engraving but focused on the specific qualities of the print when considering Galles reproduction after Rubens. Bearing these two approaches in mind, we shall now consider the question of what considerations played a role when people in the nineteenth century looked at reproductions.
the Power oF assoCiation

Viewing reproductions was a complex process of looking at and comparing the original and its adaptation, or, as The Art Journal observed in 1858: People like to see the pictures which live again in engravings; they like to compare the engraving with the original, and thus the engraving attains to a peculiar interest through the power of association [italics rv] .277 A number of elements played a role in the visual comparison of the original and the reproduction, and vice versa: the translation of the original composition, the use of colour, the technique, the format and the image context. It was the task of the image adaptor (the printmaker or photographer) to interpret and represent the original in a convincing fashion. Any printmaker who did not sufficiently fulfil this brief could expect to meet with harsh criticism. In 1840, for example, an anonymous reviewer in De Gids was extremely critical about several new reproductions, although he did not know all the original paintings:
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We do not know the original painting, but we can scarcely believe that Mister Pieneman Junior could produce such a coarse drawing as the little image of Madzy Dekama makes one assume; moreover the engraving is as gray as those that disgust us in the German Annuals. We do not wish to criticise the perhaps in some respects censurable painting by J.A. Kruseman, Jochebet; but the fine Jewess head, which reconciled us to everything at the viewing, has been poorly represented in Langes engraving.278

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In reviews of reproductions the original work could also encounter criticism. When a reviewer for The Art Journal, for example, pointed out the weak points of a print by the engraver S. Bellin, after the painting The Council of the League by John Rogers Herbert (1810-1890), he attributed these faults to the original painting, rather than its adaptation, and even deplored the fact that the engraver had devoted so much work to it; Thomas Agnew, the publisher, had also displayed courage, he declared and was equally blameless: For the mess here engraved he is not to be held responsible; the artist ought never to have undertaken a task for which he is totally unfit.279 On occasion reproductions were regarded as almost an improvement on the original; The Art Journal, for example, declared that the engraving by Samuel Cousins after Titiana even surpassed the original picture painted by Edwin Landseer:
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Perhaps in these engravings Sir Edwin Landseer appears more true to himself than even on his own eloquent canvas; at any rate, we know when he hesitated to touch the proof of the Titiana, the great painter declared that the engraving excelled the picture, and that he could not touch it without injuring, rather than improving it.280

The examples cited emphasise the extent to which art critics drew their readers attention to the qualities of a printmakers adaption. The translation of a colour painting into a black-and-white print was another consideration.281 The loss of colour was regularly acknowledged and sometimes lamented.282 Nevertheless, the engravers palette of black, white and gray was not deemed essentially inferior to the painters colours; on the contrary, the limitations of this graphic palette actually compelled the printmaker to a greater degree of refinement which could expect to receive extra appreciation.283 Even in the eighteenth century, it was believed that a black-and-white print could be rated more highly in terms of tonal wealth than a colour painting.284 According to the painter Thomas Lawrence (1769-1830) it was even possible to suggest colour through a subtle graphic variation of gray tones: An engraver can so meander his shadows as to convey (to the painters eye at least) the idea of blue, and (I believe) one or two other colours.285 Appreciation of black-and-white art is illustrated by a discussion in De Kunstkronijk of Louis Henriquel-Duponts renowned engraving after LHemicycle by Paul Dlaroche:

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When we see it again in the engravers copper, Paul Delaroches composition seems even more worthy and noble. The variety of clothing was one difficulty in the painting; it stood in the way of unity; it challenged and wearied the gaze at the same time through the infinite variety of colour, through countless nuances, not one of which was omitted, while, in the engraving, all those colours dissolved in a half-tone, brought to unity and differing only though black and white, are calmer, flowing together and melting into one in a way that retains the nobility of the painting but gives it more strength and makes the charm of the components surrender to the dignity of the whole.286

The reviewer maintained that the great variety of colours in the original prevented the image from being balanced; in this respect its adaption as a blackand-white print was only an improvement. When the translation from painting to print was weak, reviewers sometimes gave the printmaker the benefit of the doubt. In its discussion of an engraving after William Powell Friths well-known work Life at the Sea-side, for example, The Art Journal drew attention to the uneven distribution of light and dark in the original, thereby blaming any objection to the print on the painted original rather than the engravers ability.287 Despite this appreciation for the monochrome tones of prints, many printmakers did endeavour to reproduce the colours employed in paintings. During the nineteenth century, colour lithography constituted the best graphic technique for the reproduction of works in colour. Turners colourful work presented the medium with an almost impossible challenge, described as follows by The Art Journal:
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The science and art of chromo-lithography has been put to a severe test in the production of the print that, with its masses of dazzling colours, almost blinds the eye to look at,- an excess of power which, in the horizon especially, it would have been better to keep down, so painfully obtrusive it is.288

Although the reviewer admired the printmakers efforts, he would have preferred to have seen Turners work reproduced in black-and-white, rather than peculiar bright colours. Other experiments in colour reproduction were more favourably received. In his journal the art dealer George Lucas recorded his pur-

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chase of several graphic imitations of watercolours, as examples of a fine reproductive technique: Bought them more on account of their extraordinary imitation of watercolours than on account of any peculiar pleasure which they afforded me otherwise.289 The question arises of whether nineteenth-century viewers experienced the problem of colour reproduction in the same way as today, for it is not inconceivable that they had a different view of colour and tone. While use of colour played a central role in the discussion of paintings, remarkably and perhaps tellingly reviews of prints rarely made mention of any disappointment resulting from an absence of this.290 The impossibility of reproducing colours was such a given that it is debatable whether the absence of colour was regarded as in any way disturbing when viewing individual prints: the visual world of the nineteenth-century public had been shaped to a large degree by a rich black-and-white print tradition, so this public probably possessed a greater sensitivity to tone in paintings and their reproductions than the modern viewer whose perceptions have been shaped by colour images. Another interesting element in reproductions is the adaptation of the technique employed in the original, in other words the translation of a painting into a print. In 1854 The Art Journal was prompted by several colour lithographs to write admiringly regarding their imitation of the original work:
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Every part of the picture is imitated with wonderful fidelity; the manipulation of the artist is most carefully rendered, the colouring is brilliant as if laid on by the hand from the palette; while there is a body in the surface which might be mistaken for actual painting in oil. A few more such examples as this, and other of a similar nature that have recently passed under our notice, and we may decorate our walls with works of art scarcely inferiour to the originals, at fifty or a hundred per cent less than the cost of the latter.291

The reference to the body in the surface is an interesting one. Previous mention has been made of the debate amongst printmakers regarding the extent to which they should endeavour to render the paint texture of the original work. Precise imitation of this texture allowed a reproduction to suggest the hand of the original master, as Van Gogh noted in connection with etched reproduc-

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tions by William Unger and Felix Braquemond after old Dutch masters: What Unger, Braquemond have done is etched well and one can see the manner of painting in their etchings.292 Meticulous imitation of the original texture produced the illusion of the original medium, although naturally it was impossible to create a perfect illusion. No printmaker could divorce himself from the texture of his own graphic medium, from the scratches of the needle, the grooves in the paper and the characteristics of his own hand, although varnishing the surface could more or less erase these graphic elements, thereby producing a facsimile of the original. While the printmaker needed to take great pains to imitate brushstrokes precisely, the photographers light-sensitive plate made it possible to capture the image without any such manual translation, for he could produce, in the words of William Ivins, exactly repeatable visual images made without any of the syntactical elements implicit in all hand made images.293 Many saw this absence of the photographers own hand as the major drawback to the photographic technique.294 A photographic reproduction appeared to have been made by an invisible hand, for the photographers personal contribution mainly lay, as previously observed, in the preparations for capturing and multiplying the image. The photographers individual interpretation exerted considerable influence on the end result, as Thophile Gautier emphasised in his 1858 review of Robert Binghams photographs after works by Paul Dlaroche.295 Although the texture of the original artwork could be photographed with increasing sharpness, the ratio between light and dark, and colour and tonal differences still varied considerably. Moreover, photographic reproductions were often retouched, a fact that Bremmer lamented: they cant leave it alone. It always has to be made smooth and attractive for people.296 So the photographer also had leeway to correct the image, prompting a related debate in the field of photography between adherents of the moderate and orthodox standpoints. Bremmer wrote with repugnance:
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a mechanical reproduction is only very fine when it is just like an etching, photographers make collotypes that look Rembrandtesque, as it is called, and for a recent publication of the Meesterwerken der Kunst W. Bode wrote a foreword, in which he praised the reproductions because they were almost mezzotints, and they were mechanical reproductions! Shouldnt the first requirement of a reproduction be that it faithfully represents a work?297

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Bremmer resolutely declared : Retouching is a cancer in mechanical reproduction, it should not be used at all, then one has the objective image that one can judge oneself.298 Naturally he was well aware of the limitations to this objective image, given the drastic change of colour that occurred in reproduction, but still preferred photographs that had not been retouched: With the unretouched reproduction I know whats what, with the retouched work it is extremely hard to identify the limit of retouching.299 The different techniques employed in photographic reproduction meant that some people preferred the fine tone of Braun photographs while others opted for the individual signature of a photogravure. A radical transformation which occurred during the reproduction of artworks was the change of format. Altering the dimensions of an original work was of course a substantial change, which considerably affected the ratios and balance of the composition. It is thus understandable that some original artists preferred to make such a drastic change to their work themselves, by producing their own reduction in the required format, for example. The size of the final print was in itself also significant.300 With handmade prints in particular, the format provided an indication of the amount of skilled work this represented; the knowledge that an engraver had spent some two years on a plate contributed to the handcrafted aura of an engraved reproduction.301 The use of less labour-intensive techniques, such as etching, lithography and photography slowly but surely drove the handcrafted aspect of reproductions into the background. However, in photographic reproduction large-format images enjoyed a higher status than modest carte-de-visite photographs, as for many years they remained technically demanding, expensive and therefore exclusive.302 Photography provided new opportunities for enlarging and reducing images. A small-format (photographic) reproduction offered a completely different, yet elegant impression of an original work. As Thophile Gautier wrote: Doue dune qualit de concentration et de rduction mathmatiques, elle [photography, rv] donne de grandes toiles un peu vides un intrt et un charme singuliers, en rassemblant dans un petit espace des dtails parpills.303 Format was thus a significant element in the evaluation of reproductions.304 Although critics considered the individual contribution of the image adaptor (the printmaker or photographer) when assessing reproductions, this did not mean they forgot the role of the original artist. In reproductive practice the

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painter was often closely involved in the adaptation of his image, a fact of which critics were aware.305 Checking proofs allowed the original artist to keep an eye on the reproductive process and prevent the printmaker from becoming absorbed in his own interpretation. The artists involvement was regularly regarded as an advantage. As early as 1769 the renowned English publisher John Boydell emphasised in his Sculpture Britannica that the best reproductions were made by the painters contemporaries: both able and willing to give the Engraver all the necessary Advice and Assistance he can require, to forward him in the Execution of his Work; an inestimable Advantage to an Engraver.306 We also encounter this view in the nineteenth century. The critic P. Burty likewise declared that artworks could best be reproduced by the masters contemporaries, for only the contemporary image adaptor was in a position to comprehend the original work and question the artist if necessary.307 The artists collaboration with his printmakers will be further discussed in the chapters on Ary Scheffer, Lawrence Alma-Tadema and Jozef Israls. Here it is important to bear in mind that this collaboration also had a significant effect on assessment of the reproduction, for critics were well aware that a reproduction was not merely the work of a printmaker or photographer but a collaboration. During the reproductive process a painting was transformed into a convenient, lightweight print on paper. An important element in this transformation was the frame. The frame of the original work was generally not reproduced, inevitably giving the reproduction a different appearance from the original, although this did not mean that a framed print on a wall bore no resemblance to the painting from which it derived, particularly when the print was also varnished. In 1851 The Art Journal wrote of colour lithographs:
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These prints are accurately coloured after the originals, and are not only excellent examples of the perfection to which lithography itself has been brought, but show how well adapted it is for imitating paintings; indeed, if varnished and framed, these subjects would have all the strength and richness of oil-paintings.308

A remarkable work in this connection is the reproduction of Holman Hunt painting The Finding of the Saviour in the Temple. Like other Pre-Raphaelites artists, Hunt also designed the frame for this picture, describing it as: designed by my-

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self with ivory flat, in what I meant to be semi-barbaric splendour.309 Various engravings of the popular painting were published, some with a cheap replica of the original frame. This offered collectors a unique treatment of the original work, to the displeasure of the artist who thoroughly disapproved of the replica frame.310 An associated element was the print margin. Every print amateur knew that inscriptions in the margin played a significant role in the importance of a print: they showed the various (proof) states of a print and generally supplied extra information, such as the name of the painter, printmaker and publisher, the title of the work and the date and place of publication. Any signature was also to be found in the margin, which likewise contained explanation of the image or a poetic reference. The rise of photographic techniques slowly but surely undermined the significance of the margin in reproductions. In collectors handbooks the margin was universally identified as a major element in a print, in which respect a reproduction differed emphatically from its painted original. How people viewed reproductions was partly determined by the context in which they saw the print or photograph. Reproductions enabled them to acquire an impression of artworks which they would probably never see in their original form. It was not without reason that The Art Journal stressed its policy of mainly producing artworks from private collections which were not open to the general public.311 Reproduction detached the original image from its context, a positive act that also concealed a major disadvantage: the apparent dissolution of an artworks context. The reproduction of an altarpiece inevitably omits the church around the original work. A clear example of this loss of context is provided by Paul Dlaroches semi-circular muralpainting Hemicycle in the Ecole des Beaux Arts, whose form and subject, a pantheon of famous artists, was inextricably associated with the nature and function of this institution. It goes without saying that the function and meaning of the original wall painting in its public context was very different from that of the reproduction viewed in the private surroundings of a print amateurs home. Whether a print was hanging on a wall or kept in an album also made a difference to the viewing experience. A print displays the greatest resemblance to the original painting when it is hanging on a wall, either framed or unframed; viewers literally see a reproduction from a different perspective than the original when seated down and holding the print. There is also a difference in viewing distance between

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original and reproduction: an enormous fresco with lifesize figures requires greater viewing than a small and subtly painted still-life, yet in a portfolio of reproductions, paintings such as Raphaels School of Athens and Fabritius Goldfinch deceptively appear to be of similar format. Viewers generally regarded a reproduction in a completely different context from that of the original work, with all the associated consequences. Nevertheless, some art lovers almost preferred to look at reproductions rather than original painting, for at many exhibitions poor lighting and crowds of fellow visitors often allowed only vague glimpses of original works; at home they could view the masterpieces of art history at leisure, pausing to glance at one of their prints on the wall or bringing out their albums at a suitable leisure moment. This gave art lovers a real love of Art, better than any amount of wearing and tiring doing of Art galleries is like to accomplish, as an anonymous author wrote in The Art Journal in 1880.312 On occasion, the original and its reproduction shared the same context, as was the case at exhibitions where painting and print were displayed together for comparison. Generally, however, original and reproduction were far removed from each other, and the viewer was required to conjure up the image of the original painting in his memory, that is if he had been fortunate enough to see it in person. Roger de Pilles description of reproductions as an aide-memoir, as a souvenir of the original, is interesting in this connection. Nevertheless, it is far from clear how experience and memory determined the perception of visual art, and its reproductions. Exposure to the original work quickly coloured perception of the reproduction; reproductions sometimes familiarised people with works they had yet to see.313 Of course reproductions could also considerably distort the image of original works. Some visitors were disappointed when they viewed an original painting, since they were so accustomed to reproductions of this, as De Kunstkronijk observed in connection with the 1854 exhibition of contemporary masters:
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At this exhibition too we once again encounter so many examples of painters, who have a great name and who belie our expectation of their work; if Hasenclever, Fourmois and Thuillier are there to venture just these that we should henceforth be much more cautious in assumption of the truth, that great names are representatives of great works, particularly if their work is only known to us from engraving or lithography.314

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The nineteenth-century art lover did not view works with an innocent eye, not even their reproductions. This raises the question of the impressions and expectations people entertained when viewing works of visual art or reproductions of these.315 As yet it remains intriguingly unclear how art lovers furnished their personal muse imaginaire with visual experiences of original artworks and reproductions. The muse imaginaire is hard to capture, although the photographer H.S. Mendelssohn made a brave attempt at this, in his photograph In Remembrance of Sir Edwin Landseer, in which we recognise all kinds of details from Landseers work in the sleeping mans dream. [fig. 35] Undoubtedly different people viewed reproductions in different ways. Both Goethe and Bremmer described the various ways in which they as individuals viewed reproductions: sometimes when they looked at a print they saw the original work, other times they perceived the specific way in which this had been adapted. The reason for this differential viewing lies in the intrinsic ambiguity of reproductions, as representation of the original and presentation of themselves. Both ways of viewing occurred in the nineteenth century, although perceptional psychology has demonstrated that it is optically impossible to combine both ways of seeing simultaneously. In this respect reproductions resemble the wellknown example of a ducks head that suddenly seems to be a hare, or vice versa.316 Thanks to our flexible powers of perception we can see the same image as either one or the other, but never both simultaneously: we can never see the

fig. 35 hayman seleg Mendelssohn, In Remembrance of Sir Edwin Landseer (1873), gelatine silverprint.

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hare and the duck. In similar fashion we can never see the adaption and the original in a reproduction, the adaptor and the painter. When the viewer favoured the original, the specific adaptation remained firmly out of the picture and vice versa. In short: if you viewed reproductions well, you could see more, as Bremmer had already proclaimed. Various reviews of reproductions consistently show how much critics were interested in the original work, and how aware they were of the qualities particular to a specific adaptation. Often this amounted to an invisible confrontation between the original work and its adaptation, in terms of composition, colour and black-and-white, technique, format and context. Bremmer also referred to these elements in his review of reproductions from 1906. He believed that, instead of viewing all reproductions in the same way, it was essential to pay attention to the intrinsic qualities of the individual print or photograph, and he acutely described how he himself viewed reproductions:
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The demand that one should therefore make of a reproduction is this, that a reproduction render, as directly as possible, without evasions, and without interference from someones individual nature, what the work of art itself is. Hereby it is immediately understood, of course, that all reproduction that is not mechanical, such as etching, engraving and woodcutting, is inferior as reproduction to all mechanical reproduction, in which this individual interference is not necessary. One should understand, that I do not wish to contend that an etching or woodcut or engraving after an artwork cannot be very fine, the better such a reproduction is, the more individual it will be, but it is always an insight into a particular artwork by an etcher, engraver of woodcutter, not the work itself. That it can be very fine is proved by the etching by M. Maris after the sower by Millet, which is, I think, finer than the original by Millet. If I want to talk about Millets sower, I cannot use that reproduction of course; but if I want to show someone how such a painting by Millet is seen by a fine mind such as M. Maris, then it is again in the condition of an original work. It is precisely because this etching is so exceptional that it has no value as a reproduction; we cannot gain an impression from it of how Millets work is, only of how it is viewed by M. Maris.317

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With the viewing and reception of the reproduction we have reached the end of the life of the reproduction. In this final phase prints and photographs of artworks were displayed on the wall or carefully stored in albums, keeping the impression of the original work alive, long after the painter, the printmaker or the photographer had died and the original had vanished from sight, been lost or even destroyed.

The pubLic for reproducTions


After the initiative, the organisation and the production of a reproduction, the life of the reproduction was followed in this chapter with its distribution and reception. Advertising and publicity were intended to draw the publics attention to new reproductions as they rolled from the press. Trains and steamships then made it increasingly feasible to distribute reproductions on an international scale. Large firms opened branches at home and abroad, allowing them to operate more effectively in the international print market, and helping to create a complex distribution network that connected villages, towns, countries and even continents with each other. Countless publishers, printmakers, photographers, painters, museums and societies of artists made their own contribution to the international distribution of art reproductions. During the nineteenth century the distribution network grew so rapidly that as early as 1832 the publisher Charles Knight could guarantee his English readership of The Penny Magazine the same distribution as if everyone lived in London. New forms of publication featuring reproductions developed in association with the new means for production and distribution. Print dealers and publishers continued to distribute independent prints on a large scale as they had for centuries. These were increasingly accompanied by reproductions in these forms of new publication, such as illustrated exhibition catalogues, exhibition catalogues and other luxury albums. An important role was played by the illustrated periodical in this rich range of prints. New techniques allowed periodicals with many illustrations to be produced in large numbers, at a price that a wide public could afford. In many respects the successful Penny Magazine set the tone for the illustrated periodical in the nineteenth century, quickly followed by thriving specialist art journals, such as LArtiste, The Art Journal and De Kunstkronijk. The illustrated periodical was a new medium for the production and

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distribution of art reproductions, and an important addition to the existing range of independent reproductions. This enormous distribution network brought a varied range of reproductions to the publics attention, thereby marking the beginning of the fifth, and final, phase in the life of a reproduction. Reproductions could be found in art dealers windows, in libraries and printrooms, at exhibitions, in art reviews or at bookstalls on the corner of the street. Prints and photographs after artworks thus formed an integral part of the nineteenth centurys rich visual culture. It was perhaps easier to find reproductions than to avoid them. Collectors kept a successful acquisition in an album or framed on the wall. Johan Gram found it was interesting to listen to the sober or witty comments of people looking at reproductions.318 To a large extent nowadays we can only guess what an important magistrate or a mason with his lime, a fashionable lady or blushing maidservant saw in a reproduction. One individual probably saw a rare state, another an exceptional treatment, yet another a famous painting or an attractive, sentimental image. Nevertheless, from the art cricitism of reproductions it is possible to distill various elements that were decisive in views on reproductions, such as the translation of the composition, the transposition of colour into blackand-white, the conversion of oil paint into a graphic medium, and the context. This chapter has endeavoured to examine the reception of art reproduction within the historical context of the nineteenth century. It goes without saying that the nineteenth-century amateur or connoisseur lived in a totally different visual world than ours, a gulf we can scarcely bridge. In all probability people looked at reproductions in another way than we do nowadays, paying attention to aspects of reproductions that seem alien to the modern viewer. In the first place, art lovers today are more familiar with art history in colour than at any other period, making it increasingly hard to comprehend how accustomed nineteenth-century viewers were to paintings in black-and-white, which may have given them a different perception of the translation of a coloured artwork into a black-and-white print. In the second place we are so familiar with photographic reproductions, that it is impossible to conceive of its absence when researching art reproduction in a period in which the medium was still new and experimental. The impact of this new medium on people who were accustomed to personal interpretations of artworks by individual printmakers is also hard to imagine. Even the simple fact that a handmade reproduction could require one or even two years of work, often much longer than the time taken to pro-

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duce the original image, seems curious in our modern context. Engravers such as Samuel Cousins or Louis Henriquel-Dupont became renowned for their individual adaptations of conemporary artworks and apparently introduced an element of performance art into the visual arts. The present dominance of (digital) photographic art reproductions has ensured that reproductions are now better and cheaper than ever before. At the same time our perception of reproductions seems to have been reduced to a purely photographic view of art reproduction, thereby demoting reproductions to a more or less successful replication of the original. The instrinsic characteristics and qualities of a reproduction as an independent work in its own right no longer lie within the modern viewers frame of reference, making it harder than ever for us to form an idea of the diversity of graphic and photographic adaptations of artworks with which so many amateurs, connoisseurs and artists were familiar in the nineteenth century. The reception of reproductions brings an end to the life of the reproduction, as outlined in the previous two chapters. After the initiative had been taken to produce a reproduction, the relevant parties collaborated on the production process; the print or photograph was then distributed via the networks established by art dealers and publishers, before finally becoming available to a large and varied public. In the rest of the present study this broad view of art reproduction will be replaced by a more specific approach, focusing on three individual artists, Ary Scheffer, Jozef Israls and Lawrence Alma-Tadema.

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chapter 5

The MosT FraMed arTisT


Ary Scheffer (1795-1858) And reproductionS After hiS Work

In a discussion of work submitted by Ary Scheffer to the Salon of 1846 the French art critic Thophile Thor wrote:
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M. Ingres a une petite glise de fanatiques et il laisse la foule indiffrente; M. Dlaroche est fort admir par des bourgeois et contest par les artistes; Delacroix soulve la passion ou lanimosit. Ary Scheffer seul a le privilge dune admiration universelle, quoique les vrais artistes ne se dissimulent pas lencertitude et la dbilit de son excution.1

Ary Scheffer was born on 10 February 1795, in Dordrecht in the Netherlands. In 1811, when he was sixteen, he moved to Paris, together with his mother Cornelia Scheffer-Lamme (1769-1839) and his two brothers Arnold and Henri. There he trained as an artist in the studio run by Pierre-Narcisse Gurin and came into contact with neoclassicism and romanticism, whose chief exponents were Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres and Eugne Delacroix respectively. Scheffer drew his inspiration from the literary works of Goethe, Schiller, Byron and Scott. He repeatedly depicted sentimental scenes from Faust, Gretchen and Mignon, plus dramatic subjects from the Bible. He also painted many portraits of

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fig. 36 Charles de Lasteyrie, Le Vengeur (de Wreker) after Scheffer (1817), lithograph, Dordrechts Museum, Dordrecht.

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the French elite, particularly members of the House of Orlans, with whom he enjoyed intensive contact. When the Duke of Orlans was proclaimed king of France in the wake of the 1830 July Revolution, Scheffer, himself a confirmed liberal and republican, even became court painter to the citizen-king. From the 1830s onward the Franco-Dutch artist enjoyed unprecedented renown in France and far beyond its border.2 His work was reproduced on a large scale in many engravings, lithographs and photographs, as described in 1892 by Henri Beraldi in his summary of the nineteenth-century graphic arts, Les Graveurs du xixe sicle:
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Mais Ary Scheffer est, avec Paul Delaroche, le peintre qui a t le plus capitalement grav, et celui qui a d la gravure le plus de popularit.

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Dans les premiers temps, sous la Restauration, lorsquil est vou aux sujets de genre, Ary Scheffer partage avec tous les autres peintres de genres les honneurs dune reproduction telle quelle par burin, la manire noire ou la lithographie. Mais lorsquil passe ensuite aux potiques figures de Francoise de Rimini, de Batrice, de Mignon, de Marguerite, lorsquil se voue enfin aux subjets religieux, ce sont les premiers burin de son temps qui le traduisent, les Henriquel, Les Calamatta, les Francois, les Aristide Louis, les Beaugrand, les Blanchard; et le succs de ces gravures est considrable auprs de toutes les personnes qui veulent placer sous leurs yeux, dans leur salon, un sujet de sentiment ou de pit. Avec Paul Delaroche, Ary Scheffer est certainement le peintre qui a t le plus encadr. [italics rv] 3 The large volume of reproductions after Scheffers work made him one of the most framed artists of his age, according to Beraldi. In order to gain some idea of what Beraldi meant by this remark, we have to go to Scheffers home town, to the Dordrechts Museum, which was presented with a unique collection of reproductions in 1899 by Cornelia Marjolin-Scheffer, Scheffers only daughter. Leafing through this collection we quickly find a range of exceptional reproductions in varying techniques. These reveal that Scheffer was not only much reproduced, but also that his reproductions were made by the best printmakers of his time. The oldest reproduction in this collection is a lithograph after Scheffers Le Vengeur of 1817, by the French lithographer Charles de Lasteyrie, [fig. 36] which may also have been printed in his Paris studio, established by the printmaker in 1814. The lithograph is an early example of French lithography and possibly one of the earliest reproductions after a Scheffer work, by a pioneer in this technique.4 The collection in the Dordrechts Museum also contains interesting engravings, such as a print by the French master engraver Louis Henriquel-Dupont after Scheffers Christus Consolator of 1842.5 [fig. 37] As previously observed, Henriquel-Dupont made an important contribution to traditional engraving in France, particularly through successful pupils such as Aristide Louis en Alphons Francois, prints by whom we also encounter in the museums collection.6 Other renowned engravers in the collection include the Frenchman Zache Prvost (1797-1861), with his print after Louis Philippe, lieutenant-gnral, rencontre le 1er rgiment de hussards, the Italian Luigi Calamatta (1801-1869), with his engraving after the 1843 painting Francesca di Rimini, and the Englishman S.W. Reynolds, with an aquatint after Scheffers portrait of the poet Beranger.7 Re-

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fig. 37 Louis Henriquel-Dupont, Christus Consolator by Scheffer (1842), engraving 62.5 x 85.5 cm, Muse Goupil, Bordeaux.

markably, there are also a number of prints in the typically English mezzotint technique, such as the 1835 reproduction by the English mezzotinter T. Hodgetts, who was particularly influential in the Netherlands, after Scheffers 1828 portrait of C.M. Talleyrand-Perigord, plus a few rare French examples of this technique, by the engravers Louise and Francois Girard (1787-1870).8 Finally, we also encounter diverse photographic reproductions, dating from the pioneering years of this medium. Notable examples are a salt print by the well-known French photographic pioneer Gustave Le Gray of Le Coupeur de nappe, from around 1851, and a prestigious photo album with photographs by the renowned photographer Robert Bingham, published by Goupil in 1860 to commemorate Scheffer, who had died in 1858. [fig. 38]

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fig. 38 Gustave Le Gray after Scheffer, Le Coupeur de nappe (ca.1851), salt print, Dordrechts Museum, Dordrecht.

