A Bit About Giclée Prints

Copyright © Edward Riojas

“Things” happen, it is true.

As if I needed to be reminded of this, I recently was put at the mercy of things beyond my control in the form of my giclée print supply. The gentleman who produces prints for me informed me that his printer was in need of service. Having but one machine, and it being during the weeks leading up to Christmas, this was not good news. It happened as Christmas print orders crested.

I truly relish the work my ‘print guy,’ Stan Boes, does for me, and this became painfully obvious during those days when waiting for repairs. And prints. Of course, it had to be a perfect storm. His repairman was taking a vacation during the holidays. Then the wrong part arrived. Then partial solutions, and more waiting.

Giclée prints are the state-of-the-art way to reproduce a fine art image. If you can’t afford an original painting, this is the next best thing. The prints are infinitely better than any other kind of reproduction. They are so colorfast that giclée prints have been called “the hundred year print,” although their colorfastness could outlast that milestone if kept out of sunlight and in a decent climate. Museums and galleries use this technology in reproductions they sell, and the prints are of such high quality that it is acceptable for the artist to sign them – something usually reserved for etchings, woodcuts, and the like.

Printer of the type that produces giclée prints. (Courtesy photo)

The machine that produces these prints is a distant cousin of typical ink-jet printers, but similarities end there. Ink-jet printers that handle giclée prints are seemingly on steroids. My home computer’s printer, for example, uses one black ink cartridge and another cartridge with three colors. Those which create giclée prints typically have 12 ink cartridges containing specific colors. The machine Stan uses can kick out a print four feet wide by 20 feet – the size of the largest paper roll it handles. And the paper isn’t run-of-the-mill 20 lb. bond – it’s Hahnemuehle fine art paper.

Of course, the image itself is made to jump through some demanding hoops way before the printer takes over. A single image begins as several high-resolution photographs – taken by myself – which are then converted from raw images to a usable format, “stitched” together, and imaged so they look as close as possible to the original. They are then transferred to Stan’s computer, which can fine-tune the image even further. The digital files, which can easily be 80 megabits or more, are then sent to the printer.

The printer issue that necessitated repairs was a pump and hose for a dark blue ink. While the print head itself holds a certain amount of ink, it could not be fed more from a separate reservoir during the printing of blue-heavy images. Hence, the printer could crank out some images perfectly, but it would peter out on others.

One particular image, “Madonna and Child,” gave the most headaches. I wanted desperately to have that image printed, but before proper repairs could be made. Finally, I took a better look at the digital image itself, and realized that it had massive amounts of blue in it. By separating out the color channels, I selectively reduced the blue and punched up other colors. It was essentially digital slight-of-hand, and the result was an image much closer to the original. How did I know it was a better image? The original painting hangs directly above my computer monitor.

And, yes, it printed beautifully.

The [Sacred] Art of Franz von Stuck

"The Guardian of Paradise."
Franz von Stuck. 1889.
(Villa Stuck, Munich)

Copyright © Edward Riojas

Some names in the art world simply don’t roll off the tongue like Rubens or da Vinci. There are many artists in history worth knowing, but most are relegated to the margins of our memory. Some have been simply forgotten. I stumbled across the name Franz von Stuck the other day but, like some long lost acquaintance, I simply couldn’t put a face – or, in this case, a painting – to the name.

I was struck by some of von Stuck’s unfamiliar work, but as I dug deeper I saw a very familiar painting. It was like finally recalling an old friend. “Oh, THAT’S who you are! I remember you!”

Franz von Stuck (1863-1928) was a German painter, sculptor, engraver, and architect who, from an early age, displayed great promise as an artist. Impressionism was well under way even when von Struck was a toddler, but other movements were also gaining steam. Realism was established, and Symbolism was attracting artists. Art Nouveau was a toddler in its own right. Von Stuck may have had great talent, but he was working in the shadows while folks like Monet and Degas were sharing the spotlight.

"Paradise Lost." Franz von Stuck.
1897. (Unknown location)

Von Stuck, however, had his day in the sun. His painting, “The Guardian of Paradise” – the painting which I immediately recognized – took the gold medal in 1889 at the Munich Glaspalast. Among later awards was a gold medal for painting given during the 1893 World’s Columbian Exposition in Chicago. In 1906, he was awarded the Order of Merit of the Bavarian Crown – a bestowal of knighthood – and thereafter bore the name, Franz Ritter von Stuck.

Von Stuck became associated most closely with the Symbolism movement, and much of his work centered on Classical mythological themes. He did, however, produce works that can be labeled “sacred,” and “The Guardian of Paradise” is one such piece. His “Paradise Lost,” with its moody chiaroscuro, contrasts with the light and airy ‘Guardian.’

"Golgotha." Franz von Stuck. 1917.
(Brooklyn Museum, New York)

Other works by the artist show outside influences in stylized poses and compositions. His depiction of the Crucifixion of Christ, "Golgotha," is a little jewel that shows enough flavors of art movements during von Stuck‘s day that it is relatively easy to place it in time.

A depiction of Mary follows similar stylistic form, but the figure of Christ in the same “Pietà” departs from the formula. The result is a far cry from Michelangelo’s tender “Pietà,” and shouts a different reality of the dead Christ.

