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Origins of Color (Trade & Exchange): Crash Course Art History #12
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MLA Full: | "Origins of Color (Trade & Exchange): Crash Course Art History #12." YouTube, uploaded by CrashCourse, 18 July 2024, www.youtube.com/watch?v=WFO8iUyXlCQ. |
MLA Inline: | (CrashCourse, 2024) |
APA Full: | CrashCourse. (2024, July 18). Origins of Color (Trade & Exchange): Crash Course Art History #12 [Video]. YouTube. https://youtube.com/watch?v=WFO8iUyXlCQ |
APA Inline: | (CrashCourse, 2024) |
Chicago Full: |
CrashCourse, "Origins of Color (Trade & Exchange): Crash Course Art History #12.", July 18, 2024, YouTube, 10:17, https://youtube.com/watch?v=WFO8iUyXlCQ. |
How can the color “red” be a global commodity? How can the way a statue stands be a sign of cultural exchange? In this episode of Crash Course Art History, we’ll explore how trade networks have moved both materials and ideas — and how art reflects a multi-directional flow of influences.
Introduction: Bugs & Red Dye 00:00
The Silk Road 01:10
The Crusades 04:15
The Conquistadors 07:42
Review & Credits 09:09
Image Descriptions: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1ETiCxe4GrVzFii7dBhF42oHx1EUCCh5y12wbtUjsH8A/edit
Sources: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1GW2NKzhpMNMmRyAFJVhFJG9cSfUOMRL-QrcWuHcWcIA/edit?usp=sharing
***
Support us for $5/month on Patreon to keep Crash Course free for everyone forever! https://www.patreon.com/crashcourse
Or support us directly: https://complexly.com/support
Join our Crash Course email list to get the latest news and highlights: https://mailchi.mp/crashcourse/email
Get our special Crash Course Educators newsletter: http://eepurl.com/iBgMhY
Thanks to the following patrons for their generous monthly contributions that help keep Crash Course free for everyone forever:
Emily Beazley, Brandon Thomas, Forrest Langseth, oranjeez, Rie Ohta, Jack Hart, UwU, Leah H., David Fanska, Andrew Woods, Ken Davidian, Stephen Akuffo, Toni Miles, Steve Segreto, Kyle & Katherine Callahan, Laurel Stevens, Krystle Young, Burt Humburg, Scott Harrison, Mark & Susan Billian, Alan Bridgeman, Breanna Bosso, Matt Curls, Jennifer Killen, Jon Allen, Sarah & Nathan Catchings, team dorsey, Bernardo Garza, Trevin Beattie, Eric Koslow, Indija-ka Siriwardena, Jason Rostoker, Siobhán, Ken Penttinen, Nathan Taylor, Barrett Nuzum, Les Aker, William McGraw, ClareG, Rizwan Kassim, Constance Urist, Alex Hackman, kelsey warren, Katie Dean, Stephen McCandless, Wai Jack Sin, Ian Dundore, Caleb Weeks, Vaso
__
Want to find Crash Course elsewhere on the internet?
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Facebook - http://www.facebook.com/YouTubeCrashCourse
Twitter - http://www.twitter.com/TheCrashCourse
CC Kids: http://www.youtube.com/crashcoursekids
Introduction: Bugs & Red Dye 00:00
The Silk Road 01:10
The Crusades 04:15
The Conquistadors 07:42
Review & Credits 09:09
Image Descriptions: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1ETiCxe4GrVzFii7dBhF42oHx1EUCCh5y12wbtUjsH8A/edit
Sources: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1GW2NKzhpMNMmRyAFJVhFJG9cSfUOMRL-QrcWuHcWcIA/edit?usp=sharing
***
Support us for $5/month on Patreon to keep Crash Course free for everyone forever! https://www.patreon.com/crashcourse
Or support us directly: https://complexly.com/support
Join our Crash Course email list to get the latest news and highlights: https://mailchi.mp/crashcourse/email
Get our special Crash Course Educators newsletter: http://eepurl.com/iBgMhY
Thanks to the following patrons for their generous monthly contributions that help keep Crash Course free for everyone forever:
Emily Beazley, Brandon Thomas, Forrest Langseth, oranjeez, Rie Ohta, Jack Hart, UwU, Leah H., David Fanska, Andrew Woods, Ken Davidian, Stephen Akuffo, Toni Miles, Steve Segreto, Kyle & Katherine Callahan, Laurel Stevens, Krystle Young, Burt Humburg, Scott Harrison, Mark & Susan Billian, Alan Bridgeman, Breanna Bosso, Matt Curls, Jennifer Killen, Jon Allen, Sarah & Nathan Catchings, team dorsey, Bernardo Garza, Trevin Beattie, Eric Koslow, Indija-ka Siriwardena, Jason Rostoker, Siobhán, Ken Penttinen, Nathan Taylor, Barrett Nuzum, Les Aker, William McGraw, ClareG, Rizwan Kassim, Constance Urist, Alex Hackman, kelsey warren, Katie Dean, Stephen McCandless, Wai Jack Sin, Ian Dundore, Caleb Weeks, Vaso
__
Want to find Crash Course elsewhere on the internet?