Reproductions after the work of Ary Scheffer are the main subject of this chapter. How were these reproductions made, distributed and received? Above all, what was the artists attitude to reproduction as regards his own work? What did he know about authorship rights, what was his relationship with printmakers and what kind of reproductions were produced after his work? Prints after Scheffers pictures were distributed to a public of connoisseurs and amateurs. One member of this public was Vincent van Gogh, who greatly admired Scheffers work and reproductions of this. The importance of reproductions to Scheffer and his work will be discussed at the end of this chapter, which I shall conclude with a closer comparision of Scheffers paintings and their reproductions, in order to consider the question of whether reproduceability played a role

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when the artist was painting his original works. In referring to the various works and their reproductions, I shall use the titles employed in the nineteenth century wherever possible. The majority of these works had French titles which were translated into a Dutch or English equivalent, depending on the context. The varying titles of the works and their reproductions are interesting as regards distribution, and I have therefore endeavoured to preserve these as far as possible. In the interests of clarity, however, I have occasionally added another title used to denote the work, sometimes in another language.

SCHeffer anD tHe Droit De reproDuCtion


Was Scheffer familiar with authorship rights? The issue is an interesting one, not only from an historical point of view. During Scheffers lifetime it was already of legal relevance. As previously observed, it was vital when artists sold their work that they explicitly claimed their droit de reproduction, otherwise this right would be automatically transferred to the new owner of a piece. In January 1845 Scheffer wrote an interesting letter to his brother-in-law A.J. Lamme:
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Jai vendu mon tableau du Christ avec les Stes femmes 14000 comprix le droit de gravures Goupil Ce tableau est presque termin. Je me mettrai de suite aux tiens et promets un pour un peut etre les deux pour le mois de mai. Jai vendu a Godecharle la jeune fille avec la vierge fr.12.000 sans le droit et promis de la livre pour le mois daout pour lexposition a Bruxelles.9

The letter shows that the artist had sold one painting to Goupil, together with the rights of reproduction, before it had been completed; he had also sold another work, without the rights of reproduction. This is the first direct evidence that Scheffer was aware of his legal position as regards his work. Where he had acquired this knowledge of the law is hard to say, but he had opportunities enough. As previously observed, during the 1830s and 1840s artists from his immediate circle were familiar with the concept of authorship rights. Ingres negotiated with Goupil concerning his rights, while in 1843 Horace Vernet even published an extensive treatise on the subject. Scheffer may also have come into contact with reproduction rights via the art trade.10 Moreover his friends includ-

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ed leading lawyers, such as counsellor Baron de Schonen, whose portrait he had painted in 1822, and with whom he may have discussed the droit de reproduction. Like many of his contemporaries Scheffer sold the rights to reproduce his works. Although it is often unclear in historical practice how much artists actually earned from such sales, some information is known regarding Scheffers situation. The price for both possession of a work and the right to reproduce this were not prescribed by legislation but determined by the market forces of supply and demand. The legal distinction between the two did not always translate into two separate sums. In 1846, for example, Scheffer sold his work LEnsevelissement du Christ with the droit de reproduction for 14,000 or 15,000 francs.11 In her essay on Scheffers income, Anne-Marie de Brem also quotes some figures relating to to reproduction rights.12 In 1848, for example, Scheffer received 14,000 francs for the sale of a replica with the rights to reproduce this; a year later he was paid 12,000 francs for a work including the droit de reproduction; in 1856 he again sold a replica with reproduction rights for the sum of 14,000 francs. Finally, in the last year of his life, he received a total of 42,000 franc for three replicas with reproduction rights. In all these instances Scheffer sold his works including the right of to reproduce these, making it difficult to determine the exact value of this right by itself. Moreover, no cases are known in which Scheffer sold reproduction rights independently of the original works. In order to gain some idea of the economic value of his reproduction rights, however, we can cautiously compare similar works sold without the right to reproduce these. According to De Brem, the painter was paid around 5,000 to 6,000 francs for replicas without reproduction rights, which allows us to tentatively estimate that such rights were worth 7,000 to 9,000 francs per work. Although these are only cautious estimates, Scheffer does appear to have earned just as much, or sometimes slightly more, from selling the reproduction rights to such replicas as he did from selling actual ownership of the work.13 A similar ratio is found in the earning of successful English contemporaries, such as Landseer and Wilkie. Once a painter had transferred the right to reproduce a work, he had lost all claim to this. Since it was common practice for artworks to be reproduced more than once, curious situations could arise in which an artist no longer had exclusive rights over the multiplication of his work. This was certainly the case when Scheffer received a request from a lady, whose identity we do not know, to be allowed to make a lithograph after one of his paintings. Since the artist had already given an engraver permission to reproduce the work, he was obliged to

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apply to this individual before he could grant the ladys request. The engraver agreed that Scheffer could allow the lady to copy the work, provided that certain conditions were met, which he stipulated to safeguard the commercial future of his own print. Scheffer detailed these conditions in his reply to the lady:
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Jai obtenu de lhomme qui fait graver ce tableau lautorisation de laisser faire la lithographe que vous me demandez, il stipule seulemant quon ne dessine que la figure de Marguerite celle de Faust et de Mphistophls et point les figures accessoires afin que toute la composition ne soit pas reproduire. Je vous envoie un dessin sur lequel on pourra prendre ces trois figures a retoucher apres le tableau qui reste chez moi jusqua la fin du mois.14

In order to protect his own print the engraver refused to allow reproduction of the entire image. Even Scheffer, the creator and painter of this image, had to respect the engravers wishes. To avoid any misunderstandings Scheffer even sent the lady a drawing of the composition she was allowed to reproduce. In addition to being legally permitted to reproduce a work, it was also important to be given access to this work by its owner. In museums, for example, the reproduction of artworks was often subject to the institutions own regulations. Scheffers letter to the Louvre, which owned his painting Marguerite au Jardin, should regarded in this light: Je prie la Direction des Musees de laisser faire un croquis la mine de plomb de mon tableau de Marguerite au Jardin.15 All in all Scheffer appears to have been fully aware of the importance of reproduction rights. Nevertheless, the evidence for this is scanty, apart from various letters. Scheffers legal relationship with the firm of Goupil, for example, is veiled in mystery, owing to the loss of the firms accounts. Did the painter and Goupil formalise their relationship in contracts? This seems a distinct possibility, although it is equally feasible that such contracts never existed, given that informal oral agreements, never committed to paper but equally binding, were often the norm for art dealers and artists. Indeed, the informal association enjoyed by Scheffer and Goupil for many years makes the existence of detailed written contracts seem unlikely. A handwritten remark by Scheffer on a print by Louis Henriquel-Dupont after Christus Consolator is revealing in this regard. This print of an engraving published by Goupil was never sold and formed part of the firms estate, now housed in the Muse Goupil in Bordeaux. Scheffer wro-

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te in the margin of the print: Je soussign dclare que MM Goupil et cie sont seuls propritaires de droit exclusif de reproduction de la prsente composition que je leur ai vendu sans reserv, Paris 6 mai 1857.16 Henriquel-Duponts engraving is possibly the most popular reproduction after Scheffers work to have been published. The fact that Goupil held the droit de reproduction for this work is hardly surprising; the fact that Scheffer wished to avoid any misunderstanding in this connection is also understandable, given the prints importance. What is remarkable, however, is that this important information was casually noted in the margin of a print, instead of in a detailed contract; it is the form, rather than the substance of this agreement, that is interesting, and possibly revealing, with regard to the informal relationship between Scheffer and his art dealer and publisher Goupil. Scheffer undoubtedly derived revenue from reproduction rights, but the question remains of whether he also enjoyed extra income from the sale of prints after his work, in the form of royalties or other types of profit sharing. Nothing is known about such income, however, and perhaps he never received anything of this kind. It is probable that the financial benefits of a successful print mainly accrued to the publisher. During the 1870s the substantial income derived by Goupil from the publication of reproductions prompted a lawsuit against the firm by the relatives of several famous artists, whose work had been much reproduced by Goupil. The plaintiffs were the heirs of Paul Dlaroche, Horace Vernet and Scheffers daughter, Cornelia Marjolin-Scheffer. The verdict was pronounced on 26 July 1878:
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Dclare Goupil et Cie bien et lgitimement en possession du droit de reproduction les oeuvres dont sgit; les dclare mal fonds dans leurs demandes fins de dommages-intrts, les en dboute; Condamne les demandeurs en tous les dpens faits contre chacun, en ce qui les concerne, par Goupil et le ministre des beaux-arts, lesquels, pour les hritiers Delaroche, comprendront lenregistrement des deux traits porduits, dont distraction.17

Although the plaintiffs, including Scheffers daughter, did not win their suit, the case shows that 20 years after Scheffers death the reproduction rights to his work were still a matter of great importance.

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inDepenDent reproDuCtionS
an unFinished reproducTion

On 16 December 1845 the young, talented engraver Henricus Wilhelmus Couwenberg (1814-1845) died, leaving unfinished his engraving after Scheffers Mignon et son Pre. Andr Taurels most renowned pupil had been considered a major talent with a highly promising future.18 His death, at the age of 31, brought an untimely end to this talent and promise. Scheffer had derived the inspiration for his painting Mignon et son Pre from Goethes novel Wilhelm Meisters Lehrjare. Several years previously he had painted another two pictures featuring the character of Mignon, Mignon: Mignon regrettant la patrie and Mignon aspirant au ciel. Both paintings had enjoyed success at the Salon of 1839, both had been engraved by Aristide Louis whose prints of these Scheffer pictures had also met with success at the Salon of 1844.19 [fig. 39] So it is hardly surprising that Scheffer chose to paint a third, related composition on the theme of Mignon, which he completed in the early months of 1844. The painting was displayed in Brussels in the spring, then exhibited in London in June, after which it was acquired by Queen Victoria for 708 pounds. Given the success of Scheffers earlier paintings of Mignon, and the two prints by Louis, it was only to be expected that the artists third interpretation of this theme would also be committed to print. In fact the engraver Couwenberg had already signed the contract for the reproduction while Scheffer was still working on the original. According to Taurel, his pupil Couwenberg was deeply impressed by Scheffers painting. It is not known who took the initiative to reproduce the work as an engraving. On 9 October 1843, while in Paris, the engraver entered into an agreement with the firm of Goupil to produce the engraving. Several weeks later he had returned from the French capital, and wrote a letter, dated 1 November, to his parents from Amsterdam:
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As you now see I am back. Well, it is not without result that I am once more here. From my letter to Bram and you all you will have learned some specifics. At present I shall tell you that I would not have ventured to leave Paris until I actually should have signed a contract with the publisher Goupil et Vibert, for the engraving of a painting by Scheffer of Paris. That contract I signed on Thursday the 9 th at eleven oclock in the evening, and I have thereby taken on the engraving for twelve thousand francs to be

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fig. 39 aristide Louis after Scheffer, Mignon regrettant la Patrie (1843), engraving, Dordrechts Museum, Dordrecht.

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delivered in two years. If God in His goodness grant me health and a clear insight in the matter, I hope that I shall finish it much more quickly. It is a good price and one that is equal to the prices of the best French engravers. I have thus been allowed to experience the satisfaction, [of knowing] that it is only through work I have already made and not through patrons that I have obtained this work, whereof I must augur myself well for the future in the further completion of the Douw and the Rembrandt which have

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encountered a great deal of approbation there. I have endeavoured to dispose the contract as commodiously as possible. In February or thereabouts I obtain the drawing and and will then receive 1000 francs every two months, whether I do the work here or in Paris, and concerning this I am not yet decided. There life is cheaper in many respects, and here is truly everything expensive, as you indeed well know. At our convenience, however, I shall give everything mature consideration, with all the information now gained in person and on the spot. At any event I shall have to be in Paris for more or less time at the end of the work and for the printing.20 Couwenbergs letter offers a unique insight into the conclusion of a contract for a reproduction. In the agreements concerning price, payment by instalment, deadline and method of working we recognise the organisation of the reproductive process. Although I have never seen this contract, it certainly seems to have existed. Couwenberg entered into this contract with the well-known firm of Goupil, who offered him a fairly attractive sum. It seems remarkable that the publishing house was willing to chance working with young Couwenberg, an artist still at the beginning of his career, although he had won various prizes at the art academy and quickly made a name for himself. In his letter Couwenberg himself suggests that he partly owed the commission to engrave Scheffers Mignon et son Pre to his prints after a painting by Gerard Dou (Girl with Basket of Fruit by a Window, then in the Six collection) and The Syndics by Rembrandt. Although the young engraver had only been able to show the publisher these prints in an unfinished state, to demonstrate his skill, they were good enough to gain him the commission. Couwenberg never completed these two prints, nor his engraving after Scheffers painting, and they were finished after his death by the engravers J. de Mare and J.W. Kaiser respectively. In 1844 De Kunstkronijk reported on Couwenbergs activities in Paris:
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It is our understanding that our excellent engraver, Mr Couwenberg, is on his last trip to Paris, where he has been invited, to engrave a large painting by the renowned Scheffer, the which painting will shortly be sent hither for this purpose. We rejoice at this favourable notice, from which we learn with joyful pride, that our deserving native artists are beginning to be valued for their true worth.21

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In all probability the work in question was Couwenbergs print after Scheffers Mignon and the engraver may have visited the painter in person. It is unclear whether he saw the original painting on this visit, although he may have seen the work at an exhibition in Brussels in 1844, after which it was transferred to Queen Victorias collection. When Couwenberg received a drawing of the work from Paris, as an alternative to the painting, he was highly disappointed. He expressed his misgivings in an lengthy letter to the painter, here quoted in full:
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Monsieur, Je saisis loccasion favorable qui se prsente par le dpart de Mr. ladvocat De Bruine pour Paris, afin de vous avertir la recette du dessin de Mr. Thevenin. En mme tems Mr. de Bruine en profitera beaucoup en faisant votre connaissance honorable, Monsieur. Et alors certes il poura plus encore admirer vos beaux tableaux qui malheureusement nous parviennent si rarement. Mr. de Bruine est celui du petit nombre de nos vritables amateurs, qui favorise le plus par son influence ici, les beaux arts et qui est dans le paysage un peintre trs distingu quoiquil ne se soit pas fait artiste. Cest donc avec plaisir qui ce dessin me soit parvenu. Comme jai en lhonneur de vous crire Monsieur, de Bruxelles devant le tableau cest ouvrage ma beaucoup touch et tellement que je sentais quelque regret en recevant le dessin, de ne pas avoir pu moi mme interprter ces caractres. Malheureusement je navais pas reu le dessin alors. Et je nemportais du tableau que le calque exact des parties essentielles, et ca heureusement, parceque ctait votre dsir Monsieur, comme je lisais plus tard dans vos observations, Monsieur, qui sont trs justes. Permettez moi de vous soumettre les miennes lesquelles jespre ncarteront pas des votres. En gnral le dessin ne me parait pas avoir ce relief, quoiqutant tres vigoureux au tableau. La tte du vieillard, tant absolument du Rembrandt dans le tableau, quand aux tons, et ayant cette belle transparence de la nature dans les ombres, a en sus ce caractre incomprhensible, dans les yeux par exemple, que jtais si curieux de retrouver dans le dessin. Est ce en vrit raison que je me suis trouv desapoint? Pour moi la tte du vieillard me parait plus grossiere, et par l mme plus grande par raport

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la tte de Mignon, que dans le tableau. Je crois quil y manque de la finesse dans le model et quelque chose de plus fin dans le fond, quelque chose de plus fuyant, pour quon y pense moins. Le caractre de la tte de Mignon et le dessin du bras gauche me paraissent plus fidles. Mais ce sera avec plaisir que je recevrai la rduction promis que Messrs Goupil avaient oublide joigndre au dessin. Comme le sort du tableau nest pas de venir par ici en Hollande, je me propose dans le cas ou cette pice reste quelque part dans la Belgique ou en Engleterre, dy aller revoir ce dessin avec le tableau et je ne doute pas que le propritaire consentira cela. Quoique mes obervations vous paraitront exagrs Monsieur, je ne condamne pas le dessin auquel Mr. Thevenin a employ tous ses soins, mais pardonnez la libert avec laquelle je vous soumets ceci par lexaltation avec lequel jai vu le tableau. En attendant quelque lettres par lintermde de Mr. de Bruine, qui voudra sen charger, et si vous le juger ncessaire, je pourai moccuper des choses acessoires, ce qui sera toujours avec la plus haute considration Monsieur vtre trs humble serviteur, H.W. Couwenberg.22 The reason the drawing was poor was that it could not be finished, because the original painting had already been sent to Queen Victoria. The suggested solution was for Couwenberg to use the drawing to start his engraving, then for him to return to Paris at a later stage, in order to complete his engraving under the eyes of the painter, finding the means in the advice and improvements of the latter to remedy the errors to which the deficiencies of the drawing had been able to reduce him, as the master engraver Andr Taurel later put it.23 Although the painter Scheffer believed that problems with the weak drawing could be overcome in this way, the engraver Couwenberg had his doubts. As Taurel explained: he had too much experience not to know that in engraving it is always difficult, sometimes impossible, with regard to expression and forms, to improve mistakes made in the layout.24 The drawing in question was not by Scheffer himself, but by the engraver J.C. Thvenin (1819-1869), who may have been a friend of the painter. While Scheffer had every faith that corrections could be made at a later stage, Couwenberg was aware that once a plate had been engraved, any faults in this would be hard to rectify. In the absence of the original painting, however, the drawing was

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now the most important guide in the reproductive process. Understandably, Couwenberg would have preferred to have made the drawing himself, as his fellow engraver Luigi Calamatta did preparatory to reproducing Scheffers Francesca di Rimini.25 The use of such drawings was fairly general and offered the advantage that it detached the reproductive process from the original work. At the same time, however, danger lurked, for a defective drawing could lead to irrevocable problems in the reproduction. In another instance Scheffer himself was responsible for the fact that a drawing no longer corresponded with an original work, his 1856 painting Jacob et Rachel. The engraving by Jules Levasseur of this work was probably based largely on the painters own chalk study for the picture. A year later, however, Scheffer modified several details in his painting. So when Levasseurs print was published in 1859, this reproduced the now superseded composition of 1856. Where engravers did not have the opportunity, or take the opportunity, to match their work to the painting, original and reproduction could display curious differences. Using the deficient drawing Couwenberg would probably have made his own drawing to help him transfer the contours of the image to a plate. He would have placed the paper on the metal, then pricked holes through the lines on the paper with a burin to generate a pattern of stipple lines on the plate. He would then have incised various other components of the scene onto the plate, as can be seen from the earliest surviving state. [fig. 40] Couwenberg began with the exacting details in the heads of Mignon and her father, leaving the background blank, an unusual approach, for engravers usually laid out the general lines of the composition before working up the details. In the second known state of the plate, Couwenberg had drawn in the overall scene, entirely in the etching technique, with no trace of the burin, as Jan Jaap Heij has correctly observed. With only the inadequate drawing as his model, for a reduction promised by Goupil failed to materialise, Couwenberg anticipated many problems and therefore resolved:
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without caring for time nor expenses, nor looking to the difficulties which he could encounter, to obtain leave to be admitted to the apartments of the queen of England, and to acquire consent to position himself before the painting for a certain number of days, in order to improve the sketch that had to serve him as drawing. Thus it was only in order to make himself conversant with the enterprise entrusted to him, and justify

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fig. 40 Henricus Wilhelmus Couwenbergh after Scheffer, Mignon et son pere, etching first state 30.5 x 23.5 cm, Dordrechts Museum, Dordrecht.

40

himself in this position, that he was willing to leave his family and undertake that journey.26 Fortunately, the engraver received permission from Queen Victoria to study Scheffers painting at close quarters, so we can identify with certainty the painting to which his notes refer. In the case of other reproductions of Scheffers work, however, the identify of the original is often less clear, as the artists oeuvre, like that of many of his contemporaries, contained a number of versions of the same subject, in the form of replicas, reductions and copies.27 Scheffer himself sometimes reprised his compositions, while replicas of his paintings were also produced by the many students and assistants in his studio. From the 1830s, for example, Scheffer employed the artist Auguste Legras (1818-1887), who spent his entire career painting many replicas of Scheffers work, which the master frequently signed. The result is a fairly confusing body of works,

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produced, to a greater or lesser degree, by Scheffers own hand.28 All these related versions of subjects, plus comparable drawings, often make it exceptionally hard to establish which original served as the model for a specific reproduction. Although we know which painting Couwenberg studied for his reproduction of Mignon et son Pre, we must also bear in mind that his impression of this work was also shaped by the drawing. Couwenbergs friend P.L. Dubourcq later depicted him at work before the original painting, an image reproduced in De Kunstkronijk. We see the engraver working in silence in front of Scheffers large picture, which is naturally in full light. As J.J. Heij has observed, Couwenberg probably noted his impressions of the painting in a proof of the second state, recording his observations in the margin, to supplement the inadequate drawing. [fig. 41] The notes in the right margin read:
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[] the head in the painting always has more expression than in the drawing, although the white of the eyes is darker than in my engraving. The head is not so baboon-like as in the drawing. When there is glass before the drawing it looks more like the painting than otherwise for everything is too shrill. Head of the man is somewhat duller in the light than the drawing, but the shadows particularly on the left cheekbone are also not as black as on the drawing []29

These remarks attest to the engravers powers of observation, and his critical eye for the details of the painting, the drawing and his own engraving. In addition to the engravers observations the lower magin is also inscribed with two couplets from the song sung by the old harpist in Goethes novel. The reason for this is not clear; Couwenberg may have noted the verses with a view to later engraving these in the plate as a poetic caption, a common practic. The engraver incorporated his own observations in a third state of the print, to which he made such modifications as reducing the sharp contrast in the old mans face. Now satisfied with the composition, Couwenberg began work on the actual engraving. [fig. 42 a,b] However, his untimely death soon brought an end to his work on this reproduction after Scheffers painting Mignon et son Pre. Although Couwenberg was unable to finish his print, his method of working is interesting. It is significant that the engraver rejected Scheffers offer of assistance, his self-confident attitude clearly attesting to his own role in the repro-

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41

fig. 41 Henricus Wilhelmus Couwenbergh after Scheffer, Mignon et son pere, etching with pencil second state 30.5 x 23.5 cm, Dordrechts Museum, Dordrecht.

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ductive process. Naturally this state of affairs also says something about Scheffer himself, for the painter was apparently willing to allow Couwenberg the space to implement his own plan. Scheffers attitude contrasts sharply with that of his contemporary J.M.W. Turner, who was notorious for the demands he made on his engravers. While Turner mainly chose young, inexperienced engravers, whom he attempted to bend to his own will, Scheffer tende to work with renowned printmakers. When Louis Pierre Henriquel-Dupont, Zachee Prevost, Luigi Calamatta, S.W. Reynolds and Lon Nol made prints after Scheffers work, they were all established engravers, some with an international reputation. Although Scheffer himself also had a considerable reputation, he seems to have treated his engravers as equals. In his immediate circle of friends there were a number of engravers, including Charles de Lasteyrie and the married couple Francois and Louise Girard; Scheffer also regularly encountered Henriquel-Dupont in the elitist salons of Baron Gerard. These engravers made prints after Scheffers work and the painter immortalised a few of them, such as S.W. Reynolds and De Lasteyrie, in portraits. Scheffers printmakers moved in the same cultural milieu as the painter himself, so the socio-cultural distance between Scheffer and his printmakers does not appear to have been very great in early nineteenth-century France. The difference between the English and the French context is illustrated by the English engraver Abraham Raimbachs amazement when he saw the social status enjoyed by painters and engravers in France. The printmaker visited Paris on diverse occasions and was friends with

42a
fig. 42b Detail Henricus Wilhelmus Couwenbergh after Scheffer, Mignon et son pere, detail second state, Dordrechts Museum, Dordrecht.

42b
fig. 42c Detail Henricus Wilhelmus Couwenbergh after Scheffer, Mignon et son pere, detail third state, Dordrechts, Museum Dordrecht.

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well-known French engravers such as Charles Bervic, Henriquel-Dupont and Auguste Desnoyez. In 1843 he wrote:
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whatever may be the worldly circumstances of an artist in France (and I believe that in pecuniary matters they are much alike in all places) it cannot escape observation, that in that country they are allowed to take a higher rank in public estimation, relatively to the other classes of society, than is permitted to them generally in England.30

It should be emphasised, however, that the engravers cited thus far belonged to the elite amongst nineteenth-century printmakers. Working in their shadow were probably many unknown engravers, using traditional methods to produce prints in the modest surroundings of their own studio. A letter from Paul Chenay to the master engraver Henriquel-Dupont offers an insight into the relationship between printers. When Chenay had completed an engraving after Scheffers Le Larmoyeur, published in LArtiste in 1856, he did not have enough to do and applied to his more famous colleague for work. Henriquel-Dupont wrote in reply:
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J apprends avec tres vive pein que vous etez au ce moment sans aucun travail, et je suis surprise qui votre dernier ouvrage daprs M Scheffer ne vous tait amene une commande assez lucrative pour vous. Mettre a mme de termin votre planche du Theatre Francais.[] Soyez assur qui si je puis trouver une occasion de vous servir, je ne la laisser chapper.31

When Henricus Wilhelmus Couwenberg died, among the works he left unfinished was the partially engraved plate after Scheffers painting Mignon et son Pre. The firm of Goupil went in search of another engraver to complete the plate, eventually deciding upon the French printmaker Alphonse Francois (18141888), who was also young, the same age as Couwenberg, and equally talented. The brother of engraver Jules Francois, and one of the most promising of Henriquel-Duponts pupils, he enjoyed a successful debut at the Salon in 1842, later making a name with prints after works by Paul Dlaroche.32 Couwenbergs unfinished plate was in safe hands with Francois. He completed the task more than three years after Couwenbergs death. Op 1 February 1849 Goupil launched the print in Paris, New York and London. It was inscribed: peint par Scheffer

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fig. 43 Henricus Wilhelmus Couwenbergh and alphonse francois after Scheffer, Mignon et son pere (1844), engraving and etching fourth (and last known) state 30.5 x 23.5 cm, rijksmuseum, amsterdam.

