Forgetting, relevance, "making a mark" in history
My friend Jenny, who lives in Manhattan, wrote me last week, having been ill with the flu that has been infecting most of the world this winter. Though not her fault, a day after, I too fell ill to this (I am told) H1N1 variant -- high fevers, chills, respiratory congestion, headaches, and now 6 days later, continued fatigue, a hacking dry cough that is beginning to drive my partner crazy. I myself am certainly quite crazy from being stuck in bed for a week. I write all this to begin with because this is after all a blog.
A week sick in bed, that precluded any work being accomplished in the studio. It is a known fact that high fevers change the usual circuits of the brain and delirium isn't uncommon as a result. I don't recall that for myself, but then again, a week in bed, one does go through quite a bit of reflection, conscious or otherwise. And this morning, the image of the long lines of visitors waiting to see the new Chagall exhibition at the Musée du Luxembourg came to mind. I walk by there on my way to the studio.
Despite the enormous crowds flocking to this show, the career of Chagall brings up a lot of questions about "relevance" and being forgotten. And the person of Jacques-Émile Blanche comes to mind.
Jacques-Émile Blanche (1861-1942) is one of those sort of known, mostly forgotten artists, whose career spanned the turn of the last century. He was in the heart of the Parisian world of intellectuals--from his youth, he frequented Delacroix, George Sand, Berlioz, Michelet, and later on, he was on more than intimate terms with Proust, Cocteau, Mauriac. In 1921, he wrote, "Fifty years from now, one will see in the museums the portraits that I have painted, of so many different men of letters, my friends; but of the author of these portraits, there will no longer be any trace in any book of his time."
I think he is best known really for the portrait of Marcel Proust that he painted, that ghostly pale face floating against the dark background, that Proust kept until his death.
He, however, painted many more portraits, of famous writers like Paul Valéry, and of other less known people of his time, in a more or less conservative 19th century portraitist style, all during the ebullition of the Modernism that would mark the School of Paris.
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Blanche had a very successful career as a painter, he lived well, inherited a large fortune from his parents, and was throughout his life in the most progressive of cultural circles of Paris. If he is not forgotten today completely, it is because he was asked by so many members of this circle to have their portraits painted -- Stéphane Mallarmé, Henry James, James Joyce, André Gide, to name just a few. Joyce, for one, was ecstatic of his portrait, finding it "épatant."
As an exercise of comparison, I am going to place the work of Blanche next to that of Chaim Soutine:
There is a lot of ways one can read Bob Barnes' interview, but the one that I retain is where the place of money becomes the validating factor of "importance." Talking to an art dealer recently, the question of quality came up, as in, "how does one decide which artist is important?" given that contemporary art is based on no set rules except that which announces its newness, nowness and nextness. The reply was really straight-forward and simple -- art collectors, "les vrais prescripteurs" (the real influencers).
Given these circumstance then, one can't imagine why young artists wouldn't be clawing at each other, affirming their historic importance, their relevance. It is a question of money, of having a nice life, of being recognized and so on and so forth. One can only wonder whatever really happened to the avant-garde, which by definition is anti-bourgeois.
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I gleaned a lot of the information about Jacques-Émile Blanche from an article written by Daniel Bergez, "Le peintre des écrivains", Nouvelle Revue Pédagogique, mars 2013, p. 5.
A week sick in bed, that precluded any work being accomplished in the studio. It is a known fact that high fevers change the usual circuits of the brain and delirium isn't uncommon as a result. I don't recall that for myself, but then again, a week in bed, one does go through quite a bit of reflection, conscious or otherwise. And this morning, the image of the long lines of visitors waiting to see the new Chagall exhibition at the Musée du Luxembourg came to mind. I walk by there on my way to the studio.
Despite the enormous crowds flocking to this show, the career of Chagall brings up a lot of questions about "relevance" and being forgotten. And the person of Jacques-Émile Blanche comes to mind.
