FREE ONLINE ART HISTORY COURSE

 FREE ONLINE ART HISTORY COURSE

I teach Humanities and Art History at the College of Lake County, and I’ve also spent many years teaching through Udemy, where I have about 35,000 long-term students. I’m reaching out simply to share a resource that might be useful to you or your students.

I recently finished a complete update of my Art History Survey: 1300 to Contemporary course, and I’m offering free access to all faculty and their students. There are no obligations and nothing to sign up for beyond enrolling with the link. I’m not trying to promote or sell anything; I just know how expensive and inconsistent online materials can be, and I wanted to make this course fully available to anyone who might benefit from it.

Here is the free-access link:
https://www.udemy.com/course/art-history-survey-1300-to-contemporary/?couponCode=STUDYWITHME

The course covers major movements, artists, and monuments from the early Renaissance through contemporary art. It’s structured in short, clear video lectures—20 to 40 minutes each—aimed at an introductory college level. I built it with first-year students in mind, especially those who may need more context, clearer pacing, or an alternate way to engage with the material. I’ve also added rewritten transcripts, quizzes, and updated visuals to make it easier for students to review or prep before class discussions and exams.

If you think it would help any of your students—whether as supplemental content, review, or support for asynchronous work—please feel free to pass along the link. You’re also welcome to use any part of the course in your own classes.

Thank you for the work you do teaching art history and the humanities. If you have suggestions or see anything I can improve, I’d genuinely appreciate hearing from you—I’m always trying to make the materials more useful for students.

Warm regards,
Kenney Mencher
Humanities & Art History
College of Lake County

Yo Yoga, 16x20 inches oil on canvas panel by Kenney Mencher

 

https://www.kenneymencher.com/shop/female

I love to paint the human figure regardless of what gender or orientation the person is. I also feel that it’s important for me to expand my repertoire and try different things occasionally in my painting and so this painting is an attempt to bring all the things that I’ve learned recently in painting on a slightly different subject matter.

One of the things that I really love about oil painting is the fact that I can very textures and attempt to show different types of skin and flesh by how I handle texture. In this painting I tried to make the brushstrokes a little bit more fluid and curvilinear compared to how I usually paint men which has a little bit more for staccato and geometric quality to the brushwork. I also wanted to set off the figure to the background by changing the texture from the foreground to the background. Primarily I used brushes on the figure and on the background I started with a brushed in coat of one color and then came back in on top with some colors that I literally plastered on top of me canvas panel.

The Maids of Honor

Las Meninas, also known as The Maids of Honor, was made much later in Diego Velázquez’s career, around 1656. That’s about 35 years after his earlier work like the Water Seller of Seville. By the time he painted Las Meninas, Velázquez had been working in the Spanish royal court for many years and had a close relationship with King Philip IV. His role at court wasn’t just as a painter—he held a number of official positions, some of them unusual for an artist.

One of those roles was the keeper of the king’s bedchamber. While that might sound strange today, it was actually a prestigious title that gave him both a salary and certain responsibilities, like organizing events and managing the king’s private rooms and household staff. It showed that Velázquez had the king’s trust. He wasn’t just seen as an artist but as someone who belonged to the king’s inner circle.

Another sign of how highly the king regarded Velázquez was that he gave him living quarters and a studio inside the palace itself—something that hadn’t been done before for someone in his position. That gave Velázquez direct access to the royal family, and it’s part of why he was able to paint scenes like Las Meninas, which show the royal household from an inside perspective.

There’s also a story about Velázquez painting a portrait of King Philip IV. Supposedly, someone had criticized him, saying he only knew how to paint faces. When the king repeated this to him, Velázquez is said to have replied, “I’m not even sure I can do that very well.” That story—whether it’s true or not—shows how he was known for being modest and smart in how he talked to powerful people. He knew how to carry himself at court, which helped him maintain the king’s favor.

Velázquez also traveled to Italy during his time at court, which was a big deal. The king sent him there not just to study art but to collect pieces for the royal collection. During this trip, Velázquez met Peter Paul Rubens, a painter and diplomat from Flanders who had connections with both the Spanish and French courts. The two artists traveled in Italy together, which probably gave Velázquez even more exposure to classical and Renaissance art.

All of that context matters for understanding Las Meninas. This painting wasn’t made by a young artist trying to prove himself—it was made by someone who had worked closely with the royal family for decades, had the king’s full trust, and had seen how art functioned across Europe. The result is a painting that includes the king’s daughter, the palace staff, and Velázquez himself, all inside his studio in the palace.

There’s been some confusion over where Las Meninas is actually set. One theory, as Professor Broderick suggested, is that it takes place in the royal library at El Escorial—a massive monastery and royal complex outside Madrid that housed part of the king’s collection. However, most current research agrees that the setting is a room in the Alcázar of Madrid, which was the royal palace at the time. More specifically, it's believed to be Velázquez’s studio in the palace, in a wing that also stored part of the royal art collection. Velázquez had been granted a studio space within the palace, and this gave him access to both the royal family and their collection of paintings.

The room itself is shown with tall walls and several large canvases leaning against them, which supports the idea that this was a working studio. There’s no solid primary source identifying it outright, so interpretations vary, but the presence of the artist, the canvas, and the informal yet staged composition strongly point to it being Velázquez’s studio within the palace.