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commenc par H.W. Couwenberg termin par Alphonse Francois [fig. 43] To publicise this print after Mignon et son Pre the publisher simultaneously issued a brochure of the work, [fig. 44] which incorporated a small lithograph. The linear character of this lithograph indicates that it should be regarded as a reproduction after the engraving, not after the original painting.33 In the accompanying text the print after Mignon et son Pre was lauded as an important addition to the two engravings previously published by Goupil, after Mignon regrettant la patrie and Mignon aspirant au ciel, which had enjoyed great success and sold thousands of copies, according to the publisher.34 The brochure then described the new print after Mignon et son Pre from Goethes novel Wilhelm Meister, and concluded by explaining the circumstances of its production; the engraving had been commenced by the clbre graveur Couwenberg and completed by Francois, of whom the publisher declared: Il en a fait un chef-doevure

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qui le classe ds aujourdhui parmi les graveurs les plus renomms de lepoque. Ce jugement que portent sur lui les artistes les plus distingus, sera ratifi par tous ceux qui verront la gravure de Mignon et son Pre.35 Five versions of the print, at varying prices, were published:

1 2 3 4 5

preuves avant la lettre, , preuves avec la lettre, , preuves dartiste:

on ordinary paper: on Chinese paper: on ordinary paper: on Chinese paper:

40 francs 50 francs 20 francs 25 francs 120 francs

So Couwenbergs print had been finished after all, thanks to Francois efforts. But did his engraving do justice to Couwenbergs original layout? This was the question that arose in Dutch cultural circles. In order to obtain a definitive verdict on this, the highest authority on art in the Dutch art world, the Vierde Klasse of the Koninklijk Instituut (Royal Advisery Counsil for Science, Literature and Fine Arts), initiated a further study of the matter, recently discussed by J.J. Heij and considered below.36 Several months after the print had been published, the Nederlandsche Staatscourant of 1 August 1849 issued the following report:
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The vierde klasse of the Koninklijk Nederlands Instituut van Wetenschappen, Letterkunde en Schoone Kunsten [Royal Dutch Institute of Science, Literature and Fine Art] deeming desirable an inquiry into the engraving in copper, published in Paris, representing Mignon et son pre after the

fig. 44 title page of brochure from Goupil, Vibert et Cie for Mignon et son pere, rijksmuseum, amsterdam.

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painting by Ary Scheffer, in the possession of the Queen of England, which engraving was commenced by its meritorious fellow member, the late H.W. Couwenberg, and completed after his death by the French engraver Alphonse Francois, determining the extent to which this completed work meets what could have reasonably been expected from the design of Mister Couwenberg, requested in the sitting of 4 June last its fellow member Mister A.B.B. Taurel to undertake such an inquiry and report on his findings.37 So the Dutch states highest advisory body in the field of the arts entrusted the actual inquiry to the influential engraver Andr Taurel, who had considered Couwenberg to be one of his most talented pupils during his years as director of the school of engraving at the Koninklijke Academie van Beeldende Kunsten in Amsterdam.38 Taurels inquiry into the engraving Mignon et son Pre offers a rare insight in the production of a reproduction, seen through the eyes of one of the most authoritative figures in the world of Dutch printmaking in the nineteenth century. During the session of 18 June 1849 Taurel reported on his findings to the members of the Vierde Klasse; these findings were officially published in the Staatscourant on 1 August 1849 and subsequently, in Dutch translation, in De Kunstkronijk and De Spectator.39 The report was sent to several foreign journals, including the Kunstblatt, which no longer existed, and the members of the Vierde Klasse also decided to submit it to the French journal LArtiste, or else the Revue des Deux Mondes, in the event that the editors of the former might not wish to place it.40 Although the report is not to be found in either French publication, the intention to distribute it underlines the importance attached to this inquiry in the Netherlands. The passages I quote below come from the version of the report published in De Kunstkronijk. Andr Taurel recalled his former pupil with nostalgia, describing him as someone who had quickly surpassed his teacher:
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The accurate inquiry which this honourable task demanded, the comparison which I have had to make into the smallest particulars between the state to which Couwenberg had brought the plate, and that in which his fortunate successor has delivered it to us, has awakened sad memories in me. Couwenberg was my pupil, and in a short time also my rival; having become my counsellor and ofttimes my guide, he always remained my

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friend.[...] If he had been allowed to attain a moderate age, he would have carried the art of engraving to an unprecedented height both here and elsewhere; and he has left us the proofs, of that which I contend, in a large number of products by his hand, some of which, it is true, are of secondary importance on account of their type and size, although all incorporate the requirements of art in the highest degree, but especially in his three famous plates, of which only the layout has been entirely completed; the first after the Syndics by Rembrandt, the second, after the well-known Gerard Dou, which forms part of Mister Sixs art collection, and the third, after the painting by Ary Scheffer, belonging to the Queen of England, and which, [now] completed by Alphonse Francois, forms the subject of the present report.41 Turning to Couwenbergs unfinished plates, Taurel wondered:
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But should we in truth rejoice at seeing the works of our Couwenberg completed? Would it not have been better to leave his labour unfinished, and in the event that people had still wanted to own an image after the original works, to have had them engraved again by other masters? Speaking for myself I am of that opinion, particularly now I see that a foreign engraver has been charged with finishing Couwenbergs engraving.42

Taurel had his doubts as to whether it was appropriate to complete Couwenbergs unfinished work, particularly as this task had been entrusted to a foreign French engraver. This seems a remarkable statement for Taurel to have made, given that he himself was French and had written his report in French: apparently he regarded his fellow countryman Francois as a foreigner. Nevertheless, he did express respect for Francois work:
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By this I do not mean to say that the plate, Mignon et son Pre, has been denuded of merit. Far from it, gentlemen! On the contrary I consider the plate [to be] one of the good products of the present time. I find in it a high degree of zeal and dignity, the drawing is pure, and the means, which the original said engraving provides, accommodated with circumspection in such a manner, that attention is not diverted and justice not done to the

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expression and the idea, which should particularly occupy the viewer in subjects of such nature. In Taurels opinion the engraving surpassed the two earlier prints by Aristide Louis after Scheffer s Mignon regrettant la patrie en Mignon aspirant au ciel; he pointed out that great difficulties had to be overcome in the engraving after Mignon et son Pre and that with whatever care the plate may have been designed, he who was to finish this (if this were not the designer) would have to possess a more than usual talent in order to understand the ideas of the latter, to submit himself to these and to continue these.43 Personally speaking, he would actually have preferred Couwenberg himself to have been able to finish the print. Taurel concluded his report with a detailed technical comparison of the state left by Couwenberg and Francois final result. He did not discuss the subject of the picture as this was a given. When considering the tones and lines, Taurel emphasised the differences between Couwenbergs design and Francois finished state:
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[] thus I have to declare that in the final print I do not descry the development of transitions, diversities, contrasts, be it from the dark to the light of colours, or variety in the workmanship, which the designer definitely had in mind, as can be inferred from his labour. One might say however that his successor has done his utmost to efface and even out all this. Couwenberg knew without a doubt that with serious subjects, and those in which the expression plays a primary role one should make circumspect use of the riches of engraving and the enchantment of its effect; but I know that he found this circumspection ofttimes taken too far by some and regarded it merely as a sign of weakness in their art. I was thus unpleasantly disappointed when, instead of the colour and enchanting expression, that Couwenberg would have given to his work, I saw before me a plate which had nothing other than a dark and monotone appearance.44

The prints dark appearance caused it to resemble a mezzotint, Taurel asserted:


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Surely it was not the issue here to treat the subject in a manner like the English are accustomed to follow in their engravings; this would be

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entirely not in keeping with the style of Scheffer, and still less with that in his three pictures, of which Gthes Mignon is the subject, and in which the painters intention seems rather to have been guided by the German style. But a middle way had to be chosen here, and I am confident that the head of the old man and also of Mignon would have gained a great deal from a more powerful and varied treatment. In addition to assessing the nuances of tone and colour in both prints, Taurel also addressed the subject of the lines employed by both engravers, in the working up of various details, such as the feet, the hands and the heads:
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[] I must confess that I perceived with true pleasure that Alphonse Francois has finished the feet and hands and particularly the head with talent [] A completed head undoubtedly looks better than a laid-out head, but that head is well finished, well drawn and well modelled: the expression is excellent, winsome and arresting; Couwenberg would have come thus far and perhaps further [sic]; The head as it is, seem worthy of him to me, and with much pleasure I awards that praise to Alphonse Francois . The head of the old man, on the other hand I find hard in tone, hard in modelling: it does not express the decrepitude, it is as if [it were made] of wood or metal. What expression on the other hand in the head laid out by Couwenberg! What a drawing! What a transparency! In that state it is already a pearl! Couwenberg alone would have been able to complete it. The hands of the old man have become heavy and [are] of a thickness not commensurate with the physiognomy which Gthes old man should have. This is not the diminution, of old age and prolonged calamities; these are not the long and withered fingers that one imagines straying over the harp strings. Something entirely different could have been made of the head as it was laid out; Couwenberg did not conceive the hands thus, and he would not have completed them in this manner either.45

Having examined the two prints, Taurel proclaimed his verdict in the matter of Francois completion of Couwenbergs plate:
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Here you have it, gentlemen! The verdict which I, at your invitation, take the liberty of pronouncing with regard to the two states of the plate

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Mignon et son Pre. I am convinced that Couwenberg would not have fallen short in any element, which one can and should admire completely in the second state, and that in all the rest he would have surpassed the completor. To conclude by summarising my view of this new art product in a few words, I will say: It is a carefully completed but in general debilitated work.46 Taurels verdict was adopted by the Fourth Class and subsequently published. Few prints were probably made from Couwenbergs plates; in the case of Mignon et son Pre, Francois completion of the engraving made this completely impossible.47 Taurels report underlines the degree to which reproductions were evaluated as personal interpretations and influenced by the engravers individual qualities. His friend Eugne Delacroix clearly described this view of reproductions in his Journal on 25 January 1857:
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La Gravure est une vritable traduction, cest--dire lart de transporter une ide dun art dans un autre, comme le traducteur le fait lgard dun livre crit dans une langue et quil transporte dans la sienne. La langue trangre du graveur, et cest ici que se montre son gnie, ne consiste pas seulement imiter par le moyen de son art les effets de la peinture, qui est comme une autre langue. Il a, si lon peut parler ainsi, sa langue lui qui marque dun cachet particulier ses ouvrages, et qui, dans une traduction fidle de louvrage quil imite, laisse clater son sentiment particulier.48

Taurel unquestionably preferred Couwenbergs translation of Scheffers painting. In many respects the making of this print reflects the production of reproductions after work by Scheffers contemporaries, such as Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres and Paul Dlaroche.49 Nevertheless the print is also unique in one respect, for never before had such a prestigious inquiry been devoted to a reproduction. As such the engraving after Mignon et son Pre is an exceptional reproduction after a work by Scheffer; its status was confirmed and even enhanced when the original painting was lost in 1927.50
Goupil: a publisher oF scheFFer reproducTions

The engraving after Mignon et son Pre was published by the firm of Goupil. Ary Scheffer, Horace Vernet and Paul Dlaroche were the most reproduced artists

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on the renowned firms stock list.51 Although prints after Scheffer were also issued by other publishers, by far the majority of reproductions after his work were published by Goupil. It is not clear how and when Scheffer first came into contact with the firm. An early stock list issued by Goupil & Rittner in 1835 includes several prints after Scheffer: an engraving by Alfred Johannot after Les Orphelins and a print by Alfreds brother Tony after Les Enfants Egars. However, these two prints by the Johannot brothers had already been published by other firms, in 1825 and 1826 respectively, and it is not known when the firm of Goupil & Rittner introduced both prints into its stock. In 1835 the firm also listed a reproduction by Francois Girards after Scheffer painting La Nourrice; this was available in black-and-white or colour, as was the lithograph by Adolphe Midy (1797-1874) after Le Jeune Grec Dfendant son Pre which appears in the same list. These prints were probably the earliest Scheffer reproductions published by Goupil, which was rapidly growing into a successful Paris publisher in this period.52 Although the origins of the Scheffer-Goupil collaboration are unclear, the alliance between the painter and the firm proved a successful one. For many years Scheffer worked almost exclusively with Goupil, unlike his contemporary Ingres, who worked with several firms.53 Thanks to Goupils stock lists we have a comprehensive view of the firms total range of Scheffer reproductions, while the many dated supplements to these lists also allow us to ascertain with reasonable accuracy when a specific print appeared on the market, thereby offering an insight into which reproductions after Scheffers work were published during his life, and when these were published.54 In 1842 Louis Henriquel-Duponts engraving after Scheffers Christus Consolator was published. By this time Adolphe Goupils partner, Henry Rittner, had died, and Goupil had entered into a new partnership, with effect from 10 May 1841, with Thodore Vibert, son-in-law of the renowned engraver Jean-Pierre-Marie Jazet (1788-1871). The firms name had also been changed to Goupil et Vibert. It was Goupil et Vibert which published the print by the French master engraver Henriquel-Dupont after Christus Consolator, a work that would subsequently become one of the best-known reproductions after Scheffers pictures. As was common practice, the print was available in various states and versions. Goupil et Viberts general catalogue for 1848 lists the print in before the letter and with the letter states, printed on ordinary paper, for 60 and 30 francs respectively; both states were also available on Chinese paper, and cost 80 francs for

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before the letter prints and 40 francs for with the letter prints; the most exclusive state, the epreuve dartiste, could be bought for 160 francs. Henriquel-Duponts Christus Consolator was thus one of the most expensive Scheffer reproductions in the firms stock. During the 1840s this reproduction was followed by several new prints after Scheffers work. In 1843, for example, Goupil et Vibert published the two Louis prints after the painters Mignon pictures, cited above. [fig. xx] These were followed in 1847 by a Girard engraving after Scheffers wellknown work Les Femmes Souliotes.55 The stock list for 1848 also includes an engraving by Thevenin after Scheffer portrait of Rossini. Amongst the engravings there was also an etching by Louise Girard after Lenore; available in just two states, this print was one of the first and rarest of etchings after Scheffers work in Goupils stock.56 At the end of this decade, in 1849, the firm published its engraving print of Mignon et son Pre.57 As a pendant to Christus Consolator, which had been engraved by Heriquel-Dupont, Scheffer now painted Christus Remunerator (after 1847); the engraving of this, by one of Henriquel-Duponts pupils, Auguste Blanchard, was published in May 1851.58 This print of the pendant Christus Remunerator was available in the same states, sold at the same prices, as Christus Consolator.59 By this time Goupil, Vibert & Co. had been reformed as Goupil & Co., following the death of Vibert, and the firm was continually bringing new Scheffer reproductions onto the market. In May 1853 Goupil & Co. published an aquatint by Francois Girard, after Les saintes Femmes sortant du tombeau du Christ.60 In June 1854 the firm again published an engraving by Blanchard, this time after Faust et Marguerite (Seduction).61 More than a year later it also issued two new prints after Scheffers work, Les saintes Femmes au tombeau du Christ, engraved by the German printmaker Joseph Keller, and the painters full-length portrait of General Lafayette, engraved by Marie Leroux;62 six months later, in January 1856, Goupil published the engraving by N. Lecomte after Scheffers Dante et Beatrice;63 eighteen months later, in July 1857, E. Girardets engraving after Scheffers portrait of Benjamin Franklin was also being sold by the firm.64 Ary Scheffer died on 15 June 1858. Up to his death, the firm of Goupil had regularly published new reproductions after his work, during the 1830s, 1840s and 1850s. The majority of these had been engravings by printmakers of the Henriquel-Dupont school; in the final years of the painters life, the firm had had sometimes published several engravings a year after his work. Goupils stock al-

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so included aquatints, lithographs and an occasional etching after Scheffers pictures, although there is no mention of photographic reproductions of his work, for the latest reproductive medium was still in an experimental phase during Scheffers life. An early salt print from 1851 by Gustave Le Gray after Le Coupeur de nappe nevertheless shows that a least one photograph of Scheffers work was taken in this period. An interesting feature of this photograph is the painters signature in the margin, [fig. xx] for this seems to indicate that Scheffer recognised the new mediums potential at an early stage. The fact that Goupil published no photographs of Scheffers work during his life may have had less to do with the painter, however, than with the publisher, who barely published and sold any photographs before 1858.65 Scheffers death certainly did not bring an end to reproduction of his work. In January 1859, for example, Goupil published a print by Paul Leprix after Medora; the print on ordinary paper with the letter sold for 10 francs, the print on Chinese paper before the letter for 20 francs and the preuve dartiste for 30 francs. [fig. 45] At the same time Goupil also published a tribute to the painter, in the form of a Henriquel-Dupont engraving after Scheffers portrait, which had been painted by his pupil F.L. Benouville.66 A year after Scheffers death, the firm issued several more new prints, started during his lifetime, including two engravings by Jules Gabriel Levasseur after Jacob et Rachel and its pendant Ruth et Nomi; [fig. 46] in July 1859 both these prints were available in similar states, for similar prices: on ordinary paper for 12 and 24 francs, on Chinese paper for 15 and 30 francs, and as the preuve dartiste for 60 francs.67 Goupil also reissued the popular Henriquel-Dupont engraving after Christus Consolator, whose plate had suffered so badly from the prints success, that it had to be reworked, by one of the master engravers pupils, J. Fleischmann (1816/15-1866); the famous image was republished in January 1860, with prints with the letter on ordinary and Chinese paper still costing 30 and 40 francs respectively, although before the letter prints and epreuves dartiste had dropped in price: prints on ordinary paper now cost 50 francs (a 50 franc reduction), prints on Chinese paper 60 francs (a 20 franc reduction) and the preuve dartiste 100 francs (a 60 francs reduction). These reductions notwithstanding, Goupils special prints after Christus Consolator remained some of the most expensive prints after Scheffers work.68 In the early years following Scheffers death, Goupil continually launched new prints after his work. In January 1861, for example, the publisher issued two engravings by the brothers Jules and Alphonse Francois after Hb and La

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fig. 45 paul Leprix after Scheffer, Medora (1833), engraving, Dordrechts Museum, Dordrecht.

45

Tentation du Christ respectively.69 The firm also published new lithographs and aquatints, including a lithograph by M. Fanoli after Le Dante et Beatrice and an aquatint by Edouard Eichens after Faust (Faust dans son cabinet) and Margurite (Margurite au rouet), available in colour and black and white. Nevertheless, progressively fewer reproductions were made of Scheffers pictures. In 1864 the last prints after the painters work were added to the Goupil stock list: Jules Francois engraving after Marguerite a lglise was published in the summer of 1864, followed by an Abel Lurat aquatint after Foi et Esprance.70 However, Goupil continued to stock its existing range of prints after Scheffers paintings for many decades, thereby remaining the chief source of reproductions after the painters work. By the early 1860s Goupil had become successfully involved in photographic art reproduction. The firm has started in January 1859 with the publication of photographic reproductions in the series Galrie Photographique. The first batch of these, comprising ten photographs, montes sur Chine et Bristol, avec titres

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46

fig. 46 Jules Levasseur after Scheffer, Ruth et Nomi (1859), engraving 69.3 x 48.3 cm, Muse Goupil, Bordeaux.

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en tailles-douce, included two images after works by Scheffer, Dante et Beatrice and Faust et Marguerite, which were sold for eight francs apiece, a comparatively high sum for photographs but relatively inexpensive when compared with engravings of the same works. In 1860 these were supplemented by photographs after Faust et Marguerite (Le Sabbat) and, in a larger format, Le Roi de Thul, at eight and twelve francs respectively.71 The images had been taken by the well-known photographer Robert Bingham and were published in various formats. In October 1860 Goupil embarked on a new photographic series, entitled Muse Goupil, produced by the photographer H. Voland and comprising photographs of a smaller format, 9 by 13 centimetres, for the low price of 1.5 francs. The first photographs after Scheffers work in this series were reproductions of La Tentation du Christ and Hb.72 During the same period Goupil also started another popular series of photographs, entitled Cartes de Visite, which sold for just one franc apiece. A Goupil catalogue from 1864 lists a wide selection of photographs after Scheffers best-known works: Les Saintes Femmes revenant du tombeau, La tentation du Christ, Mater dolorosa, Jesus Christ, Mignon et son Pre, Faust et Margurite (la Seduction), Le Christ Remunerateur, Le Christ Consolateur, Hb, Margurite au Vouet, Faust dans son cabinet, Les Saintes Femmes au tombeau du Christ, Faust et Margurite (Le Sabbat), Mdora, Les Femmes Souliotes, Lnore, Le Baiser de Judas, Le Christ et Saint Jean, Le Roi de Thul, Bataille de Tolbiac and Margurite a lglise.73 New photographic reproductions constantly continued to appear in the series Muse Goupil, Cartes des Visite and Galrie Photographique.74 Goupils diverse photographic series were a great success and were typical products of the new technology which had, by now, been transformed into an effective mass medium.75 These successful series were responsible for Goupils emergence as the most important supplier of photographic art reproductions.76 From this point onwards new Scheffer reproductions were only published in the various photographic series. During the 1870s, 1880s and 1890s Goupil repeatedly published new photographic series featuring reproductions of Scheffers work, albeit in diminishing numbers.77 The stock list for January 1874 includes Carte-Albums, in the format 16 by 11 centimetres, for one franc apiece, with twelve well-known images by Scheffer: Le Christ et Saint Jean, Le Baiser de Judas, Christ Consolator, Christ Remunerator, Dante et Beatrice, Faust et Margurite (La Seduction), J. Christ, Maria Magdalena, Foi et Esperance, Les Saintes Femmes au tombeau, Mignon et son Pre, and Les Saintes Femmes sortant au tombeau. By this time, the series Galerie Photographique contained 30 reproductions after Scheffer, the series Muse Goupil 27 images, and

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the Carte de visite format 26 images. As previously observed, the firm of Goupil continued to supply traditional prints after Scheffers work, although not every state and version of these was still available. Lecomtes engraving after Dante et Beatrice, for example, could only be bought with the letter on ordinary or Chinese paper, while Eduard Eichens aquatint after Jesus Christus was only available with the letter on ordinary paper and in colour.78 The oldest photographic series, Galrie Photographique, now 35 years old, was lowered in price and put on special offer: as of 1 October 1894 the previous standard price of six francs apiece was reduced to five francs.79 Although the existing photographs in the series remained available, from the mid-1890s onwards they were no longer supplemented by new images. The Galrie Photographique series ultimately comprised a total of 1,779 different photographs, the Muse Goupil series a total of 1,173 images, the Carte-Album series 1,438 photographs and the Cartes de visite 1,280.80 Goupils successful photographic series from the 1860s had now been completed; henceforth the firm would only publish new photographic reproductions in the series Estampes Miniatures (from 1885) and Estampes Albums. Goupils stock list from 1904 includes dozens of photographic reproductions after Scheffers pictures, in various formats and prices, plus more than twenty engravings, aquatints and lithographs after the painters work, showing that the firm continued to sell an extensive selection of Scheffer reproductions into the early twentieth century.81 Examination of the Goupil stock lists reveals that the firm sold a wide range of Scheffer reproductions in all kinds of techniques and sizes, at all kinds of prices. Prestigious engravings by the best-known engravers of the time dominate these lists, for other techniques, such as lithography, etching, aquatint or mezzotint were less frequently used by Goupil for the production of large-format prints. During the first half of the 1860s two important changes occurred in the reproduction of Scheffers work: on the one hand, Goupil added the last traditional engravings to its stock, on the other the firm brought new photographic series into circulation. These developments reflected a general trend in the 1860s, outlined in chapter two: traditional engravings became increasingly rare and even endangered, while photography evolved into a mass medium for art reproduction. Price differences also highlight the diversity of reproductions after Scheffers work. These differences are illustrated by the reproductions after Scheffers

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painting La Tentation du Christ. In October 1860 Goupil published a photograph of the picture in the Muse Goupil series, for the price of 1.5 francs. This was followed in January 1861 by the Alphonse Francois engraving of the work, with prints on ordinary paper with the letter selling for 30 francs and without the letter for 60 francs, prints on Chinese paper with the letter and without the letter selling for 40 francs and 80 francs respectively, and preuves dartiste for 160 francs.82 In 1864 the firm also sold reproductions of the painting in carte de visite format for one franc. Thus, reproductions of Scheffers work La Tentation du Christ were available from Goupil at prices ranging from one to 160 francs. Although Goupil added progressively fewer new engravings to its stock lists during the final decades of the nineteenth century, the continued presence of this kind of reproduction in the firms range of prints is significant. The engravings were not sold off in the face of competition from much cheaper, photographic reproductions, but continued to retail for relatively high prices. In the meantime the financial foundations of Goupils stock were further expanded with much cheaper photographs. The variety in techniques and prizes was naturally associated with the difference in production costs. If Goupil had dumped its existing engravings on the market, this would have amounted to a considerable destruction of its capital. Instead, the firm chose to carefully preserve its stock spectrum and reissue successful reproductions, such as the engraving after Christus Consolator, whilst maintaining its high prices. These actions reflect the publishers determination to uphold its range of Scheffer reproductions in various market segments, responding to a differentiated demand for prints and photographs with an equally differentiated supply. Thus Goupil could meet the demand both of an art lover for a simple photograph of his or her favourite painting and of a connoisseur in search of an expensive traditional engraving, made by a leading engraving, in an exclusive state. Goupil also endeavoured to respond to public wishes through its publishing policies. Like the painted originals from which they derived, reproductions were also combined as pendants;83 related reproductions, such as Jules Levasseurs prints after Ruth et Nomi and Jacob et Rachel, were sometimes published simultaneously. In other instances some time elapsed between the publication of two related prints, for example ten years elapsed between publication of the prints after Faust et Margurite and Margurite lglise by Auguste Blanchard and Jules Francois respectively.84 The combining of works as pendants was often determined by the subject of a print, and related works by different masters were

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sometimes associated: for example, Goupil coupled prints after Scheffers Dante et Beatrice and Hb with its engraving of Ingres Venus Anadyomne. This subjectbased approach sometimes created interesting combinations, which could throw a completely different light on a specific composition. Although Scheffers Mignon et son Pre initially formed part of a series with the earlier prints after his Mignon regrettant la Patrie and Mignon aspirant au ciel, it was later combined with Romo et Juliette by the popular painter Charles Jalabert: Goethes creation thus became a pendant to Shakespeares. While many combinations of prints simply reflected the status of their painted orginals, in other instances these seem to have been specifically chosen by the publisher, who subtly played upon the collectors urge to complete a collection, by offering a related print to accompany a specific independent reproduction.
scheFFer reproducTions in enGland

The firm of Goupil achieved international distribution for its prints after Scheffer. In 1840 the Belgian dealer Ernest Gambart moved to England to work there as Goupils representative.85 He reconnoitred the English market and endeavoured to carve out a position amongst well-known English publishers such as Ackerman, Moon, Colnaghi and McLean. By the end of 1842 he had gained a foothold in the English printworld, using his continental contacts with Goupil and his own local English network to consolidate his trade in reproductions and become an important link between the English and French art markets. Like Goupil, Gambart initially specialised in selling prints before branching out into paintings and drawings. He also opened his own exhibition space, The French Gallery, which became the best-known place to view French modern art in London during the mid-nineteenth century. Gambart exhibited work by Scheffer, which he later supplemented with other continental masters, such as Rosa Bonheur, Henry Leys and Jozef Israls.86 He also became actively engaged in publishing reproductions of their work. The registration system employed by the Printsellers Association offers us an insight into the distribution of reproductions in the English market, including prints after Scheffer, in the period following the organisations foundation in 1847.87 The first print after Scheffer encountered in the registers is the wellknown engraving after Mignon et son Pre by Couwenberg and Francois, published on 9 February 1849 and registered to Gambart. Six states and versions of

