Friedrich's Rising Moon
I love a clear, rising moon. Not the bad kind, mind you. The Caspar kind. Not the friendly ghost (that’s reserved for Devon Sawa), but Caspar David Friedrich, the early 19th century German romantic landscape artist, whose first comprehensive exhibition in the US, Caspar David Friedrich: The Soul of Nature, opened earlier this month at the Met. Honestly, I cannot believe it’s taken this long for a holistic Friedrich exhibition to hit the US. His work is particularly singular and has always stood out. Friedrich didn't think like his contemporaries; what he painted—how he painted—he was ahead of his time. Friedrich writes,
“Close your bodily eyes in order that you may first see your painting with your spiritual eye. Then bring to the light of day what you have seen in the darkness so that it can affect others, penetrating inwards from without.”
Caspar David Friedrich, The Northern Sea in Moonlight, 1823-24
Scuffling through the cramped Friedrich exhibition at the Met, the number of nighttime scenes took me by surprise—at least a dozen. I didn’t realize the artist had cared so much about nature by night, and was struck by Friedrich’s frequent use of the moon’s light to evoke the sublime. As he puts it, to “feel it” and be “penetrated by it in a living way”.
Aspiring to capture the divinity of the natural world, Friedrich let nature take the wheel, depicting rocks, trees, plains, rivers—and the space between—as they were. To skew, condense, enrich, or simplify an element would be to stain the whole of perfection. Truth was paramount. The artist continues:
“What these new landscape painters see in nature in an arc of 100 degrees, they mercilessly compress in their paintings into an angle of just 45 degrees … All of this almost suggests that the intention was to squeeze everything rather than to relate everything together.”
Without a doubt Friedrich is one of the most important artists of the Romanic genre, although personally I’ve always thought of him as a proto-Realist. Take a look at quintessential Romanticism, Théodore Géricault’s The Raft of Medusa, and quintessential Realism, Gustave Courbet’s The Stone Breakers, and tell me where Friedrich fits in.
Caspar David Friedrich, Two Men Contemplating the Moon, ca. 1825–30
Romanticism was preoccupied with the not-so-beautiful beautiful. Its artists passionately portrayed their reverence for culture and nature through idealized, heightened depictions. Realism, on the other hand, sought the truthful tellings of everyday life. Its artists didn’t shy away from class or the mundane or abhorrent conditions; they saw these as important, worthy subjects.
Friedrich’s work, while not socially conscious, was anchored in truth and accuracy. He saw worthiness in everyday nature. Rather than create an idealized composition to represent its nobility and grandeur, he instead took the path of painstaking preservation (see his pine needles below), imbuing his subjects with great heart and feeling. That his contemporaries didn't share this philosophy was an ongoing point of strife for Friedrich. He writes:
“The artist should not only paint what he sees before him, but also what he sees within him. If he does not see anything within him, he should give up painting what he sees before him. Otherwise his paintings will look like those Spanish screens behind which one expects only to find sick or even dead people.”
Caspar David Friedrich, Detail of Glade in the Fir Trees, June 14, 1812
Three things with this quote in mind. One, no offense to Spanish screens. Especially the ones Friedrich is referring to, which are likely in some museum and worth triple my life savings. Two, I fucking love nineteenth century snark. Friedrich’s absolute disdain for Europe's obsession with the Italian tradition was common among Romantics, who rejected the classical, rational tenets of the Enlightenment:
“Is this what it means to study the Old Masters? What this artist has achieved could have been done at home through the study of engravings, and hardly required that he first journey to Rome. But it is the current practice in religion as in art to deny healthy common sense as well as one’s own feelings, thus deceiving both oneself and others.”
And three—let’s get back to the rising moon.
Caspar David Friedrich, View of Arkona with Rising Moon, 1805-6
Caspar David Friedrich, Detail of View of Arkona with Rising Moon, 1805-6
In View of Arkona with Rising Moon, Friedrich’s moon is a small bright disc fixed low in the horizon, softly illuminating all of night’s untold exquisites under its spreading, sublime light. When it comes to describing Friedrich’s work, generally speaking, the operative word is “sublime”. Not like the ska punk band. I mean the sacredness and deathless awe of the natural world.
The Met exhibition shies away from term “sublime”, which I think is an interesting decision, especially as the museum touts its show as the “first comprehensive exhibition dedicated to the artist held in the United States”. Wouldn’t this be the moment to fill in willing American audiences on CDF and Romantic 101 basics? Downplaying “sublime” as a major theme here feels like a real mistake and missed opportunity.
I digress, again.
Caspar David Friedrich, Moonrise on an Empty Shore, 1837-39
Caspar David Friedrich, Detail of Moonrise on an Empty Shore, 1837-39
Something about me—I am a sucker for art that does absolutely nothing in the top two-thirds. It’s a very specific choice that makes me feel stupidly close to an artist and their work, like they made it for me and me alone (examples 1, 2, and 3). Immense upper space never ceases to scrape at the bottommost parts of my soul, wringing me out anew.
And Friedrich, damn the man, loved a contemplative top two-thirds. In Moonrise on an Empty Shore, he connects the vast night sky with a centered rising moon before giving way to the rocky details of the lower third. A real treat for the eye.
At least half of the nighttime works shown at the Met are brown ink and wash with pencil on paper. I love that Friedrich didn’t need color to convey the magnificence of the night. His genius lay in capturing the spirit of nature through line, depth, and reverence for and duty towards the object itself. He writes:
“…for the treatment of a subject stands in a much closer relation to the object represented that is commonly believed – as does the object to the matter in which it is represented.”
Caspar David Friedrich, Moonrise by the Sea, ca. 1835–37
If you live in or around New York City, I highly recommend checking out Caspar David Friedrich: The Soul of Nature at the Met. It’s on view through May 11. All images shown are from the exhibition. All CDF quotes were sourced from his essay “Observations on Viewing a Collection of Paintings Largely by Living or Recently Deceased Artists”.