Looking at the composition, the light comes in from the right-hand side, possibly from a high window, and moves diagonally across the space. This creates a raking light that hits the main figures in the foreground and helps guide the viewer’s eye from the front of the painting to the very back. The central figure is Infanta Margarita Teresa, the daughter of King Philip IV. She is brightly lit and placed in the middle of the composition, with her ladies-in-waiting—the meninas—flanking her on either side. Her position, combined with the light and surrounding figures, makes her the focus of the viewer’s attention.

Behind her, to the left, Velázquez has painted himself at work. We see the back of a large canvas facing us, and he appears to be in the middle of painting. Further back in the room, there are other members of the court: a nun, a clergyman, a dwarf girl, and another child or possibly a second dwarf, who seems to be nudging the dog lying on the floor in the front left. The inclusion of dwarfs and other attendants was historically accurate—they often served in royal households as companions for noble children.

In the far background, a man stands framed in the light of an open doorway. His identity isn’t confirmed, but he is commonly identified as José Nieto Velázquez (no known relation), who was either the queen’s chamberlain or possibly the palace aposentador, a role that included managing accommodations and supplies. Some sources—including Professor Broderick’s lecture notes—refer to him as the treasurer. In other commentaries, like the one by Tim Marlow, he’s described as the keeper of the accounts or the official in charge of household management. Either way, his role in the palace was administrative and important. The light that surrounds him, creating an almost glowing effect, draws attention to him, even though he’s set deep into the background.

Above the Infanta, on the wall, is a framed rectangle showing King Philip IV and Queen Mariana. The debate is whether this is a mirror or a painting. If it’s a mirror, it means the king and queen are standing outside the scene, in the viewer’s space, looking in—something that makes the composition much more complex. But the way it’s painted doesn't fully follow how a mirror would reflect light and space. So, some believe it’s actually a framed painting, and its placement is symbolic rather than literal. There's no clear documentation, so the meaning remains open.

The size of Las Meninas—about ten by nine feet—adds to the effect. It’s big enough to be immersive. Velázquez also uses a deep foreground-to-background layering technique. The closest thing to us in the composition is the dog lying on the floor. Then come the children and the meninas, followed by Velázquez at work, and then the doorway in the far background. That creates multiple levels of space in a single scene, giving it a sense of depth that was unusual at the time.

Las Meninas has always drawn a lot of questions—especially around what it’s actually showing. The setting is still debated. It could be the royal library at El Escorial, like Professor Broderick suggested, or more likely Velázquez’s studio inside the Alcázar of Madrid. The room has a high ceiling, a plain background, and several large canvases leaning against the back wall, which supports the idea that it’s a workspace for painting, not a formal gallery. There's no primary document confirming the setting, so the debate continues.

At the center of the painting is the young Infanta Margarita Teresa. She stands surrounded by her attendants—las meninas—as well as court officials, entertainers, clergy, and Velázquez himself. The painter appears at his easel on the left, working on a canvas that's turned away from us. The painting’s light comes from the right and cuts diagonally across the room, pulling the viewer's eye from foreground to background. The composition sets up a complex layering of space that makes it feel like there’s more going on than just a group portrait.

One of the most talked-about parts of the painting is the framed image on the back wall, just above Margarita’s head. It looks like a blurry reflection or painting of King Philip IV and Queen Mariana. Some scholars think it’s a mirror that reflects them standing just outside the picture—maybe in the same spot the viewer occupies. Others think it’s a painting within the painting. If it is a mirror, it’s not optically accurate, but it would serve a symbolic function—showing the king and queen as the true focus of attention, even if they’re not physically present in the space of the painting.

According to the traditional interpretation, Velázquez is shown mid-painting, working on a portrait of the king and queen while the Infanta and her entourage enter the room. He looks out toward the viewer—or maybe toward the royal couple—as if momentarily pausing to study them. If this interpretation is correct, the king and queen are standing where we are, outside the picture but reflected back into it.

Velázquez wears a red cross on his chest, which represents the Order of Santiago. He was officially knighted in 1659, three years after Las Meninas was completed, so it’s likely that the cross was added to the painting later, possibly after his death. Being admitted into the Order of Santiago was rare for someone without noble birth and almost unheard of for an artist. But it shows how high Velázquez had risen at court—not just as a painter, but as a recognized and trusted member of the king’s household.

There’s a wide range of figures in the painting, and their roles say something about the structure of the court. For example, the man in the doorway at the back has been identified in different ways. Some sources call him José Nieto, who was responsible for managing the queen’s quarters, possibly a chamberlain or aposentador. Others, like Professor Broderick, suggest he may have been the royal treasurer. Either way, he’s a court official, and the halo-like lighting around him gives him a quiet prominence.

The figures also reflect the court’s social structure. The two little people on the right—likely court entertainers—were part of royal households across Europe at the time. In Spanish court culture, bufones and jesters were common, and some had a surprising amount of access and influence. Velázquez painted many portraits of little people with a sense of dignity and realism that was unusual at the time. Here, the young boy on the right (possibly also a little person) nudging the dog adds a casual note to the scene.

Speaking of the dog—it lies at the bottom right, close to the Infanta. It could represent fidelity, a common interpretation based on other Renaissance and Baroque works, like the Arnolfini Portrait and Titian’s Venus of Urbino, where dogs appear in a similar position. But there’s also a more practical explanation. In Velázquez’s time, dogs helped keep fleas off people. Their presence in indoor settings wasn’t just symbolic—they served a purpose. Still, this particular dog looks more like a large hunting breed, which fits with Philip IV’s known love of the hunt. So, it might have been part of the royal kennels.