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the engraving were available, in a total edition of 275 prints, a figure which represent the number of prints registered, not the volume actually sold. In the psa register the print is listed as Mignon and her father, and described as: forming a centre to the pair of Mignons, a reference to the two Aristide Louis engravings after Scheffers Mignons paintings, published by Goupil.88 This illustrates Gamberts business connection with the French publisher, which he continued to maintain even after he had established his own, independent firm. The firm of Goupil also collaborated with other enterprises in the publication of prints after Scheffers work. On 7 April 1851, for example, Goupil published Auguste Blanchards engraving after Christus Remunerator in collaboration with the well-known firm of Colnaghi.89 During the first half of the nineteenth century this renowned English company enterprise was already one of the leading art dealers in the English market. Colnaghis stock largely comprised prints after Victorian masters, so collaboration with Goupil brought the firm new opportunities for dealing in continental art. Goupil and Colnaghi also collaborated on Blanchards engraving after Faust et Margurite, which was published on 5 February 1855.90 According to the registers of the psa, the collaboration between these two renowned firms produced no other prints. However, they remained independently active in the print trading world, partly operating in the same market. After Scheffers death in 1858 Goupil continued to introduce reproductions after his work in England. On 31 March 1859, for example, the firm published the Levasseur engraving after Ruth and Naomi and, a week later, on 6 April, the pendant after Jacob and Rachel.91 Several months after this, on 17 September 1859, the firm also published the reworked print after Scheffers Christus Consolator in England. The engraving was registered to the name of J. Fleischmann, who had worked up the worn, original plate.92 There is no mention in the psa register of Henriquel-Duponts original version of this engraving, which highlights the limitations of the psa system. Henriquel-Duponts print had been published by Goupil in 1842 and had probably been circulated in England before the association was founded. A remark in The Art Journal, however, shows that Henriquel-Duponts print was widely known in England in 1856, before the reworked version became available.93 The new reworked version of the engraving was launched on the market in various states with a minimum edition of 250 prints. The psa register also records that, after printing of the proofs, electrotype was to be employed to allow the plate to support even larger editions, ne-

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cessitated by the huge popularity of the work.94 So the edition of 250 prints was merely an initial one. The number of prints in the final edition is not known, although a few thousand copies seems a probable estimate. Finally, on 27 October 1862, Goupil published another two engravings by Scheffer in England: the Chevron print after The Kiss of Judas (Le Baiser de Judas) and the Rousseau engraving after Christ and St John (Le Christ et Saint Jean). The entry for the latter also includes the promise that, after the proofs had been printed, the plate would be steeled to support a larger edition.95 In the world of the nineteenth-century trade the English and French print markets were closely related. Two prints by the Francois brothers are interesting in this connection. On 18 June 1860 Goupil published in England the engraving by Alphonse Francois after Temptation.96 Several months later, on 8 September, the firm also published the associated print by Jules Francois after Hb.97 In Goupils own stock supplements, however, both prints only appear later, in January 1861. Does this mean that Goupil published these prints in England at an earlier date than in France? That does not seem very likely, and the difference in publishing dates is probably the result of the way in which Goupil issued its supplements: while the psa registered a print to the day on which it was published, Goupil only issued its supplements twice a year, so the psa dates may well be closer to the prints actual date of completion. The important factor here is that Goupil appears to have registered these new engravings after Scheffer with the psa in England immediately after their completion, which shows the extent to which the firm was operating on an international scale from Paris during the 1850s, supplying the English market with engravings after Scheffers work at the same time as the French market.98 Although Goupil was the leading firm in England for reproductions after Scheffers work, it did not have a monopoly on these. On 30 March 1854, for example, the firm of Graves & Co., in collaboration with the publisher J.C. Grundy, published a singular engraving by E. Mandel, after a painting by Scheffer with the lengthy title Oh Jerusalem! Jerusalem!And as he approached the City He wept over it, in at least eight states and versions, with a total of 750 copies.99 The wellknown English firm of Agnew also dealt in Scheffer reproductions, publishing the engraving by Adolph Salmon after Christ Teaching Humility, of which 844 copies were printed. This was the last engraving after Scheffer to be registered with the psa and was published on 13 April 1870, some six years after Goupils final Scheffer engraving.
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In addition to France and England, Goupil was also active in Belgium, the Netherlands and Germany. The firm also made its first major attempt to conquer the large American market as early as 1846. Just as Gambart had once crossed the English Channel on Goupils behalf, so the young German dealer Michael Knoedler traversed the Atlantic Ocean to scout out the American market in New York, where he opened a branch of the firm in 1848.100 This gave Goupil a base of operations from which to introduce French art into the American market, including work by Scheffer that was already on display within a few months.101 Like Gambart the young German Knoedler would later make a career for himself in the international art world under his own name, while maintaining his connections with the French firm. In 1859, for example Levasseurs print after Jacob et Rachel was published by Goupil in Paris, London and Berlin, and by Knoedler in New York. As yet little is known regarding Goupils international commercial strategies. In some instances representatives of the firm developed into independent entrepreneurs, like Knoedler and Gambart, who later did business with the parent company under their own name; in other instances, the firm absorbed local dealers, such as Van Gogh, whose family firm became Goupils branch in The Hague. Goupils collaboration with Gambart, Knoedler and Colnaghi suggests there was a complex web of competition and cartel formation in the international print trade. Nevertheless, however international Goupils operations may have been, this was still a relatively small world, in which activities in the English and American markets were generally conducted via familiar contacts such as Gambart en Knoedler. In the international publishing circuit for Scheffer reproductions there were, however, national differences. A curious example of the difference between the American and English markets is provided by the distribution of the print after Christus Consolator, the painting of which was intended for the Dauphin, the Duke of Orlans, to decorate his Duchess chapel.102 Scheffer explained this work in a letter to his uncle A.J. Lamme in Rotterdam.103 The painting was based on a passage from the Gospel of Luke: he hath sent me to heal the brokenhearted, to preach deliverance to the captives, and recovering of sight to the blind, to set at liberty them that are bruised (Luke 4, 18-19) In the picture the central figure of Christ is depicted breaking the fetters of a dying Pole, whose national flag serves as his shroud; behind him stand a slave from antiquity, a modern Greek and a coloured man in chains. Scheffers painting thus condemned slavery and repression both in the past and the present; the Greek slave, for example, should

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be viewed in the context of the contemporary Greek struggle for liberation from Turkish domination, the coloured man in chains as a symbol of modern slavery.104 However, this figure of a coloured slave was regarded as unacceptably provocative in a time of American civil conflict, as Carel Vosmaer wrote in his translation of the Scheffer biography by Grote: The feelings, which people in America bear towards negroes, are tellingly exposed by this fact. They surely deem it an insult, to put the slave in the presence of the Redeemer.105 A modified version of the print, without the coloured man, was therefore published in the United States.106 It is not known whether Scheffer had a hand in this, although it seems unlikely, given the value he attached to this painting, which reflected his liberal political convictions. We can only assume that such a major change to his work, the omission of the dark-skinned slave in the United States, must have been against his will.

reproDuCtionS in iLLuStrateD puBLiCationS


caTaloGues, periodicals and alManacs

At the Salon of 1817 the still-youthful Scheffer exhibited his work La Mort de Saint Louis, which won him a medal in the category of history painting. This distinction may have prompted C.P. Landon to include an engraving of this work in his illustrated catalogue of the Salon for that year.107 The engraving, by Normand fils, was one of the earliest prints after Scheffer painting. After this his work regularly appeared in all kinds of illustrated Salon catalogues, periodicals, almanacs and special albums. Two years later, in 1819, Scheffers Dvouement patriotique de six bourgeois Calais was published in Landons Salon catalogue; during the 1820s several more works by Scheffer were also reproduced in these publications.108 After 1824 Landons series of illustrated Salon catalogues was continued by A. Beraud, who also included reproductions of Scheffers work, such as an engraving after the Souliotic women, exhibited at the Salon of 1827 and published a year later in Annales de lcole francaise des beaux-arts. Pour servir de suite et de complment aux Salons de 1808 1824, publi par feu C.P. Landon Salon de 1827.109 The French salon albums were well-known publications, which continued to appear in all kinds of forms throughout the nineteenth century.110 During the 1870s Goupil also published prestigious albums, which were available in a range of finishes at varying pric-

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es. Although the firm was prompted by specific exhibitions to publish such albums, they often remained in its stock for many years. In the final decades of the nineteenth century in particular, Goupil stocked a rich selection of these albums. Long after the exhibitions had been dismantled, these bound museums on paper kept the memory of their highlights alive for many years.111 Scheffers work regularly appeared in illustrated periodicals, too. On 20 June 1829 the cultural magazine Le Globe published an engraving after Scheffers portrait of the poet Beranger. Although we do not know whether Scheffer played any role in this reproduction, he did move in the same liberal republican circles as Le Globe.112 However, it was the leading French art journal LArtiste which regularly published reproductions after Scheffers work. The first of these was an 1833 lithograph by Marie Alexandre Alophe after Le Giaour, a work that had been exhibited at the salon that year.113 A wood engraving of Scheffers 1839 portrait of Lon de Laborde also featured in LArtiste in 1833. Moreover the journal published various engravings after Scheffers work, including an engraving after Mignon regrettant sa partie in 1844.114 Several years later the journal published an engraving by Narcisse Lecomte after Scheffers 1845 portrait of Lamennais.115 More than ten years later, in 1857, LArtiste also published the engraving by Paul Chenay, previously cited, after Ebenhart, comte de Wurtenberg (Le Larmoyeur) (1831), from Schillers Graf Ebenhard der Greiner von Wrtemberg van Schiller.116 Finally, in 1857, the journal reproduced a print after Scheffers portrait of the American statesman Benjamin Franklin.117 Reproductions after Scheffers works also appeared in other well-known periodicals, such as Le Charivari, LIllustration and Le Magasin Pittoresque.118 When Charles Blanc launched his new journal Gazette des Beaux Arts in 1858, he similarly intended this to include a reproduction after Scheffers La Virge consolatrice des affliges; as a result of Scheffers sudden death, however, the wood engraving was not published in the the periodical until a year later, when it was accompanied an article by Philippe Burty about the painter.119 All in all, Scheffers work regularly featured in French art journals, generally as a result of the original painting being displayed at salon exhibitions. Nevertheless, the number of reproductions after his work published in such journals should not be overestimated, and we should probably think in terms of dozens, rather than hundreds, of prints, although naturally it is impossible to gain a complete picture. Neither should we forget these journals apparently limited

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circulations, of several thousand copies, although the reading habits of the period meant that journals were often lent out by libraries, making the total number of readers a multiple of these circulation figures. Work by Scheffer also found its way into English publications. Between 1828 and 1831 the English publisher Alaric Watts regularly travelled to France in search of visual material for his literary publications, visiting the studios of wellknown painters such as Paul Dlaroche, Achille Deveria, Alexandre Decamps and Ary Scheffer. He subsequently published a range of French romantic drawings and watercolours in his Literary Souvenir (1832) and The New Years Gift and Juvenile Souvenir, including, in the latter, an engraving after Scheffers La famille du Marin from 1822 and an engraving by W. Chevalier after Les Orphelins.120 These early examples were followed by Scheffer reproductions in English illustrated art journals. The Art Journal, for example, reproduced various prints of Scheffers work, albeit after his death, including, in 1869 an engraving after Christ and St John, by E. Rousseau, and an engraving after The Kiss of Judas, by Chevron, both of which had been previously published as independent prints by Goupil in England in 1862.121 Reproduction of both prints by The Art Journal gave its readers possession of these pendant works; the publication also stressed, in its review of The Kiss of Judas, that both prints should viewed together:
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No two subjects could by any possibility more dissimilar; yet the painter has treated each of them with perfect proprierty. Fully to appreciate the contrast, the two prints should be looked at side by side, and it will be seen how carefully Scheffer studied the characters and the circumstances of the figures that of Christ especially here he placed them on the canvas.122

Another work was J. Levasseurs engraving after Ruth et Naomi, published by Goupil in England as an independent print on 31 March 1859, and reproduced in The Art Journal in 1878.123 Such reproductions in art journals brought prints published by Goupil back into the public eye in another guise. It should be emphasised here that these were the same reproductions, produced by the same engraver and possibly printed from the same plate. Was their publication in art journals supposed to give a new impulse to the sale of traditional engravings, or were the prints such a success that they could also be published in this way? At

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any rate, this practice points to the close connection between illustrated art journals and the print trade in the field of art reproduction.124 Scheffers work also found its way into illustrated periodicals in the Netherlands, the country of his birth. In 1838, for example, De Gids published a lithograph by H.J. Backer after La Ferme incendie ou La Fin dun incendie de ferme (1824) and, two years later, a print by the same lithographer after Le Roi de Thul.125 However, the majority of prints after Scheffers work were published during the the 1840s and 1850s, in illustrated art journals such as De Kunstkronijk and in various (literary) almanacs. With a view to reproducing Scheffers painting De drie koningen (Les Rois Mages) the publisher of De Kunstkronijk contacted Scheffer in 1845, to request a drawing of the picture. This drawing subsequently formed the basis for a lithograph by C. Curtenius Bentinck, published in the sixth volume of De Kunstkronijk and described as follows:
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Seldom, we say this with satisfaction, does such a precious contribution fall to the share of a periodical, which for many an amateur and collector, surely possesses an untold value; but more seldom still is the opportunity through an extremely moderate subscription, as a bonus, to secure participation in a lottery, in which one of the prizes is a drawing made expressly for this purpose by an artist such as Ary Scheffer.126

So readers of De Kunstkronijk not only acquired a reproduction: a subscription to the journal also enabled them to compete for the original drawing by Scheffer himself. In the same year the journal also published a lithograph by the lithographer F.B. Waanders after Margurite lEglise.127 Circa 1850 the publication also included two exceptional lithographs, produced by Scheffer himself, Een ziekbed (A sickbed) , and, a year later, a work after his well-known picture Mignon et son pre.128 [fig. 47] Curiously, however, after this the art journal published no more reproductions of work by the famous painter. While the name of Scheffer was nearly always pronounced with respect, the painters status and renown was only translated to a limited degree into reproductions in his native countrys best-known illustrated art journal. Scheffers work was reproduced more widely in various almanacs in the Netherlands. In 1849, for example, an engraving by Tetar van Elven after Charit was

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fig. 47 anonymous after ary Scheffer, Een ziekbed, from: De Kunstkronijk (1850), p.58, lithograph, 24.1 x 16.9 cm.

47

published in Vergeet mij niet, Muzenalmanak voor 1849.129 During the early 1850s in particular reproductions of Scheffers work were regularly published, including a lithograph after Scheffers self-portrait from 1838 in the Nederlandsche Volks-Almanak voor 1853, and, in the Almanak voor het Schoone en het Goede, an engraving by Tetar van Elven after Le Christ Remunerateur (1848) and an engraving by D.J. Sluyter after Saint Augustin et Sainte Monique.130 D.J. Sluyter also produced two engravings for the fine literary yearbook the Aurora-Almanak. The reproductions in these almanacs were often accompanied by poetic captions: D.J. Sluyters engraving after Les simples de coeur, for example, was accompanied by a poem composed by the well-known poet Nicolaas Beets, who had been inspired by the sight of the painting in the collection of the Amsterdam collector Pieter van

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Eeghen.131 In 1854 the Aurora-Almanak published an engraving by Sluyter after Les Rois mages, previously reproduced as a lithograph in De Kunstkronijk.132 Finally various reproductions after Scheffers work also appeared in the evangelical almanac Magdalena, one of the oldest of the almanacs, which continued to exist and publish reproductions after Scheffers religious works well into the 1880s, long after the majority of its counterparts had increasingly succumbed to the competition of modern illustrated journals during the 1850s and 1860s.133 Almanacs were particularly popular publications in the Netherlands. I shall discuss these more extensively in relation to Jozef Israls.
scheFFer albuMs

Scheffers death in 1858 inspired a plan for a specially illustrated album, dedicated to the life and work of the renowned painter. This was reported by De Kunstkronijk in 1858:
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At the same time we are permitted to draw attention to another effort to help preserve the memory of Ary Scheffer amongst our people, in the Scheffer Album, whose prospectus was recently sent in by the bookseller A.C. Kruseman, and in which some ten reproductions of Scheffers works will be united, with captions, under the chief editorship of Mister T van Westhreene Wz []134

The plan had been devised by the well-known Haarlem publisher A.C. Kruseman, who had asked the critic T. van Westhreene to take charge of the project for 700 guilders. The first task was to commission ten lithographic reproductions. As few of the original works were in the Netherlands, it was decided to make the lithographs after existing reproductions, which quickly gave rise to the question of whether the Treaty on Literary Works, concluded by France and the Netherlands in 1855, actually permitted the making of lithographs after engravings previously published in France. After some legal consultation, it was found that this treaty did not apply to visual art and work could begin on the lithographs with a clear conscience.135 As the models for their reproductions the printmakers intended to use existing engravings of famous Scheffer works, mostly published by Goupil; to supplement these they also went in search of several original works. Doubts soon arose as to the quality of the printmakers.136 It was even suggest-

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ed that Belgian draughtsmen should be called in, but this proved financially impossible. In a letter to Kruseman of 22 January 1859 Van Westhreene wrote: Oh! How I should fervently wish to help you find the means to compose it without the deficient and uncertain expedients of our lithography.137 Despite these misgivings, Krusemann and Van Westthreene pursued the project and eventually published ten lithographs after works by Scheffer. The lithographer I.C. dArnaud Gerkens produced lithographs after De vriendinnen van Christus in het graf (The holy women at the tomb), Augustinus et Dante, Le roi de Thul and Faust, while the renowned printmaker C.C.A. Last was responsible for a lithograph after Christus Remunerator, F.H. Weissenbruch made lithographs after Dante et Beatrice, Francesca da Rimini and Scheffers portrait of Calvin, A.C. Nunnink produced a print after Comte Ebenhard (Le Larmoyeur), and A. Alleb made a lithograph after Mignon regrettant la Patrie. The lithographers had been assisted by several collectors who owned works by Scheffer. In the final issue of the Scheffer-Album Van Westhreene gave thanks for the outstanding kindness with which Messrs. J.A. Nottebohm of Rotterdam, S. van Walchren van Wadenoijen of Amersfoort and J. Wittering of Amsterdam have been willing to help foster the reproduction of some of Scheffers works for the Album.138 Nottebohm had been willing to allow the lithographer dArnaud Gerkens to make drawings after the originals of masterpieces by Ary Scheffer not already in engraving: Le roi de Thul and Faust, while the two other collectors were thanked for their hospitality, which had permitted the printmakers to compare their lithographs with Scheffers painting Dante et Beatrice and his drawing St Augustinus et St Monica, and complete these accordingly.139 Van Westhreene had also found suitable authors to write explanatory texts to accompany the reproductions. The Scheffer-Album was published in separate issues, each of which comprised a single print and an essay. This was not without its problems, as Jan Willem Enschede later described:
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Naturally [] some authors, who had pledged texts to accompany the plates, only partially kept their word, or failed to do so entirely and such a thing considerably delayed regular publication of the issues.[] De Gnestet, who had undertaken to supply a text to accompany Le roi de Thul, was replaced by Allard Pierson, and Hofdijk, who was supposed to discuss Clovis in den slag bij Tolbiac [Clovis at the Battle of Tolbiac), wrote an essay on Calvin.140

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On the subject of Augustinus and Dante, Prof.W. Moll observed:


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When the last queen of France, the recently deceased consort of Louis Philippe, saw the work of art completed in the painters studio, she exclaimed to him:I thank you, I thank you for this painting; it belongs to me and shall never be allowed to leave me! How ofttimes, since the engraving appeared, were such words of grateful and respectful admiration repeated by others who like the noble queen were stirred to the depths of their soul by the meaningful scene and felt moved in the most beneficent manner.141

Each new issue of the album presented art lovers with a new lithograph after a well-known work. Regarding the lithograph after Scheffers portrait of Calvin, Hofdijk wrote: Must I still talk of the drawing? You have the figure before you, and it speaks to you itself, of how the great simplicity, yea even the severity of the lines are in impeccable harmony with the simplicity and severity of the subject.142 In her essay the well-known writer Anna Bosboom-Toussaint also stressed her admiration for Scheffer, recalling in passing that she had been one of the first people in the Netherlands to draw attention to the painters work.143 Once the album had been completed in 1859, De Kunstkronijk wrote:
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Many will lovingly leaf through an album in which many of Scheffers works of art (including those more widely popularised through an engraving) have been translated and elucidated, thereby enabling us repeatedly to present the works of that sensitive artist.144

Financially speaking the Scheffer-Album was not a great success. A year later an attempt seems to have been made to relaunch the publication, in a modified form, but this was abandoned after the first issue.145 The publisher A.C. Kruseman provided two Scheffer albums as prizes for a lottery to finance the erection of a statue of Ary Scheffer in Dordrecht; a lottery in which several reproductions were also raffled.146 While efforts were being made in Scheffers native country to produce a bound souvenir of the painter and his work, his trusty publisher Goupil was similarly engaged in the production of a prestigious album in the artists second home-

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land. This was intended to be a deluxe publication, not with lithographs, as in the Dutch album, but with exclusive photographs. We find the first announcement of this in Goupils stock list from January 1860: Pour tre publi prochainement. Oeuvre de Ary Scheffer. reproduit en photographie par Bingham, daprs les tableaux et dessins originaux. Un volume format grand in-folio.147 Although the concept of a monographic album of photographs was relatively new in this period, Goupils Scheffer album was not the first example: the firm had already published such an album in 1858 to commemorate Scheffers contemporary Paul Dlaroche, who had died two years previously.148 The Dlaroche album comprised a total of 88 photographs, taken by the photographer Robert Bingham, who was an acknowledged specialist in the field of photographic art reproductions; Henri Delaborde, then director of the printroom at the Bibliothque Nationale, supplied an essay on the painters work and life. The album also contained a catalogue raisonn of Dlaroches works. The price, 550 francs, reflected the albums contents and high quality. Scheffer was thus the second artist to be honoured with a prestigious album of photographs after his death. The Scheffer album comprised 60 photographic reproductions, for which the well-known photographer Bingham was once again responsible. The writer Ludovic Vitet, a personal friend of Scheffer, provided a biographical sketch of the painter and his work.149 While the advertisement in Goupils stock list had promised photographs of Scheffers paintings and drawings, closer inspection of the images revealed the presence of engraving patterns in some of these.150 These show that, in accordance with accepted practice in this period, Bingham had made use of engravings after Scheffers work for his photographic reproductions, rather than the original paintings (the lithographs in the Dutch Scheffer-Album were similarly based on engravings). At 300 francs the completed publication was far from cheap, and could still be obtained well into the 1870s.151 Although Goupils Scheffer-Album was more modest in nature, size and price than the album for Dlaroche, it was also an exceptional publication, exclusively reserved for the most famous artists of the period. To summarise: during the early decades of the nineteenth century an increasingly broad range of illustrated publications began to emerge. Illustrated catalogues, almanacs, periodicals and monographic albums formed a major new outlet for reproductions, alongside the traditional market for independent prints. Reproductions of Scheffers work were swept up in the stream of new

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publications, appearing in diverse publications, in France, England and the Netherlands, from the 1820s onward. Yet while the range and volume of illustrated publications expanded considerably over the course of the nineteenth century, after the painters death the number of Scheffer reproductions decreased rapidly in all three countries. How these illustrated publications were produced often remains a mystery, and relations between publisher, editor, printmakers, collector and artist are generally hard to reconstruct. The type of reproduction used was partly determined by the character of the publication. Lithography was the technique of choice when reporting on recent salon exhibitions, as wood engravings or steel engravings required too much time to produce images with news value. When publications such as The Art Journal did opt for steel engravings, other factors played a role: for example, the quality of a fine engraving on steel was deemed preferable to the potential to rapidly reproduce the latest works of art. The fact that one-off publications, or publications less preoccupied with news value, often chose to use traditional engravings is thus understandable. It was with good reason that prestigious engraved salon catalogues were not published until some time after an exhibition had closed, for their purpose was to serve, not as a guide to the event, but as a fine souvenir. For an exclusive monograph the firm of Goupil was even prepared to experiment with the expensive technique of photographic art reproduction. It is worth noting the links between illustrated publications and the publishers of traditional, independent prints. As previously observed, some of Goupils independent prints were later republished in The Art Journal and used as originals in the creation of two monographic Scheffer albums. This shows the extent to which Goupils publications could influence images in other publications, and suggests that in the nineteenth century the boundaries between traditional independent reproductions and prints in modern illustrated publications were often fluid ones. Goupils monographic Scheffer-Album, for example, was published in separate instalments, while the firm regularly distributed independent prints in series or albums. With this in mind it is therefore essential to consider contemporary illustrated publications alongside traditional, independent prints when examining the total range of nineteenth-century art reproductions. While one collector might be content with an exclusive state, another might opt for a series of prints or even a special album devoted to Scheffer. Illustrated (art) journals provided the solution for art lovers who required some

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explanatory text. Popular works, such as Le Larmoyeur, were repeatedly reproduced in a range of forms and techniques, and sold for varying prices, thereby providing something for everyone. This brings us to the public for prints after Scheffers work, and what this public did with their Scheffer reproductions.

tHe puBLiC for SCHeffer reproDuCtionS


scheFFer hiMselF

When Ary Scheffer came to Amsterdam in 1854, he visited Buffa, the citys leading publisher of prints. At the firms premises in Kalverstraat he put his name down for an engraving after the De Schuttersmaaltijd (The Celebration of the Peace of Munster) by Bartholomeus van der Helst. The engraving of this plate had been started by Henricius Couwenberg, but left unfinished on his death, like his engraving after Scheffers Mignon et son Pre, and subsequently completed by the Dutch engraver J.W. Kaiser (1813-1900), another former pupil of Andr Taurel.152 It was just one of many prints owned by Scheffer, whose entire print collection was sold at auction after his death, together with his drawings and paintings, on 15 and 16 March 1859.153 The sale catalogue suggests that he had been interested in reproductions after both old and contemporary masters. The painter had owned original prints by Drer, Lucas van Leyden and Rembrandt, plus early reproductions by Marcantonio Raimondi and seventeenth-century engravings by Schelte Bolswert after Rubens. His fine collection of interesting nineteenth-century reproductions comprised more than 80 prints by the best-known engravers of his age Raphael Morghen, Louis Pierre Henriquel-Dupont, Zachee Prevost, Paul Mercuri, John Burnet, Abraham Raimbach and Thomas Landseer after works by Raphael, Leonardo da Vinci, Poussin, Greuze and renowned contemporaries such as Edward Landseer, David Wilkie, Paul Dlaroche, Ingres and Leopold Robert. While some of the collection was framed behind glass, Scheffer had kept most of the prints in portfolios.154 The painter had also possessed various prints after his own work. Amongst the lots in the auction catalogue were a framed engraving by Jean Marie Leroux after his portrait of General Lafayette, plus an exclusive etching after LAnge pleurant, by Scheffers friend, the printmaker Girard, never before offered for sale. The catalogue also lists other familiar reproductions, such as Beaugrands engraving after Sainte Augustin et Sainte Monique, of which Scheffer owned vari-

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ous states: an preuve dartiste on Chinese paper and two prints before and after the letter, both on Chinese paper papier. The painter had also owned Luigi Calamattas engraving of his Francoise de Rimini, with the letter printed on Chinese paper, and a with the letter state on Chinese paper of Lecomtes print Batrice et le Dante. Finally, the auction catalogue lists a singular print after Scheffers portrait of Chopin (1847), a work never previously offered for safe.155 Altogether the catalogue lists an interesting, but relatively modest number of reproductions. In all probability the major portion of Scheffers print collection did not go under the hammer but remained in the possession of his daughter, Cornelia Marjolin-Scheffer, who bequeathed these items to the Dordrechts Museum in 1899. Scheffer himself seems to be the first person with an interest in prints after his work. Undoubtedly he used some of these as visual material for drawings and paintings, as many artists did. However, the framed prints indicate that he also hung some reproductions on the wall, so these were more than simply visual material. The significance of this increases when we remember that Scheffer was more than capable of painting enough pictures to hang on his walls. So these reproductions were no substitute for paintings he could not afford; Scheffer had more drawings and paintings at his disposal than anyone else, yet apparently did not hesitate to decorate his interior with engravings after his own work. This means that he, at any rate, did not regard such reproductions as inferior surrogate paintings. The role played by reproductions in the interior of Scheffers house can still be seen in his former Paris home, now the Muse de la Vie Romantique. Although not entirely authentic, the interior does offer an impression of how reproductions featured in Scheffers everyday environment. He was not the only artist who decorated his interior with prints and photographs of his own work: Lawrence Alma-Tadema, is discussed below, and his contemporaries Gustave Moreau, Rosa Bonheur and Frederic Leighton all hung prints in their homes.156
Friends and acquainTances

Scheffer regularly gave reproductions of his work to friends and acquaintances. In 1824 he wrote to his friend, the French Privy Councillor Baron de Schonen: I shall not reiterate that the goodness and friendship with which you have honoured me for years are dearer to me than everything in the world, and that I would wish that I could consider myself worthy of these.157 As a token of his es-

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teem the painter sent the baron a proof of Lerouxs engraving after his portrait of General Lafayette. On 10 May Scheffer wrote to the protestant writer Anthanase Laurent Charles Coquerel, after the latter had done him a friendly turn:
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Me permettez-vous de vous offrir une preuve de la gravure de mon tableau de Christ pour laquelle vous avez bien voulu me donner le texte de linscription. Jhsite beaucoup mettre sous vos yeux cette composition. Si les sujets de lEvangile sont les plus beaux et les plus lev que la peinture puis de aborder, devant eux aussi on sent bien mieux limiussnace de mon talent; vous Monsieur, plus quun autre devez tre frapp de lEvangile dont la parole convaincante en fait si bien comprendre la grandeur et la divine beaut.158

In another instance Scheffer sent two prints, the renowned engravings of Christus Consolator and Christus Remunerator, to the violinist Alard Delphin, possibly to express his admiration following a concert by Delphin. In an accompanying letter the painter wrote: Me permettez vous de vous offrir mes bien failbles temoignages en sentiments, les deux gravures ci jointes, aprs mes tableaux du Christ Consolateur et du Christ Remunerateur.159 Scheffer not only sent reproductions of his work to friends and acquaintances, he also took prints with him on his travels. On his 1854 trip to the Netherlands, for example, the country of his birth, he left behind a print for Professor Vrolijk; he had been unable to meet the professor in person and wrote:
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NAyant en lhonneur de vous rencontrer Amsterdam ou je me suis permis de deposer chez vous une preuve dartiste de la gravure qun vient de terminer aprs mon tableau de la scene du jardin de Faust de Goethe, (je prends la libert de vous ecrire)[]160

Scheffers gift of reproductions after his work is noteworthy, as various instances of this show that he regularly used such prints to maintain and expand his social network. So in addition to serving as wall decorations, these reproductions had a social function as well. Apparently the painter regarded these prints as representative of his work: he may not have made them with his own hands, but it was still his work that they depicted. I shall return to the subject of the relationship between Scheffers own work and reproductions of these below.

