Midway through, you suddenly find yourself in front of ‘The Laughing Cavalier’ – the perfect encapsulation of cheeky merriment
With so many factors to consider when putting on a historic solo exhibition, it is not surprising that sometimes it flops. Curators, who are juggling visitor flows, security and chronological order, can often lose sight of one of the most important aspects of a show: its pacing. Get it wrong and the results can be calamitous. This was the case with the Caspar David Friedrich exhibition at the Alte Nationalgalerie, which recently closed. Opening to great fanfare in time for what would’ve been the artist’s 250th birthday, the blockbuster summer show was ruined by the placement of its two most impactful works right at the start.
‘The Monk by the Sea’ and ‘The Abbey in the Oakwood’ are so intense, so saturated with horror-film melancholia, that everything else faded into a dreary anti-climax. These monumental pieces – the crown jewels of Berlin’s Friedrich collection – should have been saved for the end, rewarding visitors who’ve slogged their way through all the sepia-toned lithographs and pleasant but forgettable landscapes. Friedrich himself, a master of the dramatic reveal, would have been horrified – it was like serving dessert before the main course or watching a movie in reverse.
In contrast, Frans Hals: Master of the Fleeting Moment at Gemäldegalerie is a masterclass in pacing. Paintings are well spaced, and instead of showcasing the best works upfront, the curators have dispersed them throughout the exhibition, placed like a high-class Easter egg hunt. About midway through, you suddenly find yourself in front of ‘The Laughing Cavalier’, with the look of someone who’s invited you out for a drink but forgotten their wallet – the perfect encapsulation of cheeky merriment. Later, you encounter the slightly manic portrait of ‘Malle Babbe’, at the time a radical depiction of a women suffering from mental illness. It is an incredible painting, somehow balancing vivacity and empathy.
The show ends with an intriguing twist: a forgery that caused a scandal in the 1920s
Although somewhat eclipsed by his contemporaries Rembrandt and Vermeer, the 17th-century Dutch artist was a gloriously talented, expressive painter. His rapid brushstrokes capture the living essence of his subjects so vividly that their skin seems almost molten, as if they’re standing right in front of you. Typically, it’s an annoyance when curators pad out an exhibition with works by other artists. Here, however, the lifeless portraits with their stiff, ludicrous collars (like the folds of a Viennetta ice cream) only underscore Hals’ brilliance, revealing exactly why, over 300 years later, we’re still talking about his work and not theirs.
The show ends with an intriguing twist: a forgery that caused a scandal in the 1920s, when it was revealed the pigments were too modern to have been used by Hals, ending the career of a renowned art historian who had staked his reputation on its authenticity. Displaying a fake at the finale was a bold move that could have easily misfired, but if anything, it shows the curators are attuned to the alchemical processes in exhibition-making. Also titled (ironically) ‘The Laughing Cavalier’, looking at this forgery compels you to revisit the twinkling eyes of the original. And what more can we expect from curators than to make you look again and look deeper? Hals’ sparkling portraits are deserving of nothing less.
- Frans Hals: Master of the Fleeting Moment, through Nov 3, Gemäldegalerie
