Crimson alizarin: sublime and fragile
- Mestan Tekin
- Apr 6
- 6 min read
Some colors travel through time in silence, seeping into paint layers, fabrics, flesh, and shadows. Crimson alizarin is one of them. A deep, slightly bluish red, it marked 19th-century painting the way ultramarine blue marked the Renaissance. But behind this solemn beauty lies a paradox: a sumptuous yet unstable color. Seductive, yet elusive. A pigment with two faces. It has earned its place in our limited palette for several reasons, but it remains in a state of grace within it.
Today, in studios and museums, crimson alizarin continues to fascinate—for its history, its composition, its uses. For what it reveals about the limitations of color over time. To understand this pigment is to tell a story of science, technique, illusion, and revelation. It also means grasping the evolution of modern painting—caught between chromatic exploration and material permanence.
A Purple Root from Afar: Origin and Etymology
The story of alizarin begins long before oil painting. It begins in the fields, so to speak. The word “alizarin” derives from the Arabic al-‘aṣāra, meaning “extracted juice,” referring to the dye obtained from the root of the madder plant (Rubia tinctorum). Cultivated since antiquity around the Mediterranean basin, this plant contains several natural dyes, notably purpurin and, above all, alizarin, isolated for the first time in the early 19th century.
The Egyptians already used it in textiles; red madder-dyed fabrics were found in Tutankhamun’s tomb. Indian and Persian dyers had mastered it for centuries. But in painting, its use came later: madder lake became an artistic pigment in the 15th century, when natural dyes were fixed onto an insoluble base (alum or clay), creating colors usable in paint media.
Here is a fine example of madder lake in a Fayum portrait, Romano-Egyptian, dating to the second century AD. The tunic features several shades of purple and reddish-purple to suggest shadows, revealing great technical skill. These variations were created by blending madder with chalk. The chalk adds opacity, stability, and subtle shifts in value.
From Madder to Alizarin: A Chemical and Pictorial History
A good example of classic madder can be found in Titian’s Venus of Urbino. Madder lake is present in the red tones of the curtain, the upper layer of the cushion, and some warm flesh shadows.
In 1826, French chemists Pierre-Jean Robiquet and Jean-Jacques Colin isolated the molecule responsible for this color: alizarin. It then became an object of study for the emerging field of dye chemistry. But the revolution came in 1868, when German chemists Carl Graebe and Carl Liebermann synthesized alizarin from anthracene, a coal tar derivative. The first plant-based dye to be synthetically reproduced. A major breakthrough.
From then on, synthetic crimson alizarin (CI PR 83) gradually replaced traditional madder lakes. More consistent and less expensive, it preserved the beloved deep, purplish tone. But unfortunately, it also inherited madder’s weaknesses—especially its poor lightfastness under UV exposure.
First Uses in Painting: Between Light and Loss
The introduction of crimson alizarin into fine art coincided with the rise of Realism and Impressionism. 19th-century artists, seeking expressive colors and new chromatic contrasts, adopted it into their palettes.
One of its most fervent users was Pierre-Auguste Renoir. In The Sweeper (1875–76), analyses by the C2RMF revealed the use of crimson alizarin in the figure’s clothing and colored shadows. Used in glazes, this pigment gives the volumes a velvety softness. But deterioration has left its mark: the original reds have darkened, betraying the pigment’s limitations.
Another striking example: John Singer Sargent, master of refined glazes. In Portrait of Madame X (1884), stratigraphic studies of preparatory sketches (Harvard, MFA Boston) show discreet but strategic use of crimson alizarin in the flesh tones and background, subtly enhancing depth.
Vincent van Gogh also used crimson alizarin, in works such as The Night Café (1888). Analyses by the Van Gogh Museum confirmed the presence of PR 83 in the red walls, now browned. Van Gogh, passionate about color, often chose unstable pigments—aware, yet undeterred.
Finally, in The Scream (1893), Edvard Munch combined crimson alizarin, chrome yellow, and cobalt blue in the sky. Studies by the National Gallery of Norway revealed partial fading of the red, altering the sky’s original dramatic impact.
These examples show how crimson alizarin, despite its beauty, ultimately betrays itself over time.
