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The Nightmare: Unraveling the Mysteries of Fuseli's Iconic Horror Masterpiece, Study notes of Painting

Henry fuseli's the nightmare, painted in 1781, is an iconic image of sexual terror and intrigue. The history, meaning, and influence of this groundbreaking work of art. The nightmare, which depicts a young woman in a nightmarish sleep with a supernatural imp, created a stir at the royal academy exhibition and has since inspired countless interpretations. This document delves into the theories surrounding the painting's meaning, its connection to ancient mythology and folklore, and its impact on art and popular culture. Fuseli's unconventional approach to art and his reputation as a painter of the weird and supernatural are also discussed.

What you will learn

  • What is the significance of the imp and the horse in The Nightmare?
  • What is the meaning behind Henry Fuseli's painting, The Nightmare?
  • How did The Nightmare influence art and popular culture?

Typology: Study notes

2021/2022

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THE NIGHTMARE: FUSELI AND THE ART OF HORROR
Henry Fuseli’s The Nightmare is the consummate image of sexual terror,
which has inspired mystery and speculation for generations.
Ever since it was first exhibited to the public, at the annual Royal Academy
exhibition of 1782, The Nightmare has been an icon of horror. It shows a
young woman lying in a restless sleep in her bedroom, oppressed by a
foul-looking imp which sits on her stomach. To the left, a horse glares out
from the gloom. The original visitors to the Academy exhibition in 1782
were shocked by the subject matter – but also intrigued. The Academy
exhibitions in the late eighteenth century were dominated by portraits,
landscape paintings, or scenes illustrating literature and history. The
Nightmare did not fit any of these categories. What did this painting really
show? What did it mean? Was it an allegory of some kind, or simply a sick
fantasy? The art critics were mystified; one complained, ‘The Nightmare,
by Mr Fuseli, like all his productions has strong marks of genius about it;
but hag-riding is too unpleasant a thought to be agreeable to anyone’.
Another remarked that ‘there is a wildness of conception in Mr Fuseli’s
picture of the Night Shade at the Royal Academy, which teems with that
usual concomitant of genius, inaccuracy’.
The painting had created a real stir, exactly as Fuseli would have wanted.
This Swiss-born painter had moved to England in the mid-1760s, and tried
to establish himself as a translator and writer. But he turned to the visual
arts around 1770, encouraged ( by his own account) by Sir Joshua
Reynolds, the newly-appointed president of the Royal Academy – and
spent most of the following decade in Italy, studying ancient art and the
Old Masters, and gaining a reputation for his wild imagination among
connoisseurs and fellow artists. Now, back in England, he made a
concerted effort to make his name as a painter. In previous exhibitions he
had displayed large, dynamic compositions of scenes from Shakespeare
and Milton. These were eye-grabbing, powerfully visual works, and had
been fairly well-received by the critics and the public. But in 1782, he risked
his reputation by showing only this single, rather small, but
unconventional painting.
Over 55, 000 people went to the exhibition in 1782 - this when the
population of London was only about 750,000. Many more would have
read about the painting in the newspapers and magazines, and still more
could have seen the print reproducing the image that was published in the
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THE NIGHTMARE: FUSELI AND THE ART OF HORROR

Henry Fuseli’s The Nightmare is the consummate image of sexual terror, which has inspired mystery and speculation for generations.

Ever since it was first exhibited to the public, at the annual Royal Academy exhibition of 1782, The Nightmare has been an icon of horror. It shows a young woman lying in a restless sleep in her bedroom, oppressed by a foul-looking imp which sits on her stomach. To the left, a horse glares out from the gloom. The original visitors to the Academy exhibition in 1782 were shocked by the subject matter – but also intrigued. The Academy exhibitions in the late eighteenth century were dominated by portraits, landscape paintings, or scenes illustrating literature and history. The Nightmare did not fit any of these categories. What did this painting really show? What did it mean? Was it an allegory of some kind, or simply a sick fantasy? The art critics were mystified; one complained, ‘The Nightmare, by Mr Fuseli, like all his productions has strong marks of genius about it; but hag-riding is too unpleasant a thought to be agreeable to anyone’. Another remarked that ‘there is a wildness of conception in Mr Fuseli’s picture of the Night Shade at the Royal Academy, which teems with that usual concomitant of genius, inaccuracy’.

The painting had created a real stir, exactly as Fuseli would have wanted. This Swiss-born painter had moved to England in the mid-1760s, and tried to establish himself as a translator and writer. But he turned to the visual arts around 1770, encouraged ( by his own account) by Sir Joshua Reynolds, the newly-appointed president of the Royal Academy – and spent most of the following decade in Italy, studying ancient art and the Old Masters, and gaining a reputation for his wild imagination among connoisseurs and fellow artists. Now, back in England, he made a concerted effort to make his name as a painter. In previous exhibitions he had displayed large, dynamic compositions of scenes from Shakespeare and Milton. These were eye-grabbing, powerfully visual works, and had been fairly well-received by the critics and the public. But in 1782, he risked his reputation by showing only this single, rather small, but unconventional painting.

Over 55, 000 people went to the exhibition in 1782 - this when the population of London was only about 750,000. Many more would have read about the painting in the newspapers and magazines, and still more could have seen the print reproducing the image that was published in the

following year. The Nightmare made Fuseli’s name as an artist, and established his reputation as a painter of the weird, the supernatural, and the shocking. Rumours abounded that he ate raw pork in order to inspire weird dreams or took opium. Meanwhile, the influence of this painting has endured. It has been reproduced in print, copied, lampooned and satirised repeatedly, appearing in caricatures, on-book covers and album-sleeves. It has inspired other artists and writers, and in the present age, film-makers, from F.W. Murnau, the maker of Nosferatu (1922) to Ken Russell, who re- staged The Nightmare in his 1986 movie, Gothic.

Over the last two centuries, art historians, psychologists, literary critics and historians of science have pondered this picture, as well. Theories about the meaning and importance of this work have multiplied. It has been related to eighteenth-century theories of sleep paralysis and nightmares – Fuseli knew doctors and scientists and had a keen amateur enthusiasm in the field – and to traditional folklore, with its stories of supernatural night- visitors preying on virgins. Psychological interpretations have focussed on the painting as an expression of Fuseli’s sexual desires and frustrations. On the back of this canvas Fuseli painted an unfinished portrait of a woman, associated by a number of commentators with Anna Landolt, the object of Fuseli’s unrequited love during a visit to Switzerland in 1779. The main painting has, then, been interpreted as an expression of the painter’s sexual revenge or frustration, and the imp’s features have been taken as resembling Fuseli’s own. Literary allusions to Shakespeare and to the playwright Thomas Middleton have been detected, and the art-historical sources of the various figures in the painting have been tracked down. Yet the painting remains a mystery.

Every element of this picture has elicited commentary, rumour and speculation...

The voluptuous woman on the bed is based on an ancient sculpture, but is clearly a modern-day woman of the eighteenth century. Figures like this can be found in titillating paintings and illustrations of the time, called ‘fancy pictures’. The sickly glitter of the painting itself suggests a perverse or ironic re-working of such images, with the intimate, dishevelled boudoir