Caspar David Friedrich

The Met’s retrospective of Caspar David Friedrich (1774-1840) ) did just what a museum retrospective should do: it presented key major works in historical context and gave an overall view of the artist’s development from his early work to his finish. It’s a show unlikely to be replicated, as most works are held by German collections and many are fragile works on paper. A number of the oils came from U.S. museums: remarkably, the first Friedrich to enter an American institution went to the Kimbell in 1984.
The best paintings, including works from the Met and the Getty, are emblems of European Romanticism: a “philosopher” or two seen from behind, looking over a vast ocean or mountain range. Labels pointed out how Friedrich novelly eliminated middle space in landscapes: the figure stands on a rocky outcrop, while behind him we see nothing until a distant view of blue mountains, with the intervening valley left to the viewer’s imagination.
Friedrich obviously was spiritual, which we can admire. He was also, just as obviously, religious, which is a bit harder to sign onto today. Crosses appear in the deep dark woods and on top of hills. Some works are devotional or memorial, commissioned by a client who has lost a loved one. In today’s atmosphere, these come across as a little creepy. When he sticks to the landscape, especially in certain studies, he is, to my mind, more powerful.
As with every retrospective, we are left with the questions: is this a great artist and has the exhibition enhanced or diminished our appreciation? Clearly, Friedrich has earned his spot in the canon of Western art. His Northern European realism looks back, however distantly, to Durer and Altdorfer, and more immediately to the Golden Age of Danish (and Scandinavian) painting that follows, with a direct link through his contemporary and friend, the Norwegian Johan Christian Dahl (1788-1857). Without any apparent link, Friedrich’s oeuvre also foreshadows the Hudson River School, supposedly an indigenous American movement. (Could Thomas Cole have picked up some Friedrich influence in England before emigrating to America?) The figure seen from behind, the vista into the distance, the glorification of empty nature all call to mind Sanford Robinson Gifford and cohort.
On the other hand, how much of Friedrich’s reputation rests on one painting, “The Wanderer Above a Sea of Fog,” which is the Met’s poster as well? His next most famous works are variants, conveying the same mystical melancholy. (A notable exception is his painting of icebergs, which happens to be the indirect subject of a current SBMA show, prompted by James Casebere’s photographic reconstruction.) And is the mystical quality of these works compromised by the more saccharine devotional pieces? (Do we think less of Vermeer when religion creeps into his domestic scenes?)  To answer my second question, the Met exhibition filled out my appreciation of Friedrich, more than it raised or lowered it. It wasn’t overly large, as Met shows tend to be, but at the same token its smallish size told me that there wasn’t a vast repository of Friedrich art scattered across Europe that I had never seen. There were a few iconic images, some lovely small sketches and more pleasant if forgettable pieces. In sum, the show cemented Friedrich in the pantheon of important Western artists, but solidly on the B list.