Technical Uses: A Transparent Red with Subtle Behavior
Crimson alizarin is prized for its transparency, depth, and ability to create vibrant glazes. In oil painting, it’s often used in thin layers over lighter tones to enrich shadows or model flesh. Its slightly bluish tint also makes it ideal for mixing subtle purples with ultramarine or cobalt blue. Alizarin and ultramarine together form one of my favorite mixtures.
However, in oil, its instability under light poses a real challenge. Many masters—from Turner to Van Gogh—used alizarin (or its natural counterparts) in shadowy or background areas that later browned or faded over time.
Here’s an example from Turner’s Norham Castle, Sunrise (c. 1845). Though painted before the synthesis of alizarin, it contains a natural madder lake—alizarin’s direct ancestor. Raman spectroscopy (Tate Britain) confirmed its use in the bright sky, creating vibrant contrast with yellows and mauves.
Another oil example worth mentioning: Claude Monet’s Saint-Lazare Station (1877). Studies by the Musée d’Orsay and C2RMF, published in Technè, examined the pigment stratigraphy of several versions of the work, revealing crimson alizarin in the dark smoke and touches of brick red.
Monet used the pigment to create subtle contrasts between light and vapor, taking advantage of its transparency for glazes in atmospheric areas.
In watercolor, its transparency is a major asset. Alizarin washes produce soft gradations and sumptuous fades. But again, due to its low lightfastness, most manufacturers now offer “permanent” versions made from quinacridone.
In acrylics, PR 83 may still be available, but it’s nearly always replaced in professional lines with more stable alternatives.
Crimson Alizarin Today
A powerful contemporary use of crimson alizarin appears in Marcia Hafif’s Mass Tone Painting: Alizarin Crimson (1974), held at the Art Institute of Chicago. In this monochromatic oil painting, Hafif explores a direct relationship with the pigment—no representation, no glaze, no mixture. Just pure chromatic mass.
This radical gesture highlights the pigment’s optical and material qualities: its relative transparency, tinting strength, and subtle brilliance. The artist was aware of PR 83’s instability. But in her experimental approach, the transformation over time became part of the artwork—not a flaw, but a condition of existence. This idea is one reason the pigment remains in our limited palette.
A final modern example: Anselm Kiefer’s The Orders of the Night (1996). Scientific analysis of a section held at MoMA revealed use of a pigment close to crimson alizarin in certain deep red areas, mixed with other binders and media.
Kiefer is known for using unstable or expressive materials, often with full awareness of their eventual decay—in a nearly wabi-sabi spirit. Crimson alizarin here is not the main pigment, but a nuance used for its depth and ability to blend into complex textures. The pigment’s very fragility reinforces the themes of memory, time, and disappearance.
Modern Equivalents: Stable and Effective Alternatives
Due to PR 83’s shortcomings, the art industry began searching for replacements by the mid-20th century. Three pigments have become the leading alternatives:
• PR 209 – Quinacridone Red: Very close hue, slightly bluish, highly stable, excellent transparency.
• PR 206 – Quinacridone Burnt Scarlet: Warmer, deeper, great for glazing.
• PR 179 – Perylene Maroon: Less saturated, but extremely stable—ideal for shadows and muted tones.
Each of these has strengths, but Quinacridone Red (PR 209) is perhaps the closest to Alizarin—though it doesn’t quite match its depth. It is possible, however, to stabilize Alizarin with a UV-protective varnish.
Conclusion
Crimson alizarin embodies both the splendor and fragility of color in painting. Born from a long history—from madder root to industrial synthesis—it has traversed the ages, enriching the palettes of the greatest artists. Yet its light sensitivity has gradually relegated it to the status of a problematic pigment.
While some contemporary artists like Marcia Hafif embrace it conceptually, most professionals have moved toward modern pigments with similar properties and greater durability. Still, understanding crimson alizarin remains essential for any painter, conservator, or art historian. Because beyond chemistry, this pigment is a symbol—of a time when beauty sometimes outweighed permanence.
To me, there’s something magical in impermanence, and alizarin is the only pigment in our restricted palette that guarantees that magic. Its presence remains a dilemma that quinacridones can partially solve. But in art, all choices are valid—because the only true imperative is the joy of painting, and the dialogue between you and the work.
If you have any questions about the pigment, examples, alternatives, or anything else covered in this article, feel free to ask me in the studio.
Happy painting!
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