By the time of his death, von Stuck’s popularity was waning and he was already being regarded as old fashioned. The tide of modern art movements was unstoppable. Franz von Stuck, perhaps as we see his name, simply was “stuck” in the shadow of greater notoriety and more promising trends. His influence, however, was arguably as great a legacy as his own works. This is evidenced by a roster of students under von Stuck when taught at his alma mater, the Academy of Fine Arts in Munich. Names like Paul Klee, Josef Albers, and Wassily Kandinsky are not so soon forgotten. Neither is another artist who was strongly influenced by von Stuck – Gustav Klimpt.

"Pietà." Franz von Stuck. 1891. (Städel Museum, Frankfurt, Germany)

When Halos Slip and Fall

Copyright © Edward Riojas

I was recently perusing depictions of the Holy Spirit for an upcoming project and noticed a disturbing trend: The Holy Spirit often sports a slipping halo. This may seem at its greatest a non-issue. It may also seem an indicator of my stodgy artistic taste. It is, however, neither of these.

Example of a tri-radiant nimbus swapped for a cross.

If you’ve ever listened while I've given a presentation or have read my words on Christian symbolism, certainly the topic of the tri-radiant nimbus (halo) has been brought up. It is one of the most confessional visual devices used in the Church, yet it is also one of the most misunderstood.

A simple nimbus, if used in art, is always placed behind the head of a saint or angel or depiction of God. Because it is possible to have a multitude of figures in a painting, the tri-radiant nimbus was developed to distinguish depictions of God from humans and angels. Three rays within the nimbus indicate the figure is a Person of the Holy Trinity, and in so doing confesses Who exactly is indivisibly God. So, yes, The Lord, Jesus Christ can be shown with the tri-radiant nimbus. So, too, the hand of the Father can be shown with the same device, as well as depictions of the Holy Spirit.

Mention is sometimes made of a “cruciform nimbus,” but it is the result of ignorance and error. While it may be true that God is indivisible, it is also true that the Person of Christ did not share the cross with the Father or the Holy Spirit. The cross, in that regard, has always been associated with Jesus Christ. While the cross, in some respect, may be indirectly associated with the Father and the Holy Spirit, it makes a greater confession, by means of the tri-radiant nimbus, to state that each Person is, indeed, God.

But for some reason, the Holy Spirit’s halo sometimes “slips” so that a cross becomes visible. In fact, the only reason the cross has been used in a nimbus is that the errant artist assumed there was an arm of the cross behind the head instead of being satisfied that there were simply three rays. By sliding the halo to one side, it also fails in surrounding the head, as if confessing that this Person isn’t quite as holy.

A dove of
dubious origin.

Of course, there are even more instances in which the Holy Spirit’s halo is discounted altogether. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. With one simple omission, the image drifts from the Divine into the realm of birds and bees. To make things worse, the dove might also be showing flying up toward heaven instead of descending with Divine inspiration. The result is a nice bird; a dove; a symbol of peace. It is circumspect fluff. If confessions are to be made, then the artist should confess as if his life depends on it.

And if you think my hackles are being raised for naught, then consider those who do not confess the Holy Spirit is a Person of the Holy Trinity; that the Holy Spirit is not true God. The Unitarians take this view and heretically run with it. It is therefore imperative to be cognizant of what we confess, not only in word and song, but on the very walls of our sanctuaries, as well.

In Good Company

Working drawing for Baptismal Mural. (St. Paul's Lutheran Church, Council Bluffs, Iowa) Copyright © Edward Riojas

Copyright © Edward Riojas

One client requested that I alter an idealized crowd to honestly reflect a more diverse segment of society. Another client asked if it was possible to insert members of the congregation into a depiction of a crowd. Yet another showed me a photo of a shy, unsung hero – the subject of a memorial – so that I would not inadvertently paint the person prominently into a crowd. When it comes to sacred art, a crowd is not simply a crowd.

These three instances point to our desire, as members of Christendom, to be intimately connected with depictions of the company of saints. It should come as no surprise. The world may see a crowd as a sea of nameless faces, but those who sit in pews understand that the faces of the saints are written in the palm of His hand. They are not nameless.

Age and experience amplify this. As we grow older, the carefree days of youth are replaced by heartbreak and separation and death. We know, however, that death is not an end; that space and time are not barriers to the Lord; that we stand together with all the saints, whether they be here in time or there in eternity.

For this reason, more consideration is given to depictions of crowds in sacred art, and otherwise-strange requests are not brushed aside. For this reason, I am careful to consider the demographics of a crowd and facial expressions of the same.

In the case of a recent project, it didn’t matter that there were thousands in that crowd. I needed to put myself in the helpless crowd of Israelites as they walked dumbfoundedly through the Red Sea on dry ground. This amid a far greater display of the glory and power of God, and a foreshadowing of our own Baptism as helpless humans under the power of God’s grace.

What is perhaps even more telling are the occasional reactions to those depictions of crowds painted with decidedly less consideration. It doesn’t matter that I invent heads and faces in a crowd instead of using live models – someone in the crowd will be recognized. A young woman once approached me at the dedication of a mural and asked me, with tearful eyes, how I knew a particular person painted in a crowd of saints. I didn’t. Out of ignorance, I had taken a shot in the dark and hit a very tender spot.

Tenderness and hurt buried by time can suddenly surface when facing a crowd. As a testament to the power of art, I have discovered that depictions of the company of saints – particularly the youngest among us; the “least of these” – can recall deep sorrow. Thankfully, what I paint can also bring comfort in the Hope of the resurrection. Without such Hope, there would be little reason to pick up a brush at all.