Art, Ethics and the Human-Animal Relationship

Abstract

This work is a welcome addition to the growing list of scholarly books that take seriously the ways that representations of nonhuman animals have significant and important implications when it comes to larger issues around the treatment of the other animals we share the planet with. One of the many strengths of this book is that it offers concrete and detailed examples of ways that art historians can critically engage with these issues, looking beyond the obvious and expected methodologies and examples.A second and equally important strength is Johnson's acknowledgment of the many ways that animal bodies have a direct material connection to art history. Pigments, materials, adhesives, and the very surface upon which many images appear frequently include “ingredients” derived from animal bodies. Johnson's discussion of William Merritt Chase's 19th-century paintings of fish, for instance, is exemplary because woven into the analysis of the pictures is a stark reminder of how glazes and glues used in art have long been derived from the bodies of fish. As I have written elsewhere, art history is animal history, and yet you would be forgiven for not knowing this based on the majority of writing about art. Johnson's work here is a notable example of how we must consider these types of material aspects of art in any analysis that aims to think critically about the representation of animals.The representation of animals in art, of course, has a long and complex history. One need not look too long through art history survey textbooks to find depictions of nonhuman animals. And yet, until very recently, critical discussions about the ethics of representing these beings have been largely absent from the discipline of art history. Art, as Johnson argues, can tell us much about the dominant ways of thinking about nonhuman animals in a given time or place. Johnson's analysis also makes clear the slippery nature of meaning when it comes to art and art history. As she writes, images that once were considered “merely representational” can now be understood as “morally instrumental” (p. 2) when viewed through a lens that does not take for granted the presence of nonhuman animals in art.The climate emergency and COVID-19 pandemic have underscored how urgent it is to critically examine our relationships with other species. Some may question how exploring art from previous centuries can contribute to this important work in the present. What, in other words, is the relevance of a painting from the 17th or 18th century in our contemporary context? The answer to this question is one of Johnson's key points, namely that in many cases, the legacy of previous ways of representing and thinking about nonhuman animals remains firmly entrenched today. In other words, to change the way we interact with animals in the present requires us to be diligent in tracing the roots of these dominant ideologies as they have grown up through such entities as religious doctrines, philosophy, politics, and artistic styles. The examples that Johnson explores in this book demonstrate how speciesism and anthropocentrism have been perpetuated (and, at times, challenged) through a wide range of examples drawn from European art history.While Johnson acknowledges the differences and specific contexts that shape each of the examples she elaborates on in this book, she also convincingly argues that there are some common threads that make these case studies work well together. These include the growing tension between certain nonhuman animals as symbolic of the “good life” at a time in European history in which there was also an increase in concerns about cruelty to animals.One of the things that I found particularly important about Johnson's book is that she expands on the types of conversations that do currently exist at the intersection of art history and animal studies. For example, she includes a chapter on the representation of cats, a welcome addition to the literature as few scholarly texts have seriously considered the complexity of cat pictures from previous eras. There have been some excellent texts published in recent years that consider the ways that cats are portrayed in our contemporary digital visual culture (see, for example, Jessica Maddox's recent book The Internet Is for Cats), but, for the most part, scholarship on representations of nonhuman animals from previous historical time periods often gloss over depictions of felines in favor of such animals as horses and dogs. And yet this critical analysis of depictions of cats is particularly illustrative of how representations can have real-world consequences for the flesh-and-blood relations of those rendered in art.Johnson draws on works from a wide range of artists in this section on cats—Albrecht Dürer, Jan Brueghel the Elder, Peter Paul Rubens, Leonardo da Vinci, and Rembrandt van Rijn to name just a few. While of course each of these artists were working in distinct contexts, their representation of cats connects them in this analysis. Cats took on a complex symbolism in European art history, often standing in as a visual representation of evil and “embodying threatening personas”; as Johnson argues, “Many artists shaped the public imagination of feline subjugation” (p. 29). And yet there are also many examples of artists—largely in the context of Renaissance and Baroque art history—who took a vastly different approach, emphasizing “the cat's innate qualities of elegance, grace, patience, and calm” (p. 44).Johnson considers representations of the Garden of Eden, pictures that offer a unique mix of theological lessons and shifting cultural ideas about both free-living and domesticated animals found within the frame of the paintings. Cats, as Johnson explains, were frequently present in this type of art as symbols of “what immorality might look like” (p. 29). Johnson links this