There are clergy in the background too—a nun and what may be a priest—standing quietly and watching. They don’t interact with the other figures much, but their presence adds a note of seriousness. It shows how closely the church and monarchy were connected, especially in a court that followed Catholic rules of conduct.

So, when you break it all down, Las Meninas is a snapshot of life at the Spanish court, staged inside the painter’s working space. The painting includes layers of people, light, and status, and brings together the artist, the royal family, and the household in a single moment. How much of it is staged, and how much is real? That’s still open to interpretation, but it reflects how Velázquez was able to move between roles—as court painter, courtier, and observer—all in one canvas.

Course Update: Big Improvements to Art History: Renaissance to the 20th Century

Study with me here on Udemy

I’m excited to share some major updates I’ve made to this course to make it more accurate, accessible, and useful for your studies:

1. Improved Captions on All Videos

• I’ve carefully reviewed and edited every caption to make sure spelling and phrasing are accurate.

• I also removed the older open-captioned versions, since they’re no longer needed. Now, every video has clean, reliable closed captions.

2. Fully Revised and Downloadable Texts

• Every lecture now has an accompanying text resource with illustrations.

• These have been professionally edited, fact-checked, and republished.

• Best of all, they’re now easy to download directly through Udemy’s interface—no more legacy issues with missing or hard-to-access files.

3. New Quizzes After Each Section

• I’ve added short multiple-choice quizzes (5–10 questions each) at the end of every section.

• These will help you check your understanding and prepare for the next unit.

• They also connect with Udemy’s certificate system, so completing them will count toward your certificate of completion.

Thank you all for continuing to learn with me—I’ve worked hard to make these updates useful for you, and I hope they make the course even more engaging.

—Kenney Mencher

Angelica Kauffman

Neoclassicism spread to England, where a Swiss-born painter named Angelica Kauffman became popular. She had moved to England with the support of a noblewoman and gained attention for her Neoclassical history paintings. Kauffman’s work was influenced by the writings of Jean-Jacques Rousseau, especially his ideas about citizenship and family roles. Rousseau promoted a belief sometimes called the myth of the happy mother, which suggested that women should find fulfillment by raising children and supporting their households. Kauffman used this idea in her paintings by showing women and children in classical scenes.

One example is her painting Cornelia, Mother of the Gracchi, which shows Cornelia visiting a woman who shows off her jewelry. When asked where her own jewels are, Cornelia gestures to her children and says, “These are my jewels.” The figures in the painting are arranged in a frieze-like layout, with simple clothing and classical features. This layout is similar to sculptures like the Ara Pacis Augustae, a Roman altar that includes reliefs of women and children. Kauffman also seems to refer to a Greek sculpture called the Stele of Hegeso, which shows a seated woman receiving a jewelry box from her servant. The facial features of one woman in Kauffman’s painting even resemble the straight-nosed profile common in Greek sculpture.

Angelica Kauffman painted Cornelia, Mother of the Gracchi around 1785. The story in the painting comes from ancient Roman history. Cornelia was the mother of Tiberius and Gaius Gracchus, two brothers who later became known for trying to reform Rome’s laws to help poor people. In this painting, the scene shows Cornelia visiting a woman who is showing off her jewelry. The woman, seated on the left, gestures toward a box filled with gold or precious items. Cornelia, standing in the center, responds by pointing to her children, saying that they are her most valuable treasures.

This idea comes from a text by the Roman historian Valerius Maximus, who wrote short moral stories from the Roman Republic. The painting shows that specific moment. It uses iconography—or visual symbols—to tell the story. The jewels in the box stand for material wealth. Cornelia’s gesture toward her sons shows a different kind of value, based on family and future generations. Her body language is calm and direct, and her sons stand close to her, with one boy looking up at her. This part of the image organizes the main message around her central figure.

The background is plain, with some classical architecture and pillars, and the figures are placed in a line that runs horizontally across the canvas, kind of like a frieze, which is a style borrowed from ancient Greek and Roman sculpture. This kind of structure makes it easier to follow the story, since everyone is clearly separated and doing something specific.

Cornelia’s clothing is based on styles from classical Rome. Her dress is long and simple, and she’s barefoot, which was often used in art to show historical or mythological figures. The woman on the left wears fancier clothes, and the little girl beside her holds the jewelry box. These figures are arranged to contrast with Cornelia, setting up a comparison between two types of values—wealth and family. That contrast is one of the main things organizing the whole scene.

When Kauffman painted this, she was working in England and was part of a group of artists who were using stories from ancient history to talk about modern behavior. The painting connects to ideas from Jean-Jacques Rousseau, especially his writings about what makes a good citizen and a good parent. In his work, he wrote about the role of women in society and how they should raise children who support the state. Art historians sometimes talk about this using the phrase the myth of the happy mother, meaning the idea that women were expected to find meaning by raising good children rather than seeking their own careers or wealth.

People at the time would have seen this painting and understood it as a message about values. It was made during a period when European societies were debating what kind of citizens they wanted, and women were being encouraged to raise strong, moral children. The painting was shown in exhibitions and probably owned by someone who agreed with these ideas. It’s not connected to a church or temple, and it wasn’t made for a religious building or public site. It was meant to be seen indoors, maybe in a gallery or private collection.