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The important factors here are that Scheffer himself can be considered one of the primary amateurs of prints after his paintings, and that he also ensured other people in his circle acquired these. Through Scheffers agency and other means, reproductions of his work were distributed amongst the cultural elite in his own circle. In 1854, Geraldine Jewsbury, a regular guest at La Grange, General Lafayettes country house where Scheffer often stayed, wrote to Jane Welsh Carlyle concerning Henriquel-Duponts engraving after Christus Consolator [45]:
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it moved me to tears. I wish I could transfuse it to you There is the figure of a mother over her dead child that is wonderful. The face is swollen with grief and yet there is an ineffable beauty and rest about it which almost consoles one.161

Harriet Martineau moved in the same circles and also owned a copy of the print:
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including the consolations of eighteen centuries!- that mysterious assemblage of the redeemed Captives and tranquillized Mourners of a whole Christendom!- that inspired epitome of suffering and solace!- it may well be a cause of wonder, almost amounting to alarm to those who, not having needed, have felt its power.162

The well-known liberal historian Augustin Thierry, a good friend of Scheffer, also owned prints after the painters work: the Calamatta engraving after Francoise de Rimini and the print after Faust et Margurite both hung in his salon.163 Moreover, while Frans Liszt was staying in the Netherlands, in 1854, he searched for a lithograph after Scheffers Les rois mages, possibly the print previously published in De Kunstkronijk; the renowned pianist and composer had modelled for the figure of the youngest king in the original painting.164 The fact that engravings after Scheffers work found their way into the hands of the cultural elite is significant, particularly as this social group had both the means and the opportunity to acquire paintings, by Scheffer and other artists. Their readiness to hang reproductions on the wall indicates that they did not

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automatically consider such prints inferior works of art; Scheffers gifts of such prints also points in this direction. This is not to say that graphic adaptations enjoyed the same status as their painted originals and were thus interchangeable. Nevertheless, it appears that within the social group that could afford both original works and reproductions, there were not such great differences between the use and value of originals and reproductions: fine engravings were also accorded a place on the painting-clad walls of elite salons.
The General public

The art trade and illustrated journals brought reproductions of Scheffers work to the attention of the general public. In 1840 the art journal LArtiste even reported on Louis Henriquel-Duponts print after Scheffers Christus Consolator before this had been completed; during a visit to the master engravers studio one of the journals editors had seen an early state in which only a few of the main figures had been engraved:
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M. Henriquel-Dupont achve en ce moment un tableau de M. Ary Scheffer, Le Christ appelant lui les malheureux. Cest une touchante personnification des douleurs humaines. Cette planche de M. Dupont est dja avance, et sera termine cet hiver. La composition, simple et bien dispose dans le tableau, est bien rendue dans la gravure. Certaines parties du tableau, quelques figures importantes, sont termines. Le premier travail nous a sembl trs-brillant; il reproduit la manire de Scheffer, style et couleur, avec un sentiment trs-fin et trs-juste. Ce travail, clair et facile, est sem c et l de ces tons fermes qui dclent la main dun matre.165

Thus, readers of the French art journal were told of the forthcoming reproduction at an early stage in its production. Once a print had been published, reviews of the work regularly appeared to inform interested readers who were also potential buyers. In 1856, for example, the influential English publication The Art Journal wrote of Goupils prints after Scheffer:
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His Christus Consolator, engraved by Henriquel-Dupont, is the cherished guest of many English homes; its companion, the Christus Remunerator, (engraved by Blanchard) is only its second in public favour; while such works as The Holy Women at the Tomb, convey the lessons of Art as pure

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and holy missionaries of Christianity. For giving these admirable and very beautiful productions to the world, the public incurs a debt to the publisher scarcely less than they owe to the artist.166 It was largely thanks to Goupils prints that Scheffers work was possibly more famous in England, during the mid-1850s, than in France.167 Few English engravers in this period ventured to distribute such prestigious engravings after famous works of art: The circulation of such publications cannot be too wide, The Art Journal wrote in 1856.168 When several new reproductions were published by Goupil, including the engraving by A. Francois after Margurite at the Church, the journal drew attention to the wide distribution of such prints in England:
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The English public has of late years enjoyed so many opportunities of studying the works of foreign painters in the various exhibitions which have been opened both in the metropolis and elsewhere, that the style and character of the pictures of many of these artists have become almost as familiar to us as those of our fellow-countrymen. Still we are glad to have this acquaintance renewed and extended by the engraver s burin, which brings such productions into our own homes, to confirm and enlarge our knowledge of them. And both artists and lovers of Art cannot fail to derive benefit from the best works of foreigners, not only by comparing them with those which are sent forth from our own studios, but from the new ideas they often convey.169

The English artist Holman Hunt also described how reproductions had helped to popularise Scheffers work:
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It was the mode in England, as on the Continent, to rate Ary Scheffer among the greatest of painters. He had doubtless earlier exhibited some superior works, at that time then in private collections. Of these we knew by engravings Mignon regrettant sa Patrie and Le Christ Consolateur. The first undoubtedly possessed grace, the second took the young admirer captive for a whole week like a populair air[]170

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The well-known art historian Hofstede de Groot, a fervent admirer of Scheffers work, declared that he mainly knew his paintings from reproductions.171 As previously observed, a range of exhibitions regularly presented the public with reproductions. At the Salon of 1843, held in the Louvre, Luigi Calamattas engraving after Scheffers Francoise de Rimini was displayed in the print section. De Kunstkronijk described this work as one of the few prints at the exhibition worth mentioning:
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With engraving things are less well: once I have enumerated the Leo x, by the Florentine engraver Jesi, and the Francoise de Rimini, by Ary Scheffer, by Calamatta, I can further direct you to the windows of the printsellers, which are decorated with furniture prints by Saset and others.172

A year later the Salon exhibited the two engravings by Aristide Louis after Mignon regrettant sa Patrie and Mignon aspirant au Ciel. In 1849 the Dutch public were able to admire a proof by Couwenberg after Scheffers Mignon et son Pre, which was displayed at an exhibition of foreign contemporary masters at the Odon in Amsterdam.173 The 1855 Exposition Universelle held in Paris, unlike the English Great Exhibition of 1851, included art and reproductions in its exhibits. Amongst the work on display was a print by the German engraver Joseph Keller after Scheffers Christ au tombeau , which received a medal.174 An exceptional engraving by C.E. Taurel, after an Eichens aquatint of Scheffers Le Christ portant sa croix was displayed in 1859 at an exhibition in The Hague. Art dealers also organised single-picture exhibitions, at which one painting was displayed, often with its reproductions. The art dealer and publisher Goupil sent the Scheffer painting Le Christ sur la montagne ou la Tentation de Christ (1856) on a tour of England, the primary objective being to promote Alphonse Francoiss engraving of the work.175 A noteworthy use of Scheffer reproductions is provided by the homily delivered by the theologian Walraven Francken Az (1822-1894), who took Scheffers Christus Remunerator as the starting point for his discourse and hung several engravings on the wall to illustrate this.176 Interaction between the art trade, exhibitions and illustrated journals made Scheffers work so well known that his friend L. Vitet claimed that simply mentioning a title was enough for people to conjure up the work in their mind:

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Dire seulement les titres de ces nombreux tableaux, cest rveiller des souvenirs, rappeler des images que tout le monde a dans la pense. Qui na pas vu, grce au burin ou la lithographie, la Veuve du Soldat, le Retour du Conscit, les Orphelins sur la tombe de leur mre, la Soeur de charit, les Pcheurs pendant la tempte, lincendie de la ferme, et ce vivant portrait de nos dsastre, cette page toute frmissante de colre patriotique, la scene dinvasion en 1814?177

The same was true of the Dutch public, if we are to believe the writer T. van Westrheene:
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See, we only have to name them to our readers, the titles of the principal paintings, which represent this new trend of the masters, to bring back to mind not only their works insofar these have not been seen in the Netherlands, yet are nearly only known here through engraving, but also to recollect the character of that trend.178

Many people in the Netherlands knew Scheffers work, even though they had never seen his paintings in person. Prints of the painters Mignon pictures and religious images must have hung on the walls of a multitude of art lovers and connoisseurs, as we can still see today in the bedroom of the Museum WilletHolthuysen, devoted to the history of this Amsterdam patrician family of the 19th century.
VincenT Van GoGh: a Fan oF scheFFer reproducTions

When Vincent van Gogh listed his favourite painters to his brother Theo in a letter of 17 January 1874, the first name he mentioned was Ary Scheffer.179 For many years Scheffer would remain an important figure amongst the artists whom Van Gogh admired. His general interest in Scheffer has already been the subject of research. I shall confine myself in the present study to Van Goghs interest in reproductions of Scheffers work.180 Van Gogh was familiar with Scheffers work from an early stage in his life. His father was a clergyman who admired the famous painters religious pictures and even owned a drawing by the master. Scheffers religious work was highly esteemed in Protestant circles. If Van Gogh had not been introduced to Schef-

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fers work by his father, he would certainly have been exposed to it through his three uncles, who worked in the art trade. The most influential of the three was his namesake Vincent van Gogh, also known as Uncle Cent, who had run his own art dealing business in The Hague since 1842. Oom Cent had eventually joined forces with the French firm of Goupil, with whom he became officially associated in 1858. Through his uncles, the younger Vincent van Gogh came into contact with the art trade, including the world of print publishing. So it is certainly conceivable that they introduced him to prints after the work of Scheffer, which may have been published by Goupil. At high school in Tilburg the young Van Gogh had also received drawing lessons from C.C. Huysmans, who knew Scheffer personally. Although it is not known when Van Gogh first heard of Scheffer, there are enough indications that he was familiar with the masters name and work from a young age. Van Gogh had closer and more frequent contact with prints after Scheffers work once he had started to work for Goupil, on 30 July 1869, at the age of sixteen.181 The firms branch in The Hague, which was run by H.G. Tersteeg, grew into a leading player in the field of art dealing and print publication; even the window of the firm must have been a sight worth seeing. During his time at Goupil the young Van Gogh must have seen countless reproductions after art works by old and living masters.182 In 1873 Van Gogh was transferred to Goupils London branch where he worked from 13 June 1873 until 15 May 1875. In London the trainee art dealer found himself at a branch of Goupil that was very different in character from its counterpart in The Hague: instead of the shop run by Tersteeg, it resembled a wholesale outlet and supplied other printsellers, with the accent lying on the sale of engraved, etched and photographic reproductions rather than on paintings.183 From London Vincent wrote to his brother Theo, who had also entered employment with Goupil, in a letter previously cited:
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How go the nouveauts [photogravures, rv] in Holland? Here there is literally nothing to be done with the ordinary engravings after Brochart &c. The good burin engravings we are selling quite well, amongst other things weve already sold +/- 20 epr. dartiste of the Venus Anadryomene after Ingres. But its a pleasure to see how the photogravures are selling, especially the coloured ones, and theres a fine profit on them.184

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The engraving after Ingres was one of a trio of prints that also comprised Scheffers works Dante et Beatrice and Hb. Van Goghs remarks show that traditional line engravings were still selling well in the early 1870s. At this point Goupils management was endeavouring to expand the London branchs stock with paintings by old and living masters. This measure formed part of a broader development in the nineteenth-century art trade, and was also implemented at major firms such as Gambart and Agnew.185 Van Gogh experienced this sweeping change in person, as he admiringly handled prints after Scheffers work. On one occasion he wrote to his brother Theo: Virginit de lme et impurit du corps can go together. You know Marguerite la fontaine by Ary Scheffer, is there a purer being than that girl who has loved so much.186 Van Gogh had probably seen the painting, bought in 1872 by the wealthy collector Richard Wallace, at the Bethnal Green Museum in London, and he must have known the reproductions of this circulated by Goupil. Moreover the work had also been reproduced in The Illustrated London News of 21 December 1872. [plate 9, fig. 48, 49]187 After Van Gogh had spent some time working at Goupils Paris establishment in late 1874, he was transferred to the French capital on a permanent basis in May 1875. The walls of his room in Montmartre were covered with reproductions: prints after Ruisdael, Rembrandt, Troyon, Bonington and Jacob Maris.188 To foster Theos knowledge of art Van Gogh regularly sent reproductions to his brother: Herewith the book about Michel that I promised you, also an etching after the Marguerite by Scheffer & a lithograph after Corot, & a packet of chocolate.189 With his reference to the etching of Scheffers Margurite Van Gogh probably meant the print by the etcher Paul Rajon after Margurite a lEglise, published in an illustrated auction catalogue when the renowned Paturle collection was put up for sale. During his time in Paris Van Gogh felt less and less affinity for the art trade, and the foundations were laid for his great distrust of this speculation.190 His diminishing lack of concern for Goupils interests eventually resulted in his dismissal from the firm, on 1 April 1876.191 After his time in the art trade, the clergymans son now opted for a religious career, moving to Isleworth in southern England, to work as a curate there. He informed his brother Theo of his desire for reproductions after Scheffer: Am I getting those little engravings, like Pa and Ma have, Christus consolator and Remunerator, which you promised?192 On receipt of these works Van Gogh wrote a letter of thanks to his brother:

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fig. 48 robert Bingham after Scheffer, Margurite a la fontaine, photography 20 x 13 cm, Goupil Galerie photographique, Muse Goupil, Bordeaux.

48

Your letter and the prints came as a delightful surprise when I busy weeding the potatoes in the garden this morning. Thank you for them; both engravings Christus consolator and Remunerator are already hanging above my reading table in my little room. God is truth, so through conviction He will bring those who err back to the true path thats what you thought when you wrote, may that be so; I am erring in many a sense, but there is still hope. Do not be uneasy about your opulent life, as you call it, but go quietly on your way; you are simpler than I and will probably arrive there sooner and in a better way. Do not have any great illusions as to the freedom that I have; I have my bonds of every kind, humiliating

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fig. 49 C. anonymous after Scheffer Margurite a la fontaine, from: The Illustrated London News (21 December 1872) wood engraving.

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bonds too, and there will be still more of them in time. But the words that are above Christus consolator: He has come to preach deliverance to the captives, are also true today.193 Van Gogh hung the two prints after Christus Consolator and Christus Remunerator, which he remembered from his parents house, on the wall of his room. Scheffers religious images provided an important source of inspiration for the young curate. He also liked to share his admiration for Scheffers work with others. With his mothers forthcoming birthday in mind he asked his brother: If you can, send Ma on her birthday a carte de visite no.669 Lenfant prodigue by Schef-

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fig. 50 anonymous after Scheffer, lEnfant prodigue, photograph 19 x 15 cm, Goupil Galerie photographique, Muse Goupil, Bordeaux.

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fer.194 [fig. 50] He may also have seen this work at Bethnal Green Museum in London, and certainly knew the photographs which Goupil had published of it.195 Reproductions after Scheffers work played an important role in this religious phase of Van Goghs life, which he penetratingly described in a letter to his parents from England:
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While I am sitting writing to you thus in my little room and it is so very, very quiet and I look around at your portraits and the prints on the wall, Christus consolator and Le vendredi saint and the Women going to the tomb and Le vieux Huguenot and lEnfant prodigue by Ary Scheffer and the little ship on the stormy sea and an etching of an autumn landscape, a view of the heath, which I got from Harry Gladwell on my birthday, and when I think of you all and then of everyone here and of Turnham

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Green and Richmond and Petersham etc., then I feel: Continue Lord, to hear my Mothers prayer, which she prayed for me when I left my parents house: Father, I beseech Thee not, to take them out of the world, but to spare them from evil, and Lord, oh, if Thou wouldst yet make me, not merely almost but entirely as it were my Fathers brother, a Christian and a christian labourer. Accomplish Thy work in me that Thou hast begun. Yea, may Thou makest me, slowly but surely, step by step, both almost and entirely my Fathers brother. And may Thou bind us, Oh Lord, sincerely to each other and let love for Thee strengthen that bond more and more.196 Van Goghs reproductions after Scheffer provided him with a major source of religious comfort in an unfamiliar environment. Several months after writing the above letter to his parents he left England and returned to the Netherlands. Van Goghs Uncle Cent then arranged a job for him with Blusse & van Braam booksellers in Dordrecht. This took him to the city of Scheffers birth, where he lived and worked from January to April 1877. Here too, Van Gogh soon hung his prints on the wall of his room:
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The two prints which I got from you, are hanging in my little room saw the paintings in the museum and also by Scheffer, Christus in Ghetsemane, something never to forget, long ago that painting also affected Pa so. Theres a sketch of Les douleurs de la terre as well and various drawings and also the portrait of his studio and so as you know the portrait of his mother.197

Living in Dordrecht allowed Van Gogh to see original works by Scheffer, in the Dordrechts Museum. He went to the museum regularly, accompanied on one such visit, in February 1877, by his brother Theo, who had come to Dordrecht to see him. He subsequently wrote to this brother: Glad that we have seen the Scheffer paintings together.198 A few weeks later Van Gogh visited the museum again, this time in the company of his father. He wrote to his uncle: It was a delightful day recently when Pa was here we walked together and have also been in the museum to see the paintings by Scheffer.199 Van Gogh had already been familiar with reproductions after Scheffer; his time in Dordrecht extended this familiarity to Scheffers original paintings. The fact that Van Gogh lived at

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walking distance from Scheffers original works did not, remarkably enough, reduce his admiration for prints of these, although exposure to the actual paintings could have conceivably lessened his interest in their graphic reproduction. His letters, however, contain no sign of this; on the contrary, his interest in reproductions did not diminish. Apart from the prints hanging on his own wall, Van Gogh was curious about what other people displayed in their homes. After a visit to his Uncle Jan he wrote to his brother that he had missed seeing any prints after Scheffer there:
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And yet I think it such a pity, that there is nothing like Christus Consolator or Ecce Homo hanging there in Uncle Jans fine rooms. The latter hangs in your little room though, at any rate I believe I noticed it there. Be accustomed to hanging it up wherever you have a room, for that is proper and due to you.200

At Uncle Strickers house he would also have liked to have seen more prints on the wall: This morning I was in Uncle Strickers study, its a fine room and theres a portrait of Calvin after Scheffer hanging there, and yet I would have liked to have seen a few more prints on the wall.201 These remarks show the extent to which prints after Scheffers work were present in Van Goghs mind, even when he did not see any. After several months Van Gogh moved to Amsterdam to prepare for training as a clergyman. Once again he received several Scheffer reproductions from Theo: Another thing: you sent me 2 pairs of Christus consolator and pend[ant]. I was extremely pleased with these.202 This begs the question of why Van Gogh did not buy these prints himself. Could he not obtain them in Amsterdam, were they too expensive for him and why would he want two pairs? It is unlikely that he would have been unable to acquire these engravings in Amsterdam, for they must have been stocked by his Uncle Cor, Buffa or Frederik Muller. The fact that he was given these works by Theo possibly had more to do with his always precarious financial situation. One of the prints he owned was an engraving by the German engraver Joseph Keller, published by Goupil:
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Is it not beautiful, the engraving after Ary Scheffer, Les saintes femmes au tombeau du Christ, I am so happy that I have it; especially the old woman, that is it. Did you perhaps come by anything else for your

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scrapbook on the way? Do carry on with this, for it is something extremely good.203 Van Gogh repeatedly encouraged his brother to collect reproductions, for example, in a letter of 27 July 1877: but do go on collecting such prints.204 He regarded the collecting of reproductions as something extremely good, although in the spring of 1877 he did not yet intend to embark on such a collection himself: he simply bought prints to decorate his room and divert his thoughts.205 Given Van Goghs religious preoccupations it is not surprising that he was mainly interested in well-known religious works by Scheffer. He felt a particularly special affinity for engravings after Christus Consolator and Christus Remunerator, as inspiring images and, moreover, as a reminder of his beloved brother.206 At the end of his religious career Van Gogh converted to his artistic calling. Attracted by Anton Mauve and other masters of the Hague School, he moved to The Hague where he rented a studio on the Schenkweg and received drawing lessons from Mauve. He also paid regular visits to Goupil, his former place of work, in search of modern art. In his studio he again hung prints of Scheffer on the wall, amongst reproductions after his other favourite masters Jean-Franois Millet and Hubert Herkomer:
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I have still other prints hanging there, but all exceptionally fine, the Scheffer Christus Consolator, a photo after Boughton, Le semeur and Les Bcheurs by Millet, Le Buisson by Ruysdael and magnificent, large woodcuts by Herkomer & Frank holl, Le banc des pauvres by De Groux.207

Throughout his artistic career Van Gogh retained his admiration for Scheffers work. Nevertheless his preference for religious engravings was somewhat displaced by a liking for realistic wood engravings from illustrated (art) journals, such as The Illustrated London News and The Graphic, which he sometimes bought by the pile. However, when he moved to France, firstly to Paris and then to sunny Arles, he left the somber, realistic world of wood engravings largely behind him and shifted his interest to colourful Japanese prints. By this point blackand-white reproductions after Scheffers work no longer held his attention either.

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SCHefferS Work VerSuS reproDuCtionS


In 1853 the well-known illustrator Alexander Verheull reported on his visit to Ary Scheffers studio: The Francesca di Rimini, of which you, my dear reader, know the exquisite engraving, by far exceeded my expectations in painted form.208 Although Verheull was familiar with Scheffers picture Francesca di Rimini from the engraving by Luigi Calamatta, he had never seen the actual painting. With the reproduction in mind, he thus encountered the original for the first time in Scheffers studio. Keeping the reproductions after Scheffers work similarly in mind, I shall now consider the painters output from the point of view of subject, composition, technique and colour.
reliGious senTiMenT

Scheffers work was reproduced throughout his career. During the 1820s prints were published after his history paintings, including his picture Saint Thomas dAquin prchant la confiance dans la bont divine pendant la tempte. His portraits of famous figures such as General Lafayette and members of the house of Orlans were also regularly replicated and multiplied. However, he achieved his greatest successes with his literary genre scenes, such as his depictions of Mignon, Faust and Gretchen. The esteem enjoyed by these works must be viewed within its cultural context: German literature was extremely popular in France at the beginning of the nineteenth century. Works such LAllemagne by Madame de Stael were much loved, as were works by Goethe and Schiller. Scheffers visual representations of these could therefore command a large public. LArtiste wrote with regard to Scheffers contributions to the Salon of 1837:
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Ary Scheffer est le Christo Colomb de ce nouveau monde quil a dcouvert; il est le peintre ordinaire des plus fantastique crations des potes de lcole du Dante: Goethe, Schiller, Byron voil ses hros, ses compagnons, ses inspirateurs.[] Pouvons-nous dire propos de M. Ary Scheffer ce que dit Horace: Ut pictora poesis?- Ne minterrogez pas.209

Scheffers paintings form part of a wider development in which history painting, with its grand and lofty themes from literature and the past, were increasingly ousted by genre paintings which focused on the everyday emotions of ordinary people from petit histoire. After Christus Consolator he painted various

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religious works during the 1840s and 1850s, including Les Rois mages, Saint Augustin et Sainte Monique, Jacob et Rachel and biblical characters. Throughout the nineteenth century religious subjects such as these could count on a large public, which included Vincent van Gogh. As a rule no changes were made to the composition of Scheffers popular paintings during reproduction. In a few exceptional instances, however, the composition was deliberately altered: the American version of Christus Consolator, for example, was stripped of its overtly political message by the removal of the coloured figure in chains. In another reproduction, a remarkable print produced in collaboration by a number of pubishers in 1828, the original composition was actually expanded. The work was a response to the arrest and conviction of the well-known chansonnier Pierre-Jean de Branger (1780-1857), who had fallen victim to the house of Bourbons repressive regime. The fiercely liberal-republican Branger had been found guilt of slander, sentenced to nine months in prison and ordered to pay a fine of ten thousand francs. Several publishing friends came to his assistance, with a plan to collect this sum through the publication and sale of a print bearing the beleaguered singers portrait. The condemned man agreed to this on condition that the print be made after Ary Scheffers recent portrait of him, with bars added in the background as a subtle reference to his conviction. The English printmaker S.W. Reynolds, one of the most renowned engravers of the time, was called upon to produce the print. He used the aquatint technique, probably because the print was required too immediately for engraving to be an option. The print was published in 1828.210
[fig. 51]

no colourisT

Scheffer depicted his historical, literary and religious subjects in countless compositions. The history paintings from his early career, such as Les Femmes Souliotes, are complex in appearance. Groups of figures are carefully positioned in the picture plane within a complicated structure of diagonal and horizontal lines. Many of these figures are also manoeuvred into complex attitudes. During the 1820s and especially the 1830s, the transition to more genre-style painting was accompanied in Scheffers work by considerable compositional changes: the painter substantially simplified the layout of his pictures and drastically reduced the amount of figures to just a few individuals; he also made his larger paintings featuring more figures, such as Christus Consolator and Christus Remu-

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fig. 51 Samuel William reynolds after Scheffer, Portrait of Pierre-Jean de Branger (1828), aquatint, Dordrechts Museum, Dordrecht.