Instagram - https://www.instagram.com/thecrashcourse/
Facebook - http://www.facebook.com/YouTubeCrashCourse
Twitter - http://www.twitter.com/TheCrashCourse
CC Kids: http://www.youtube.com/crashcoursekids
In 1520, Spanish conquistador Hernán Cortés gushed about the red textiles he came across in the so-called “new” world.
He called the outfits given to him by Emperor Montezuma the Second so colorful and finely made “that in all the world there could be none like them.” But, he was wrong. About a lot of things, including the rareness of the red.
The color came from tiny cochineal insects: dried, pulverized, and strained into the reddest dye in the world. To the indigenous people of the region, this technique was nothing new — the Cochineal trade was an integral part of the vibrant Central American economy. But to Europeans, this was earth-shattering.
Ships started carrying tons of the dried bugs which quickly became worth as much as silver. Cochineal dyes are just one example of the many ways that global trade and art feed off and impact one another. Hi!
I'm Sarah Urist Green, and this is Crash Course Art History. [THEME MUSIC] Long before Spanish ships linked Europe with the Americas, the Silk Road connected people across Asia. This vast trade network wasn’t actually one road and wasn’t just for trading silk. In its heyday, between 200 and 900 C.
E., hundreds of cultures were swapping textiles, carpets, jewelry, and treasures of the more intangible kind. Like, check out this mural, which tells the story of a guy who notices a goose laying golden eggs. He kills the goose, hoping to steal the gold, but he comes to learn that tough lesson that a dead goose can’t lay more golden eggs.
Our protagonist is then shown making the universal gesture for “What was I thinking?” The story is one of Aesop’s fables, dating back to ancient Greece. But the mural is located in the ancient town of Panjakent, in what’s now Tajikistan. Which means ol’ Aesop's story traveled roughly four thousand kilometers — or over two thousand five hundred miles.
So, as both stories and stuff flowed on the Silk Road, repeated elements, themes, and patterns — or, motifs — started showing up in art made many miles apart. Like, here’s a statue of the Buddha from 2nd or 3rd century Gandhara, part of what’s now Pakistan. Notice how he’s shifting his weight onto one leg, cool and relaxed, the kind of pose I strike when I’m trying to disguise my impatience in line at the DMV.
That stance is called contrapposto. We can see Classical Greek artists first sculpting this pose around the 5th century B. C.
E. Whereas earlier artists had represented figures with their weight balanced equally on both legs, the Greeks captured how shifting your weight to one side affects the whole body. They also liked to show off their material mastery by sculpting draping fabrics — like we see here on Buddha.
So, the subject itself —the Buddha — represented Indian influences, while the pose and the clothing were inspired by the Greeks, and the artwork was made in Pakistan. When multiple cultures blend like this to create something new, we call it syncretism. And once you start noticing it, you’ll find it everywhere.
It’s even in visual patterns that convey symbolic meanings, which we call iconography. Like, Gandhara artists also wrapped Greek influences into their depictions of Vajrapāni, one of the Buddha’s followers-slash-bodyguards. To convey Vajrapāni’s strength, they used iconography associated with another powerful strongman—Hercules.
