The Cult of the Amateur, Revived
Just what makes a dilettante?

Someone who simply appreciates art,
or who appreciates it superficially?

At the Getty Villa this fall, you can find out from the men who coined the term. And even more about why the word evolved into a jibe after they left the scene.

So, a group of high society-types getting together to commission and examine artwork in stuffy old drawing rooms? Nothing interesting or new, you say. But look a little further at “The Society of the Dilettanti.”

During a time when sowing one’s oats on a post-graduate “Grand Tour” of Europe was considered a necessary part of education for society folk, there arose a group of party boy art patrons whose continental antics became so storied and salacious, today’s generation of celebu-tantes could hardly imagine.

In 1734, a group of overly educated and presumably very board, idly rich London men, who’d become friends on their European tours, created a secret brotherhood – the Society of the Dilettanti, named after the Italian word for “delight.” They dedicated themselves to celebrating “Grecian Taste and Roman Spirit,” becoming known for their true love of culture, at the same time as their true love for wine, women and song.

They met at local taverns, where they quite literally played like boys in a clubhouse – making up their own sacred ceremonies (in a mock tribute to ancient Roman religious rites and other secret societies of the time) wearing costumes and devoting their inebriated meetings to the orgiastic lore of Dionysos and Eros. And yet they became known for supporting some of most influential artistic collections of their time.

It is, at first, quite shocking and amusing (which the Dilettanti surely would have appreciated) to see the study of a cartel of carousing school chums hanging in the hallowed halls of one of L.A.’s best-loved museums. And yet, it’s also a breath of fresh air in the world of overly serious and self-referential modern art.

Looking at the cheeky pieces exhibited from the Society’s collections, one can almost smell the testosterone and hear the bawdy jokes. Take, for example a gallery of caricature-style portraits of the Dilettanti members, each of which includes satirical references to the lives and social controversies the Society men invoked.

These nods appear all the more sly in the form of formal portraiture, such as that of Francis Dashwood, depicted by official Dilettanti painter George Knapton as a Franciscan monk jokingly worshipping a Grecian sculpture. The heresy is clear, but even worse in view of Dashwood’s prominent stare toward the Venus statue’s groin.

The Getty does a wonderful job with these playful subjects, devoting an entire alcove to the Dilettanti’s collections of ancient erotic art, which are highlighted by the Society’s scholarly treatise on the topic, “A Discourse on the Worship of Priapus.” Their serious yet lascivious philosophical study focused on a Roman phallic cult, arguing that all art is based on sex, since art is based on religion, which likewise is founded on concepts of sexuality (or, in less obscene words, the origin of life).

In order to fulfill their motto “Seria Ludo”, or exploring “serious matters” in a “playful vein,” the Dilettanti shamelessly endeavored upon the scandalous, actually becoming respectable art collectors and critics along the way. They became known for revolutionary concepts, such as their opposition to the restoration processes that often damage and obscure ancient works.

They later even funded archeological expeditions, demanding painstakingly documented excavations, in which expert scholars, painters and architects were commissioned to compile exacting treatises on the ancient sites. The results were some of the first and best taxonomies of cultural landmarks in the ancient world, such as “The Antiquities of Athens Measured and Delineated.”

Works like these contributed to a newly emerging practice in the Greek Revival during the 18th century — that of studying antiquities based on scientific observation, which would in turn become the foundation of modern archaeology and anthropology in academia.

The significance of this display within the confines of the Getty Villa is not lost. The museum itself, created by a wealthy oil magnate and playboy, is one enormous, extravagantly conceived tribute to an actual ancient Mediterranean villa — a landmark that many critics often have called dilettantish in the extreme, but which others have called a great treasure of living history. The story of the Dilettanti and their enduring controversy is the story of the Getty Villa itself.

Connoisseur and amateur, expert and dilettante, serious student and privileged aesthete – this exhibit makes the graying of these societal lines in Western culture even more apparent than we middle class have always insisted.

But there is one aspect of the Villa’s presentation that becomes a disappointing detraction, if only in hindsight. As with any exhibition of major European art, its research and curation predictably leaves out one glaring detail. Understandably, it is one that isn’t easily found in the history books, but that’s because no one, ever, tries to find it.

One is forced to wonder of the Dilettanti’s collections, what of the inspirational effect of the women these men presumably “enjoyed?” Why isn’t there an examination of the aesthetic influence of the wives who probably pressed them, in one stylistic direction or another, to commission and collect the artistic accumulations they became known for? What of the nameless women who slaved as unacknowledged apprentices in the studios of celebrity male artists whom the Dilettanti probably patronized, and whose contributions to those great works are often unknown to this day?

Arguments for revisionism aside, the conclusion that a clique of well-to-do libertines is almost entirely responsible for the way that modern research approaches ancient art is a somewhat of a stretch. It’s hard to believe that those waiting at home for, and probably arranging the daily lives of, these party-going men weren’t in on the revolution of artistic appreciation.

Like the ancient mysteries the Dilettanti were fond of musing over, we are left to wonder. And explore “serious matters” in a “playful vein” we shall.

“The Society of the Dilettanti”
October 27 at the Getty Villa
17985 Pacific Coast Highway
Pacific Palisades
Admission is Free; advance, timed tickets are required
Parking is $10
Contact (310) 440-7300
www.getty.edu/visit/

About Brenna

Brenna Humann is an Antelope Valley native and avid student of world religion and culture. Previously a journalist, she has won several national awards for health, religion and feature writing. She now works in nonprofit development and public relations for Girl Scouts, and firmly believes that the lessons of human art, history and culture are universal.