This paper explores the iconography of two prints owned by Haydn, the traditions to which they belonged and their aesthetic consequences. The prints depict two contrasting audiences, one amused and the other despondent, and feature a range of iconographic references that Haydn would have readily responded to, including such themes as the death of Dido, the world of Tristram Shandy, the madness of Orlando and Don Quixote, the humorous verse of Peter Pindar (one of Haydn’s librettists) and inevitably (in prints of this kind) contemporary English politics. A particular point of interest is a caricature of Edward Topham, an amateur caricaturist and founding editor of the influential newspaper
, featured in one of the prints. In a series of issues in the late 1780s
published a ‘correspondence’ with Haydn himself, which sought to undermine the composer’s suitability for composing with London audiences’ in mind. The print may have helped serve to remind Haydn of this dispute at the time he actually began composing in London and to aid him in keeping such audiences in mind when composing for them.
In the library of the Romanian Academy of Sciences in Kolozsvár there are four albums containing hundreds of caricatures, genre and milieu drawings, political portraits by János Petrichevich Horváth from the period between 1824 and 1864. The albums comprise several so-far little known and unpublished depictions of actors of the age such as István Széchenyi, Miklós Wesselényi, László Teleki, Sándor Teleki, Ferdinand V, Metternich or Emperor Francis Joseph, as well as the less widely known figures of the Transylvanian public scene and nobility, and officers of the imperial army. The set of over five hundred drawings, some only rough sketches, are not only intriguing in terms of iconography but at the same time have intrinsic artistic value as well. The main asset of the albums is the representation of the 19th century small world of ordinary people besides the pictures of representative personages. In addition to unusual themes the artist also challenges some taboos and depicts the abuses of power showing some infamous aspects of the life of the imperial forces, the aristocracy or the clergy.
By occupation, Transylvanian-born János Petrichevich Horváth was a high-ranking officer in the imperial army, and as such he was a committed defender of the feudal social structure and the monarchy, but as an amateur graphic artist he revealed quite a different side of his activities. Although there is no information on his regular artistic training, his works suggest a trained draughtsman mastering refined drawing techniques, with a sense of colour, careful spatial composition and exact anatomical rendering, correct perspective view and sensitive characterization.
The most remarkable works in the albums are the caricatures, which makes scholarship revise the beginnings and history of the genre in Hungary. Though the first half of the 19th century is regarded as a period of rudimentary attempts in Hungarian caricature history, the unfolding of the genre being dated to after the Compromise (1867), the albums of János Petrichevich Horváth render the Hungarian manifestations of the genre commensurable with the European crop of the genre at an earlier date. Of course, Hungarian art struggling with several problems of (self) definition, institutionalization, lack of infrastructure, etc. did not have a James Gillray (1756-1815) regarded as the “father of political caricature” or an Honoré Daumier (1808-1879) yet, but Petrichevich’s works do add several hues to the general tone of backwardness. As a conspicuous analogy, most caricatures of Gillray mock George III whose mental illness was caused by porphyria, Daumier’s most famous caricatures are of the pear-headed Louis Philippe I, and Petrichevich’s several caricature sketches depict the hydrocephalic Ferdinand V. Thus his works can be taken as the start of Hungarian political and cultural caricature whose artistic rendering and embarrassing sincerity project to us a different picture of the Reform Age clad so far in the veil of the golden age or of the customary image of the imperial forces as devilish impostors.
This paper provides a comparative analysis of Marcel Duchamp's half-Cubist, half-Futurist painting Nude Descending a Staircase (1912) and Tom Stoppard's play Artist Descending a Staircase (1972). It examines the way in which Stoppard playfully temporalizes Duchamp's dynamic concept of space and confronts traditional
and avant-garde positions of art. A continuation of After Magritte and an anticipation of Travesties, Stoppard's Artist Descending a Staircase is a brilliant series of contradictory caricatures voicing its author's often repeated and sometimes revised conviction:
"In any community of a thousand souls there will be nine hundred doing the work, ninety doing well, nine doing good, and one
lucky dog painting or writing about the other nine hundred and ninety-nine." (ADS, 144)
The Croatian essayist and poet Antun Gustav Matoš visited during his exile in Paris 1900 the World Exposition. He informed
the Croatian reader about the different aspects and events and discussed the main trends in art of that time in a serial of
essays: Impressions from the Paris Exhibition for a Zagreb newspaper. He was impressed by the globality of the event, evaluated the rising of hitherto "trivial" art in
painting (posters by Toulouse-Lautrec, Alfons Mucha), dance (Loie Fuller), and (African) music, admired the new relationship
between literature and journalism, emphasized the role of caricature in arts (Daumier) and literature. The new century opened
also in his opinion new relations between art and work, art and industry.
As the first Italian opera to grace the stage of the new opera house at Eszterháza,
(1768) afforded Kapellmeister Haydn, and the singers and orchestral musicians under his direction, the opportunity to revel in comedic performance. The revised libretto translated well to the rural court of Prince Nicolaus, whose tastes and cultural patronage extended to opera buffa. As Matthew Head has argued (
, 2005), Sempronio, the apothecary of the title whose fascination with the exotic makes him an easy target for duping, is also a harbinger of difference. And this “difference,” I contend, is the sign of Sempronio’s main character flaw — his Jewishness. Like other theatrical stereotypes on the mid-eighteenth-century stage, Jews came with a recognizable set of characteristic traits, all of which could readily be exploited in comedic contexts. How the apothecary’s profession and characterization, including aspects of voice, body and gesture, are linked to Jewish representation, is explored in this article through the analysis of a couple of representative scenes from the opera, among them the final Turkish scene, in which a confrontation between Orientalist Others creates semiotic overload. By characterizing the apothecary as Jewish, Haydn was able to demonstrate his complicity in the ideological agenda operative under the terms of his employment — i.e. that of re-inscribing the needs, desires and dominating authority of Prince Nicolaus. In
, the prince’s penchant for theatrical works featuring Jewish characters and caricatures was transferred from
After the revolution in 1956, the cultural policy in Hungary shifted to allow a new openness toward Western-European movements: consequently 1956–1967 became one of the most important transitional periods of Hungarian music history. Composers turned away from the tradition of the foregoing thirty years, determined by the influence of Bartók and Kodály, imitating rather the works of Schoenberg, Berg, Webern, Boulez, Nono, Lutosławski, Penderecki and Stockhausen. In this context the 78-year-old Zoltán Kodály’s Symphony, written in 1960–1961 for the Swiss Festival Orchestra and dedicated to the memory of Arturo Toscanini, was rejected by the young generation of composers and also Hungarian music critics, who turned themselves for the first time against the much-revered figure of authority. The Symphony’s emphasis on C major, its conventional forms, Brahms-allusions, pseudo self-citations and references to the 19th-century symphonic tradition were also received without comprehension in Western Europe. Kodály’s letters and interviews indicate that the composer suffered disappointment in this negative reception. Drawing on manuscript sources, Kodály’s statements and the Symphony itself, my study argues that the three movements can be read as caricature-like self-portraits of different phases of the composer’s life (the young, the mature and the old) and that Kodály identified himself with the symphonic genre and the C-major scale.
one does, is salvific. And whenever a course of action must be taken, Richards simply recommends “connecting with the source of mystical consciousness.”
Richards makes short order – by caricaturing and then dismissing those caricatures – of two
de soi-même, il faut une société très civilisée. Quelle caricature de caricature où nous vivons… (…) Là-bas, la vie est odorante, colorée… Mais ici tout est si froid et terne. » (18) Notons que Móricz veut peut-être attirer notre attention sur une