Exhibit
A: Here’s Hercules, wearing the skin of the lion he wrestled to death. And here’s Vajrapāni, in the same getup. Exhibit
B: Here’s Vajrapāni, waving an indestructible weapon called a Vajra. And here’s Hercules carrying a very similar club. Also, the name Vajrapāni means “thunderbolt-bearer,” which you could also use to describe Hercules’s mythological dad, Zeus. So, details from clothing to poses to props can all be evidence of syncretism, as cultures swap ideas and influence each other.
But, artistic influences didn’t only flow in one direction, and they weren’t always the result of peaceful collaboration. They also arose from conflict— like the Crusades, a string of religious wars fought between Christians and Muslims starting in the 11th century. As Islam grew more popular, Western European Christians tried—violently—to halt the faith’s spread and to claim Jerusalem for Christianity.
These wars raged for almost two hundred years and led to untold numbers of deaths. But they also resulted in a mass exchange of artwork and materials between the Middle East and Europe. One striking example can be found in lapis lazuli, a deep blue rock mined for centuries in what’s now Afghanistan.
When this brilliantly colored stone made its way to Western Europe for the first time during the Crusades… it blue people’s minds. Get it? Blue?
The stone itself was a hot commodity, making its way into gaming boards, vases, and tiny medallions of people’s faces. But there was more to the lapis lazuli craze. When crushed into a powder, the stone created the bluest of blue pigments called ultramarine, which was literally worth its weight in gold.
Just look at the way ultramarine steals the show on the ceiling of the Arena Chapel in Padua, Italy. Painted by the artist Giotto in 1305, the chapel is covered with scenes from the Bible. Each is framed by the illusion of marble architecture using trompe l'oeil — or “trick of the eye” — techniques.
And it’s all happening under a deep blue starry sky, thick with über-expensive ultramarine. To achieve the signature look, Giotto applied the pigment to a wall coated in wet plaster so that the materials fused together and became a part of the structure itself. This type of painting, called buon fresco, proved to be very durable; it has lasted for over seven hundred years!
At the time, commissioning art for the Catholic Church was a way for the wealthy to seek redemption from sin. So this chapel was one very big atonement for the Italian banker Enrico Scrovegni and his family’s greed. He bankrolled it in an effort to convey his status and piety all at once.
So it’s giving, “I love God...and I’m filthy rich.” And the painting includes a portrayal of Scrovegni himself. There he is, kneeling and humbly presenting the Arena Chapel in miniature as an offering. I wonder if he paid for a second chapel to atone for his pride?
Anyway, after the Crusades ended, ultramarine remained popular among European artists. But it became increasingly difficult to purchase. In 1508, German painter Albrecht Dürer was working on the Heller Altarpiece, which depicts the Virgin Mary’s ascent to heaven.
Mary was often shown wearing blue, a color meant to convey her purity and importance. So Dürer needed that ultramarine. To his patron, he wrote: “If you wanted to buy a pound of ultramarine you could hardly get it for 100 florins...” Or about $20,000 by today’s standards.
But Dürer found a way. Although the colors on his altarpiece have faded, this copy gives a sense of what Dürer’s version would have looked like in its original, blue-beyond-blue glory. And that remarkable use of color brings us back to the cochineal red dye that I mentioned at the start.
Before Europeans learned about cochineal dye, they had been combining things like rotten olive oil, cow poop, and blood. It was a lot of smells to suffer through for a color that usually faded to muddy brown. But once it became a global commodity, cochineal red was everywhere.
The dye started being used in luxury textiles, like these robes for Spanish priests. And it was used in artwork, like in this portrait by Cristóbal Lozano. Eventually, much like the bugs themselves, the global cochineal trade dried up.
Artificial red dyes hit the market in the late 19th century that were longer-lasting and more budget-friendly. But even that didn’t spell the end for cochineal red. To this day, traditional weavers in Oaxaca, Mexico, work with yarn bathed in the stuff.
And contemporary Mexican artist Elena Osterwalder experiments with the dye in her work. She builds installations out of amatl — a type of traditional bark paper — dyed with pigments from flowers, plants, and cochineal insects. From this blend of old influences and new, she fuses knowledge from the past with the present.
And the result is an immersive sea of red. Break apart what art is made of, and you’ll often find some very well-traveled ingredients. Materials from one place wind up in another.