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nerator, less complicated in appearance. Moreover he kept subsidiary decorative elements remarkably simple, with a minimum of natural elements in outdoor scenes, and little by way of adornment in interiors and clothing. Thus, in many of Scheffers works the prevailing mood is that of serenity and restraint, with a minimum of detail, both in the pictorial and decorative sense. It was for good reason that engravers were drawn to Scheffers paintings. The colourist Eugne Delacroix contended that drawings and engravings were meaningless works of art, on account of their lack of colour.211 In the majority of instances the act of reproduction was characterised by the translation of a colour painting into a black-and-white print. The colours used by Scheffer in his work have often been debated. Laurens Reinhart Beijnen wrote in the Scheffer-Album regarding the painters two versions of Dante and Beatrice that he considered the existence of two paintings on this theme, one with a gold background and one with a blue background as:

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Evidence that Scheffer was uncertain in this matter and that his strength in this picture, as in many of his pieces generally, lay above all less in the use of colour than in the drawing, a quality one often encounters in idealistic painters.212

While Beijen was cautious in drawing attention to Scheffers problematic use of colour, Baudelaires tone was much sharper in his comments on Scheffers submissions to the Salon of 1846:
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Apres avoir imit Delacroix, apres avoir sing les coloristes, les dessinateurs francais et lecole no-chrtienne dOverbeck, M. Ary Scheffer sest apercu,- un peu tard sans doute,- quil ntait pas n peintre. Ds lors il fallut recourir autres moyens; et il demanda aide et protection la posie.213

The Art Journal wrote in 1859: His best productions are those in which he has not been seduced by attempts at colour; and in the extensive allusion and copious description of his limited compositions he can never be excelled.214 When Harriet Grote, married with the well-known historian George Grote, visited Scheffer, she saw the painting Temptation, one of his final works, and took him to task for his meagre use of colour. Some time later the oil painting went to England, to be reproduced as a black-and-white print, on the subject of which Grote observed: It will probably be regarded as highly important by the art world, so my objections regarding the colour of the painting fall away in the case of an engraving.215 After the engraving by Alphonse Francois had been published, The Art Journal observed of Scheffers colours:
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Whatever Scheffer lacked as a colourist, and often-times as a poetical idealist, received a counterpoise in the dignity of his conceptions, and the intellectual expression, he gave to his figure.[...] The engraving is in the line manner, delicate and yet very solid in execution. The tones both of the flesh and the draperies are appropriately and truth-fully rendered, without hardness on the one and weakness on the other. The publication, as the work of either artist, painter or engraver is undoubtly one of the most valuable contributions to high art which the age had produced.216

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Scheffers paintings were not remarkable for their use of colour, in the manner of work produced by his contemporaries Eugne Delacroix and J.M.W. Turner. Even a Scheffer admirer such as Van Gogh acknowledged this: For Ary Scheffer is hardly a colourist.217 So little was lost when colour was omitted in a Scheffer reproduction. In many instances, in fact, his compositions were liberated from a recurring problematic element. The writer Anna Bosboom-Toussaint only knew Scheffers work from black-and-white prints, such as the engraving after Christus Consolator. Suddenly faced by the painted original in C.J. Fodors collection she was startled: How gaudy Chr[istus] Cons[olator] is, I am sorry I saw it, would that it were only in marble!218 Scheffers painting technique is also an interesting element to consider in the reproduction of his work. Previous reference has been made to the printmakers debate regarding the reproduction of paint texture, or the painters hand. Unlike his contemporary Gustave Courbet, Scheffer did not engage in intense experiments with a palette knife; neither did he deploy the impasto of Barbizon painters. On the contrary, Scheffers paintings generally employ a smooth stroke, carefully applied to the surface, so his technique has more in common with that of nineteenth-century fijnschilders, such as Paul Dlaroche, Horace Vernet, Ingres or Franz Xavier Winterhalter, from the milieu juste.219 A major characteristic of work by this group of painters is that the paint has been applied so smoothly that the brushstrokes appear to have dissolved, producing a silky-smooth paint surface with a transparent view of the image, painted by an invisible hand.220 Although Scheffer did not possess such a virtuoso technique, he did not apply the paint to his canvases in rough loose strokes. It was this smooth surface in Scheffers work that was such a blessing for engravers, for the absence of a complex paint texture meant there was one important element less for them to deal with. Even the most radical change effected by the reproductive process, the conversion of a painting into a print, did not encounter major difficulties in the case of Scheffers work. As Thophile Gautier wrote: Ary Scheffer laisse une rputation que dadmirables gravures augmenterons encore, car elles ne traduisent que ses qualits; le burin excelle surtout rendre lide dun tableau, et les tableaux dAry Scheffer ne sont que des ides pures.221

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arT For reproducTion?

Given the reproduceable character of Scheffers work, the question arises of whether the painter took the potential for reproduction into account when creating his pictures. To what extent was his work art for reproduction? Two wellknown works by Scheffer, Christus Consolator and Christus Remunator, are interesting in this connection. Scheffer painted the former, a work subsequently converted into print form by Louis Henriquel-Dupont, for the Duchess of Orlans; the pendant, Christus Remunerator, [plate 10] he produced many years later, on commission from Goupil who intended to reproduce the painting. This can be inferred from the words of Abraham Johannes de Bull (1823-1888) in the Scheffer-Album:
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If a noble womans love of art gave the painter cause to produce the consolator, the Remunerator owes its origins, at least so goes the legend, in part to a leading art dealers lust for enterprise. The The astonishing rise of the aforesaid engraving [of christus consolator, rv] awoke in the British public the desire for a pendant, and he [goupil, rv] took the royal road to satisfy this. For his commercial house the voice of the century is heard everywhere and in everything he asked what the Duchess of Orleans had asked: he invited him [Scheffer], to produce a second painting, in order to bring an engraving onto the market.222

If De Bull is correct, Scheffer painted Christus Remunerator for reproduction. Once the painting had been completed, Goupil published Auguste Blanchards engraving of the picture and this print also became one of the best-known reproductions after Scheffers work. Although Scheffer may have painted his Christus Remunerator for reproduction, the picture is certainly not at odds with the rest of his work in regard to its style. The nature of Scheffers work, together with the techniques at the printmakers disposal, meant that he did not have to explicitly adapt the painting to meet the demands of reproduction. This raises the question of of the extent to which Scheffer may have taken factors associated with reproduction into consideration when producing his work. As previously observed, the painters oeuvre comprises a complex body of many similar works. Like many of his contemporaries he frequently repeated his compositions in a range of variations, in which he only changed the details or the format. The result was a diverse col-

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lection of works, plus replicas and variations, some of which were by Scheffers hand, others produced under his supervision. The first version of a particular theme is often regarded as the original, although, taking another perspective, the same work can also be viewed as a first attempt at a specific composition. Where various versions of a composition are closely related, it seems arbitrary to designate one particular picture as the original, for the various works all differ slightly, forming an oeuvre in which each picture seems more or less original. Moreover, the distance between original and reproduction seems smaller and smaller. Viewed in this light, Scheffer should not be denounced as an artist who simply made prototypes for reproduction, as such a view is based on the assumption that he not only made his own work suitable for reproduction, but that he subordinated it to this purpose; it also assumes that original art and reproduceable art necessarily preclude each other, whereas the boundaries between the two merge imperceptibly. Scheffer thus operated in both the market for original art works and the market for reproductions. As previously observed, he sometimes sold possession of a painting together with the right to reproduce this. These two separate rights made it possible to split the sole and unique work of art in two, the advantage of this being that it could then be circulated in two different markets: the original in the painting market and the right of reproduction in the print market. Once a painting had been completed, some time elapsed before the engraving was published. The painting of Christus Consolator, for example, was finished in 1837 but the engraving by Henriquel-Dupont was not published until 1842; Blanchards engraving of the 1848 painting Christus Remunerator dates from 1851, while Levasseurs two engravings of Ruth et Noemi (1855) and Jacob et Rachel (1857) were published in 1859. If we assume that it often took one to three years to produce an engraving, these prints were published fairly soon after their originals completion. However, there are also instances in which prints were not published until ten years or more after a painting had been finished. Scheffer straddled the art world with one foot in the painting trade and the other in print publishing, doing business with the firm of Goupil in both these markets. Goupil sold Scheffers paintings, drawings and the reproductions of these. The relationship between print publishing and the art trade is one of the gray areas in the nineteenth-century art world. The accounts kept by the publishing side of Goupil have been lost, so we only have Scheffers own scanty information on this subject. The financial and economic relationships between the two mar-

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kets remains unclear. Did the trade in paintings benefit from the trade in reproductions or vice versa? It is conceivable that a reproduction increased the value of painting, while the success of a painting was a good advertisement for its reproductions. Owing to lack of concrete information it is hard to gain any insight into such patterns, although one fact does stand out: both Scheffer and the firm of Goupil continued to be involved with the traditional print trade, even after they had enjoyed successes in the art dealing world.223 The above discussion supports the identification of three kinds of connection between Scheffer and reproductions of his work. In the first place, there was Scheffers artistic involvement in the production of prints after his work; an involvement illustrated by his proposal for Couwenberg to visit his studio so that Scheffer could correct his engraving. The painter was not the actual maker of the reproduction, in that he did not produce the print himself, but he felt a connection with the image that was being reproduced and thus had an artistic relationship with reproductions after his work, as their intellectual father. It was this intellectual bond between the artist and his work that was increasingly recognised and protected by laws on authorship rights over the course of the nineteenth century. This brings us to the second type of connection between Scheffer and reproductions after his work, his legal relationship with these. It has emerged that the painter was clearly aware of the legal rights associated with his work, selling possession of his paintings with, and without, the rights to reproduce these. Before work had even begun on a print, the painter showed that he was thoroughly aware of the possibilities for exploiting reproductions of his paintings. This touches on the third connection between Scheffer and reproductions of his work, the economic relationship. The moral right of reproduction could be converted into cash, although it is often hard to ascertain the actual sums involved. Scheffers artistic, legal and economic relationship with reproductions after his work put these prints almost on a par with the pictures he made himself. The reproductions bearing his signature are an interesting phenomenon in this connection. The Dordrechts Museum owns a copy of an engraving by Louise Girard after Lenore and a photograph by Gustave Le Gray of Le Coupeur de nappe, both of which have been signed by the painter. The act of signing these prints seems to have dissolved the difference between original and reproduction: a reproduction authorised by the painter and signed by the painter appears to be-

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come a new original. Scheffers habit of presenting reproductions of his work to people in his immediate circles underlines this. Such reproductions may have been made by engravers and photographers, but the painter regarded these as a representation of his own work. Although Scheffer himself did not produce these prints, he seems to have been explicitly involved in the reproduction of his work. The legal aspects of this are equally interesting, the primary factor being the authors intellectual bond with his work, and reproductions of this work, rather than actual makership. In this sense Scheffer may be regarded as the author of any reproductions after his pictures. It would not do justice to the special bond between Scheffer, his work, and its reproductions, if we did not include these reproductions in his oeuvre as a matter of principal, despite the absence of actual makership on the part of the painter. The result is an oeuvre which comprises works characterised by varying degrees of originality, ranging from original paintings, variations and replicas to prints produced by an engraver. This enables us to take a different view of works such as Christus Remunerator, which Scheffer painted for reproduction. Although this is the only clear-cut example in Scheffers oeuvre of a picture painted for reproduction, it is probable that the artist bore in mind how reproduceable a picture would be when he was painting it. The general use of replicas, reductions and variations, and the significance of reproductions in Scheffers career, show that the quality of reproduceability was certainly not a reason for the painter to suffer a loss of prestige in his artistic circle. With every new work, and with every new version, variation or reproduction, Scheffer appears to have made a work, or authorised the making of a work, that was worthy of his oeuvre, and esteemed by himself and many others. The allocation of reproductions to the oeuvre of the image originator, Scheffer himself, does not mean, however, that these should be dropped from the printmakers oeuvre. On the contrary, the engraver also had a special bond with his work, as its actual maker; a bond which he may have underlined with his own signature. So we should rather ascribe reproductions to two artists and classify them in two oeuvres, that of the painter and that of the printmaker. It is for this reason that reproductions form an exceptional group of works, which we should place on the periphery of Scheffers oeuvre, where this partially intersects with that of the printmaker. Reproductions thus have an exceptional relationship with Scheffer and his work: in addition to being considered part of the artists oeuvre they also make

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a substantial contribution to the dissemination of this oeuvre. Prints in every kind of technique, state and format, and sold at a range of prices, formed an important medium for the dissemination of an artists name and work. If we can believe the statements made in a number of art journals, it was enough simply to mention the title of a specific work for many people to conjure up an image of this in their minds eye. Occasionally this would have been the original painting, but in the majority of instances the image they would have recalled would have been a black-and-white one. The many reproductions after Scheffers work made the painter one of the best-known artists of the nineteenth century, a fact underlined by Henri Beraldi:
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Constater quAry Scheffer a t trs souvant grav serait insuffusant, car, en dfinitive, tous les clbres du xixe sicle ont t frquemment traduits en estampes: Ingres comme Paul Delaroche, Delacroix comme Horace Vernet, Millet comme Meissonnier; si on ne tient compte que du nombres des estampes, on trouvera mme que tel Schlesinger, tel Schopin ou tel Compte-Calix na pas t grav moins souvent que Inges ou que Delacroix. Mais Ary Scheffer est, avec Paul Delaroche, le peintre qui a t le plus capitalement grav, et celui qui a d la gravure le plus de popularit.224

Renown acquired or enhanced by reproduction is hard to measure. In considering the contribution made to to Scheffers fame by reproductions, his relations with the art trade and publishers should also be taken into account. The painters relationship with the firm of Goupil is illustrative of this. Undoubtedly Scheffer profited from Goupils international activities through the firms various branches at home and abroad, while Goupil naturally profited from the famous painter. It should be emphasised here that the painter was already making a name for himself at the Salon during the 1820s, while his special relationship with the house of Orlans gave him a unique status as an artist in the period in which Adolphe Goupil was taking his first steps in the world of print dealing. Scheffers importance to Goupil is shown by the fact that, until the late 1850s, the firm advertised itself as publisher of the work of Dlaroche, Scheffer and Vernet.225 The artist and the publisher shared interests from which both profited. There seems to have been a similar interaction between Scheffer and his en-

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gravers, described by De Kunstkronijk apropos Scheffers contemporary Paul Dlaroche:


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The great name, which Paul Dlaroche possesses in France and abroad, can be attributed to two reasons. In the first place he is, more than any other, the man of his country and his time; in the second place he was fortunate that his labour was interpreted by outstanding engravers.[...] It is a double success, for as the reputation of a painting attracts the engraver, he in his turn enhances and spreads this reputation still further.226

In many instances Scheffer worked with the same outstanding engravers, including Louis Henriquel-Dupont and many of his pupils. While Scheffer profited from master engravers such as Henriquel-Dupont and Luigi Calamatta, these printmakers profited in their turn from their association with Scheffers popular compositions. Indeed, Scheffer may have benefited even more from reproductions than Dlaroche for the dissemination of his name and fame, as the critic Thophile Thor remarked.227 Engravings, lithographs, etchings, mezzotints and photographs of his work hung on Scheffers own walls and found their way into the hands of the cultural elite in Paris, many admirers at home and abroad, the artists own daughter Cornelia Marjolin-Scheffer and an art lover like Vincent van Gogh. His work was available in all kinds of forms for a range of prices, allow many people to acquire a Scheffer and thus make the painter one of the most framed artists of the nineteenth century.

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chapter 6

Israls and HIs CHIldrens Best ClotHes


Jozef Israls (1824-1911) and reproductIons after HIs Work

In 1844 the young painter Jozef Israls made his debut at the Amsterdam exhibition of living masters, with a painting entitled Een Turk in verpozing (A Turk in Repose) At the same exhibition he saw his first picture by his renowned compatriot Ary Scheffer, Gretchen aan het Spinnewiel (1831), of which he later said: That is is my feeling, that is what I like in art, that treatment, in which the doing and the skill yield to the feeling of colour and subject united together.1 Thus, the painters first encounter with the work of Scheffer occurred at the beginning of his own artistic career. Israls received his artistic training at the studio of the well-known portrait painter Jan Adam Kruseman (1797-1857), and at the Koninklijk Academie voor Beeldende Kunsten in Amsterdam. In 1854 he decided to continue his studies in Paris, and travelled to the French capital armed with a letter of introduction to the distinguished engraver Johannes de Mare; De Mare had also left the country of his birth to try his luck in France, where he had worked with leading artists such as Ary Scheffer.2 On De Mares advice Israls joined the studio of the painter F.E. Picot (1786-1868), where he met the young Dutch artist J.B. Jongkind. In Paris he also attended the cole des Beaux-Arts, receiving instruction there from the renowned masters Paul Dlaroche and Horace Vernet. During this

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first stay in Paris, Israls had probably not yet met his great hero, Scheffer. However, he did meet him in Paris several years later, in 1853. Israls admiration for Scheffers sentimental genre art is evident in several of his early works, such as Mijmering (Reverie) (1850).[71] The reviews of this painting were very positive and the work gave the young Israls his first success. It is now in the Dordrechts Museum, amongst many works by Scheffer whom Israls so admired.3 Like many of his contemporaries Israls hoped to make a name for himself as a history painter, and so depicted prestigious scenes from Dutch history, such as De laatste Letter from Oldenbarnevelt (Last Letter of Oldenbarnevelt) (1852) en Willem van Oranje in de raad bij landvoogdes Margaretha van Parma ( Margaret of Parma and Prince William of Orange). Israls sent the latter work to the 1855 Exposition Universelle in Paris. That same year, however, during a stay in Zandvoort, he discovered a subject that would bring him much more success, the lives of fishermen. Eerste Liefde (First Love) from 1856 is Israls first attempt to capture the everday lives of simple fisher folk. His great breakthrough followed later that year with the impressive work Langs moeders graf (Passing Mothers Grave). [plate 11] The painting presents a sober scene, a grieving father and his two children walking past the grave of his dead wife, their mother. Although a realistic genre picture, it is painted in an imposing format normally reserved for a history piece. From this point onwards Israls rapidly developed into an international renowned specialist in the fishermen genre, producing a stream of paintings, watercolours, drawings and etchings with sentimental scenes of fishermen and their families, including well-known works such as Kinderen der Zee (Children of the Sea), Na de Storm (Anxious Moments) and De Schipbreukeling (The Shipwrecked Mariner). During the 1870s Israls extended the scope of his work, specialising with equal success in scenes from the daily lives of farmers and peasants as well. Throughout his career his work was reproduced on a considerable scale. The earliest print after one of his pictures dates from 1849 and is a lithograph by Elchanon Verveer (1826-1900) after his early academic piece Aaron en zijn zonen (Aaron and His Sons) (1849), which was published in De Kunstkronijk.4 After this his realistic and sentimental genre work, depicting fisher folk and peasants, was reproduced on a wide scale, in engravings, lithographs, etchings and photographs, and published in almanacs, periodicals and albums.

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Israls and reproductIerecHt


In 1878, the problematic regulation of authorship rights in the Netherlands prompted a group of artists to submit a petition to the Second Chamber of the States-General. The petition had been initiated by Israls, signed by well-known contemporaries, such as Johannes Bosboom, HendrikW. Mesdag, Jacob Maris and Philip Zilcken, and was supported by the artist, writer and lawyer Carel Vosmaer.5 Israls association with this petition is the first sign of his personal involvement in authorship rights. His efforts in this connection show that he was aware of how important this legal principle was for contemporary artists. However, the campaign was only partially successful, for the pledged protection through a separate law for visual art failed to materialise.6 The first law to offer painters legal protection would not come into force in the Netherlands until 1912, a year after Israels death. Did Israls have agreements with publishers concerning the rights to reproduce his work? Legally speaking, publishers in the Netherlands were not required to ask painters for permission to reproduce their work. But rights were acknowledged outside the law. In 1857, for example the Haarlem publisher A.C. Kruseman asked Israls for explicit permission to reproduce his work Langs het kerkhof, also known as Langs moeders graf (or Passing Mothers Grave) in the Aurora-Almanak. The painter replied in a letter: Now about your question regarding the little engraving for your almanac, I am willing to grant the satisfaction if I can thereby render you a friendly service.7 This affair reflects a general development in authorship rights, in which primacy was acknowledged to lie with the author, even though this was far from being codified in law. Early in his career Israls seems to have made agreements about reproduction rights with the Amsterdam publisher Buffa. In 1859 Buffa had decided to produce an album of reproductions, for which he bought twelve small drawings from Israls, for 600 guilders, intending to have these engraved and published as a little album.8 However, Buffa then thought better of this plan and only published two prints, after Eerste Liefde (First Love) and De Wieg (The Cradle). Some forty days later the drawings had been returned to Israls who then sold these to the publisher Kruseman, for 800 guilders. Krusemann also intended to produce an album.9 Israls wrote to Kruseman regarding his conclusion of business with Buffa:

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I have the pleasure of informing you that I have wound up the business with Buffa and thus defer to that which you have said of the matter in question, namely that you would purchase them for 800.[] The matter of the album is entirely with the fore-knowledge and approval of Buffa.10

Israls probably asked the firm of Buffa for permission to reproduce the two prints published by Buffa in Krusemans album Kinderen der Zee (Children of the Sea). I shall return to the subject of this album below. Here it is important to note that it is highly probably that Israls made agreements with his publishers regarding the rights to reproduce his work early in his career. Many years later Israls received a request from Goupil, the renowned French firm of art dealers and publishers, to reproduce one of his pictures, the painters submission to the 1888 Salon, De Naaister (The Girl Knitting). The work had received a great deal of attention at the exhibition and the firm wanted to reproduce it in the illustrated Figaro-Salon for that year. So H.G. Tersteeg, who managed Goupils branch in The Hague, approached Israls to obtain explicit permission to reproduce the picture. However, the painter had already sold the work to another well-known French firm of art dealers, Arnold & Tripp of Paris, and was unwilling to give permission for reproduction until the new owner of the painting had agreed to this. He presented the request to the Arnold & Tripp in a letter:
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Mr Tersteeg ma demand pour sa maison la reproduction du tableau pour le salon pour le Figaro Salon et le salon de 1888 je nai pas voulu donner la permission avant de vous en demander votre adhesion.11

Like Dutch publishers, Goupil was not required to ask Israls for permission to reproduce his work. Neither did the painter have any legal right to prohibit reproduction. Israls, however, was aware of the tension between the interests of a works owner and the reproduction of that work, and he was unwilling to jeopardise his relationship with Arnold & Tripp. The firm agreed to allow the reproduction, provided it received explicit mention as owner of the work.12 Some time later the well-known writer and critic Albert Plasschaert also requested Israls permission to reproduce several paintings. The painter again acceded to this request, but on the same condition, that the owners of the works did not object. In his reply to Plasschaert the painter explained: If Messrs. Cre-

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mer and Crone [owners of the works in question] have nothing against it, you can safely incorporate in your publication my paintings, which are in your possession.13 The publication cited was probably Plasschaerts xixde-eeuwse Hollandsche Schilderkunst, published in 1909. Israls also readily gave authorisation for his portrait to be multiplied. When the journal Eigen Haard asked the painter to be allowed to publish a photograph of him and his son Isaac on a boot trip he responded: I have absolutely no objection to Eigen Haard reproducing the photograph, that was taken of me and my son on the deck of the Lady Bird, commanded by captain Whylie.14 This brings us to portrait rights which give the subjects of portraits rights over the exploitation of their image. Portrait rights were first acknowledged and protected in Dutch law in the 1912 Authorship Rights Act; the same act that also gave authorship rights to practitioners of the visual arts in the Netherlands. Israls must have been aware of the significance of authorship rights. If he had any questions on the subject, he could turn to his nephew, the lawyer Herman Louis Israls (1856-1924), the son of his brother Louis Israls (1827-?).15 Israls signature on the petition for better protection of authorship rights, reflects his years of experience with this issue. However, the existence of concrete agreements on reproduction rights is hard to establish, as is the level of any income which Israls may have derived from these. Carel Vosmaers observation that reproductions also involved substantial sums suggests that it is highly probable that Israls earned money from reproduction (rights), although the amount is not known. Nevertheless, the examples cited above show that money was not always of decisive importance to Israls. He may have been aware of authorship rights, but did not in practice always require a great deal to grant these. When approached with requests to reproduce a specific work he generously acceded to these: the permission he gave to Kruseman was less motivated by money than a desire to do the publisher a friendly turn.

Independent reproductIons
lItHograpHs, engravIngs and etCHIngs

In 1854 Israls became friends with the French master lithographer Adolphe Mouilleron(1820-1881) when Mouilleron was staying in Amsterdam to make a

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lithograph after Rembrandts Nightwatch. Since the 1840s the printmaker had caused a stir with lithographs after works by the well-known French Salon painters Eugne Isabey (1803-1886), Joseph Nicolas Robert-Fleury (1797-1890) and Ernest Meissonier (1815-1891). Mouilleron stayed intermittently in Amsterdam from 1854 to 1856, in order to reproduce Rembrandts masterpiece in the Trippenhuis, a commission from the French state. During his time in the Dutch capital, he regularly visited to Israls house. These visits were later described by Jan Veth: On Fridays, when the gallery in the Trippenhuis was being cleaned and Mouilleron could not therefore enter there, he frequently went to work with the painter [Israls] at his studio on the Rozengracht.16 During these visits Mouilleron worked on his lithograph after Eerste Liefde (First Love) under the watchful eye of Israls, who proudly wrote to his publisher friend Kruseman17 [fig. 52]:
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It will certainly do you pleasure to learn that a large lithograph is being made after my little painting which you saw in Rotterdam [Eerste Liefde], and by Mr Mouilleron Frances premier lithographer [] It will be extremely fine.18

When Israls subsequently painted his picture De Wieg (The Cradle), this was also reproduced as a print by Mouilleron. According to Jan Veth the printmaker even drew from the model in Israls studio, so painter and lithographer seem to have worked side by side on the original and the reproduction.19 The image of Israls and Mouilleron working side by side raises the question of their mutual relationship. Although the young Israls was a promising painter in this period, he was no more than that and would only gain national renown in 1856, through the exhibition of Langs moeders graf (Passing Mothers Grave). Mouilleron, however, was already an established printmaker with many years of experience. The relationship between the young painter and the experienced lithographer is illustrated by the fact that when Israls submitted his first works to the Salon, in 1857, he listed Mouilleron as a reference.20 Israls later fame undoubtedly attracted printmakers, but early in his career the relationship between the painter and the French lithographer was on a contrary footing. Mouillerons two lithographs were published two years later, in 1858, by the firm of Buffa. They were some of the earliest independent reproductions of Is-

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52

fig. 52 adolphe Mouilleron after Israls, Symptome damour/ First Love (1856), l ithograph 33.3 x 26.1 cm, Museum Boymans van Beuningen, rotterdam.

