Aristotle’s Apron

Aristotle with a Bust of Homer (fig. 1) is rightly regarded as one of Rembrandt’s masterpieces; Walter Liedtke considered it the greatest Dutch picture in the United States, an opinion few would argue against.¹ Until 1961, this picture was in private hands, but when it was acquired by the Metropolitan Museum of Art, it became the museum’s “Mona Lisa,” not least because of the then fabulous price of $2.3 million, “the highest amount ever paid for any picture at public or private sale.”² However, the picture’s multiple facets of meaning did not become clear until 1966, with the publication of Julius Held’s seminal essay, which shaped subsequent discourse.³ While his basic arguments have been accepted, scholars have focused on sensorial theory, arguing over which organ Rembrandt prioritized as the body’s primary conduit for experiential knowledge.

In this essay, the issue considered is Aristotle’s apron. For many years the identification of this garment was problematic; it was described as a vest, a gown, a doublet, a tabard, and a tuniclike sleeveless vest, but Julius Held settled the issue when he correctly identified it as an apron. Despite its prominence, Rembrandt’s choice of this garment was seemingly inexplicable. For Held, what was significant was its color, black, which he associated with the Galenic theory of humors, whereby an excess of black bile causes melancolia, adding that this illness was endemic to philosophers. Held also observed that it “makes a splendid pictorial foil” for the chain. These observations, however, only explicate the garment’s appearance, not the reasons for its selection. The same is true for Liedtke, who regarded the apron as a formal device whose function was to enhance the lustrous materiality of the honorific chain. But, he too did not suggest a rationale for its depiction. And neither scholar considered what it might have signified to a seventeenth-century viewer. The apron is singular—no other portrait of a philosopher depicts the motif.

This study essays an explanation that links the apron to a momentous new movement of the early modern era, the scientific revolution that altered the course of Western European history.⁴ Essential to this new worldview, which emerged in the sixteenth century, was the empirical study of nature made possible by innovative concepts and theoretical notions, new technologies and instruments, and a plethora of animals, plants, and minerals that arrived in Europe from all areas of the globe, as well as cultural artifacts. Printing disseminated the flood of information in text and imagery. And by the seventeenth century, collectors’ cabinets displayed the wonders of the world; academies were formed to report the latest concepts and discoveries, to perform experiments to test hypotheses, to debate and investigate, and to publish what was brought before the academies.⁵ The “hands on” approach of the “natural philosopher” (natural historian or scientist) is perhaps exemplified by Vesalius, who performed public dissections himself. It is coincidental of course, but Vesalius’s On the Fabric of the Human Body was published in 1543, the same year that Copernicus’s heliocentric text On the Revolutions of the Heavenly Spheres appeared in print.

Rembrandt was touched by these cultural currents in Amsterdam, where “the sciences” were pursued in various venues. And as a man of his age, he, too, formed a “cabinet of curiosities” for his pleasure and use, and perhaps for discourse with learned friends and acquaintances.⁶ Two days before his death, Rembrandt showed a visitor four preparations: flayed arms and legs that Vesalius had anatomized, he said.⁷ Their provenance was prestigious, a fact that mattered to Rembrandt; it demonstrates his knowledge of medical history and medical practice, and also reinforces the argument that “science” was among Rembrandt’s passionate interests. He might even be regarded as an experimenter and investigator in the effects that he obtained with pigments, oils, tools, and techniques. The chain adorning Aristotle is an alchemist’s dream come true: gross matter is transformed into gold, in appearance, if not in fact. To claim that the apron in Rembrandt’s picture is linked to this transformational movement may seem to be overreaching, but there are good reasons to regard it in light of the scientific concerns and mentalities of the mid-seventeenth century. Initially, Rembrandt depicted a different apron, one that had cap shoulders, thus resembling surgeons’ apparel.⁸ Aesthetic reasons likely determined the change to the apron as it is today.

Mere identification, however, does not explain what an apron is or what it signified in the early modern era. The Oxford English Dictionary defines the garment as “an article of dress worn in front of the body to protect clothes from dirt or injury or simply as a covering.”⁹ This definition encompasses various styles for different ages and classes. From these, only the type Rembrandt imagined for Aristotle is considered here. It was familiar to the artist in daily life and imagery. Moreover, he depicted it in other works dating to the years when Aristotle was painted.¹⁰ It connotes an artisan, one who possesses “mechanical” knowledge and skills, such as cobblers and scythe makers, but whose occupation lacks “theory.”¹¹

The opening lines of Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar (1599) recognize the apron as an artisan’s defining garment.¹² Plebeians who have taken an unsanctioned holiday to celebrate Caesar’s triumph encounter officials who chastise them: “know you not, being mechanical, you ought not to walk upon a labouring day without the sign of your profession? Speak, what trade art thou?” One replies: “Why, sir, a carpenter.” This reply elicits a further rebuke: “Where is thy leather apron, and thy rule? What dost thou with thy best apparel on?”

