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01 June 2016

Renaissance of Allegory


In a recent article in Slate (“Save the Allegory!"), Laura Miller makes a plea for deploying the word allegory correctly in cultural criticism—in essence, contradicting the recent tendency to call an “allegory” any film or book that can be interpreted as a commentary on society or politics.  As she argues, allegory is not accidental, it is generative of the work; and allegorical figures in literature are generally called out as such (Fortitude, or Poliphilo—‘Lover of All Things’). She rightly reclaims allegory’s medieval past, but here the deployment of the word “medieval” to describe anything before the “modern” era is also problematic (but I’m not a fan either of calling sixteenth-century art or literature “Early Modern”). The Middle Ages were the middle centuries between the classical culture of antiquity and its rebirth in the Renaissance. That may be a construct, but it’s a useful one, far more coherent than folding the Renaissance and Baroque into the trajectory of Modernism. Spenser’s The Faerie Queene is not a medieval book, but neither is the Hypnerotomachia Poliphili, written a century earlier (when Italy was fully in the Renaissance while England, perhaps, did in fact remain “medieval”). This is not to say, at the same time, that the Middle Ages were disconnected from antiquity, nor that they weren’t prescient of the Renaissance (witness Dante): see the still classic The Survival of the Pagan Gods by Jean Seznec.

The Triumph of Hope Over Experience
A version of an allegory that, this time
implies some irony in Hope’s gestures: 
she attempts to light an altar pyre, 
but the green kindling generates smoke; 
she pours water onto a dead tree stump; 
her temples are greying
But I’m especially interested in allegory in the visual arts, and in the wider culture of the Renaissance and Baroque (like opera, for example). I’m interested in it because it was formative for that culture, but also because my interest in recovering the tools of that culture means that I actually practice it. In practicing allegory I’ve marginalized myself not only with respect to mainstream modernist culture, but also with the ascendant neo-Realist phenomenon (which I just can’t accept calling “Classical Realism”). It’s a marginal position because much of Modernism was predicated on the abolition of allegory, beginning with literature; the Realist painter Courbet drove a stake through its heart in the nineteenth century in the visual arts (even if academic artists continued to practice an enfeebled version of it into the early twentieth century). Both modernists and realists are still suspicious of, if not opposed to, allegory. Perhaps, in the latter case, rightly enough—there’s no stranger iteration of allegory than the one populated by ordinary, realist (rather than idealized) figures.

For me, the critical thing is that allegory was not baggage appended to painting or sculpture in the seventeenth century: it was formative, essential, causal. It was not foisted on artists by pretentious patrons; instead, it was how artists themselves thought and how they perceived the world. When the great Gianlorenzo Bernini was in the midst of a brief period of being marginalized himself, he set to work on an allegorical sculpture, Truth Revealed by Time, both to comfort himself and to make an argument to his marginalizers. Even his seemingly intimate and “realist” portrait of his lover Costanza Buonarelli has been recently interpreted in, if not allegorical terms, at least rhetorical ones.

Now, mythologies can be interpreted allegorically without being intended as such—the hero’s journey, the battle with brute nature, the overcoming of labors. These can be credible allegorical readings because even in antiquity the myths were understood to be messages (maybe not in Homer’s day, but certainly by Ovid’s). But while Plutarch’s Lives may also contain messages about exemplary behavior, the real people he describes are not symbols or types, not gods or mythical heroes, but specific, individual characters. They cannot take on the burden of allegories because they cannot transcend their individual characteristics and stories—which Plutarch is at pains to narrate as realistically as possible.

the design for The Triumph of Hope
So, allegory doesn’t suffer realism gladly. English painters may have popularized portraits as allegories—Lady Somebody as Minerva—but this always feels like play-acting, not personification. Classical theorists like Bellori were suspicious of too much realism precisely because it defeated the transcendent quality of good allegory, locked it down too much into the here and now, the him or her. But naturalism was valued, that sense of the credibility of the allegorical figures. Where is the boundary, then, between realism and naturalism? The answer, perhaps unsatisfyingly, is that it requires taste: taste formed on the canon of “classical” achievement, a canon even loosely defined, but one that establishes some conventions of the acceptably universal. It might be painterly or precise:  Luca Giordano and Tiepolo are as much a part of the canon as Poussin. But its figures transcend their individualism to become types, universals rather than particulars.