Motifs move. Ideas mix. And influences flow, so that artists from different regions find themselves responding to each other’s work without ever meeting face-to-face.
A statue in Pakistan reflects Greek postures, and Italian chapels are painted with Middle-Eastern pigments. Trade networks have linked people across oceans and continents. And art reflects what groups have exchanged — not along a one-way road, but through a network coursing in many directions.
In our next episode, we’ll look at the boundaries around who gets to call themselves an artist, and who is considered an outsider. I’ll see you then. Thanks for watching this episode of Crash Course Art History, which was filmed at our studio in Indianapolis and was made with the help of all these amazing people.
If you want to help keep Crash Course free for everyone, forever, you can join our community on Patreon.
He called the outfits given to him by Emperor Montezuma the Second so colorful and finely made “that in all the world there could be none like them.” But, he was wrong. About a lot of things, including the rareness of the red.
The color came from tiny cochineal insects: dried, pulverized, and strained into the reddest dye in the world. To the indigenous people of the region, this technique was nothing new — the Cochineal trade was an integral part of the vibrant Central American economy. But to Europeans, this was earth-shattering.
Ships started carrying tons of the dried bugs which quickly became worth as much as silver. Cochineal dyes are just one example of the many ways that global trade and art feed off and impact one another. Hi!
I'm Sarah Urist Green, and this is Crash Course Art History. [THEME MUSIC] Long before Spanish ships linked Europe with the Americas, the Silk Road connected people across Asia. This vast trade network wasn’t actually one road and wasn’t just for trading silk. In its heyday, between 200 and 900 C.
E., hundreds of cultures were swapping textiles, carpets, jewelry, and treasures of the more intangible kind. Like, check out this mural, which tells the story of a guy who notices a goose laying golden eggs. He kills the goose, hoping to steal the gold, but he comes to learn that tough lesson that a dead goose can’t lay more golden eggs.
Our protagonist is then shown making the universal gesture for “What was I thinking?” The story is one of Aesop’s fables, dating back to ancient Greece. But the mural is located in the ancient town of Panjakent, in what’s now Tajikistan. Which means ol’ Aesop's story traveled roughly four thousand kilometers — or over two thousand five hundred miles.
So, as both stories and stuff flowed on the Silk Road, repeated elements, themes, and patterns — or, motifs — started showing up in art made many miles apart. Like, here’s a statue of the Buddha from 2nd or 3rd century Gandhara, part of what’s now Pakistan. Notice how he’s shifting his weight onto one leg, cool and relaxed, the kind of pose I strike when I’m trying to disguise my impatience in line at the DMV.
That stance is called contrapposto. We can see Classical Greek artists first sculpting this pose around the 5th century B. C.
E. Whereas earlier artists had represented figures with their weight balanced equally on both legs, the Greeks captured how shifting your weight to one side affects the whole body. They also liked to show off their material mastery by sculpting draping fabrics — like we see here on Buddha.
So, the subject itself —the Buddha — represented Indian influences, while the pose and the clothing were inspired by the Greeks, and the artwork was made in Pakistan. When multiple cultures blend like this to create something new, we call it syncretism. And once you start noticing it, you’ll find it everywhere.
It’s even in visual patterns that convey symbolic meanings, which we call iconography. Like, Gandhara artists also wrapped Greek influences into their depictions of Vajrapāni, one of the Buddha’s followers-slash-bodyguards. To convey Vajrapāni’s strength, they used iconography associated with another powerful strongman—Hercules.
Exhibit
A: Here’s Hercules, wearing the skin of the lion he wrestled to death. And here’s Vajrapāni, in the same getup. Exhibit
B: Here’s Vajrapāni, waving an indestructible weapon called a Vajra. And here’s Hercules carrying a very similar club. Also, the name Vajrapāni means “thunderbolt-bearer,” which you could also use to describe Hercules’s mythological dad, Zeus. So, details from clothing to poses to props can all be evidence of syncretism, as cultures swap ideas and influence each other.
But, artistic influences didn’t only flow in one direction, and they weren’t always the result of peaceful collaboration. They also arose from conflict— like the Crusades, a string of religious wars fought between Christians and Muslims starting in the 11th century. As Islam grew more popular, Western European Christians tried—violently—to halt the faith’s spread and to claim Jerusalem for Christianity.