representational trope to treatment of actual flesh-and-blood cats, noting that the consequences were “dire for the animals themselves.” In other words, by equating cats with sin, these animals routinely existed outside of the realm of “humane concern” (p. 29). However, at the same time, Johnson notes the ease with which cats can slip between the realms of “wild” and “domestic”—both in real life and in painted visual representations—which has made their categorization appropriately tricky.The same section of Art, Ethics and the Human-Animal Relationship addresses representations of both big cats (lions, tigers, etc.) and small cats (domestic felines) as they are often elided in this type of artwork. However, a particularly striking point that Johnson makes is that despite the abundance of both types of cats in the Christian imagery under analysis in this book, there is no direct mention of small cats in the Bible. The symbolism of these animals then takes on even deeper meaning in these visual depictions. As Johnson notes, “Perhaps their absence in biblical narratives is owing to the fact [that] small cats have had an ambiguous relationship to humans” (p. 30). They are both beloved companions and stubbornly resistant to efforts to control them, leading to complex and often contradictory symbolism—a reminder that visual analysis of art must always be accompanied by deep contextual analysis.In a similar vein, in the chapter called “Virtue and Vice in Haute Couture,” Johnson builds upon existing discussions about the use of animals and animal body parts in fashion but also adds new perspectives and examples to the conversation. Here she considers how the wearing of products made from the bodies of specific types of animals became symbolic of luxury and how this categorization seemed to negate concerns of animal welfare and humane treatment. “Food and transport animals,” Johnson writes, “underwent at least a cursory nod of ethical concern for their welfare” whereas animals used in fashionable clothing were “casually discarded in thought and practice as the commodities of human greed” (p. 71). In this section of Art, Ethics and the Human-Animal Relationship, Johnson examines the tension that exists between Christian values and the adornment of human bodies beyond what is necessary for mere survival. In other words, when the taking of an animal life is done for fashionable adornment and luxury, should it be judged differently than when it is done for warmth and protection?An 18th-century print by English satirical artist John Collet serves as a poignant example of the uneasiness some felt regarding the taking of a life for personal adornment. In this wonderfully rich image (The Feathered Fair in a Fright, 1772), we see ostriches in pursuit of two women who wear large ostrich plumes in their hats. A close examination of the birds shows that they have been plucked, their feathers removed for use in millinery. In Collet's table-turning scene, the ostriches are not going to stand for this and go after what is rightfully theirs. While Collet was celebrated for his satire and this print offers visualization of delicious revenge on the part of the birds, the debate at the core of this piece was a dreadfully serious one—especially for the nonhuman animals who were sacrificed for the sake of fashion. This kind of image did important work, especially as the animal welfare movement began to gain traction. As Johnson writes, “Moral invectives such as this expanded satirical narratives to question the ethical treatment of animals” (p. 74). Indeed, there is a long legacy of this type of satirical image in the publications of animal advocacy organizations.As was the case in the opening chapter on cats, one of the strengths in this fashion section of the book is consideration of animals (and their always linked representations) not typically dealt with in either art history or animal studies texts. While other scholars have also addressed the topic of “murderous millinery,” here Johnson adds to the conversation by including some lesser-known examples. For instance, she addresses how the fashion for tortoiseshell combs had a devastating impact on populations of tortoises. I found this discussion of tortoise shell combs to be particularly strong—not only because it deals with a topic rarely included in European art history but also because of the critical and nuanced way Johnson weaves together discourses of gender, fashion, colonialism, and speciesism. The cruel irony of fashionable items symbolic of female virtue, refinement, and wisdom—“the literal and metaphorical occupation of restraining hair, the comb evokes order amidst chaos and moderation above excess” (p. 105)—contributing to the near extinction of the hawksbill tortoise introduces another layer of complexity to analysis of portraiture. Johnson's work here reminds us that even in pictures where an animal isn't immediately visible, their presence is often alluded to—hidden in plain sight as it were. As art historians, we must be willing to look closely for these kinds of details.This is a book that will most certainly appeal to art historians and historians of visual culture who are interested in bringing more nuanced discussions about the representation of animals into their scholarship and teaching. It will also be a useful text for environmental historians and animal studies scholars looking to learn more about the multitude of ways that representations are related to lived realities—for all species. It is unfortunate that the many excellent examples discussed in this book are reproduced in black and white—especially since not all are well-known images—although I am no stranger to the cost constraints of publishing illustrated books and understand a balance needs to be attained on this front. The £89.99 price tag already puts this book out of the hands of many readers, and color plates would only exacerbate this.