The taste for allegory may not accord with our dominant zeitgeist: too ancien régime, too abstruse or pretentious, too opaque. But it’s also not real enough for most people, doesn’t dazzle with its meticulous, every-hair-on-the-head depictions. Its imagery is broad, general, “classical.” At the same time, it’s not divorced from the depiction of reality; some of the greatest allegorical painters were quite fine portraitists. Sargent felt something of this need to distinguish his late-career allegories in the Boston Museum of Fine Arts from his virtuoso portraiture; but for my money he went too far in the other direction, his allegories lacking any sense of the sensual, tactile, and human that suffuse the rest of his oeuvre: they are more graphics, almost abstractions, than paintings. That taste that distinguishes realism from classicism also distinguishes classicism from abstraction. And what distinguishes ars from scientia is judgment, formed by experience of the beautiful, which is found more on canvas and marble than flesh and blood.

first thoughts on this version of Hope Over Experience

20 February 2016

Requiescat in Pace Umberto Eco

Beyond Hyperreality

 "Chi non legge, a 70 anni avrà vissuto una sola vita - aveva detto in passato - Chi legge avrà vissuto 5000 anni. La lettura è un'immortalità all'indietro".

Who doesn’t read, at 70 years old will have lived only one life—it was once said—He who reads will have lived 5000 years. Reading is immortality in reverse.
—Umberto Eco

For those like me who fumble for a sense of direction in a culture that seems so wasted, there are way finders who turn up (if you’re looking) along the way who give you just enough clarity, maybe even impetus, that you keep searching with a greater sense of orientation and optimism. Umberto Eco was one of those for me. Just after architecture school, enamored of Italy and what little I knew about the humanist renaissance, I read a review of Eco’s new novel, The Name of the Rose. Reading it I learned something—about the Middle Ages, about Aristotle and Thomism, about Franciscans vs. Benedictines—but I also saw an intellectual, a scholar, working through the craft of invention. It was so illuminating to see that highly self-conscious creative process in action; and it was something I found immensely useful as I worked on my own creative process.

While most of the American obituaries about Eco, who passed away yesterday, focus on his novels, his first novel led me to other writings of his, and I’ve found those (and I can’t claim to have read anywhere near all of them) to be brilliant intellectual bridges between modern issues and classical culture that only an Italian polymath like him could build. I had read Invisible Cities in college—de rigueur for architects circa 1980—and was just as enamored of Calvino as Eco. It’s no coincidence that Eco framed his Harvard Norton lectures to balance those that Calvino was supposed to have delivered at the end of his life—Calvino on writing (Six Memos for the Next Millennium), Eco on reading (Six Walks in the Fictional Woods). I recommend each of them highly, in part because the one on writing tells you a lot about how to read, and the one on reading not a little about how to write.

Eco was a scholar, critic, and author. As a critic he was withering on his native Italy, and while it’s hard to deny the verity of his criticisms, it should be said—and he never could have said it himself—that only Italy, and its really marvelous humanist high schools, could produce an Eco. In my experience he is not so much a titan as a type—he’s only the most famous of a kind of Italian intellectual that the country produces (or maybe, produced) in abundance. While I didn’t know him personally, I have known the type. And knowing them is like knowing their forebears (Pico della Mirandola, Egidio da Viterbo, Pietro Aretino, Daniele Barbaro, Giordano Bruno, Giambattista Marino, Giambattista Vico). Eco’s counterweight in contemporary Italy is Roberto Calasso (The Marriage of Cadmus and Harmony, Tiepolo Pink), who has been less political than him but equally interested in the esoterica of Athanasius Kircher.

Eco may have been the greatest non-practicing Catholic thinker of the last half-century. He dialogued with and debated the Jesuit Cardinal Martini of Milan, and I suspect he longed for the relative certainty that faith affords. Instead, I remember him, around the time Foucault’s Pendulum came out, describing his worldview as “tragically optimistic”—because optimism was naïve, and a tragic view of the world was pointless. Who knows what he thought as he contemplated the end, but he has passed into another kind of immortality than the one reading affords, and it may finally make sense of things for him.