Some scholars focus on how Kauffman used classical styles, like the frieze-like setup and Greek-style clothing, to connect her story to ancient ideals. Others talk more about how she used art to join in political discussions happening in England and France during the late 1700s. Either way, the symbols—like the children, the jewelry, and the gestures—are clear and carefully placed to support the story being told.

Kauffman was using the language of classicism to promote a new social message. She placed the same kind of symbolic importance on women’s roles that David placed on public duty. There’s even a story about David asking his wife to donate her jewelry to support the Revolution, which shows how this idea of self-sacrifice was spreading.  

Come and study with me, videos, etexts, and study guides,https://www.udemy.com/user/kenneymencher/

A Rocket Ship, and a Boy in Overalls, 15x22 inches crayon on Rives BFK paper by Kenney Mencher

 

A Rocket Ship, and a Boy in Overalls, 15x22 inches crayon on Rives BFK paper by Kenney Mencher

This drawing was not included in the published version of the graphic novel.

This is an original work watercolor created for my graphic novel, Professor Mencher's Imaginarium A Monochromatic Graphic Novel

This watercolor comes with a single copy of the graphic novel.

This particular image is a scene after the boy falls asleep and begins to dream about being an astronaut.

This watercolor comes with a single copy of the graphic novel.

You can preview the entire graphic novel here:

https://www.blurb.com/books/10128952-professor-mencher-s-imaginarium

You can also watch a short animated video on Youtube here:

https://youtu.be/P1dFPqI5Yqo

I am also selling the original art from the graphic novel.

The edition is a REPRINT of a graphic novel that I produced in 2016. I printed this graphic novel and had a show and artist’s residency June 15-18, 2016 just after I left my position as a tenured professor to pursue a career as a full time artist. The graphic novel and the show were a celebration of my transition and my journey an artist.

I worked on the graphic novel for almost three years. I began it while I was a professor of art and art history. I worked on the novel during my summers, weekends and evenings between 2013 and 2016.

My monochromatic and surreal graphic novel doesn’t have any dialog or text. It’s meant to be a surreal visual journey that is a bit autobiographical. In many ways it’s an exploration of my feelings about my childhood and the role my older brother played in helping me to navigate the world.

All of the art was painted in black and white crayon and watercolor. It’s meant to feel like an old style black and white movie and combine elements from film noir, war films, and Halloween types of imagery. The story is about a prisoner and a little boy (based on images of myself and my older brother.)

The plot of the novel begins with the prisoner and the boy falling asleep and meeting in a dream together. Sort of a “Wizard of Oz” meets the cabinet of “Cabinet of Dr. Caligari” meets Neil Gaiman. The boy and the convict meet and travel through a nocturnal cornfields, mazes, submarines, classrooms and even the Colosseum all while encountering scarecrows, crows, and owls. At times they costume themselves in space suits, sailor’s clothes and business suits.

Some of the imagery is meant to evoke German Expressionist art as well as the drawings of Robert Longo and even Romantic artists such Beardsley, Arnold Bocklin, Odilon Redon and others.

The original printing of the 48 page graphic novel was produced in conjunction with a show of the original artwork while I was artist in residence at the Grand Theatre Center for the Arts in Livermore California.

You can preview the entire graphic novel here:

https://www.blurb.com/books/10128952-professor-mencher-s-imaginarium

You can also watch a short animated video on Youtube here:

https://youtu.be/P1dFPqI5Yqo

I am also selling the original art from the graphic novel.

The Death of Socrates by Jacques-Louis David

 

Jacques-Louis David played a big role in shaping the style of painting during and after the French Revolution. Around that time, he became involved in the French government and in cultural institutions. He didn’t take over the Louvre, but he did influence the École des Beaux-Arts, which was a major art school in France. The Louvre itself was converted into a public museum during the Revolution, around 1793. David’s painting style—called Neoclassicism—spread beyond France and was used in places like England and the United States. The word republic refers to a form of government in which elected representatives make decisions, and Neoclassical art was often used to represent ideas tied to democracy and public service.

A few years before the Revolution, David painted The Death of Socrates. The Death of Socrates by Jacques-Louis David was painted in 1787, just before the French Revolution. It’s based on a real story from ancient Athens. Socrates was a philosopher who lived in the 400s BCE. He was sentenced to death by the city for supposedly corrupting young people and not believing in the official gods. Instead of running away or escaping, he chose to drink a cup of poison—hemlock—as ordered by the court. This scene shows the moment he’s about to take the cup and die, surrounded by his students and friends.

In this painting, Socrates is shown calmly preparing to drink poison after being sentenced to death. His body is muscular, like that of a young man, but his beard and facial features match common images of ancient philosophers. He raises one finger upward in a gesture that’s been repeated often in art, symbolizing a higher idea or principle. The lighting comes from the side, creating strong shadows across the figures. The composition is flat and organized, similar to a frieze, which is a horizontal band of sculpture often found in ancient buildings.

The painting shows a group of figures in a jail cell, with Socrates at the center, reaching for a cup of poison hemlock. The setting is an imaginary space, meant to look like an ancient Athenian prison, but it’s been simplified and arranged more for visual clarity than historical accuracy. The space is interior, with stone walls, a bench, and a central table. It's not a real architectural location but one designed to support the message and form of the painting.

