This week at the Belgian National Gallery in Brussels, a new exhibit opens of the works of the little known Flemish Master, Johan van der Klimf (1592-1637). Protégé and contemporary of Rubens, he failed, in history’s eyes, to emerge from the shadow of his well-known teacher and that of his illustrious predecessors, Bruegel, van Eyck, and Barry van Dyke. Recently much of his work has been reappraised and modern art historians have been re-evaluating his position in the pantheon of classic painters. But who was Johan van der Klimf, and why, by the sacred knees of Gloria Hunniford, has nobody ever heard of him?
Van der Klimf was born in a small village just outside of Bruges called Zachte Koe to Wilhelm van der Klimf – a freelance bagel inspector and clown-botherer, and Bettina van der Klimf (nee Lusthammer) a milkmaid and clairvoyant whose only notable achievement was predicting the existence of the Fiat Uno.
In his early years, van der Klimf didn’t have access to paint or canvas and instead had to just waft a stick about in the air and imagine what he was drawing. It was whilst wafting a portrait of a village dog that the travelling priest, Father Jos van der Plump, first came across him and realised immediately the youth’s potential.
‘It was a moment of great profundity.’ He was to write years later in his memoir ‘Plump Ponderings – A Memoir of an Itinerant Priest’, ‘Here was a ragamuffin urchin who was able to imbue the very essence of mange-ridden mongrel in three simple wafts of a hazel twig. I immediately proffered the child my pencil. He ate it, but in my mind he’d made a significant first step on his journey to becoming one of the greatest painters of his generation. It took five people, two pounds of lard, and a well-trained marmot to remove the pencil from his windpipe. We nearly lost him twice, and for the rest of his life he only used charcoals to sketch.’
Following this fateful meeting with Father van der Plump, Van Der Klimf travelled to Antwerp and under the tutelage of Peter Paul and Mary Rubens, the great Flemish Master, who could spit through the eye of a needle at twenty yards, and was a dab hand at the painting too, the young Van Der Klimf flourished. His first exhibition, given at the tender age of fourteen, was a collection of still life drawings of plums ‘je krijgt er niet veel van het pond’, which peeked the interest of a questionable clientele. By all accounts, at this point his career took off and he suddenly found himself with a plethora of commissions and interested wealthy patrons.
However, this patron work seemed to die off quickly, and it wasn’t until recent work carried out by the University of Antwerp that people realised why it might be that he’d become ostracised from the intelligencia of the day. It seemed that van der Klimf lacked any form of tact when naming his paintings.
Some of his earlier work, such as ‘Old Man with the Clap’, ‘Suspicious Banker’ and ‘Damn Ugly Children of Self-Important Aristocrats’ were initially well-received until the patrons read the titles. ‘Wet Git’, ‘The Embarrassment of Gertie’, ‘Cloven-hooved Erotic Munchkin’ and ‘Face like Brioche’ were all commissioned by the affluent van der Hoof family who then commissioned an assassin.
Fortunately for the art world, the assassin failed and accidentally impaled himself on an effigy of St. Paul. And so, van der Klimf’s paintings continued, if somewhat sporadically, commissioned by those who’d heard tell of his skill but not of his difficulties with titles. ‘Horse-faced Orphan Boy’, ‘Questionable Union of Halfwits’, and ‘Whither Dignity’ were commissioned by the then Holy Roman Emperor Matthias, and led indirectly to the ‘Thirty Year War’.
Having to lie low for a while, van der Klimf spent time in Spain under the protection of King Phillip III who then threw him out again after ‘Hispanic Egg Phantom’, ‘The Cordoba Syphilitic Express’, and ‘Señor Floppy’.
He was welcomed in by King James I of England who, despite the rumours, enjoyed a good laugh. He put van der Klimf immediately to work painting portraits of his courtiers. The Earls of Suffolk, Dorset and Salisbury were flattered by van der Klimf’s capturing of their likenesses but fumed to see ‘Lackspittle Larry’, ‘Who Put the Fop in the Bop-Whop-de-Fop-de-Bop’, and ‘Touches Pigs’ etched on the bottom of the frames. Rumour has it that they were keen to sponsor a new Gunpowder Plot if merely to stop the Flemish painter naming any more portraits.
