wrmthorne/National_Gallery_style_classification huggingface dataset:
In this unusual scene, Saint John the Baptist crouches in a dark rocky grotto beside a spring from which he collects water. His slender cross, faintly painted in gold, can just be seen in the shadows behind him. At the back of the grotto are two openings -- a rough window and a door -- through which a rural landscape stretches to distant blue mountains. Plants grow from the earth beside the Baptist’s feet, nourished by the pool of spring water.

The saint is depicted as a slender, elfin young man with spirals of glossy curls highlighted with fine lines like spun gold. Although he faces towards the source of the water, his right eye pivots strangely towards us. The expression on his face is hard to read. His body is only partly concealed by loosely knotted crimson drapery, which has fallen from his shoulders as he stoops to fill his shallow bowl with water from the spout. Two drips of water have splashed over the edge of the bowl and and roll like tears down the outside.

The painting is signed with a monogram: the letters MPP are surmounted by a T; a small drop hangs from each end of the cross-bar of the T, and its stem passes between a pair of wings. This is thought to be the monogram of Martino Piazza from Lodi, near Milan. Martino Piazza worked with his brother Albertino and it is often difficult to tell their work apart. However, the monogrammed paintings, such as The Nativity in the Ambrosiana, Milan, and the National Gallery’s Saint John the Baptist are generally thought to be by Martino.

The delicate, graceful physique of the Baptist, the atmospheric effects in the mountainous landscape and the dramatic contrasts of light and dark, known as chiaroscuro, show the influence of the Milanese works of Leonardo da Vinci and his followers. The rocky setting with apertures opening onto a mountainous landscape is reminiscent of the Saint Jerome by Leonardo in the Vatican Museums. Influences from artists from north of the Alps can also be detected in the luminous landscape, which is depicted with minute attention to naturalistic detail.

Style: High Renaissance
A commanding figure stares out at us, his expression unsmiling. His white lace collar, shimmering silk sleeves and red sash stand out against his sombre black clothing and the non-descript background. This is a portrait of Don Adrián Pulido Pareja, a distinguished captain in the Spanish royal navy – his name is inscribed in Latin in the lower left corner, though this was probably added later. He fought against the French fleet in several major naval battles: near Fuenterrabía in 1638, near Cádiz in 1640 and off Cape St Vincent in 1641.

The portrait was painted in or after 1647, the year in which Don Adrián joined the Order of Santiago -- the Knight's badge, a gold medal decorated with a red cross in the shape of a sword, hangs off the sash across his chest. He holds a wide-brimmed hat in his left hand and grasps the wooden baton of a commander in his right. We can just see the hilt of his sword at his waist, a nod to his role within the military.

When the National Gallery bought this portrait at the end of the nineteenth century it was thought to be by Diego Velázquez, whose name appears in the inscription centre left, along with the date '1639'. The handwriting is unlike any other signed painting by Velázquez and the inscription has been shown not to be original, but a similar painting by Velázquez probably did exist. His biographer Antonio Palomino described seeing a life-size portrait of Don Adrián bearing Velázquez's signature and the date 1639. Some art historians have suggested that our picture is the work mentioned by Palomino, although Don Adrián did not receive his badge of honour until 1647, or it may be a copy after it by Juan Bautista Martínez del Mazo, Velázquez’s son-in-law and principal assistant, who succeeded him as court painter to Philip IV after his death in 1660.

The portrait is skilfully executed, but on closer inspection the head and costume seem to lack Velázquez’s characteristically vibrant and economical handling of paint. If you compare Don Adrián's silk sleeve with a similar detail in Velázquez's Philip IV of Spain in Brown and Silver, you can see how much more masterful the latter's application of paint is. Even so, Mazo shows an accomplished familiarity with Velázquez's technique. This includes the brush marks in the background, created by wiping excess paint off the brush -- something for which Velázquez is especially known.

Style: Baroque
The man in the centre of this picture tends to a fire, using a pair of bellows to stoke the flames. He works in a chaotic, dingy room. Jars, bottles and tools are strewn across every available surface; plaster flakes off the walls, leaving bricks exposed.

A discarded piece of paper by the foot of the stool reads 'oleum et operam perdis' (meaning 'oil and work is wasted'), words from the treatise De Re Metallica ('On the Nature of Metals'). This book, published in 1556, provided information about the mining, refining and smelting of metals, and it helps to identify this man as an alchemist. A pair of glasses on top of the stool suggests that, before beginning to heat the pot on the fire, he had been studying the book. The belief that base metals could be transformed into silver and gold endured into the eighteenth century, but Adriaen van Ostade appears to be implying that it is an act of folly. The alchemist’s weary expression also suggests that this is a hopeless task.