The composition is symmetrical in the sense that the figures are balanced across the central figure of Socrates. He sits upright and points one finger upward with his right hand while reaching for the cup with his left. This creates a strong vertical axis that divides the painting and draws the viewer’s eye to him. There’s also a strong horizontal line made by the figures sitting and leaning along the bench, creating a clear frieze-like layout. This kind of structure is common in classical relief sculpture.

David uses several compositional devices to control focus and movement in the painting. There’s a clear center of attention on Socrates, both from his hand gesture and from how other figures are leaning or turning toward him. The perspective lines of the floor and walls move toward the vanishing point in the back, pulling the viewer’s eye into the depth of the space. Socrates’ body forms a vertical line that anchors the image, while other figures create diagonals, especially in the bent backs and arms of the people grieving around him.

The illusion of depth is created through linear perspective, overlapping, and size scaling. Figures and furniture are smaller as they recede into the background. Some characters overlap each other and the architecture, helping establish spatial relationships. The figure sitting on the left edge of the canvas, leaning away from the group, helps frame the space and adds to the spatial layering.

David uses chiaroscuro, a technique of contrasting light and shadow, to define form. There’s a clear light source coming from the left, casting shadows and creating volume. There’s no use of tenebrism, since the shadows are soft and not dramatically dark. Light falls strongest on Socrates, illuminating his torso and face while casting shadows under the bench and behind other figures. There are cast shadows under the feet, on the walls, and along the folds of clothing.

The color palette uses mainly earth tones—browns, grays, and dull blues—with some areas of more saturated reds and oranges in the drapery. The background is low key, with soft transitions between shadow and light. Socrates’ clothing is a cool white, making him stand out against the darker background and the warm reds of the figures to his left. The tonal contrast reinforces the centrality of his role.

The human body is rendered with close attention to classical proportion. The anatomy is accurate, and the figures show realistic muscle tone and bone structure. Socrates’ torso and arms are idealized, with clearly defined muscles that resemble classical sculpture. His pose is upright and active, while many of the others have static or slumped postures that show grief or shock. The figures are generally shown in three-quarter views, not full profile or front-facing. Some show a bit of foreshortening, such as the extended arm of the figure passing the cup.

Clothing in the painting mimics ancient Roman and Greek dress. Most figures wear tunics or draped cloaks, which are rendered with attention to how fabric falls across the body. The folds are clean and logical, with shadowed creases where cloth overlaps. The way David paints drapery draws on the tradition of artists like Raphael and Poussin, and also looks to ancient sculpture, especially how fabric clings to the body in marble statues.

There are a few symbols in the painting that are pretty clear if you know the story. The cup of hemlock in the center is probably the most important one. That’s the poison that Socrates was sentenced to drink, and it’s the reason everyone is gathered in the room. The way Socrates is reaching for it with no hesitation is connected to what he said in real life—he believed in the laws of the state and thought it was more important to follow those laws than to escape. That gesture of him lifting one finger while reaching for the cup is also something people talk about a lot. His finger points up, possibly toward the sky or the divine, and it’s a symbol that’s been used in other works of art to suggest an idea about higher truths or spiritual belief.

His students and followers around him are shown in different states of sadness or shock. These reactions help to show how calm Socrates is in comparison. One person at the end of the bench, often thought to be Plato, sits with his head down and looks older than he was in real life when this happened. David changes the timeline a bit here so he can include both the emotion of the scene and some historical figures in one moment. This kind of change in historical storytelling through images is pretty common in art, especially when the artist is trying to include symbolic ideas.

Socrates’ body is shown very clearly, like a statue, with muscles and balanced posture. His pose and the way his body is lit make him look calm and strong. This connects to classical sculpture from ancient Greece and Rome. By showing him like this, David lines him up with ideas of moral strength and physical discipline. The idea of showing the body as idealized, especially in this death scene, turns Socrates into more than just a person—he becomes a kind of symbol for someone who believes in truth and is willing to die for it.

The people in the painting are arranged in a kind of line, almost like a frieze—a long, flat scene you might see carved into a wall in ancient buildings. That helps organize the symbols in the painting so the viewer can see Socrates as the center of attention, with everything pointing back to him. His hand gesture, the light on his chest, and the way others are looking at him all connect the visual symbols to the story being told.

Some people interpret this painting as a message about loyalty to the state. Others see it more as an example of personal sacrifice. When David painted this, France was dealing with big political changes. Many people were starting to question their leaders, and ideas from ancient Greece and Rome were becoming popular again because they were associated with republics and civic duty. That’s probably why David chose this story at this time—he was using an ancient moment to connect with new political ideas.

Different art historians have looked at this painting in different ways. Some focus on how David makes Socrates look heroic, and others think he was more interested in how the group reacts emotionally. There’s also discussion about how David uses old-fashioned poses from Greek sculpture and mixes them with current events in France at the time. Either way, the painting was shown at the Salon, the official art exhibition in Paris, and would have been seen by many people. For that audience, it symbolized a kind of intellectual and political courage that was part of the bigger conversation happening right before the Revolution started.

It was made in Paris, during a time when France was going through political and social changes that would lead to the French Revolution just a couple of years later. At this point, the French monarchy was still in power, but people were already questioning the government, especially the unfair tax system and how the aristocracy had privileges that most people didn’t.