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fig. 53 august alleb after Israls, Adagio con Espressione (1858), lithograph 34 x 26.4 cm, Museum Boymans van Beuningen, rotterdam.

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rals work, and formed part of an planned series entitled Les enfants de la Mer.21 However, the series faltered after these two lithographs had appeared, probably undermined by the success of the album Kinderen der Zee (Children of the Sea) (1861), which had been published by A.C. Kruseman. It was not until 1864 that the two additional prints, after Het eerste zeebad (The First Bath in the Sea) and De terugkeer van de visser (The Return of the Fisherman) were finally published by Buffa. These two lithographs were no longer by the French master Mouilleron, but by the Dutch printmaker H.A.C. Dekker (1836-1905).22 When the artist August Alleb (1838-1927) asked Israls for information about the technique of lithography, Israls referred him to Mouilleron in Paris.23 Once he was an accomplished lithographer, Alleb produced a number of prints, including a lithograph after Israls Adagio con Espressione, published in 1859 by the Leiden publisher A.W. Sijthoff.24 [fig. 53] When Allebs pupil Jan Veth also wanted to learn lithography, he in turn suggested the name of Mouilleron: I would so like to do some lithography perhaps a whim, because everyone is etching nowadays but Im surely brought to this by a real inclination.[] Mouilleron or other great lithographers must have written something about their art.25 The first lithograph Jan Veth made was a small portrait of Israls in the series Mannen van Beteekenis (Men of Significance); in 1893 he also produced a print after one of Israls best-known works, Als men oud wordt (When One Gows Old).26 Engravings and etchings after Israls work were regularly published. The majority of these were mainly produced by pupils of Andr Taurel. In 1859 Taurels son, C.E. Taurel (1824-1892), made an engraving after Na de storm (Anxious Moments); in 1860 J.W. Kaiser (1813-1900) engraved a large-format print after Het Breistertje (The Girl Knitting). [fig. 54, 55] Several years later, in 1864, J.H. Rennefeld published an engraving after De schipbreukeling (The Shipwrecked Man). [fig. 56] A productive printmaker was the engraver H. Sluyter (1839-1931), who made various copies of Israls work.27 During this period, however, use of the traditional engraving technique for independent prints was declining, although it continued to be employed mainly for small-format engravings in illustrated almanacs, a subject discussed further below. During the 1880s in particularly, Israls work was reproduced in etched form on a considerable scale. In 1880, for example, Leopold Lwenstam produced an etching after the painters successful work Langs Moeders graf (Passing Mothers

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fig. 54 charles edouard taurel after Israls, Anxious Moments (1860), engraving 21.5 x 28.8 cm, rijksmuseum, amsterdam.

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fig. 56 Johan rennefeld after Israls, The Shipwrecked Mariner (1864), engraving 22.7 x 43.3 cm, rijksmuseum, amsterdam.

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fig. 55 Johan Wilhelm kaiser after Israls, Het Breistertje (1860), engraving 33.2 x 42.5 cm, rijksmuseum, amsterdam.

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fig. 57 ferdinand leenhoff after Israls, The Frugal Meal (ca.1881), etching 13.3 x 20.7 cm, rijksmuseum, amsterdam.

Grave). Israls work was subsequently etched by the printmakers W. Steelink junior (1856-1928), J.M. Graadt van Roggen (1867-1959) and C.L. Dake (1857-1918). In the same period the productive etcher Philip Zilcken also made etched reproductions after work by Israls, as a changed from his prints after pictures by Jacob Maris and Anton Mauve, and his own original etchings. These etched reproductions after Israls work reflect the general popularity of reproductive etching in France and England, outlined in chapter two. A noteworthy printmaker was Ferdinand Leenhoff (1841-1914), who produced an etching after the painters well-known work The Frugal Meal. [fig. 57] Leenhoff is mainly known nowadays as the brother-in-law of Edouard Manet, who ensured that the face of the reproductive etcher, if not his name, is still familiar today as he features in one of the most reproduced paintings in art history, Manets Dejeuner sur lherbe (1863).28 [plate 12]

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Israls sometimes saw his work reproduced in his own studio: Adolphe Mouilleron made his lithographs as the painter looked on, and the etcher Carel Dake is known to have produced his etchings after Alleen op de wereld (Alone in the World) and De man uit het oude volk (Son of the Ancient People) in the painters presence.29 However, such direct control over the reproductive process was an exception rather than a rule in the painters career. When the London-based etcher Leopold Lwenstam wanted to make an etching of Israls well-known painting Langs moeders graf (Past Mothers Grave), a work then located in Amsterdam, Israls came to his aid, making a special replica which was then shipped to the printmaker in England.30 As previously observed, it was not unusual for replicas to be made for reproduction. Both Israls and Lwenstam must have been familiar with the use of such alternative originals for reproduction. In addition to replicas, Israls also provided printmakers with watercolours, drawings and photographswhich they could use to produce their prints, without even seeing the original.31 Once the print had advanced, the printmaker would make a proof which could be submitted to the painter for correction. The etcher Philip Zilcken, for example, showed prints to Israls which the painter then corrected, using charcoal and white chalk to explain these to the printmaker.32 We can assume that this practice was fairly common, for there is a similar corrected proof by the etcher Graadt van Roggens print after Israls work Op de uitkijk (On the Lookout),
fig. 58 Johannes M. Graadt van roggen after Israls, On the Lookout (1901), etching with pencil, 21.4 x 32.4 cm,

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drents Museum, assen.

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59

fig. 59 philip zilcken after Israls, Mother washing child, etching, Museum Boymans Van Beuningen, rotterdam.

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from 1901.33 [fig. 58] The painter also returned this proof to the etcher. The margin of the print is inscribed with several observations by Israls, such as the little ship a little more forceful, plus several small sketches. By a little drawing of the girls foot is the remark not so coarse. The painter also kept an eye on Lwenstams print after Na de Storm (Anxious Moments). After correcting the print, he wrote to the printer in London: Your engraving is much better now [...] when I am done with my corrections I shall send it to you immediately.34 On completion prints were sometimes signed. There is an interesting copy of Zilckens etching after Moeder wast kind (Mother Washing Her Child) which bears the signatures of both Israls and Zilcken. [fig. 59] H. Koetsers colossal print after Als men ouder wordt (When One Grows Older) was also signed by the painter and printmaker. [plate 13] Some of Israls works were repeatedly reproduced, including Na de Storm (Anxious Moments). Circa 1860 Taurel junior produced a steel engraving after this painting; twenty years later Lwenstam reproduced the image in an etching; several years after this (between 1885 and 1895) H. Sluyter made his own reproduction of this well-known work. Another example is Als men oud wordt (When One Grows Old), which was reproduced in various prints. The diverse reproductions of a specific work are interesting for several reasons. On the one hand they illustrate the continuing popularity of a particular painting, on the other hand they may be regarded as specific adaptations of an original image and and therefore products of their time. Lwenstams etching of Na de Storm (Anxious Moments), for example, should be placed in the context of the general popularity enjoyed by etched reproductions during the 1870s and 1880s. This was a trend which probably required a new form of reproduction, rather than reprints from the (possibly reworked) plate of Taurels steel engraving.
pHotograpHs

Israls had his work photographed at an early stage in his career. In 1855 the painter wrote to the Haarlem publisher A.C. Kruseman that he would send him a photograph after a drawing of the painting for the engraving after Willem I voor het eerst in de Staatsraad te Brussel zich verklarende tegen de plakkaten van de Koning van Spanje (Margeretha of Parma and Prince William of Orange) : For the engraver this will be a sufficient beginning and I can afterwards finish off the drawing and effect a little more on proofs.35 Some time later the painter wrote to the engraver D.J. Sluyter (1811-1886):

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I shall send what I have in the way of photography for the engraving and will leave it at that. Libre vous, to have another and better photograph taken. I shall always be entirely willing to make the drawing available for this. I believe in the meantime that with a little thought the engraver will have sufficient with the existing [photograph].36

Here, the photograph was not an end in itself, but a means to assist in the production of an engraving for Krusemans Aurora-Almanak. I shall return to the subject of this and other engravings after Israls in almanacs, when I discuss reproductions of his work in illustrated publications. The essential point here is that at an early stage in his career the painter was familiar with the possibilities for reproduction offer by photography. It is not known when he had his first work photographed, although the tone in the letter cited above suggests that he already had experience with this medium in 1855. Instead of being simply amazed by photography, the painter seems rather to have been aware of the possibilities and limitations of photography. Like many of his contemporaries, Israls did not photograph his own work: photographic reproduction was a job for professional photographers, or at least for skilful amateurs. The photograph mentioned by Israls in his letter is not known, nor is the name of the photographer with whom he collaborated. At the time of writing, 1855, this unknown photographer would at any rate have been one of the pioneers of Dutch photography. An early photographic reproduction of Israls work is a photograph of his picture Mijmering (Reverie) (1850), taken in 1855 by the photographer Eduard Isaac Asser (1809-1894). [plate 14] Asser came from a well-known family of lawyers, and was a lawyer himself, but above all he was a passionate art lover. Between 1842 and 1857 he pioneered the new medium of photography in an amateur capacity. He did not actually photograph Israls painting, but his own copy of the engraving after this by C.E. Taurel,37 although he may have seen the actual painting in 1850, at the exhibition of work by living masters held in Amsterdam, where the painting was positively received by the critics and soon bought by the well-known Amsterdam collector Jeronimo de Vries, a good friend of Asser.38 Two prints of Assers photograph are known, salt prints produced using the wet collodium process. Did Israls know of these photographs, and if so, did he play a role in these? There is no evidence of direct contact between the photographer and the painter, although it is certainly feasible that they knew each

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fig. 60 anonymous after Israls, Sewing Class at Katwijk (1882), photogravure 76.9 x 93.9 cm,

60

Muse Goupil, Bordeaux.

other, for they moved in the same circles in Amsterdam and were both friends with the lithographer Mouilleron.39 Despite the existence of these early photographs of Israls work, his pictures were probably not photographed on a larger scale until the 1880s, when the firm of Goupil published photographs after his paintings, albeit on a modest scale. In 1882 Goupil published a photogravure after the painters well-known work De Naaischool van Katwijk (Sewing Class at Katwijk), whose admirers included Vincent van Gogh, [fig. 60] who wrote enthusiastically to his brother: The reproduction in photogravure of Israls Sewing School [] is superb- as published by Goupil & Cie.40 Israls worked for more than fifty years with this important, international firm of art dealers, who both sold original works by his hand and published prints after his pictures.41 Nevertheless, there is a curious discrepancy between the 74 works by Israls sold by Goupil and the few reproductions after his pictures that appear in the firms stock list.42 One possible explanation for this is that Goupil mainly specialised in contemporary French artists for its reproductions and the firms stock included relatively few non-French artists. The Amsterdam firm of Schalekamp actually circulated more photographic reproductions after Israls than Goupil. In 1892, the firm published collotypes

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of Israls works, En attente, La couturiere, Un fils du vieux people and Comment on samuse, in its French language series cole Hollandaise. Photographies daprs des tableaux et des dessins de Matres Hollandais Modernes;43 it also sold Le pcheur de Zandvoort, Laide de Maman, Seule au monde and Des tnbres la lumire in a smaller format.44 Circa 1900 Schalekamp expanded its stock with new photographic reproductions, publishing photogravures, similar in technique to Goupils, after La Garde malade and Intrieur de Pcheur.45 The fact that Schalekamp, a Dutch publisher, opted to publish its reproductions with French titles, serves to emphasise that these were intended for international distribution, rather than for the modest Dutch market, of which more below. The firm of Schalekamp often published its photographs in series, devoted to well-known (Dutch) museums. The series for the Stedelijk Museum in Amsterdam comprised such works as Goede Buren (Good Neighbours), Een zoon van het oude volk (Son of the Ancient People), De gang langs het kerkhof (The Path Past the Churchyard), Kinderen der Zee (Children of the Sea) and a portrait of Israls painted by Jan Veth, while the series for the Stedelijk Museum in Dordrecht included a photograph after Israls well-known work Middaguren in een boerenwoning te Delden (Afternoon Hours in a Peasant Dwelling in Delden).46 In 1905 the painting Seul au monde featured in the Rijksmuseum series.47 Schalekamp also published postcards with art reproductions after modern Dutch masters, including popular works by Israls, such as De Naaister (The Girl Sewing), Aan het ziekbed (At the Sickbed), Levenswinter (The Evening of Life), Binnenhuis (Indoors), Langs moeders graf (Passing Mothers Grave), Bij den Haard (By the Hearth), Aan den arbeid (At Work), Moeders hulp (Mothers Help), Een zoon van het oude volk (A Son of the Ancient People), Kinderpret (Childrens Fun), De laatste dag (The Last Day), Alleen op de wereld (Alone in the World), Van duisternis tot licht (From Earkness into Light) and Kinderen der Zee (Children of the Sea).48 In 1900 the Dutch firm even produced a wall calendar with three phototypes after Israls.49 Circa 1900 Israls work was photographed on a regular basis, thanks to the efforts of Schalekamp and also a firm of Groningen-based art dealers, Scholtens & Zoon.50 From 1903 onwards Scholtens & Zoon repeatedly did business with Goupil in The Hague, although the Groningen firm had maintained contacts with the painter long before this: Israls had been born and bred in Groningen, and regularly returned to the city for family visits. During the course of the 1880s the Groningen firm regularly dealt in works by Israls; around the turn of the century it also published photographic reproductions of these.51 In terms of definition, contrast, image stability and format, these photographs were very

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different from the products of Assers experiments fifty years previously, for technological changes in the field of photography were unparalleled in this period. Nevertheless, photographing artworks in the early twentieth century was still far from problem-free. In 1903 Israls was involved in the reproduction of a self-portrait by the publisher J. Slagmulder (who had taken over the firm of Buffa in 1895). Israls, by now an elderly painter, wrote in his journal on 22 December 1903:
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Painted my portrait for Slagmulder (Buffa). He says they like it very much. He is having an etching or a photogravure made after it. It will be difficult, as the largest part is in shadow.52

By this time the painter now had more than fifty years experience with photographic art reproduction and knew that dark areas in paintings were still difficult to capture on the light-sensitive plate. This is possibly the reason why the publisher eventually chose to have an etching made of the work, instead of a photographic reproduction. Several weeks later the print had been completed, but the painter was not entirely satisfied with it. Although he claimed not to be overly critical, he confided to his journal that he should have paid more attention while the etching was being made:
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I have now been shown the etching that was made after my own painted portrait by Karsen. It is exactly the same as the painted portrait and yet the proper charm and also the resemblance is less. In general I am easily satisfied if only a little, I should have decided, to have had the painting by the portrait during correction, then it would have probably been better.53

At the end of his career the old artist mainly saw his work being reproduced in the form of photographs. However, the etching of his self-portrait was not unique, for reproductive etchings after his pictures continued to be produced, albeit it infrequently, by traditional printmakers such as Dake, Graadt van Roggen and H. Koetser (1878-1952), while Schalekamp was still selling handmade etched reproductions in 1900, for five guilders, the same price as for largeformat photogravures of La Garde malade and Interieur de Pecheur.54

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tHe dIstrIButIon of Israls reproduCtIons

In 1894 De Nederlandsche Spectator wrote of the distribution of Israls reproductions by the Amsterdam publisher Buffa:
c

Through these, in character mostly exceptionally successful reproductions, the art of Israls has been distributed for 40 years into the most remote corners of the world, enabling those who have had no opportunity to see the masters paintings, to form a good idea of the same.55

Ultimately the painter enjoyed more than fifty years of positive contact with Buffa, conducting many pleasant correspondences about paintings, prints and exhibitions.56 A leading Dutch publisher, Buffa made a substantial contribution to the distribution of reproductions after Israls work.57 Regrettably, however, little is still known about possibly the best-known publisher in the Netherlands during the nineteenth century. Until circa 1870 the firms principal activity was the publication of reproductions after popular Dutch masters, such as J.A. Kruseman, N. Pieneman and D. Bles. These activities were subsequently expanded, as they also were at the firms of Goupil and Gambart, by sales of paintings and watercolours. Buffa published a total of more than twenty-five prints after Israls, made by printmakers such as D.J. Sluyter, Graadt van Roggen, Koetser, Dake and Zilcken. No figures are known for the actual volume of production, so we must make do with cautious estimates. Given the character and technique of such reproductions, the print runs probably ranged from several hundred to several thousand copies. Even a cautious estimate brings the total number of reproduction published by Buffa alone into the tens of thousands. The remains of Buffas stock of reproductions were sold at auction on 21 and 22 November 1934, when diverse engravings and etchings went under the hammer, including exclusive states of prints by Dake, Graadt van Roggen, Sluyter and Koetser after works by Israls; various etching plates were also sold, bringing a definitive end to the distribution of reproductions by this leading publisher.58 Reproductions after Israls work were circulated on an international scale.59 Diverse prints of his pictures were published in England, the tone being set by the flamboyant art dealer Ernest Gambart, who followed his successful introduction of Scheffer in England with similar responsibility for Israls break-

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through. In 1862 he bought De Schipbreukeling (The Shipwrecked Mariner), which became a great success in England. Gambart left the publication of reproductions after Israls werk to his successors Pilgeram & Lefvre. On 13 May 1879 an etching of Anxious Moments (Na de Storm), made by the London-based Dutch etcher Leopold Lwenstam, was published in England by Pilgeram & Lefvre. According to the register of the Printsellers Association, five states of the print could be obtained: Artists Proofs (100 copies), Presentation Proofs (25 copies), Before Letters (25 copies), Lettered Prints (100 copies) and Prints (no number listed). Thus, a total of more than 250 copies was registered. Eighteen months later, on 21 December 1880, the same publisher issued Lwenstams etching of Passing Mothers Grave (Langs moeders graf ), of which more than 275 copies were registered, including a state on exclusive Japanese paper. Six months after this, on 23 June 1881, Pilgeram & Lefvre published an etching by Lon Richeton after Watching (23 June 1881), registering at least 200 copies of this. The wellknown firm of T. McLean also published an etching by Richeton after Sunshine and Shadow (20 January 1882), in an edition of 125 copies, while Graves and Co published an engraving by Alfred Smith after Dawn (13 June 1883), with at least 100 registered copies. The British and Foreign Artists Association issued an etching by A. Geri Bichard after Nothing Left (6 September 1883),60 and the English art dealer Obach pubished an etching by Graadt van Roggen after De schaapherder (The shepherd) in 1892. The (international) distribution of reproductions was achieved by the collaborative efforts of varying firms. Buffa, for example, had Dakes print after Kinderen der Zee (Children of the Sea) printed by the well-known firm of Salmon in Paris and published the print jointly with the publisher Harry C. Dickins of London. This English print publisher also worked with the Groningen-based firm of Scholtens on the publication of several etchings by Graadt van Roggen.61 Where prints were not initially published abroad, we may assume they were distributed there: the firm of Goupil alone had its own extensive network of branches in various countries, which could sell reproductions outside their country of origin. Many publishers also functioned as wholesalers, supplying local booksellers and printsellers with prints; they often acted as representatives for other (foreign) firms as well. It is likely that prints after Israls published abroad were available in the Netherlands and vice versa, thanks to the international networks established by printsellers and publishers. In addition to these commercial prints, reproductions of Israls work were

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also published in the form of presentation plates. In 1859 the Vereniging tot bevordering van de Beeldende Kunsten (Association for the Promotion of the Visual Arts) published Taurels engraving of Na de storm (Anxious Moments), to present as a consolation prize to those of its subscribers who failed to win anything in the associations lottery.62 A unique example of such a presentation plate is the reproduction after Werken en Zwoegen (Working and Toiling), published in HollandKrakatau in 1883, to raise funds for the victims of the volcanic eruption in Indonesia.63 When Israls died in 1911 Arti et Amicitiae paid tribute to its honorary chairman with the presentation publication of six photogravures of his work.64 The extensive networks established by the print trade, the book trade and the publishing trade managed to secure a wide distribution for reproductions after Israls work, transporting these into the remotest corners of the world. In the shadow of graphic innovation and the increasing professionalisation of the publishing business, however, traditional structures for the production and distribution of prints persisted. Until the end of the nineteenth century there were still printmakers who made, published and sold their own prints. One of these was C.E. Taurel, who was continuing to sell his own engravings after Israls Mijmering (Reverie) in 1878. De Nederlandsche Spectator reported that the engraver was planning to rework his plate, which he had made in the early 1850s, with a view to reprinting prints from this; however, he first intended to make prints from the unmodified plate: ten copies on Chinese paper and fifteen on white paper, which would be sold for ten guilders and five guilders respectively. These prints could be bought directly from the engraver, a system that had operated since the fifteenth century.65

reproductIons In Illustrated puBlIcatIons


almanaCs and perIodICals

In 1852 an engraving by Willem Steelink (1826-1913) after Israls Mijmering (Reverie) (1850) appeared in the Holland-Almanak. The picture had brought the painter an early success, in 1850, so it is hardly surprising that this was the work chosen for inclusion in the almanac. From this point onwards reproductions after Israls pictures regularly appeared in such illustrated yearbooks, which generally incorporated a calendar, literary contributions, practical information and all

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kinds of interesting facts.66 There was fierce competition between the various publishers of a wide range of almanacs, with reproductions serving as an important weapon in this conflict.67 The Aurora-Almanak, published by the Haarlem-based publisher A.C. Kruseman (1818-1894) between 1849 and 1865, was one of the best and most expensive of its kind in terms of form and content. Various prints after Israls were included in its pages.68 Kruseman spared no effort or expense on his illustrations, opting to have reproductions specially made for the almanac, instead of buying up clichs from foreign publications, as was common practice. Moreoever, he also chose to use traditional, and also expensive, (steel) engravings, which enjoyed higher status than lithographs or wood engravings.69 Thanks to various letters sent by Israls to Kruseman we can gain an idea of how the publisher obtained a number of reproductions for the Aurora-Almanak.70 In 1855 Kruseman decided to have an engraving made for his Aurora-Almanak after Israls history painting Willem I voor het eerst in de Staatsraad te Brussel zich verklarende tegen de plakkaten van de Koning van Spanje (Margaretha of Parma and Prince William of Orange). He was probably prompted to choose this work to show his readers because the enormous picture had been included in the Exposition Universelle held in Paris that year. For the reproduction Israls himself made a drawing of the painting, which he then had photographed for the engraver D.J. Sluyter (1811-1886), as noted above. It was fairly common practice to make a drawing of a painting destined for reproduction: Israls made his own drawing of the huge history painting; renowned contemporaries such as Scheffer sometimes entrusted this task to pupils or assistants. It is not clear why Israls gave the engraver a photograph of the drawing, rather than the drawing itself. He may have been too attached to the drawing, as a souvenir of the original painting which had been sold to the collector F.C.W. Becker immediately after the Exposition Universelle. The fact that the drawing was photographed, rather than the original painting, is understandable, given the problems of colour and lighting associated with photographing paintings.71 Although Israls was aware of photographys limitations, he believed the image would be enough for the engraver to make a start on the print. If the publisher wished to have a better photograph taken, possibly at the engravers insistence, the painter was willing make the drawing of the painting available for this purpose.72 Israls checked the proofs of Sluyters engraving during his memorable stay in Zandvoort in 1855.73 Here he discovered the picturesque outdoor life of the

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towns fishermen and laid the foundations of his later speciality, as a painter of the fishermen genre. Indoors he made minute corrections to the engraving after his history painting of William of Orange, writing to the publisher:
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Enclosed I have the correct proofs to send Your Honour and there has been quite a lot to do to them. Sluiter [sic] has also written to me that he is willing to do it and I believe it will look entirely different. If Your Honour just spurs him on and gives him the time it can become very fine.74

Some time later Israls wrote:


c

I am engaged in rectifying the engraving but it is not yet finished enough. Should Your Honour wish to fetch it from me this evening it will be at Your Honours disposition from four oclock, otherwise I shall send by letter-carrier early tomorrow.75

Although the proofs which Israls checked are not known, the painters letters show how critical he was; they also reveal the publisher A.C. Krusemans central position in the reproductive process, as a link between the painter and the engraver. In 1856 the engraving was published in the Aurora-Almanak, accompanied by a poetic caption, by S.J. van den Bergh, such captions being the custom in almanacs. Kruseman was also charmed by Israls painting Langs moeders graf (or Passing Mothers Grave). The painting was a great success at various exhibitions and would become one of the most important works in Israls oeuvre. It is hardly surprising therefore, that Krusemann wanted a reproduction of the picture for his Aurora-Almanak. The painter cordially agreed to the request, but did express his preferences as to the engraver, which he made clear to the publisher:
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Would old Taurel (not the young one for heavens sake not him) but the old Taurel be willing to make a small engraving of it he is our most able engraver an extremely great talent. Have you seen the last portrait of Tollens thats something different from all that botching done here nowadays. Enfin should he not want to not be able to or require too much payment (it is always worth trying) let Kaiser or Steelink do it I prefer the latter to Sluiter [sic].76

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Israls thus had a hierarchy of engravers in mind as candidates for reproducing his work; a hierarchy headed understandably by Taurel senior, now the minence grise of Dutch printmaking.77 If the master engraver was not available for the task or too expensive, Kruseman was to turn to one of Taurels pupils, Kaiser, Steelink or Sluyter. However, Sluyter was at the bottom of Israls mental list, possibly owing to his previous experience with Sluyters engraving after his history painting of William van Orange, which the painter had described as having quite a lot to do. Israls was vehemently opposed to working with Taurel junior, although the engraver did make several engravings after Israls work at a later date, so the painters objection to him was apparently not insurmountable or definitive. Israls preference for Taurel senior to engrave the print after Langs moeders graf (Passing Mothers Grave) was not heeded, and he had to be content with W. Steelink. On this occasion, too, the printer pointedly corrected the print, to such an extent that little remained of the image:
c

Will Your Honour ask the photographer Deutman to send me six copies of the photograph taken after my painting? I had received 2 proofs from Mr Steelink but have spoild these by making notes on them.78

Instead of approaching the photographer directly for several prints, Israls corresponded with the publisher, which shows once again the extent to which the publisher formed the linchpin in the reproductive process. Steelinks engraving after Langs moeders graf (Passing mothers grave) was published in 1858 in the Aurora-Almanak, complete with an accompanying text by Thrasybulus, the penname of the pastor and poet Cd. Busken Huet (1826-1886). This caption provoked some commotion, for the liberal preacher appears to have employed certain expressions with everything but a biblical or Christian colour, according to Kruseman.79 The publisher received an extremely perturbed letter from the conservative pastor and man of letters Isaac da Costa (1798-1860):
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Reading the Aurora has made a painful impression on me! I may not dissemble that the piece by Trasybulus not only offended me but also roused my indignation. What cowardly and above all unbecoming ridicule of sacred matters! What a text to the work of art by an Israelite by (as generally is thought) a Preacher!80

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Kruseman wisely remained aloof in this religious dispute:


c

In general, and not just in relation to the Aurora I deem it my social duty to remain wholly impartial in the field of faith, science and art, as a publisher and intermediary.81

After the publication of Steelinks engraving of Langs moeders graf (Passing Mothers Grave) in the Aurora-Almanak of 1858, the same print appeared in 1868 in another almanac, the Hollandse Muze.82 In considering the distribution of such reproductions we can base any estimates on these almanacs circulation figures. The literary Aurora-Almanak, published between 1849 and 1865, had a circulation that ranged from 1500 to 1750 copies, making it one of the smaller publications.83 The Christelijke Volksalmanak and the Praktische Volksalmanak achieved circulations of 3000 and 3500 copies respectively, while the Nederlandse Almanak even attained a circulation of 8000 copies. After 1855 sales of the Aurora-Almanak declined slowly but surely, with 122 copies remaining unsold of the 1700 printed that year; in 1860 as many as 302 copies of the 1625 printed did not sell. In addition to these differences in circulation, the almanacs also varied widely in price: the Nederlandsche Almanak cost 60 cents and the Praktische Volksalmanak 75 cents, while the Aurora-Almanak, at 4 guilders, was one of the more exclusive almanacs.84 This exclusivity was reflected by the latters relatively high-quality engravings after Israls work, which were not cheap and mainly destined for art lovers from the upper middleclass. De Aurora-Almanak was a success for the publisher Kruseman, who made a profit of 30,000 guilders on the publication.85 During the 1850s and 1860s almanacs increasingly fell out of public favour as a result of the rise of illustrated periodicals such as The Penny Magazine (1832) and popular (art) journals such as LArtiste (1833), Die Illustrierte Zeitung (1843) and The Art Journal (1849).86 In the Netherlands De Kunstkronijk quickly grew into a leading publication, finely illustrated with many prints after artworks by contemporary masters, including Israls. The first reproduction of his work in this journal, in 1849, was a print by Elchanon Verveer (1826-1900) after Aaron en zijn zonen (Aaron and His Sons).87 Israls had painted this work in 1848 while he was still studying to become an artist. The young painter must have been pleasantly surprised to see this youthful work published just a year later in the Nether-

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fig. 61 Jan Mesker after Israls, Hanna in den tempel, from: De Kunstkronijk (1870), p.94, lithograph 21 x 17 cm.