The dark curtain used to separate the room into two sections has been drawn back, revealing the alchemist's family in their living quarters. Two young children are left to entertain themselves while their mother wipes the bottom of the baby she holds. The alchemist pays them no attention, focusing instead on the pursuit of riches; they have been relegated to the shadowy background. Van Ostade has created a visual hierarchy to reinforce this idea: the highly detailed foreground contrasts with the more sketchy quality of the background figures and their surroundings. But even with this hierarchy, the two sections are still linked. Light infuses the spaces around both the alchemist and his family, and the glow connects the two sections in a diagonal line as well as drawing our eyes to the figures. Van Ostade has used a limited colour palette of warm purple and brownish hues to emphasise the shadows, and he was influenced by the strong contrasts of light and dark that Rembrandt used in his work.

The artist’s signature and date of the picture are depicted on a shovel that hangs on the wall next to the fireplace. This scene is typical of van Ostade, who was a prolific painter and etcher of peasant genre scenes.

Style: Baroque
This is a good example of the problems we encounter when the provenance -- the history of a painting -- is lost. The picture was bequeathed to the National Gallery in 1900 but we have no record of earlier owners, nor of the name of the sitter or artist, nor of the date. It's hard even to be sure where it was made; similar portraits were produced throughout the Low Countries in the early to mid-seventeenth century. Until the 1950s, it was thought to be Dutch, but it is now believed that the style of painting suggests it probably comes from Flanders.

Another reason for these uncertainties is that the portrait itself has relatively few clues. The background is dark and extremely plain -- all that is identifiable is a green curtain in a swag across the left-hand side. We do know that the sitter must have been a man of some status, since this is a large and expensive painting. And his dress does help us narrow down the date. The black coat with the simple, straight-edged collar and cuffs is in the French style of the 1650s, which was also popular in the Low Countries.

We can make other educated guesses, too. This man seems to be at least in his forties -- there are signs of grey in his hair and heavy shadows under his slightly rheumy eyes. It's likely that he is, or was, married, but this picture was almost certainly not designed to hang as one of a pair of portraits of husband and wife. Such works were commonly made to hang together, with the figures turned towards each other; the husband was invariably placed to the left, looking towards his wife, turning the opposite way to the man here. This picture is all about the sitter, and was probably designed as a single portrait.

The pose also tells us something about how he wanted to be perceived. By looking away from us and turning his head towards the light, he presents his features in the most flattering way -- only his tufted goatee makes a slightly awkward shadow on his collar -- and creates a sense of calm, perhaps superior, detachment. The hands are also placed carefully. One points, a typical gesture in portraits, and is suspended in front of him. The other, with which he holds a pair of leather gloves, seems to be resting on something, the arm of a chair or the top of a cane perhaps. This is a man at ease with himself and his position in society.

Style: Baroque
In the Book of Genesis, God orders Abraham to sacrifice Isaac, his only son, on one of the mountains in the land of Moriah (near Jerusalem). This painting shows them walking on a path towards woodland on the third day of their journey as they approach the place of sacrifice. Isaac struggles under the weight of the wooden log on which he will unknowingly be sacrificed, and Abraham follows him holding a burning torch. In a later episode, an angel appears to Abraham and convinces him to slay a lamb caught in a nearby bush rather than his son.

This sombre story is set in a tranquil landscape. While the background is bathed in the soft light of sunrise, most of the foreground is in deep shadow. Areas of dappled light create subtle variations in the green and yellow tones, suggesting the different types of plant and tree. The trees to the left and right and the sloping foreground frame the scene and draw our eye into the distance. A small town in the valley below and the sea in the distance are inspired by views of the countryside around Rome, where Dughet spent most of his career. In the centre of the painting are two reclining figures deep in conversion, apparently oblivious to the momentous event that is unfolding.

This painting was probably purchased during the mid-1650s by Lorenzo Onofrio Colonna, one of Dughet's most important patrons. By the early nineteenth century, it had entered the prestigious collection of John Julius Angerstein, and it was among the first works to be purchased from his collection for the National Gallery in 1824.

Style: Baroque, Academic
The Virgin Mary sits on a stone bench and holds the infant Christ on a cushion on her lap. She may have just lifted him and the cushion from the low wall in front of her. The flowers of the rose bush behind Christ are associated with purity and suffering, reminding us of Christ's sacrifice for humanity. The laurel bush behind the Virgin is a symbol of distinction and acts as a halo behind her head. The identity of the other shrub behind her is not clear; it probably has an additional meaning relating to the Virgin. On the right an extensive landscape of woods, hills and water stretches out into the distance. The crown of a mountain and part of a sunlit farmhouse peep out from behind the roses.