David was working under the French monarchy, but he supported ideas related to ancient republics like those in Greece and Rome. These older systems of government included shared power and civic responsibility, which started to become popular again in Europe during this period. David had studied in Rome at the Académie de France, which was a program that sent French artists to study in Italy. While there, he spent time looking at ancient art and ruins. That helped shape the way he painted historical subjects.

This painting wasn’t made for a king or queen, but for an art exhibition called the Salon, which was a big public event in Paris where artists showed their newest work. The Salon was sponsored by the French Royal Academy of Painting and Sculpture. The Death of Socrates was displayed there and was well-known at the time. There is no specific record of a private patron who ordered it, but David may have painted it to show his support for philosophical and republican ideas, and to appeal to educated viewers who were thinking about new forms of government.

David was known to be very serious about his research. He often made sketches based on ancient sculptures and planned the arrangement of the figures very carefully. The hand gesture that Socrates is making, pointing upward, appears in other paintings by David, and it became a kind of repeated sign for ideas about virtue and higher thinking. 

Come and study with me, videos, etexts, and study guides, https://www.udemy.com/user/kenneymencher/

Set of 5 Original Prints – 1994 Intaglio, Signed, Fresh Finds Collection by Kenney Mencher (Set #4)

 

https://www.kenneymencher.com/shop/p/set-of-4-original-prints-1994-intaglio-signed-fresh-finds-collection-by-kenney-mencher-set-4

This is a curated set of five intaglio prints I made in 1994 while I was still deep in grad school and figuring out my visual language. These are all original prints—not reproductions—and each one comes from a small edition or is a state proof. They’ve been kept in flat files for decades and I’m releasing them now as part of my Fresh Finds archive project.

The set includes:

• "Back Room" (11x15 inches): A dramatic, noir-style composition with four figures seated in a circle under a hanging light. Printed in black and gray aquatint, this one plays with atmosphere and the psychology of group dynamics.

• "Cabby" (8.5x11 inches): A street-side encounter between a man leaning into a cab and a driver turning back to look at him. Strong diagonals and tension-filled posture make this one feel like a film still.

• "Greta’s" (11x15 inches): A quiet figure stands in front of a window, their back turned. Simple lines and shadows build a sense of solitude. The off-white rag paper gives it a soft, warm tone.

• "Rear Window" (6x8 inches): A small vertical composition of a figure in profile wearing a fedora, watching someone framed in a high-up window. This is a state proof, showing my early development of this plate.

• "A Smoke & a Paper" (11x11 inches): A solitary figure in a scarf and jacket holds a cigarette and a newspaper. You can feel the pause in the moment. The textures are gritty and subtle thanks to intaglio techniques.

Each print is handmade, hand-pulled, and signed. The styles vary slightly but they’re all in the same world—part social realism, part cinematic noir, with a focus on narrative through gesture and shadow. These images come from the same place that shaped a lot of my painting: a mix of mid-century film, Edward Hopper, Bay Area Figurative influences, and queer-coded storytelling.

This set tells a quiet, moody story about observation, isolation, and coded meaning. And like a lot of my early work, it’s deeply tied to identity—especially gay identity during a time when subtlety was a form of safety. Releasing these now feels right. There’s a renewed urgency to show queer work that’s honest, even if it’s not loud. Collecting prints like these is a way to connect to that history—and maybe carry it forward.

Details:

• Medium: Intaglio and aquatint on rag paper

• Year: 1994

• Edition sizes: All limited, most 5–6 prints per edition

• Signed: Yes, all are hand-signed

• Paper sizes range from approx. 6x8 to 11x15 inches

• Condition: Excellent, never framed

• Includes 5 prints: Back Room, Cabby, Gretas, Rear Window, A Smoke & a Paper

• Unframed (ships flat)

• Part of the Fresh Finds archive release

William Hogarth

 

Scholars focus on William Hogarth—not as a painter, but as a printmaker. While Hogarth did paint, he’s better known for his prints. That’s partly because printmaking was more profitable for him. He worked in England during the 1700s and wasn’t really connected with the aristocracy. Instead, he had closer ties to people involved in theater and the performing arts. His connections with the theater world influenced his art, especially his attention to character and narrative. If you check out his biography, you’ll notice how deeply involved he was with that part of English society.

As a painter, Hogarth wasn’t known for refined portraiture, which was the genre that brought the most fame and money in England during that time. His style leaned more toward caricature, and he preferred painting genre scenes—pictures of everyday life. Because of this, he didn’t fit in neatly with movements like rococo, which was more popular in France. While he was active during the baroque and rococo periods, his work doesn’t follow the typical themes of either. He often made fun of French tastes and aesthetics, and some of his prints include visual jokes at their expense.

Art historians often have a hard time placing Hogarth into one style category. His work doesn’t follow established trends, which makes him stand out. In some ways, he’s more like Albrecht Dürer, a German printmaker from the 1500s who also produced detailed prints with strong moralizing messages and tried to reach wider audiences by selling prints instead of relying on commissions.

Two of Hogarth’s well-known prints, Beer Street and Gin Lane, were created as a pair. These are called a diptych—just two works meant to be seen together. They were made around the mid-1700s during a time when England was dealing with a real public health problem linked to cheap gin. New methods for fast, low-cost distillation had made gin widely available, and overuse led to social problems, especially in poor urban neighborhoods. Gin became a kind of early drug crisis, similar to how people now talk about epidemics related to drugs like crack cocaine.