A brief Eco reading list beyond the novels:
Conversations About the End of Time, with Jean-Claude Carriere, Jean Delumeau, and Stephen Jay Gould
Serendipities: Language and Lunacy
Travels in Hyperreality
Art and Beauty in the Middle Ages

24 December 2015

Sketching at the Getty


Yesterday my wife Brette and I went to the Getty Museum: me for the first time. We had a lovely day to do it, partly arriving via public transit (yes it exists in LA). What a spectacular site, not to mention program, enough to make any architect envious. While I appreciate Richard Meier’s references, in plan at least, to Hadrian’s Villa, I couldn’t help thinking a more overt reference to the Roman villa in the architecture wouldn’t have been much, much more appealing, and sympathetic to the collections. Ç’est la vie moderne.

While there I experimented with drawing on my new iPad Pro (whereupon I currently type), using the ill-named Procreate app to approximate sketching on paper with pencil. I first drew Bernini’s bust of Paul V in pencil, then tried it on the screen (I’ll post that eventually); later I tried just the screen for Rombout Verhulst’s portrait of Jacob van Reygersberg. The app has the advantage of recording a video of the drawing as it happens, which you can see here (apologies for some anomalies, editing the video is not yet my forte):

Although the app can approximate paper texture and pencil grain, you’re still drawing on a slippery screen, and returning to draw on paper heightened my awareness of the subtle resistance of the paper surface (in my case a handmade grey laid paper from Zecchi in Florence). The value of the app for me was the portability and the chance to record the drawing to show to students at Notre Dame and elsewhere.

I was happy to find the Getty has a dedicated sketching gallery, equipped with benches and drawing materials. I had seen last month that the National Gallery in Washington offers drawing in the museum sessions. All of this is a wonderful way to revivify the original purpose of the museum to be a home of the Muses.

While drawing the Flemish bust my wife caught up with me, excited to report she’d just met a hero of hers and mine, a well-known British actor, while looking at paintings in the early Renaissance section. And he, with a young female companion, were heading our way. So when he and his companion arrived I was nearing the end of the sketch, and we had a lovely, informal chat about the app and drawing. Brette and I were discrete enough not to ruin the conversation with recognizing our actor interlocutor, but we couldn’t stop talking about the encounter the rest of the day. And if he’s somewhere reading this, and fancies a pint with some discrete fans, an email can make it so….

28 November 2015

The Triumph of Hope Over Experience


The Triumph of Hope Over Experience, oil on canvas, MMXI 

Recently I gave a talk in Washington at a roundtable discussion about the World War I Memorial competition. I framed the memorial discussion as a choice between three types of memorials: the therapeutic, the documentary, and the rhetorical. Perhaps needless to say, I was advocating for the rhetorical, which is the classical mode operating at its most articulate. The rhetorical approach to the arts is arguably what defined the Renaissance tradition, and as I argued in a recent talk in Spain about humanism in architecture (you can see the video here) the Renaissance effectively invented the classical language of architecture qua language. In the arts—and I fancy myself a painter as much as an architect (something my painter friends have a hard time understanding)—there is a rampant rebirth of realism, but very little of what I would call classical painting. Now, there are many who throw the moniker Classical Realism around, and I have argued elsewhere that that is a contradiction in terms. But lest the impression be given that all I do is argue, what I really do is hope, against all the evidence to the contrary.

I paint en plein air, I’m not a bad portraitist, and I occasionally do still life. But where my heart lies is allegorical and narrative painting. And yet I know there doesn’t seem to be much appetite for that kind of painting, at least by the evidence of gallery representation; I’d be happy to show and sell my plein airs, etc., and have done and continue to do so. But I continue to hope against experience for an audience for the rhetorical work. So when I heard recently about an art representative looking for work for an art fair in Padova, my first instinct was to provide her some plein air work: low-hanging fruit, so to speak. Likeable, accessible stuff. But I then thought, why not show her something of the allegorical? At our place in Italy I had a composition I’d done a few years ago, The Triumph of Hope Over Experience. This is a theme that sounds like a Baroque allegory, but as far as I can tell it’s not often, if ever, been painted. I sometimes do these allegories to deal with my current concerns, like Diogenes and Alexander (speaking truth to power). The Triumph of Hope is about my own hope in the face of experience—of the waning of whatever there was of a classical movement in architecture, of the aversion to allegorical and mythological painting, of our general comfort as a culture with mediocrity—because I know the great traditions of the Renaissance and Baroque still attract millions of visitors to Europe, even if those same people can’t imagine realizing such things today.

