In art, the term ‘pentimento’ refers to a visible trace of an earlier painting beneath a layer or layers of paint on a canvas. From Italian, it translates as ‘repentance’. The artist ‘repented’ and created something new.
Pentimento isn’t a flaw. Quite the opposite. It’s a window into the artists’ thought process, like catching them in mid-sentence. It demonstrates that even the great masters made revisions, changed their minds, or obeyed the wishes of patrons.
Unlike forgeries or alterations made by others, pentimento is genuine and often celebrated. It can even add value or historical interest to a work and can help to authenticate it.
Pentimento reminds us that art isn’t static. It’s alive, evolving, sometimes uncertain - and always more than meets the eye. What we see now may only be the final chapter in a much longer story.
In 1973, playwright Lillian Hellman published a memoir titled “Pentimento: A Book of Portraits”, in which she used the term metaphorically. She described people from her past as images that had changed meaning over time - like old paintings revealing something unexpected beneath the surface.
In 1977 Hellman’s book was made into a wonderful multi-award winning film - “Julia”. It chronicles the author’s relationship with her lifelong friend who had fought against the Nazis in the years prior to World War II. The film stars Jane Fonda as Hellman and Vanessa Redgrave as Julia. It co-stars Jason Robards, Hal Holbrook, Maximilian Schell and Meryl Streep, in her film debut.
Years ago, I collected vintage cameras. I ended up with close to 100. Back then they were relatively cheap and easy to find in small town antique stores, junk shops and flea markets. A special bonus was when I found one that still had film in it. I had a homemade darkroom in a spare bathroom at my house, and I was able to develop the old black and white film. Most of the time the film was ruined - aged beyond saving. Occasionally though, I would find composed shots of what looked like family vacations and gatherings. Other times there were just ghostly images. Who were these people? Where were they, and what were they doing?
After my Dad died and I was going through his belongings, I found a box of old photographs, obviously taken when he was a youngster. I never knew that he had taken photographs or even that he had owned a camera. These were not run-of-the-mill landscapes or pictures of the family. They were obviously posed (by him) - set-up scenes that portrayed some drama: elaborate fight scenes starring his friends; costumed theatrical stagings that he invented; furtive ‘spy’ pics - probably of the neighbors - with the vantage point of the camera from behind a bush or a tree. He had an artistic flair and a far more interesting childhood than he ever told me about.
Recently, Jan - my friend and co-owner of the gallery Art on 12 in Wimberley - sent me a text that felt less like a message and more like the opening line of a fable. While she had been working at the gallery, a dazzling white moth had been hanging around all day - trying to get in whenever she opened the door. That evening, as she locked up, she snapped a photo of the moth poised on the glass, peering in like a guest who’d arrived after the party was over. For another day or two it kept vigil near the back door, lingering with a quiet, insistent devotion. Whatever was calling to it from inside the gallery - paint, light, the silence of the art itself - was something it could not ignore.
(Don Minnick is a clinical psychologist and organizational consultant and the author of books linked to business and the arts. He has found a home in the creative and culture-rich Wimberley valley. He is a Board Member of Wimberley Arts.org. ([email protected])