But not all occupations requiring aprons were “mechanical”; surgeons and alchemists had associations with natural philosophy. These professions were borderline, regarded by some as craft, by others as more elevated pursuits; the distinction was largely based on whether an occupation required theoretical knowledge or if practical skills sufficed.¹³ Barber-surgeons performed many services, from cutting hair to advanced medical procedures; alchemists were similarly diverse. In England, members of the London Company of Barber-Surgeons were required to attend a public dissection carried out by the organization’s official anatomist.¹⁴ Its regulations also insisted on the use of full-length aprons and sleeves of white cloth worn by the anatomist and his assistants, which were changed twice daily during the dissection for “seemliness and cleanlyness.”¹⁵ These surgeons depended on theory as well as practice.

Also in the sixteenth century, the physician Paracelsus (1493–1541) wore an apron.¹⁶ He argued for their use by “chemical” physicians, whom he urged to wear “plain leather dress and aprons of hide to wipe their hands.”¹⁷ This attire signified a new approach to medical healing, chemical rather than Galenical. Paracelsus portraits circulated in print and paintings, as pictures by Rubens¹⁸ and Rembrandt attest.¹⁹ Rubens’s interpretation is physiognomically inaccurate, but a brown “shirt” may refer to Paracelsus’s signature leather. Rembrandt’s picture (now lost or unidentified) was offered for sale in 1659 to Cardinal Leopoldo de’Medici (1617–1675), co-founder of the Accademia del Cimento; he turned it down, and it remained in a Dutch collection.²⁰ Among the leaders of the “new science,” Galileo cannot be omitted, although evidence regarding his apron is equivocal. It was leather and used when gardening; we may surmise, however, that when he was making optical instruments he donned one for protection.²¹ But Galileo recognized that what he did privately was inappropriate when in polite company. He is reported to have quipped when visitors appeared at his door while tending vines that he was “ashamed” to be seen in “this clown’s habit,” adding: “I will go to dress myself as a philosopher.”²²

In the common imagination, alchemy and alchemists are regarded as fantastical, but history relates a different story.²³ Known for his deep interest in natural philosophy, Emperor Rudolf II encouraged alchemical studies, providing practitioners with laboratories, as did many German-speaking princes, yet alchemical iconography in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries often pokes fun at the “mad scientist,” whose distinguishing attire is a full-length apron. However, Robert Boyle (1627–1691) and Isaac Newton (1643–1727), alchemical scientists who shaped “the new worldview,” were members of the Royal Society and had laboratories for chemical experimentation.

Associating the apron with artisanal or “mechanical” professions, however, does not explain its appearance in a seventeenth-century portrait of Aristotle, although the practice of natural philosophy may. The hypothesis suggested in this study depends on Rembrandt’s knowledge of the historical Aristotle.²⁴ Surely Rembrandt knew that Aristotle studied natural history and epitomized the natural philosopher in earlier eras.²⁵ Conversations with learned persons, the painter’s erudition and imagination coalesced to portray natural philosophy’s duality: on the one hand, cogitation with logic as its instrument, and on the other, observation, investigation, and experimentation. To represent this distinction Rembrandt turned to Aristotle’s wardrobe, selecting two garments: an ample white gown and a stark black apron. The latter covers and protects the robe, but the magnificent chain is slung across the apron only. Are both equally honored or is Rembrandt highlighting the necessity and value of artisanal skills?²⁶

What is known currently about Aristotle’s immersion in natural history?²⁷ It is estimated that he wrote about 550 books; less than one third of which exist. Among the most important lost texts are natural history studies, including books on dissection. During his four-year residence on Lesbos, he researched the island’s flora, fauna, and aquatic life.²⁸ In addition to his own investigations, it was believed that Alexander the Great sent Aristotle specimens and detailed descriptions of creatures he encountered while campaigning. Pliny the Elder is specific about this vast research undertaking.²⁹ Armand Marie Leroi posits that Callisthenes, Aristotle’s nephew, undertook this task.³⁰ These may have been assembled in pedagogical collections for their inherent interest.³¹