In fact, the art rep liked the allegory, put it in the show, was optimistic about its chances for an award, even a sale, and wanted more. Ah, hope! The allegory was becoming reality, I thought.

The experience, instead, was of the ordinary kind—no sale, no prize, no press. But, like the painting (and a new one, slightly more sanguine, is in the works) I pour water on seemingly exhausted plants, and light fires in the dark; small leaves sprout from dead branches, ancient altars glow again. Ah, Hope! She’s her own justification. And not a bad theme for a painting.

14 October 2015


Sustainability as Entertainment 
along the Cardo and Decumanus

the Swiss Pavilion
I gave a talk about the TASIS campus as an alternative to the crisis of sprawl at the Swiss Pavilion at Expo Milano on October 10. Expo’s ostensible theme is Feeding the Planet, and while there was a subtext of food at the national pavilions, this is hardly comes off as an event intended to change the world. After all, McDonald’s had a place on the so-called Decumano (allusions to the Roman decumanus being a form of pretense without much substance). This was sustainability as entertainment, and wow, does it work: on a beautiful autumn Saturday it was absolutely packed, the waits to get into many of the pavilion exhibits ranging toward four and even 
the Decumano looking west
six hours, and the dense (in more than one sense) crowds along the Decumano almost un-passable. 

benvenuti in Italia!
Questions are un-escapable about how sustainable the Expo itself is: the Expo website has a page on Sustainable Expo, but when I visited it the link to Sustainable Architecture of Self-Built Pavilions was broken. It’s one thing to recycle building materials, another to reuse buildings; I suspect there will be much more of the former than the latter. The Swiss pavilion tower, earnestly didactic almost to the point of pedantry about limited food resources, was built of concrete, steel and glass, accessible only by (small) elevator, much of it hard to imagine being salvaged and reused—although the glue-laminated timber passerelle that snakes its way somewhat irrationally (formal rationalism may no longer be the dominant Swiss mode) around the tower could theoretically be unbolted and reassembled. Very few pavilions could be recognized for their national identity without signage—Italy perhaps most egregiously; but this is in a way to say that few were in any sense evocative of traditional architecture (Romania being among the notable exceptions).

feel the slove-nia

Mmmmm, meat!
This was, paradoxically if not cynically, not at all about seriously dealing with hunger, healthy eating, traditional foods (the only “traditional” displays of food were Dante Ferretti’s jumbo-crèche carts of fake food along the center of the Decumano), or biodiversity. This was about consumption being swallowed with a soupçon of concern. Feel good about yourself while chowing down at a food cart in a throw-away landscape! 

taking the long view: Yikes!

Zooming out and seeing the fair in context, the increasingly nightmarish landscape that takes over as Milan dissipates into its periphery begs the question of how the Expo could have been more “constructive:” maybe rehabilitating a dilapidated neighborhood instead of operating in a cordoned-off hinterland? Taking over an at-risk or moribund field and rendering it arable? But this Expo isn’t all about constructive change, it’s more about the status quo—and full steam ahead! Fortunately, many in the food world are more serious than Expo expresses, and certainly more enlightened than the hegemonic architectural forms on display. They have Slow Food, where's the Slow Architecture?

30 August 2015

Emulation Quotes

From Antiquity Onward

I’m happily not on the Tradarch Listserv, but occasionally I hear if my name or work is invoked. In a recent exchange there was some discussion about the difference between imitation and emulation, and as I’ve pointed out in my book, this confusion is at least a couple of centuries old. But it is a mistake to think that emulation supplanted imitation in the Renaissance, as Carroll William Westfall argues from an almost pre-Raphaelite position in American Arts Quarterly. Westfall wants to separate architecture from the other arts (of which, it was said, it was their mother); but cleaving the metopes from the Parthenon frieze is easier in practice than conceptually (Phidias himself may have operated as an architect). If architecture is not the art of building I do not know what it is. The classical mind does not hold disparate positions on the various arts, whether literary or visual. And emulation is as old as antiquity, as all literary scholars seem to know, but it is also natural to artists, part and parcel of engaging in an art that has coherent standards of judgment. All serious artists want to excel; competency is for craftsmen. Artists of that stripe are as old as Phidias, at least. So, to put emulation in context, here are some quotes:

