Before Amazon drew this book to my attention via its usual tenuous linkages with my browsing history, I had never heard of William Etty, despite my modest interest in 19th century art. The magic phrase "scholarly essays" in the publisher's description and the word "controversy" in the book's title suggested an interesting read. But it was not what I bargained for.
Simply leafing through the pages is sufficient to reveal that Etty was a very busy 19th century pornographer -- hence the controversy. it's not just his preoccupationof with the nude; images of bondage and depravity creep in alongside depictions of orgiastic rape and cruelty. All the evidence suggests that Etty was an homosexual, and the authors underline their view, firstly by reproducing a variety of male nudes, most with their backs turned to the viewer, secondly by noting that he attended the Royal Academy's all-male life classes daily until virtually his death, and thirdly by devoting an entire chapter to a single graphic painting of male bondage. This is not so much a chapter about art as about homoeroticism and masculine homosexuality in general, the author describing Etty's "aesthetic" as a "sodomitic one". Not surprisingly, perhaps, we are told that the postcard of this painting is the biggest selling item in the York museum's retail shop. This chapter alone will presumably make a similar contribution to the sales of this book.
Doctor Brandon in his review above describes Etty as "an interesting person" - in spades, you might say. Notwithstanding the many public attacks on his character, he was elected to full membership of the Royal Academy and throughout his life stoutly defended himself against charges of lewdness in his work. Well, he would, wouldn't he... Interspersed with the naked men and women are a few decent landscapes, some good portraits, and a very engaging but totally fanciful self portrait. The art is of mixed quality. Whilst Etty's daily attendance at the Academy Life School obviously served him well, he seems less accomplished in other departments. His painting of Cleopatra's arrival in Cilicia is a joke, with the Brobdingnagian Cleopatra sitting atop a tiny galley, the oars of which are shorter than her arms. If it is deliberate distortion, the purpose escapes me. The book is well produced, but some of the illustrations have an inadequate tonal range, and would have benefited by the employment of Photoshop's shadow lightening tool.
I found the book's relentless preoccupation with the artist's sexuality entirely disagreeable, but I cannot deny that many will consider it appropriate. It is just not the kind of read I look for when buying books on art history.