During his time in Spain he became friends with a young Diego Velázquez, and once he’d been deported would write to the burgeoning artistic genius about his time in the court of King James I. Many of these letters are held at the Prado in Madrid amongst Velázquez’s belongings, such as his toy horse, Gregory, and his stuffed hamster collection. These letters are the only documents we have left in van der Klimf’s own hand and help to reveal his struggles in England.
‘14th February 1623, London
My Dear Diego,
Great news! I have been inundated with work, my friend! I had but been in this fog-bound country for a mere two weeks before my gift for capturing the very likeness of a subject was recognised and half a dozen commissions I’d received from various noblemen and politicians. Why, this very morning I was welcomed into the house of the Earl of Wessex to paint his young son. I have no doubt that ‘Pig Ugly Simpleton’ shall come to be seen as one of my greatest works. But tell me, my friend, how goes it with the new King? Do you think he’d likely to welcome me back? ‘Señor Floppy’ was a great work, and I’m sure he’s not as sensitive as his father was about his genitals.
Your dear friend,
Johan’
There seems both a great longing to be part of the cultural revolution that was happening in Spain, and yet a deep-seated ignorance, or at least a wanton refusal to learn from his own mistakes. As is shown in a letter from later in the year:
‘26th August 1623, Dover
Mr Dear Diego,
The irony is that this time I find myself being forcible ejected from this country because of my kindness towards an old man rather than my latest works: ‘Colonic Discharge Would Smell as Sweet’, ‘Bent Harry’, and ‘Is this his wife or his mother?’ I wonder if sufficient time has elapsed in my dear homeland for my safe return. I have heard tell that my ‘Egregious Duck Fondler’ is wowing them in Antwerp where Nicolaas Rockox has had the audacity to rename it ‘Portrait of Archduke Albert VII’! Perhaps I shall journey thither and ‘striketh whilst the iron is hot’, as they say in these parts. I am delighted to hear of your commission dear Diego to paint Phillip IV! Not to be overly forward, but if you’re struggling for a title, I hear rumour that he likes the intimate company of porpoises – any possibilities there?
Your dear friend,
Johan’
It seems that part of Velázquez’s contract with Phillip IV as the royal portrait artist was to cut off all contact with van der Klimf who was described by his royal highness as ‘a purveyor of scurrilous rumours who can’t tell the difference between a porpoise and a porcupine’.
When James I had him deported for feeding bread to a warlock, van der Klimf found himself once again back in the Low Countries and seeking commissions from the Flemish aristocrats. Jan van der Floof had been out of the country squeezing citrus fruit near dachshunds, during van der Klimf’s rise to infamy, so had no ideas about his flaw. As such it was far too late before someone told him, and he was already in possession of ‘Quivering Man-child’ and ‘Odour Toilette’, before he was able to dismiss van der Klimf and accuse him of blasphemy.
Being seen as blasphemous by the Protestant movement gained him favour in the eyes of the Roman Catholic Church and van der Klimf was commissioned to paint a portrait of the new pontiff, Pope Urban VIII. Upon the unveiling of ‘Il Papa Pappone’ van der Klimf was sentenced to death, and only avoided this fate by being smuggled out of Rome in a crate of oranges by Athanasius Kircher who found him funny and knew about Urban VIII’s peccadillos. The portrait was burnt and all records of its existence erased from the Vatican records.
Having ostracised himself from many of the political powers of the time, van der Klimf sought work with Emperor Matthias’ heir, in the court of the Holy Roman Emperor Ferdinand II who Pope Urban VIII had irritated and so was delighted to hear of his Papal portrait. Van der Klimf remained there for the rest of his life, but due to a sudden desire to keep his head attached to his body, declined to do any further portraits, instead focusing entirely on painting bathrooms. This proved a providential decision because when he broke his self-inflicted banishment from the world of portraiture, in order to fulfil a commission from the new Holy Roman Emperor, Ferdinand III, in 1637, ‘Living Testimony of the Dangers of Inbreeding’, his Imperialness shot him through the kidneys. And thus, Johan van der Klimf died, and disappeared amongst the gaps in the history books.
Since his rediscovery in the early twentieth century, critics have not always been kind about his work. His triptych ‘The Warmth of a Swedish Hen’ was dubbed by the critic John Ruskin as a ‘triumph of optimism over talent’, by Kenneth Clark as ‘the cause of my second and more volatile bout of gastroenteritis’, and by Sister Wendy as ‘a crock of shit’.
Treatises of Gloria 