This writer [Plato] shows us, if only we were willing to pay him heed, that another way (beyond anything we have mentioned) leads to the sublime. And what, and what manner of way, may that be? It is the imitation and emulation of previous great poets and writers. And let this, my dear friend, be an aim to which we stedfastly apply ourselves.
Longinus. 1899 On the Sublime. trans. Roberts, W. R. XIII, 2.

For many men are carried away by the spirit of others as if inspired, just as it is related of the Pythian priestess when she approaches the tripod, where there is a rift in the ground which (they say) exhales divine vapour. By heavenly power thus communicated she is impregnated and straightway delivers oracles in virtue of the afflatus. Similarly from the great natures of the men of old there are borne in upon the souls of those who emulate them (as from sacred caves) what we may describe as effluences, so that even those who seem little likely to be possessed are thereby inspired and succumb to the spell of the others' greatness.
Longinus. 1899 On the Sublime. trans. Roberts, W. R. XIII, 2.

3. Was Herodotus alone a devoted imitator of Homer? No, Stesichorus even before his time, and Archilochus, and above all Plato, who from the great Homeric source drew to himself innumerable tributary streams. And perhaps we should have found it necessary to prove this, point by point, had not Ammonius and his followers selected and recorded the particulars. 4. This proceeding is not plagiarism; it is like taking an impression from beautiful forms or figures or other works of art. And it seems to me that there would not have been so fine a bloom of perfection on Plato's philosophical doctrines, and that he would not in many cases have found his way to poetical subject-matter and modes of expression, unless he had with all his heart and mind struggled with Homer for the primacy, entering the lists like a young champion matched against the man whom all admire, and showing perhaps too much love of contention and breaking a lance with him as it were, but deriving some profit from the contest none the less. For, as Hesiod says, 'This strife is good for mortals' (Works and Days 24, at Perseus). And in truth that struggle for the crown of glory is noble and best deserves the victory in which even to be worsted by one's predecessors brings no discredit.
Longinus. 1899 On the Sublime. trans. Roberts, W. R. XIII.

23. I remember a practice that was observed by my masters, not without advantage. Having divided the boys into classes, they assigned them their order in speaking in conformity to the abilities of each, and thus each stood in the higher place to declaim according as he appeared to excel in proficiency. 24. Judgments were pronounced on the performances, and great was the strife among us for distinction, but to take the lead of the class was by far the greatest honor. Nor was sentence given on our merits only once; the 30th day brought the vanquished an opportunity of contending again. Thus, he who was most successful did not relax his efforts, while uneasiness incited the unsuccessful to retrieve his honor. 25. I should be inclined to maintain, as far as I can form a judgment from what I conceive in my own mind, that this method furnished stronger incitements to the study of eloquence than the exhortations of preceptors, the watchfulness of paedagogi, or the wishes of parents. 26. But as emulation is of use to those who have made some advancement in learning, so, to those who are but beginning and are still of tender age, to imitate their schoolfellows is more pleasant than to imitate their master, for the very reason that it is easier.
Quintilian’s Institutes of Oratory, Book 1, Chapter 2

Pliny the Elder
The most celebrated [artists] have also come into competition with each other, although born at different periods, because they had made statues of Amazons; when these were dedicated in the Temple of Artemis of Ephesus, it was agreed that the best one should be selected by the vote of the artists themselves who were present; and it then became evident that the best was the one which all the artists judged to be the next best after their own: this is the Amazon by Polycleitus, while next to it came that of Pheidias, third Cresilas’s, fourth Cydon’s and fifth Phradmon’s.
Pliny the Elder, Natural History, trans. H. Rackham, Loeb Classical Library, 1938, p. 167