No authoritative portrait of Aristotle exists, but Rembrandt did own a bust so identified in the 1656 inventory of his collection and a bust of Homer as well.³² That sculpture was the model for Homer in the painting of 1653. In the absence of a drawing after the Aristotle bust it is impossible to determine whether it was also Rembrandt’s model. Consensus about the philosopher’s appearance in Rembrandt’s day did not exist. Whatever the source, Rembrandt imprinted Aristotle with the artist’s empathetic sensibility, and the painting betrays his irrepressible impulse to animate the characters he fashioned. His patron, Don Antonio Ruffo (1610–1678), was the recipient of this exceptional picture, a work he esteemed throughout his life, as he did the artist. He ordered two additional pictures from Rembrandt, Homer and Alexander the Great, and, in 1669, Ruffo added 189 etchings to his collection of 7 Rembrandt prints, recorded in the 1648 Ruffo inventory. In keeping with his interest in philosophy, Ruffo added at least four philosopher portraits by Italian painters to his collection, which at his death numbered 364 paintings. In addition to being a keen art lover, Ruffo’s other major interest was natural philosophy. He strongly supported the advancement of the “new science” in Messina, both personally and in its institutions.³³

Documents exist concerning the shipping of Rembrandt’s picture, but none mentions its subject. After a three-month journey, the picture was in the patron’s hands;  it was entered on September 1, 1654, in his art collection inventory as: “half-length figure of a philosopher made in Amsterdam by the painter named Rembrandt ‘it appears to be Aristotle or Albertus Magnus.’”

Don Antonio Ruffo, a nobleman with extensive properties on Sicily and the mainland, was a prominent, erudite cultural figure in the ancient port city of Messina. Overlooking the curved harbor, his palace was sumptuously decorated with frescoes, tapestries, and a substantial collection of 166 choice paintings, inventoried in 1648. Entertainments were hosted therein, and it was the setting for learned discourse. The Accademia della Fucina (The Academy of the Forge), founded in 1639, likely met there.³⁴ One purpose of “The Forge” was to introduce “modern” theory and practice into the curriculum of Messina’s university, most notably that of the medical faculty. By 1642, Messina’s senate had extended its protection to the academy, providing funding for its publications. It should be stressed that senators were also academicians, insuring a sense of collective identity as well as political, intellectual, and social cohesiveness among Messina’s aristocracy. The enlightened senators characterized Messina as a “new Athens,” equal to or surpassing other centers of learning. The city’s senate funded publications by the academicians, an impressive forty-seven texts between 1642 and 1671, with fourteen, the second largest group, devoted to science.

The Ruffo family played a central role in encouraging Messina’s “modern” scientific orientation. Don Antonio and his nephew Giacopo Ruffo (?–1674) supported scientists and their investigations, offered hospitality, engaged in informal conversations, and corresponded with them after their departure from Messina.³⁵ Giacopo had studied in Pisa in the 1650s, where he befriended some of the foremost natural philosophers, among them the founder of microscopic anatomy, Marcello Malpighi (1628–1694).³⁶ When Malpighi arrived in Messina he enjoyed “the most learned and pleasant discourse with his host” Giacopo, who urged him to visit his noteworthy garden and his uncle Antonio’s.³⁷ Both Ruffos provided him with estates where he could carry out animal and plant dissections.

As an after note, when Malpighi moved to Bologna to take up a professorship, he met Guercino, the artist Ruffo had engaged to paint a pendant to the Aristotle. Guercino, in 1665 correspondence with his patron, relates that he had had a lengthy conversation about Ruffo’s art collection but does not give specifics.

Antonio Ruffo and his milieu in Messina deserve to be reconsidered in the literature of art history. By no means a backwater, Messina and its enlightened citizens cultured a new spirit of inquiry that has been disregarded.³⁸ Messina was part of the network of scientific exchange that fostered investigation, theory, and discoveries. Given this rereading, Ruffo’s oft-quoted inventory entry “Aristotle or Albertus Magnus,” written after studying Rembrandt’s picture, should not be regarded as indicating ignorance; rather, it is insightful and highlights Ruffo’s learning. Ruffo was not confused when he added “or Albertus Magnus.”³⁹ The thirteenth-century Dominican monk (1200–1280) was the first Western commentator on the Aristotelian corpus and was regarded as an emulator of his forebear. An empiricist and natural historian in his own right, he was referred to as “the second Aristotle.”⁴⁰ Thus, Ruffo’s identification is not off mark, as supposed, given the theatrical costume Rembrandt created for the philosopher. Rather, it demonstrates Ruffo’s ability to recognize Rembrandt’s individuality, his skill, and invention. The apron, as remarked earlier, is unique. Though humble wear, it evokes the “new natural philosophy,” science as it was carried out in Rembrandt and Ruffo’s day that altered the course of history. Aristotle was re-read by Rembrandt; no longer the sclerotic Scholastic, he became the thoughtful investigator, the experimentalist, the progenitor of modern science, and a natural philosopher whose mind mastered the conundra of nature.⁴¹