These wars raged for almost two hundred years and led to untold numbers of deaths. But they also resulted in a mass exchange of artwork and materials between the Middle East and Europe. One striking example can be found in lapis lazuli, a deep blue rock mined for centuries in what’s now Afghanistan.
When this brilliantly colored stone made its way to Western Europe for the first time during the Crusades… it blue people’s minds. Get it? Blue?
The stone itself was a hot commodity, making its way into gaming boards, vases, and tiny medallions of people’s faces. But there was more to the lapis lazuli craze. When crushed into a powder, the stone created the bluest of blue pigments called ultramarine, which was literally worth its weight in gold.
Just look at the way ultramarine steals the show on the ceiling of the Arena Chapel in Padua, Italy. Painted by the artist Giotto in 1305, the chapel is covered with scenes from the Bible. Each is framed by the illusion of marble architecture using trompe l'oeil — or “trick of the eye” — techniques.
And it’s all happening under a deep blue starry sky, thick with über-expensive ultramarine. To achieve the signature look, Giotto applied the pigment to a wall coated in wet plaster so that the materials fused together and became a part of the structure itself. This type of painting, called buon fresco, proved to be very durable; it has lasted for over seven hundred years!
At the time, commissioning art for the Catholic Church was a way for the wealthy to seek redemption from sin. So this chapel was one very big atonement for the Italian banker Enrico Scrovegni and his family’s greed. He bankrolled it in an effort to convey his status and piety all at once.
So it’s giving, “I love God...and I’m filthy rich.” And the painting includes a portrayal of Scrovegni himself. There he is, kneeling and humbly presenting the Arena Chapel in miniature as an offering. I wonder if he paid for a second chapel to atone for his pride?
Anyway, after the Crusades ended, ultramarine remained popular among European artists. But it became increasingly difficult to purchase. In 1508, German painter Albrecht Dürer was working on the Heller Altarpiece, which depicts the Virgin Mary’s ascent to heaven.
Mary was often shown wearing blue, a color meant to convey her purity and importance. So Dürer needed that ultramarine. To his patron, he wrote: “If you wanted to buy a pound of ultramarine you could hardly get it for 100 florins...” Or about $20,000 by today’s standards.
But Dürer found a way. Although the colors on his altarpiece have faded, this copy gives a sense of what Dürer’s version would have looked like in its original, blue-beyond-blue glory. And that remarkable use of color brings us back to the cochineal red dye that I mentioned at the start.
Before Europeans learned about cochineal dye, they had been combining things like rotten olive oil, cow poop, and blood. It was a lot of smells to suffer through for a color that usually faded to muddy brown. But once it became a global commodity, cochineal red was everywhere.
The dye started being used in luxury textiles, like these robes for Spanish priests. And it was used in artwork, like in this portrait by Cristóbal Lozano. Eventually, much like the bugs themselves, the global cochineal trade dried up.
Artificial red dyes hit the market in the late 19th century that were longer-lasting and more budget-friendly. But even that didn’t spell the end for cochineal red. To this day, traditional weavers in Oaxaca, Mexico, work with yarn bathed in the stuff.
And contemporary Mexican artist Elena Osterwalder experiments with the dye in her work. She builds installations out of amatl — a type of traditional bark paper — dyed with pigments from flowers, plants, and cochineal insects. From this blend of old influences and new, she fuses knowledge from the past with the present.
And the result is an immersive sea of red. Break apart what art is made of, and you’ll often find some very well-traveled ingredients. Materials from one place wind up in another.
Motifs move. Ideas mix. And influences flow, so that artists from different regions find themselves responding to each other’s work without ever meeting face-to-face.
A statue in Pakistan reflects Greek postures, and Italian chapels are painted with Middle-Eastern pigments. Trade networks have linked people across oceans and continents. And art reflects what groups have exchanged — not along a one-way road, but through a network coursing in many directions.
In our next episode, we’ll look at the boundaries around who gets to call themselves an artist, and who is considered an outsider. I’ll see you then. Thanks for watching this episode of Crash Course Art History, which was filmed at our studio in Indianapolis and was made with the help of all these amazing people.
If you want to help keep Crash Course free for everyone, forever, you can join our community on Patreon.