Pliny the Younger
It may not be amiss when you have read only so much of an author at once, as to carry in your head his subject and argument, to turn, as it were, his rival, and write something on the same topic; then compare your performance and his, and minutely examine in what points either you or he most happily succeeded. It will be a matter of very pleasing congratulation to yourself, if you shall find that in some things you have the advantage of him, as it will be a great mortification if he should rise above you in all.
You may sometimes venture to pick out and try to emulate the most shining passages of an author. Such a contest is, indeed, something bold; but as it passes in secret, it cannot be taxed with presumption. Not but that we see many persons enter this sort of lists with great applause, and because they do not despair of themselves, advance before those whom they thought it sufficient honour to follow.
Pliny, Letters, Book Seven, Letter 9, To Fuscus

On Ancient Roman Sculpture
Failure in artistic endeavors was not, then, primarily defined as the inability to surpass one’s predecessors. The Romans did not assign that sort of value to progress. Rather, real failure was characterized by a lack of interest in even attempting to meet the standards of “the ancients.”
Perry, E. E. “Rhetoric, Literary Criticism, and Roman Artistic Imitation,” The Ancient Art of Emulation: Memoirs of the American Academy in Rome, ed. E. Gazda, Ann Arbor, 2002, p. 163

On Ancient Roman Architecture
Evidently the aim [of Constantine’s arch] was to emulate quite literally the Severan arch, the site of which, at the heart of the Forum Romanum, made it Rome’s triple arch par excellence. It seems highly likely that the later architect overlaid his own design over drawings of the earlier building…[A series of] adjustments made the proportions even more ‘classical’ than those of the earlier arch, presenting an intriguing counterpoint to the otherwise innovative character of contemporary architectural developments.[1]
Wilson Jones, M. 2000. Principles of Roman Architecture. New Haven: Yale. 124

On Petrarch, and by Petrarch Himself
On the one hand he read authors like Ennius and Plautus only once and quickly at that; if he [Petrarch] memorized anything of theirs, it was so alien to his own thoughts that it stood in his memory as another’s. On the other hand, he read and reread Virgil, Cicero, Horace, and Boethius. He digested their works so thoroughly that they entered his bone marrow, not just this memory. They became so much a part of his mind that occasionally their phrases came to his pen without his recognizing the source or even that they came from someone else.
Pigman III, G. W. Spring, 1980. Versions of Imitation in the Renaissance. Renaissance Quarterly. Univ. of Chicago Press (Renaissance Society of America), Vol. 33, No. 1

The inaccessible peak, which Monicus upbraids Silvius for struggling toward, panting and exhausted though he is, is the height of fame, the rarer sort of fame, which but few succeed in attaining to. The deserts where Silvius is said to wander are scholarly pursuits… Murmuring fountains can be used of men of letters and of those who have the gift of eloquence, inasmuch as little streams of intellectual influence flow from the wellsprings of genius that are within them, with a sound, so to speak, that charms and delights us.
Petrarch, Letter, “On the Nature of Poetry”

From Vasari, On Various Artists
So Pietro [Perugino] often used to ask, of those he knew to have travelled the world, whereabouts were the best masters of that calling [painting]: and particularly he asked this of his master, who always replied to the same effect, namely that in Florence more than anywhere else appeared men who were perfect in all the arts, and especially in painting, because in that city people are spurred on by three things. First is the sharp criticism so often expressed by so many people, as the air of Florence breeds naturally free spirits not generally content with mediocre works, but always considering them more in respect of the good and the beautiful than with regard to those who made them. Next, if anyone wishes to live there, he needs to be industrious,… And the third spur, surely no less effective than the others, is a lust for glory and honour which the very air of Florence generates in those of every profession, and which if they are persons of spirit will not let them simply be the equals of those they see to be men like themselves, let alone lag behind, though they acknowledge them as masters.

 “Pietro Perugino,” Lives of the Artists: Vol. II, trans. George Bull, Penguin Classics, 1987, pp. 87-88

But some believe he was deterred from this [staying in Rome] by the abundance of works in sculpture and painting to be seen in that city, both ancient and modern, and by seeing many young disciples of Raphael and of others, bold in draughtsmanship and confident and effortless in painting, whom, so timid was he, Andrea did not have the heart to emulate. And so, riddled with doubt, he decided it would be best to return to Florence; and there, reflecting little by little on what he had seen, he benefitted so much that his works have since been highly praised and admired, and, moreover, imitated more after his death than during his lifetime….
 “Andrea del Sarto,” Lives of the Artists: Vol. II, Penguin Classics, 1987, p. 165