John Singer Sargent, Portrait of Jacques-Émile Blanche
Jacques-Émile Blanche (1861-1942) is one of those sort of known, mostly forgotten artists, whose career spanned the turn of the last century. He was in the heart of the Parisian world of intellectuals--from his youth, he frequented Delacroix, George Sand, Berlioz, Michelet, and later on, he was on more than intimate terms with Proust, Cocteau, Mauriac. In 1921, he wrote, "Fifty years from now, one will see in the museums the portraits that I have painted, of so many different men of letters, my friends; but of the author of these portraits, there will no longer be any trace in any book of his time."
I think he is best known really for the portrait of Marcel Proust that he painted, that ghostly pale face floating against the dark background, that Proust kept until his death.
Jacques-Émile Blanche, Portrait of Marcel Proust
He, however, painted many more portraits, of famous writers like Paul Valéry, and of other less known people of his time, in a more or less conservative 19th century portraitist style, all during the ebullition of the Modernism that would mark the School of Paris.
Jacques-Émile Blanche, Portrait of Lucie
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Jacques-Émile Blanche, Portrait of Desirée Manfred
View of the Jacques-Émile Blanche Museum, Offranville, Seine et Marne
Jacques-Émile Blanche, Portrait of James Joyce
As an exercise of comparison, I am going to place the work of Blanche next to that of Chaim Soutine:
Chaim Soutine, "La folle"
Jacques-Émile Blanche, Place Saint Marc à Venise, le soir
Chaim Soutine, Cagnes
Jacques-Émile Blanche, Gladioli
Chaim Soutine, Gladioli
I don't think there can be much discussion as to who is the greater painter, at least today in 2013, who is the more relevant painter, who is the more powerful artist. One only wonders what Soutine could have accomplished if he had been given the chance to paint the portrait of Marcel Proust . . .
Who knows if a few hundred years from now, people will think differently. But at the end of the day, what does it really matter?
All this makes me think of a rather well-known interview about Marcel Duchamp given by Robert Barnes that you can find here.
Robert Barnes, Blood and Perfume, 1996, 60 x 62 inches, Oil on canvas
Tout-Fait: And Matta you were the closest with, he introduced you to everyone and he was just one wild person.
Robert Barnes: Yeah he was a good painter too. You know, I'm not sure where Matta fits in, in the history. You know, who cares. What's interesting is that we're living in a generation of young people who are constantly preoccupied with their place in history. What the hell does it matter? Marcel never thought about that. Maybe later on when he started cataloguing stuff, he starting thinking that maybe he wanted to leave some legacy. But legacy is bullshit. But everyone now is "where's my place in history." How many times can you ask?
Tout-Fait: Well your generation will not decide who makes it into the history books.
Robert Barnes: No one will decide. Some lizard or something might decide in the final. But people are so worried about whether they are going to be known. Now they create money and become attached to it. I thank God I lived in the era of Marcel and those people, who weren't. Money was certainly not much of a preoccupation. It drifted across their brains, but it was definitely not much of a preoccupation. It was interesting, I did a talk on de Kooning. While they were circulating that show of his and I got to the middle of the talk and I suddenly realized and said it out loud that I didn't think anyone thought they were going to make money from their work, a lot of money, and it wasn't until the '70s that it started changing and people started clawing each other to get known, get a gallery, a good gallery, to get this and get that and the art is boring because of it. I mean how much can you be shocked by all the latest things? We have some guy cutting off pieces of his penis in a gallery, good for him.
Tout-Fait: Well it becomes shallow and hollow and everything has been done before and done better mostly.
Robert Barnes: I'm afraid Marcel unleashed some of that and I know he knew it and I think he was a little bit dismayed or amused; it would be both in this case.
* * *
Given these circumstance then, one can't imagine why young artists wouldn't be clawing at each other, affirming their historic importance, their relevance. It is a question of money, of having a nice life, of being recognized and so on and so forth. One can only wonder whatever really happened to the avant-garde, which by definition is anti-bourgeois.
_________________________________________________________________________________
I gleaned a lot of the information about Jacques-Émile Blanche from an article written by Daniel Bergez, "Le peintre des écrivains", Nouvelle Revue Pédagogique, mars 2013, p. 5.
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