The parapet may have been an afterthought as the Virgin's blue cloak passes underneath it, as do the rocks and foliage in the lower right corner. Leaves can also be seen under the Virgin's headdress. A brush handle was used to manipulate paint in some areas, notably in the shadow of Christ's left knee, the cushion supporting him and one of the rose petals.

It is uncertain who painted this picture. It was formerly believed to be by Giorgione, Moretto da Brescia or Palma Vecchio, and was once very famous. Unfortunately it is so damaged and has been so extensively overpainted over the years that it is now very difficult to tell who it is by. The Virgin's pose, turning slightly away from us and cut off across her legs, was popular with many artists working in north-east Italy in the sixteenth century. Previtali used it frequently -- for example, in his Virgin and Child with a Supplicant and his Virgin and Child with Saints -- but usually for paintings in a horizontal format, including saints. The Virgin and Child are similar in appearance and pose to a Virgin and Child with Saints Catherine and John the Baptist by Sebastiano del Piombo in the Accademia, Venice. The painting is likely to be the work of an artist influenced by Giorgione, and probably dates from between 1510 and 1520. It may be by Cariani, whose Madonna Cucitrice in the Museo Nazionale, Rome, has a similar leafy background, although the manner in which it is painted is closer to the work of Palma Vecchio.

Style: High Renaissance
There’s something magical about this enchanting picture, in its unearthly, misty colours, deep shadows, strange beasts. The musician fixing us with an enquiring eye is Orpheus. His story comes from one of the legends told by the Roman poet Ovid in his book Metamorphoses. In it, Orpheus plays the lyre, but for some reason Savery has chosen to show him with a violin.

Orpheus' skill was so great that all the beasts of the field and the birds of the air came to hear him play. Even the gods themselves listened, beguiled, and the poet tells how the trees moved from the forests to hear him, and to give him shade.

Rather than with music, Savery beguiles us with the animals he paints. Close to Orpheus a cockerel perches on a branch that's almost touching a lion and a lioness. But they have no eyes for him, or for the grey-feathered pelican at Orpheus’ side, his glittering eye half closed as if in a dream. Behind them a buffalo turns towards the music, startling a stag. An ostrich cranes from the bushes.

In Savery’s idyllic landscape -- part realistic, part otherworldly -- ducks and geese and swans splash in a little stream. Above them, a magnificent horse and a camel look out at a gleaming white elephant. A stately crane displays its feathered crown where the stream tumbles down as a waterfall.  A fox lies near peaceful deer and comfortable cows. A wild boar noses in the bushes and a wolf sniffs the air next to another camel. Overhead the birds gather: a skein of geese, a gaudy parrot, long-legged storks. Orpheus’ music isn’t the only sound in the picture -- the animals, the rushing stream, the wind in the trees, make a counterpoint.

Savery had lived for a while at the court of the Emperor Rudolf II in Prague where he drew the animals in the imperial menagerie, building up a stock of delicate, realistic studies. He made much use of them in the many pictures he painted of the Greek and Roman gods, goddesses and heroes, whose stories were so well loved in his day. He was also living when the Netherlands were under Spanish rule and had been fighting for independence for a long time. Savery’s picture may have been a disguised plea for peace: animals usually hostile to each other, living harmoniously under the influence of Orpheus’ music.

Style: Mannerist, Baroque
This Dutch river mouth is a busy place. Vessels of all kinds are moored close to us, and others move across the water further out to sea. Jan van de Cappelle has broken up the vast sky with moving clouds that cast deep shadows in the foreground and with geometric -- almost abstract -- shapes made by the sails, masts and spars standing out against them.

On the right, a Statenjacht (state yacht) fires a salute as important visitors prepare to board from the barges close by. The rather odd patch of brilliant blue in the centre of the picture was perhaps once a canopy and decorative swags of fabric. The cloaks of the soldiers standing by with spears are painted with a similar colour, but it appears that there have been chemical changes to the pigment, making it brighter and lacking in light and shade.

Style: Baroque
We are in the middle of a card game. One figure stares directly at us, a look of apparently benign amusement on his face as he holds his hand close to his chest. By contrast his opponent is focused intently -- perhaps even short-sightedly -- on her hand, deliberating on how to play next. Judging from the coins spilling out of the man’s purse onto the table, there seems to be money at stake.