Some of Hogarth’s friends encouraged him to make prints about this, hoping the visuals would raise awareness about the issue. Beer Street shows a positive scene. People in the image are healthy, well-fed, and seem to be doing well economically. They’re holding mugs of beer, and the overall mood is calm and stable. There’s a sign painter in the image who’s smiling as he paints a sign showing people dancing on a pile of barley—a plant used to brew beer. That barley pile connects beer to agriculture and honest work. The buildings are in good shape, and everyone seems to have a purpose.

But when you move your eye across the picture, you’ll spot something that shows the contrast: a pawnbroker shop. That detail suggests not everyone is doing great and sets up the contrast with the second image, Gin Lane, which shows the effects of gin addiction and social breakdown. These two prints together show Hogarth’s way of telling visual stories with humor, puns, and strong moral points built into the details.

In Beer Street and Gin Lane, William Hogarth uses side-by-side prints to compare two different versions of urban life in mid-1700s England. These prints were sold as a set and meant to be hung together. They were part of a campaign to raise awareness about the rise in gin consumption and the effects it had on poor communities. Beer, at that time, was seen as safer and healthier than water in many areas of England. Light beer or small ale often had only 1–2% alcohol and was used as a way to purify water. It was also calorie-rich, which helped people stay nourished. Gin, on the other hand, was a stronger distilled liquor that caused quicker addiction and more harmful effects.

In Beer Street, Hogarth shows a clean and active neighborhood. People appear healthy and content. On the rooftops, workers are reroofing buildings while drinking beer. Barrels are being lowered from windows. Everyone seems busy but relaxed. A boy hands a flagon of beer to a man standing below, adding to the image of social connection. One sign painter is painting a pub sign showing people dancing on a pile of barley—a crop used in beer-making. He’s smiling while he works. The buildings are in good repair, and the streets are filled with movement. In one part of the scene, you can spot a pawnbroker shop labeled “Pinch.” The building looks run-down and unstable. This plays on the idea that pawnbrokers were seen as preying on poor people, especially in times of hardship. The name “Pinch” is also a pun, suggesting financial pressure and discomfort.

There’s more wordplay in the scene, too. A woman on the left holds a key, which may connect to themes of virtue and trust. A cheerful fishmonger stands nearby. Books are visible in the bottom corner, possibly referencing literacy or education. Hogarth often included literary references and puns in his work.

In contrast, Gin Lane shows a neighborhood in collapse. On the left side, the pawnbroker shop is clean and well-kept, suggesting that business is thriving—but for the wrong reasons. The shop is labeled “S. Gripe,” another pun about exploitation. Around the shop, things are falling apart. Buildings are crumbling, and a man is seen hanging from a beam. Dead bodies are being carried in coffins. On the right, the “Kilman Distillery” pumps out gin. Below it, a small child is being fed gin directly from a bottle, and a group of people are drinking heavily.

In the lower left, children fight over a bare bone with a dog. There’s no sign of food production or farming—just desperation. A woman sits on stairs so drunk that her baby slips from her arms and falls into the street. In the lower right, a man lies on the ground, skeletal and weak. A block of text next to him reads, The Downfall of Mrs. Gin. This is a reference to the idea that gin destroys households. The skeletal man is sometimes interpreted as “Mr. Gin,” showing the final stage of addiction.

Hogarth’s prints were created to warn people about the dangers of gin. The contrast between the two scenes was meant to deliver a moral message in a visual format. His work was widely circulated, and it played a role in public campaigns that led to the Gin Act of 1751 (not 1738 or 1748), which limited gin sales and tried to reduce alcohol abuse in cities.

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Arc, 11x14 inches crayon on cotton paper by Kenney Mencher A crayon drawing of a cropped muscular male torso, arched spine, hairy armpits

 

I tried to draw as much as I can. Most of the time I spend my days working on oil paintings in my studio. However, I spend a lot of time in the evenings as I watch TV and listen to music or audiobooks drawing.

I use a light fast black crayon to draw rather than a pencil. Mainly because pencil can smear more easily and the same goes for working with charcoal. I’ve found that working with crayon makes the drawing much more durable and less susceptible to getting smudged or damaged especially during shipping. I also draw on a superheavy cotton fiber paper called Rives BFK. It’s kind of an expensive paper because it’s supposed to be used for printmaking and it’s made out of cotton rather than wood pulp. This makes it feel deliciously thick and sturdy almost like one is trying on the same paper that used to make money.

Drawing is the way that I started painting but it’s also a way that I allow my imagination to run free and experiment with different subjects, techniques, and composition. In this drawing, I was working with the rule of thirds which is a compositional concept in which you try to create an asymmetrical composition by placing the subject or focus of the composition in one of the corners of the page rather than in the center.

I also played with composition by cropping as well as shifting the subject matter to the edges of the page. Often I like to have the figure “kiss” or touch the edges of the picture rather than float free in the center.