61

lands best-known journal for visual art, while he was still receiving instruction at the Koninklijke Akademie voor Beeldende Kunst. Verveers print is the earliest known reproduction of Israls work, published in a period when the successes (and reproductions) of Mijmering (Reverie) and Langs moeders graf (Passing Mothers Grave) were yet to come. Several years later, in 1853, a lithograph by F.H. Weissenbruch after Israls first history painting De laatste brief van Oldenbarnevelt (Last Letter of Oldenbarnevelt) (1852) was published in De Kunstkronijk, followed during the 1860s and 1870s by various reproductions after the painters work, including, in 1863, lithographs by H.C.A. Dekker after Levenswinter (The Evening of Life) and by A.P. Felix after Kleren verstellen (Mending Clothes).88 In 1867 the journal published a lithograph by Dekker after De Muze (The Muse), in 1870 a lithograph by J.J. Mesker after the religious work Hanna in de tempel (Hannah in the Temple) and five years later another Mesker lithograph after Een huiselijk tafereel (A Domestic Scene). [fig. 61] De Kunstkronijk mainly published lithographic reproductions, interspersed with other kinds of print. The 1870 engraving by J.H. Ren-

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fig. 62 leopold lwenstam after Israls, Moeder Jacob at the Hearth from: De Kunstkronijk (1872), etching.

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nefeld after Thomas Kempis is rare, however, as etchings were more usual in the journal, such as the 1861 print by Leopold Lwenstam after an earlier version of De dag voor het scheiden (The Day before Parting) (1862).89 In 1871 the journal again published an etching by Lwenstam after a work by Israls, this time Moeder Jobje bij de haard (Mother Jacob by the Hearth). [fig. 62] During the course of the 1880s photographic reproductions increasingly appeared in De Kunstkronijk. In 1886 the journal published the first photographic reproduction after a work by Israls: a Goupil photogravure after a peasant interior. This was followed in 1888 by another Goupil photogravure, this time of De Naaischool te Katwijk (The Sewing Class at Katwijk).90 During the 1860s, 1870s and 1880s works by Israls were also published in Dutch periodicals other than De Kunstkronijk, including the Katholieke Illustratie, Eigen Haard and De Huisvriend, while reproductions of his pictures appeared in foreign (art) periodicals as well.91 In 1879, for example, the etcher Ferdinand Leenhoff produced a print after Jong en Oud (Young and Old) for the chic French art journal LArt van 1879. The painter had made a smaller version of the original work especially for this purpose. The print was subsequently purchased by the Magasin Pittoresque and also appeared in the Dutch journal Eigen Haard.92 In 1889 the well-known Gazette des Beaux-Arts published an etching after Ankerdragers (Anchor Bearers).93 Thanks to illustrated journals Israls work was distributed on a wide scale.94

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How did Israls respond to the opportunities offered by illustrated periodicals? Virtually nothing is known of any personal involvement on the painters part in the reproduction of his work in journals. Did he himself take the initiative? Did he sometimes refuse permission for a reproduction? Did he check the prints as critically as he did for the almanacs? There is no evidence to support any definite judgements on these matters, although it seems feasible to assume that reproduction of the painters work for journals largely occurred along the same lines as with the earlier prints for almanacs. Some of the prints were made by printmakers familiar to Israls, such as Steelink, Dekker and Rennefeld; there are also indications that the reproductive process followed its customary course. In 1882, for example, at an exhibition of the Dutch drawing society in The Hague, Vincent van Gogh recognised a drawing by Israls of a little old woman stoking the fire in the twilight, formerly etched for the Kunst Kronyk.95 A great fan of illustrated periodicals, Van Gogh knew the etching by Lwenstam after Moeder Jobje bij de haard (Mother Jacob by the Hearth), which had been published in De Kunstkronijk in 1871. It is quite conceivable that Israls made this drawing especially for the reproduction; the variation he made of Jong en Oud (Young and Old) for Leenhoffs etched reproduction of the work points to the painters involvement in reproductions in this kind of journal, continuing his previous involvement with prints after his pictures in almanacs.
Illustrated alBums

At the Colonial Exhibition held in Amsterdam in 1883, the etcher Philip Zilcken met the publisher, Launette of Paris, who told him of his plans for a deluxe album of modern art. This was to be a fine publication, richly illustrated with photogravures after artworks by contemporary French and foreign masters. A planned item on the renowned French artist Meissonier, had unfortunately had to be dropped, so the publisher was now looking for something to replace this, preferably a piece on an artist whose name also began with M, so as not to disrupt the layout of the album; he had thought of Mesdag and asked Zilcken to write an essay on this Dutch master; Zilcken then remarked that if Mesdag was to be included, Israls should certainly feature in the album too, and the publisher agreed that Zilcken would write an essay on Mesdag and Israls.96 Some time later the album, entitled Grands Peintres Francais et Etrangers: ouvrages dart publi avec le concours artistique des matres: texte par les principaux critiques dart was published in two volumes, with illustrations that included 120 photo-

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gravures of modern works of art, among them, thanks to Zilcken, pictures by, Jozef Israls. The album Grands Peintres Francais et Etrangers is just one example of the many illustrated albums into which reproductions of Israls work found their way. A rich culture of deluxe albums developed during the course of the nineteenth century. Pictures by Israls, a renowned artist, were regularly incorporated in albums of modern art. An early example was the Album van Photographien naar schetchingen en teekeningen van Levende Meesters, published in 1865, which included a reproduction after Israls watercolour Verhuizen (Moving House) (c.1864). In 1871 another such album was published, Neerlands Nieuwe Kunst. Photographien naar J.W. Bilders, J. Bosboom, Hein J. Burgers, Jozef Israls, C. Rochussen en W. Roelofs. Met oorspronkelijke gedichten van N. Beets, J.P. Hasebroek, J.J.L. ten Kate, E. Laurillard, which, when opened, immediately revealed a photograph of Israls renowned work Langs moeders graf (Passing Mothers Grave) (1856).97 Exhibitions were an important stimulus for publishers to produce this kind of illustrated album. International exhibitions, Salon exhibitions and other shows often generated finely bound volumes of reproductions as souvenirs. The catalogue of the 1883 Amsterdam International Exhibition, for example, included an engraving after Israls Schelpenvissers (Shell Fishers). In France illustrated catalogues were particularly popular, including the Salon catalogues, in which pictures by Dutch masters were regularly reproduced from the 1870s onwards. Works by Israls and other popular Dutch masters, such as D.A.C. Artz (18371890), B.J. Blommers (1845-1914) and Anton Mauve (1838-1888) were mainly included in Goupils popular Salon series. The Salon album for 1876 was exceptional as no less than five Dutch artists were represented in this: Israls, with Karig maal (Frugal Meal), Anton Mauve, Hendrik W. Mesdag, P. Sade (1837-1904) and H.J. Burgers (1834-1899). Other popular albums were the Figaro-Salons, published later in the century, in which work by Israls was also reproduced.98 At the Antwerp International Exhibition of 1885, a substantial display of visual art was organised. Among the works on show was Israls painting Als men oud wordt (When One Grows Old), subsequently reproduced in an Italian album of Dutch modern art.99 The memoirs of Philip Zilcken, the etcher, give us an idea of how such albums were made, thanks to his description of the production of an illustrated album

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of works from an 1886 exhibition held in Edinburgh, with masters of the Hague School (including Israls) and the Barbizon School. Zilcken, who had reproduced many works by the Hague School, was asked to supply etched reproductions for this album, and wrote at length of this in his Herinneringen:
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On the 21st of October I departed with van der Maarel for Edinburg, because I had been commissioned to make a number of etchings together with the Scot William Hole, for the Memorial Catalogue of the French and Dutch Exhibition of paintings by masters of the Barbizon and Hague School. My work at the exhibition (where the Carlisle by Whistler uncommonly attracted me, amongst other pictures), comprised the making of a series of drawings after the paintings, which I was to etch, while I would later work up the plates with the aid of good photographs. When the documents were finished, the return journey began and I soon set to work in the spacious studio of the Kleine Loo. Although I executed all these proceeding labours not without success, the earnings were not considerable, particularly in proportion to the labour expended. The struggle for life was very demanding, and the desire for a regular sphere of work arose, so that, despite my activities in the artistic field, I applied for the appointment as director of the Haagsch Gemeentelijk Museum, together with B.W. van Riemsdijk Esq., without any success however. []The fine work Memorial Catalogue of the French and Dutch Loan Collection at the Edinburg International Exhibition 1886, appeared in that autumn [1888]. The Dutch painters, who contributed to the lustre of this Feast of Art, were Artz, Blommers, Bosboom, Israls, Jongkind, J. Maris, M. Maris, W. Maris, Mauve, Mesdag, Alb. Neuhuys, Ter Meulen.100

Zilcken also made albums of reproductions (including prints after Israls work) on his own initiative. In 1887, for example, he was working on an album of etchings after watercolours at exhibitions organised by the Hollandsche Tekenmaatschappij (of which Israls was a joint founder):
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In the summer [1887, rv] I made a series of ten etchings after watercolours by the Holl. Teekenmaatschappij, of Blommers, Bosboom, Israls, Jacob Maris, Willem Maris, Mauve, Mevr. Mesdag-van Houten, Al. Neuhuys, Termeulen en Weissenbruch, which were published in a portfolio.[

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]There were quite a few subscribers to this series, which was later followed up. They could apply to me or to the firm of Mouton, who I believe printed the etchings. Such work I considered, alongside the productive side, as exercises in technique through the quest to express precision of character as much as possible.101 In 1893 Zilcken published another album of etchings after watercolours by the Hollandsche Teekenmaatschappij, somewhat as a sequel to my first portfolio, which had appeared several years previously.102 Israls was again represented in this album, a relatively small-scale publication that was initiated, produced and sold by the etcher.103 Finally, there was the album Peintres Hollandais Modernes, published by the Amsterdam publisher Schalekamp in 1891; Zilcken and Israls had both collaborated on this project which the etcher described thus:
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At the end of the previous year [1891, rv] the first instalment of my work Peintres hollandais modernes was published by Schalekamp, with fine illustrations. The Spectator called the publication of this book a magnificent idea. Most of the papers received it with much appreciation; even abroad it drew attention and the Belgian and French papers and the Spectator cited large passages from it. A pity that the publisher Schalekamps original plan, to produce a sequel to this first part, could not be realised, on account of the soaring costs of the illustrations, as I would have undertaken the task with an exceptionally great deal of satisfaction, owing to a constant contact with painters, my contemporaries, whom I knew from close at hand, and with whose aspirations and actions I felt so at home. It would have been pleasurable for me to have published a handbook on those artists, who belonged to a particular period, (and not one of the least) in our art history.104

To demonstrate that Israls approved the reproductions, the introduction to the album included a letter from the painter to the publisher in facsimile (8 November 1891), which reads: I thank you for sending the sketches and the reproductions I find them all good []. Nevertheless, the painter was not happy with three of the reproductions:

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I find these too coarse and not at all palatable. What the reason is I do not know. They are disagreeable, the others all appear good to me. I do want the study you still have back. You can always have it back if necessary.105

Israls criticism may have prompted two of the three reproductions to be dropped from the final album. He had also provided a study for the reproductive process and was insistent that this be returned to him.
Israls alBums

Amidst the medley of illustrated albums there were also monographic publications devoted to the life and work of Jozef Israls. The earliest example of these is the fine album Kinderen der Zee (Children of the Sea) from 1861, with poems by Nicolaas Beets and engravings by J.H. Rennefeld. [plate 15] This was followed by albums such as Jozef Israls. LHomme et lartiste (1890) and Jozef Israls (1910), an illustrated monograph written by the printmaker C.L. Dake.

Kinderen der Zee: schetchingen naar het leven aan onze Hollansche stranden door Jozef Israls, gravures door J.H. Rennefeld; gedichten door Nicolaas Beets, Haarlem (A.C. Kruseman) 1861. (Children of the Seas: Sketches after Life on Our Dutch Beaches by Jozef Israls, Engravings by J.H. Rennefeld; Verses by Nicolaas Beets, Haarlem (A.C. Kruseman)

The album Kinderen der Zee (Children of the Sea) has already been clearly and comprehensively discussed by Dieuwertje Dekkers in her article in Jong Holland in 1986.106 This serves as the basis for a brief sketch of this deluxe album, the first speciment in a series of illustrated monographs on Israls, published during his life. The plan for this album dates from as early as 1859, at a time when the artist had enjoyed a national breakthrough a few years earlier with Langs moeders graf (Passing Mothers Grave) (1856).107 The Amsterdam publisher Buffa had bought twelve small drawings from the painter for 600 guilders, intending to have these engraved to publish as a little album, as Jan Veth later described. For unknown reasons Buffa abandoned the project and the publisher A.C. Kruseman purchased the plates from Buffa for 800 guilders, in consultation with Israls. The painter advised the publisher to ask the young engraver J.H. Rennefeld to do the engravings, and offered to bear the costs.108 Israls choice of Rennefeld may have been prompted by the painters positive experience of this young en-

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graver when he was involved in the illustrations for the Dutch translation of George Eliots novel Adam Bede, of which more below.109 These fine illustrations made the painter happy to work again with Rennefeld on the deluxe album. He also reported to Kruseman that his fellow publisher Buffa had no objection to the album, a probable reference to reproduction rights.110 According to Israls, the images were excellently suited to literary captions, as he informed the publisher:
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The final engraving is not yet so far that it can be printed in proof [] The subject however is again highly suitable[;] to say something about this it is a little old mother sitting on a chair by the hearth slowly falling asleep and thus properly forms the conclusion to this series.111

The combination of a story with a picture belonged in the tradition of caption poetry, associated with the almanacs described above. It was generally the publisher who approached a poet with a request for some verse to enliven the image on a print.112 Israls was already familiar with this practice, thanks to his reproductions for almanacs, so it is hardly surprising that for this publication he also thought of poetic captions to accompany his work. According to Jan Veth, the publisher Kruseman had initially approached the romantic man of letters Gerard Keller (1829-1889) for these verses, apparently without result as some time later he sought contact with the renowned poet Nicolaas Beets (1814-1903). Israls followed these developments closely and wrote anxiously to the publisher:
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So I hope that you will quickly bring me agreeable tidings that the poet in question is now intending to do this with our Kinderen. Should it be that you deem it necessary that I write to the Gentleman myself I am willing to do this although I do not have the honour of knowing him.113

Israls hope became reality:


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Today I heard to my great pleasure that there is a chance that Nicolaas Beets will compose something for our Kinderen der Zee. The fear that we might lose something like this compels me to urge you to do your utmost to ensure this may happen. From my youth I have always been taken with

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that man and I fancy that no-one is as suitable as Beets to compose like Heinrich Heine something lovely and sensitive briefly and lyrically.114 During the course of 1860 Beets became involved in the project, to Israls delight. The painter furnished the poet with the visual material necessary to inspire him. As with his reproductions for the almanacs, Israls had photographs made of the drawings. Once again communications were conducted through the publisher:
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Enclosed I have the pleasure of sending Your Honour a photograph of Kleine Jan for our poet Beets. How is it going. I hope that Your Honour will not be disappointed. The little engraving will be finished in about a day.115

In a letter written perhaps shortly after this, Israls mentioned the work of Rennefeld, the engraver:
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There is still progress with the engravings. They will be ready at the end of June. I wish you much pleasure of the spring it is an entirely different life than in the winter is it not. Friend Rennefeld added his letter of thanks to mine it read exactly the same and that is why I did not send it.116

In her article on the album Kinderen der Zee, Dieuwertje Dekkers managed to identify the original works used for nine of the twelve reproductions. These comprised seven paintings and two worked-up drawings. For the details of the identification I refer the reader to Dekkers. The seven original paintings were: De Wieg (The Cradle), Dolce far niente, Het Breistertje (The Girl Knitting), Eerste reis (First Trip), Herdenking (Remembrance), Langs Moeders graf (Passing Mothers Grave) and Waar blijft hij?(Where Is He?) No paintings of Joost Atlas and Netten Boeten (Mending Nets) are known, only worked-up drawings. As yet it is unknown which work served as the original for the prints Uitreis (Voyage Out), Middagslaapje (Afternoon Nap) and Het anker (The Anchor). Even when a (painted) original did exist, the question still arises of which version of the subject was actually used for the reproduction. Is Rennefelds engraving of Het Breistertje (The Girl Knitting) based on the first painting of this subject, from 1858, or the smaller replica painted by Israls circa 1861? Probably the former, although this is far from certain. Doubts

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as to the identity of the original are a recurrent problem in the world of nineteenth-century art reproduction. For the album Kinderen der Zee Rennefeld probably worked from drawings, photographs of the paintings or a combination of these, illustrating how problematic it can sometimes be to pinpoint the original.117 Israls was very happy with progress and Rennefelds execution of the prints:
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As Mister Rennefeld is visiting Your Honour I can not let him go without a few words of writing and greeting to Your Honour.- He will deliver to Your Honour the 4 completed engravings and I believe we may be satisfied with his Choice execution. Does Your Honour know anything of B[eets]?118

In his assessment of Rennefelds engravings, the painter focused not only on the engravers execution but also on the format, enquiring of Kruseman: Shall they not be printed on a quarto sheet? I believe as the proofs which I now have.119 The prints were completed in the summer of 1860, Beets verses in mid January 1961. [fig. 63] In the album Kinderen der Zee the prints were the central element, supplemented by Beets verses. The painter set great store by the primacy of the images and clearly communicated this to the publisher. The title of the album was not to leave any misunderstanding on the part of its readers, the painter declared:
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The title will not be I hope, Kroost der zee [Progeny of the sea] .- I find this of an unbearable dissonance[;] let it be called sketches from the life of fishermen from B to J. I find that the best simplest and most attractive name. The word naar (after) also does justice to me, as otherwise people might believe that I have made them after Beets and not Beets after me. I also hope that Your Honour will expend every possible care on my Childrens smart best clothers and Mister Beets sometimes thinks that I have no right to speak of this[;] that I am quite conceited.120

Israls emphasised the importance of the images in the album. It was his work that was being supported by Beets verses, not vice-versa; the painter had an historic objection to Beets proposed title Kroost der Zee. Painter and writer reached a compromise with Kinderen der Zee. According to Beets, however, the

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fig. 63 Johan H. rennefeld after Israls, Passing Mothers Grave (1861), engraving, from album Kinderen der Zee 1861, netherlands Institute for

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painter was not enthusiastic about this title either, as he had already used it for a previous work.121 The painter was aware of the undesirability of using the same title for different works, a continuing problem to this day. The title Kinderen der Zee alone is associated with various works paintings, watercolours, etching and drawings and thus appears to denote a specific genre of works, rather than one particular piece. Despite Israls objection the album was entitled Kinderen der Zee.122 Kruseman, the publisher was extremely satisfied with the result, as he wrote to Nicolaas Beets, the poet:
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Now I can once more publish something that I shall dare to present: something entirely new, something very fine![] Israls will be over the moon! And the engraver Rennefeld who hopes to make some name with these engravings!123

The painter was also very happy with the album Kinderen der Zee.
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Back from my trip to Paris I have received the copies of Kinderen der zee sent to me for which I am in Your Honours debt. The execution is ex-

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tremely to my liking and as far as I have heard it generally pleases. I now just wish us all a great success.124 The album Kinderen der Zee was published in parts in 1861. The first part, published on 7 June 1861, comprised three engravings by Rennefeld.125 Part-publishing was common practice with this kind of deluxe album, which generally consisted of a series of separate parts, bound into a fine binder when complete. The first part of Kinderen der Zee was followed by a further three parts, each comprising three engravings, making a total of twelve reproductions after Israls bestknown work. Although Beets verses suffered somewhat from criticism, the album Kinderen der Zee brought the painter success, and at the right moment. After the success of Langs moeders graf (Passing mothers grave), in 1856, Israls had rapidly developed into a well-known specialist in the fishermens genre, a position now emphasised by Kinderen der Zee. In 1861, the year in which this album was published, the painter was on the point of making an international breakthrough. In the same year he had painted De schipbreukeling (The Shipwrecked Mariner), a picture which had rapidly won him renown abroad, particularly in England, where the work was bought by the influential art dealer Ernest Gambart. Israls name was now established in the art world. In the prospectus for the album A.C. Kruseman, the publisher, wrote:
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The sensitive scenes, for which we have to thank the singular brush of our Israls, have a well-earned renown, not only here in our country but also abroad. Rennevelds graver has rendered these in this collection in a manner that attests to great artistic talent. The poet Beets has had the kindness to add his poetic contribution. Thus this is a truly national bundle of drawing, engraving and poetry.126

From a financial point of view Kinderen der Zee was also a great success.127 The album was reprinted various times by a number of other publishers.128 In 1872 D.A. Thieme produced a second edition, in 1889 A.W. Sijthoff a third. Sijthoff continued to advertise the album until the early twentieth century,129 although the heyday of the picture with the story had been over since the 1870s.130

Jozef Israls. LHomme et lArtiste /eaux-fortes par Wm. Steelink; texte par F. Netchingcher et Ph. Zilcken; avec un essai de catalogue descriptif des eaux-

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fortes, de nombreux facsimils et une eau-forte originale indite, Amsterdam (Schalekamp) 1890. Between 1888 and 1889 the Amsterdam publisher J.M. Schalekamp part published a series of etchings that would eventually form the album Jozef Israls. LHomme et lArtiste. 131 The individual parts comprised etchings by W. Steelink junior, and were initially accompanied by text by the man of letters Frans Netscher and, after two issues, Philip Zilcken.132 When complete the album Jozef Israls LHomme et LArtiste presented the painters work in words and images, with eleven etchings by Steelink junior, plus an original etching by Israls himself.133 Steelink made his etchings after popular works such as Van duisternis tot licht (From Darkness into Light) (1871), De schipbreukeling (The Shipwrecked Mariner), (1861), Langs moeders graf (Passing Mothers Grave), (1856) and Alleen op de wereld (Alone in the World) (1881). Nevertheless, the album not only presented the masters wellknown work, but interestingly also included reproductions of recent works, De verkwikking (Refreshment) (1887) en De zoon van het oude volk (The Son of the Ancient people) (1889), whose paint was barely dry. Although the album Kinderen der Zee, published in 1861, had still employed traditional engraving, by the time Jozef Israls. LHomme et lArtiste was produced, etching had become the technique of choice for reproducing artworks. W. Steelink junior, a leading Dutch reproductive etcher of the period, had learned the profession from his father W. Steelink senior, who had made engravings after Israls work during the 1850s and 1860s for various almanacs. Steelink senior, an engraver by profession, had also produced several etchings during his career, although this technique was more his sons province. Where once Steelink senior had engraved Langs moeders graf (Passing Mothers Grave), his son Steelink junior now made an etching after the same work. The prints in Jozef Israls. LHomme et lArtiste were likewise accompanied by explanatory text; not in verse, as in Beets poems for Kinderen der Zee, but in prose by Netscher and Zilcken. It is unclear to what extent Israls himself was directly involved in the creation of this album. In the past he had collaborated intensively with Steelink senior and would have known his son; he also knew Zilcken through various reproductions the latter had made of his works. Schalekamp was also a familiar name: several years later the firm would also publish the album Peintres Hollandais Modernes (1891). These connections, plus the fact that the album included an original etching by Israls, suggest that the painter must have been closely involved in its production.
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Once the diverse parts had been published, the album was available in various versions for a range of prices. Like traditional independent prints, this illustrated publication could be obtained in diverse states and variations. According to the Schalekamp stock list for 1892, the most exclusive copies were the 25 albums avant la lettre, printed on Japanese paper, signed by Israls, contained in a portfolio and sold for the considerable sum of 240 guilders; the following 75 numbered copies avant la lettre were printed on Chinese paper and available in a portfolio for 120 guilders; finally there were 200 copies avec la lettre in portfolio on sale for 75 guilders.134 By way of comparison: the albums published by Schalekamp with etchings after Jacob Maris, Anton Mauve and Johannes Bosboom cost a maximum of 60 guilders, 75 guilders and 60 guilders, respectively.135 So the album Jozef Israls. LHomme et LArtiste was a relatively expensive work, mainly aimed at the more well-to-do art lover. As the title suggests, the album was published in French, a choice of language determined by the target public for this work, as Schalekamp explained in his stock catalogue for 1900:
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That one mostly finds French titles in this Catalogue of Dutch publications about mainly Dutch artists, is explained accordingly in that several major publications, for example the work on Israls, have been written in French because the sale of such major works is not enough in Holland, just as that of reproductions after Dutch paintings is also not. A large proportion of sales must come from abroad and as French is still the pre-eminent international language in the art world, preference was given to this language.136

It is not known how many copies of this album were actually distributed at home and abroad. Schalekamps remark once again indicates the limits of the Dutch print market during the nineteenth century, something already pointed out by his fellow publisher Beijerinck back in the 1830s. Schalekamps album was positively received at home and abroad.137 An anonymous reviewer wrote of the work:
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It is an excellent selection by the publisher from work dedicated to Israls, enriching his publication with sketches in charcoal of fusains by the masters hand, in addition to reproductions of paintings. They allow you

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a glimpse into the artists secret workroom, they tell you the Genesis of his works, they reveal his most intimate thoughts, as these welled up in pure state from the very spring. The etchings included in the 3rd and 4th instalment of the said work, were taken from the paintings known as: De schipbreukeling (The shipwrecked mariner) and Kinderen der Zee (Children of the Sea). The latter etching especially seems to me to have turned out particularly well. The silver-blond tone of the images is extremely finely rendered in the etching; the light sparkles at you from it, and the endless quality of the sea, whose confines flow away into the far horizon. In fact, in their original form, Kinderen der Zee also makes more of an impression than De schipbreukeling. In the latter painting the melodrama is too dominant, the story diverts your goodwill from the whole []138 As was often the case in such albums the tone was set by