It is not an unusual scene. In seventeenth-century Dutch painting there are numerous pictures of people playing cards. The reason it was considered a suitable subject is explained in a treatise on art by the artist Philips Angel II (about 1618 -- after 1664), published in 1642, which recommended that painters depict 'people seated and throwing dice and playing cards' because such details are 'pleasing to the viewer and based on reality'. Nevertheless, it was a controversial activity. Since medieval times, card playing had been associated with laziness, greed, deceit and a lack of chastity, and artists often hinted at these themes in their paintings. Card games were often set in brothels, sometimes depicting men in the process of squandering their fortunes, but also in more private contexts, where the men often seem to be attempting to seduce their female companion.

This scene is of the more intimate variety: a man and woman apparently alone together, are playing cards in front of a fireplace. There is no suggestion of a brothel, though the purse could be taken as a hint of a commercial exchange. Whether there is an erotic charge or a moral message behind this painting is far from certain, however. The woman is modestly dressed and there is no alcohol or tobacco, often interpreted as aphrodisiacs, on the table. And the cards on the table have no apparent significance -- an ace of hearts was often used to suggest a romantic theme, but is not visible here. So perhaps the look on the face of the man is one of a frustrated lover, confronted with a virtuous opponent. Or perhaps we are just witnessing two young people playing an innocent game. We can’t be sure.

We also can’t be sure who made the painting. It is unsigned and though once thought to be by Nicolaes Maes, over recent decades this attribution has been doubted. Other artists, including Barent Fabritius and Cornelis Bisschop, have been suggested; there is no consensus. But all these artists were either trained by Rembrandt or had associations with his studio and recent scientific analysis of the painting suggests that it was probably produced there, most likely by a pupil. This is because the preparation of the canvas and especially the colour and type of paint used to prime the background is the same as Rembrandt used, and was probably unique to his workshop.

The original picture may have been damaged, as a strip of canvas has been added across the bottom by way of repair, just above the braided edge of the tablecloth. The join line is clearly visible running across the width of the painting.

Style: Baroque
The Virgin Mary sits in front of a parapet, gazing tenderly at the Christ Child on her lap. Behind her is a cloth of honour, of the kind which was hung behind royalty. She wears a red dress and a blue cloak with a dark green lining, both edged with gold embroidery. Her fair hair is looped up under a grey headscarf. Both mother and child have brown eyes, pink cheeks and rosebud mouths. The plump infant turns his head away from his mother to look at something outside the picture.

The inscription on the parapet by the Virgin's hand, 'A.A.P.', is perhaps short for 'Andrea di Aloigi or Andrea da Assisi pinxit' ('Andrea di Aloigi or Andrea da Assisi painted this'), and might be the signature of Andrea di Aloigi, known as L'Ingegno ('The Talented').

The style of the painting -- in particular the sweet-faced and porcelain-skinned Virgin -- is very much influenced by that of Pietro Perugino. According to Vasari, Aloigi was the best of Perugino's pupils. He collaborated with Perugino in the decoration of the Sistine Chapel, and with him and the young Raphael on Collegio del Cambio in Perugia. Vasari recounts that Aloigi surpassed his master, but became blind and was given an administrative post at Assisi by the pope.

Christ's position is curious: it's not clear what he is looking at, or whether he was meant to be holding something in his hands. The painting is perhaps a reduced version of some larger composition, along the lines of The Virgin and Child with Saints Dominic and Catherine of Siena, and Two Donors or The Virgin and Child with Saints Jerome and Francis. Christ's position echoes that in Perugino's Madonna and Child of about 1500 (National Gallery of Art, Washington D.C.) -- he turns away from his mother and makes the same curious gesture -- as does the whole composition. It's very likely that Aloigi made use of drawings and motifs that were circulating in Perugino's workshop.

Behind the parapet is a landscape dotted with late medieval buildings. On the left, behind a rocky foreground, a man walks along a road which winds between houses, drawing our eye into the distance. A woman in a white headdress stands in front of the house on the right. Chimneys and a church spire can be seen in the distance behind the trees. On the right, successive hills painted in different shades of green, fading to blue trees and bushes on the horizon, create the illusion of receding space. These kinds of landscapes, which look more like those in Northern European than Italian painting, were strongly influenced by Netherlandish paintings available in Italy. Aloigi might have seen or known drawings of Memling's much-imitated Pagagnotti Triptych which was painted for a Florentine patron in around 1480. Its wings, Saint John the Baptist and Saint Lawrence, are now in our collection.

Style: Early Renaissance