Now that I have described the works of this talented painter [Raphael] I must, before giving further details of his life and death, take the trouble, for the benefit of our artists, to discuss the various styles in which he painted. In his boyhood, then, he imitated the style of his master, Pietro Perugino; and after he had vastly improved on it as regards drawing, colouring, and invention, he considered that he had accomplished enough. But when he was more mature he realized he was still a long way from the truth. Then he saw the works of Leonardo da Vinci,….
 “Raphael of Urbino,” Lives of the Artists: Vol. I, trans. George Bull, Penguin Classics, 1987, p. 315

Having considered all this, therefore, Raphael, being unable to compete with Michelangelo in the branch of painting to which he had set his hand [the nude figure], resolved to emulate and perhaps surpass him in other respects. So he decided not to waste his time by imitating Michelangelo’s style but to attain a catholic excellence in the other fields of painting that have been described [in addition to animals and portraits, “countless other things, namely, draperies, shoes, helmets, armour, women’s head-dresses, hair, beards, vases, trees, grottoes, rocks, fires, skies overcast or clear, clouds, rain, lightening, fine weather, night-time, moonlight, bright sunshine, and countless other subjects which are used by painters nowadays.”]
p. 317

This was because the instinctive grace of Michelangelo’s work was enhanced by study and practice; and every day he produced work that was still more inspired. For example, it was at that time [he was about 17] that he made the copy of an engraving by Martin the German [Martin Schongauer] that brought him considerable fame. Michelangelo did a perfect pen-and-ink copy of this copper engraving, which showed St Anthony being tortured by devils, soon after it had been brought to Florence. He also did the scene in colours; and for this purpose in order to copy some of the strange-looking demons in the picture he went along to the market and bough some fishes with fantastic scales like theirs. The skill with which he did this work won him a considerable reputation. Michelangelo also copied the works of other masters, with complete fidelity; he used to tinge his copies and make them appear black with age by various means, including the use of smoke, so that they could not be told apart from the originals. He did this so that he could exchange his copies for the originals, which he admired for their excellence and which he tried to surpass in his own works; and these experiments also won him fame.
 “Michelangelo Buonarotti,” Lives of the Artists: Vol. I,  Penguin Classics, 329

Wittkower on Bernini and Poussin
It is well known that most of Bernini’s early works are close to some ancient model. Until a generation ago the Borghese Amalthea was believed to be Hellenistic. His Pluto reveals the close study of the Hercules in the Capitoline Museum, a statue that Algardi had restored at a slightly later date. The David refers to the Borghese Warrior, and the Apollo of the Apollo and Daphne to the Apollo Belvedere …
As a rule, Bernini begins by following a classical model. In elaborating his idea, however, he ends up with an intensely Baroque solution … [T]he paintings of the early Poussin are comparatively loose, and only as he matured did they become progressively formalized; by contrast, the works of the early Bernini are comparatively classical, and only later in his career did they become progressively free and imaginative.
Wittkower, R. 1975.”The Role of Classical Models in Bernini and Poussin,” in Studies in Italian Baroque. Boulder: Westview Press.110; 112-113

Baldassare Gracián
Choose a heroic model, and emulate rather than imitate. There are examples of greatness, living texts of renown. Let each person choose the first in his field, not so much to follow him as surpass them. Alexander cried at the tomb of Achilles, not for Achilles but for himself, for unlike Achilles, he had not yet been born to fame. Nothing makes the spirit so ambitious as the trumpet of someone else’s fame. It frightens away envy and encourages noble deeds.
Baldassare Gracián, 1647, aphorism 75, 1993. The Art of Worldly Wisdom. trans. C. Maurer. New York: Doubleday. 43

And lastly, Dryden, from a post of last year:
[Shakespeare’s portrait]
Bids thee thro’ me, be bold; with dauntless breast
Contemn the bad and Emulate the best…
John Dryden, “To Sir Godfrey Kneller, Principal Painter to His Majesty”, from Miscellanies (1694), in The Poems of John Dryden, ed. John Sargeaunt, Oxford Editions of Standard Authors, 1948, p. 168.

[1] Wilson-Jones may be using the word emulation here as a euphemism for imitation