The finest example of arse painting in the whole of art history?
Well I can’t think of a better one anywhere, if you are in Londinium and have half an hour to spare get yourself down to the National Gallery and have a go on this. It is after all free and belongs to all of us.
Painted by Spanish master Diego Velázquez (1599-1660), it is known as “Venus at her toilet” or more often, the “Rokeby Venus” because it wound up in the UK at Rokeby Park in Yorkshire (described by the excited new owner as “a fine picture of Venus’s backside”).
The painting itself is extraordinary for a number of reasons, nudey paintings of ladies (though strangely not young boys) were rather frowned upon by the Spanish Inquisition so the few that were painted tended to get squirrelled away in the private rooms of wealthy nobles. It was famously attacked by Mary “Slasher” Richardson, a suffragette protesting at the treatment of Emmeline Pankhurst. The small butchers axe that she used cause considerable damage (see below) which has been remarkably restored. I hate it when artworks are damaged or destroyed, and much as I might admire Mary, Emmeline, and others who make a stand about injustice, I can’t help feeling there must be better targets.
The irony with this attack is that as part of the restoration the cleaning of the painting revealed the true beauty of the arse itself. Removing layers of tired old varnish bought the pearly texture of the skin to life and, unlike other masters the it has been said that the closer you get the less it looks like canvas and more it looks like skin.
As for the meaning, well, things have written about the fact that cupid (Venus’s son) is without his bow and arrow and other classical symbols are missing, in other words by being stripped of symbolism we are left looking at the figure itself and the rather hazy (and impossible) reflection in the mirror. An allegory of beauty and love has been suggested by this thread’s favourite critic (AGD) i.e. the physical beauty is immediately apparent but the real person remains somehow hidden.
From my own point of view when you have painted such a fantastic arse it kind of doesn’t matter, does it? For me this is kind of the point of painting (and the other visual arts) it is your own emotional response that is paramount rather than worrying about whether you are thinking the right things.