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18th C History Painting

 

We're moving into the late 1700s and heading into the 1800s, and there’s a lot happening during that time. Some historians call this the long nineteenth century because they think the big changes that shaped the 1800s got going in the 1780s. That idea kind of makes sense, especially when you look at the styles and cultural shifts starting to show up at the end of the 18th century. Styles start branching out more here—some become more formal, and some get more symbolic. This adds a layer of complexity when studying art from this period. You’ll notice that artists start becoming strongly associated with particular styles, so it helps to link their names to how their work looks.

Take Benjamin West as an example. He was born in America but worked in England and had patrons there. While it might be tempting to just call him an English painter, it’s more accurate to describe him as an American artist working under English patronage. His work often focused on English subjects, and one of the genres he worked in was called history painting. That term doesn’t mean it's about ancient history necessarily—it’s more like a staged scene of current or recent events. You can think of it kind of like a news photo that’s been retouched or set up for dramatic effect.

Looking at one of West’s well-known paintings, it helps to focus on how it’s built up visually. The arrangement of figures is sort of flat across the front, like a frieze—a design style that goes back to things like the Ara Pacis Augustae in Rome or the Panathenaic procession in ancient Greece. The figures are pushed toward the front of the painting, almost like a shallow relief sculpture. They’re posed with these exaggerated gestures meant to show emotion, but also a bit theatrical, almost like they’re posing or voguing for the viewer.

Behind them, there’s another set of figures in the background that are less clear. These are shown with sfumato or atmospheric perspective, where the haze makes things look more distant. As you look further back, the smoke and clouds blur the details even more, adding depth and mood to the scene.

The lighting in the painting helps shape the bodies. There’s a clear light source coming from the left, casting shadows, and creating a sense of volume through techniques known as chiaroscuro and tenebrism. These are terms for how light and shadow are used to model the figures, making them look three-dimensional. The brightest part of the light falls on a wounded figure in the middle, drawing your eye there. What makes that even more noticeable is the diagonal line running through the painting, created by a flag and the shapes of the clouds. That diagonal helps guide your eye and adds energy to the scene.

A lot of what West is doing here comes from what he learned from earlier artists like Caravaggio and Velázquez. He’s borrowing techniques like dramatic lighting and strong composition to heighten the storytelling. These were tools used in Baroque painting, and West is applying them to a modern historical subject, blending old methods with recent events.

One way to look at Benjamin West’s painting The Death of General Wolfe is by focusing on the iconography, which basically means the use of symbols and visual elements that carry meaning. This painting doesn’t just tell a story through how it looks—it also connects to historical context and some ideas that were going around in the 1700s.

During the 18th century, there were ongoing struggles between European powers over land in the Americas. England and France were especially active in trying to claim territory because they saw the Americas as a source of valuable natural resources. Controlling these resources was seen as a way to strengthen their economies, especially during the early phases of industrialization. The British and French both formed alliances with Native American groups during these conflicts. In Canada, for example, a series of battles known as the French and Indian Wars took place, where both sides relied on Native American support.

At the same time, Europeans were still trying to figure out how to categorize and understand Native American cultures. After Columbus arrived in the Americas, questions were raised in Europe about whether Indigenous people had souls or could be “saved.” Over time, this led to the idea that Native Americans were what European thinkers like Jean-Jacques Rousseau might call noble savages—people who lived outside of European civilization but were still seen as naturally moral or pure in some way. This idea was used to justify attempts to convert them to Christianity. It wasn’t just a personal belief system; it shaped how artists, writers, and governments talked about Indigenous people.

These ideas show up in West’s painting. He was an American-born painter working in England, and he often supported British perspectives in his work. In this painting, he shows General James Wolfe, a British officer, dying during the 1759 Battle of Quebec. Wolfe is placed in the center of the scene, surrounded by a group of men. His pose and the way he’s lit make him look a lot like traditional images of Christ, especially from scenes known as depositions, where Christ is taken down from the cross. The way Wolfe's body is shown—laid out and gently supported by those around him—closely matches the structure of those religious paintings.

West used this setup to make Wolfe appear as a kind of martyr, but instead of dying for religion, Wolfe is shown dying for his country. The British flag in the scene is positioned in a way that mirrors how a cross might appear in a Christian painting, reinforcing the connection. This kind of imagery wasn’t new—artists had used religious symbolism for centuries—but here, it’s being used to support national identity and politics rather than religion.

The painting reflects how visual art in the late 1700s began to play a role in shaping political ideas, not just spiritual ones. The symbols used—like Wolfe’s pose, the lighting, and the arrangement of figures—are pulled from earlier Christian imagery and adapted to tell a national story.

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Nocturnal Bear, 18x18x1.5 oil on stretched canvas by Kenney Mencher

  

Since I moved to my new home I’ve been able to use the space to take my painting to the next level. Having an entire basement as a painting studio has been allowing me to try out different things physically with paints and work on up to three or more paintings at a time over several days. Sometimes I’ll do a rough sketch on canvas in crayon and come back and add things to it over several days. That’s the case with this painting of my Nocturnal Bear.

I knew that I wanted to work with the themes of body positivity and celebrated the heavier male bear like form but I also have been trying to add a little bit more of a story in each of the paintings. In this one I thought it would be a nice idea to provide a little bit more of a setting of a bullish or bearish like character almost stomping through a suburban setting at night.

I think I got the lighting and the rim lighting of the figure just right and I’ve been pulling some other colors into my palette such as cerulean blues and grays.

This painting is on stretched canvas with extra thick stretcher bars so you don’t need to frame it.

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