Vermeer's Camera: Uncovering the Truth Behind the Masterpieces (review)

Modern artists have incorporated mechanically derived images into their pictures. Robert Rauschenberg (1925-) and Andy Warhol (1928-1987) spring to mind for their applications of photographically generated silk-screens, with or without color manipulations and hand-painted areas. David Hockney (1937-) has used photographs as the starting point for many of his paintings. It is worth mentioning that none of these artists started his career that way nor enjoys the universal admiration of a Rembrandt van Rijn (1606-1669) or a Vincent van Gogh (1853-1890). But their successes are sufficient to conclude that a sizable segment of contemporary viewers will accept almost any device as a means to an artistic end.

Accordingly, a measure of paradox attends the recent depth of scrutiny of Johannes Vermeer (1632-1675) and his supposed utilization of an optical machine, the camera obscura. The essence of this bright idea (or distasteful notion, depending on your stance) is that Vermeer set up a lens system at the position that would become his painting's "viewpoint" and projected an image of the scene into a black box and thence to a sheet of tracing paper, or even directly onto his painting surface. A number of his exquisite little paintings suggest the same room with recurring architectural features in the patterns of leaded panes in the windows, of tiles on the floor, and of ceiling joists. Could the actual room be part of Vermeer's home? Did the artist set up a curtained work area against the far wall, behind the viewpoint? The site of the house is known, but it was demolished in the nineteenth century. Even the suggestion that an old master should resort to such an approach is regarded by some patrons as unthinkable. One art historian was overheard to mutter the non sequitur "if Vermeer had used such a device, then he certainly would have written about it." Again, no documentary evidence survives about Vermeer's working methods.

Is the use of the camera obscura a form of artistic cheating? The answer that comes out of this elegant book is a resounding "no." Based upon 20 years of fascination with the Dutch artist, Philip Steadman provides a well-reasoned argument that Vermeer explored and developed a new way of looking and yet, in little but significant ways, embellished or modified his final paintings to his own artistic preference. All of these ideas are documented and illustrated. The admirable approach of Steadman, the thing that sets him apart from so many others in this field, is that he does experiments and interprets the findings as either supporting or damaging his working hypotheses. By exploiting the great precision of Vermeer he was able to reconstruct the architecture of the subject room and to measure absolute sizes from extant museum pieces of furniture, maps and other pictures that the artist incorporated into his domestic scenes. The geometric evaluations suggest that Vermeer worked optically rather than through the painstaking mathematical methods of perspective. However, I was left wondering about the intensity and contrast of the projected image inside a camera obscura cabinet. I have never been inside one, more's the pity, but I can't imagine it being much fun for an extended period. Some structured experiences by contemporary artists under similar circumstances might be instructive.

Vermeer's Camera is written in a clear style with an enthusiasm that sweeps the reader towards the author's conclusions. As becomes a scholarly work, Steadman also analyzes the evidence against the camera obscura and dismisses most of it in balanced fashion. The coverage of published works in related areas is adequate. The quality of the paper, printing and the reproductions of artistic works is consistently high. One production criticism concerns the 10 color plates, which appear without page or plate numbers, ganged together between pages 114 and 115 of the text, and thus take on the curiosity of a "late addition." The index is...