I cannot stop looking at it. The caramel colored stage with girls in impossibly delicate dresses of cloud. I hear the swish swish of organza, the soft brush of their feet against the wood, a piano persistently moving the girls forward, and the inevitable hubbub as the director taps his cane, shouting last minute corrections, and girls giggle, and gasp, and whisper. I am intrigued by how Degas' restricted palet and his judicious touches of pinks and blues give to the painting an ethereal quality. At the same time, girls scratch and stretch and yawn, rooting the moment in reality. And there are hints of the artist's mind...shoes on the left, a man on the right...considered, but finally left out.
I am enjoying a magical evening at the Frist Center with the much anticipated "Birth of Impressionism" exhibit. One hundred paintings on loan from the marvelous Musee d'Orsay in Paris. The artfully curated exhibit chronicles the emergence of what will prove to be the most popular movement in the history of painting. In the spirit of artists who wished to capture a moment in time, I humbly offer you my "impressions" of a few favorites.
As I stand before Bouguereau's imposing "Virgin of Consolation", I understand why the Salon of Paris had trouble letting go of classical works of epic proportion. This is a powerful, majestic piece.
An intermission in the storm. The sun sends tentative rays, making the sodden earth sparkle and dance. But in the distance, ominous clouds still threaten...filling the air with a hum of danger...and exhilaration. A double rainbow is the broken beauty produced by the tension, the wrestling between the two.
Gustave Dore's "The Enigma" is located round a turn so there can be no anticipating it. Before I can make out the figures...before I read any history...I can feel the anguish. The harsh grays, so dark in the forground, make my chest hurt. Torturous expressions on the faces. A mother clings to her baby, though both of them are clearly dead. The artist's home town of Strasbourg has just been lost to Prussia after a devastating war. And Paris, the sweet haven of blue light in the distance, is burning. Personified as a winged woman, France seeks understanding from a sphinx, poser of impossible questions.
Perhaps it is because a book and a bath are guilty pleasures of my own. Perhaps it is because she has put time in a soap dish and pays it no regard. Perhaps it is because this figure, almost completely covered, exudes a sensuality far more seductive than any nude I've ever seen. I only know, I like it.
It's not dark enough, this reproduction. It does not pull you into it like one of those huddled together against the chill. It does not make you feel the cool, damp air of evening, or make you hungry for the pinpricks of lantern light in the distance. It does not mesmerize with the quality of clouds passing over the moon, almost making you believe that at any moment they will part. But the painting? Ah, well, that's another matter entirely...
Monet painted it in France. But when I stand before it, I am sitting on a bench in Barcelona...with my daughter...cool sunshine on our faces...and all is right with the world.
I would never have imagined it, but those touches of golden light, suggesting a warm hearth somewhere beyond, or reminding you of a sun so deflected as to be impotent, seem to be an essential element of what makes the slate sky and the voluminous snow so severe. It doesn't hurt at all that there is wind playing in the audio guide. A snow wind that blows in a silence like sleep. It also does not hurt that, in a bit of curatorial brillliance, or sheer luck, this particular painting happens to be located beneath a refrigerated air vent. :)
This is the one that makes me cry. I've seen it before...but not like this. The gaze of adoration. The dreamer. Dreaming for her baby. The face is my daughter's. The child, cocooned in gauzy safety and the warmth of her mother's embrace, my grandchild. The irrepressible azure sky, pushing through the filmy curtains, portends good things for these two. May it be so.
Scent of humus and evergreen. Plash of water against stones. Birds chattering in the distance. An unexplained scurrying through the undergrowth...chipmunk? squirrel? The clean quiet of the forrest. Nobody speaks. We all know.
"The Birth of Impressionism" is at the Frist Center until January 23rd. If you live anywhere near Nashville, you owe it to yourself to experience this exhibit. If you would like to know more about these painters and the Salon culture of the late nineteenth century, I highly recommend Ross King's fascinating book, The Judgement of Paris. You might also enjoy the writings of Emile Zola, defender of Manet and subject of one of the portraits in the show, as well as the poetry of Charles Baudelaire, contemporary and like mind. The music of Caude Debussy, Maurice Ravel, and Eric Satie is also of the same ilk. For a somewhat opposing view, check out Leo Tolstoy's What is Art?.
Works in the post:
BALLET REHEARSAL ON THE SET: Edgar Degas
THE VIRGIN OF CONSOLATION: William-Adolphe Bouguereau
SPRING: Jean Francois Millet
THE ENIGMA: Gustave Dore
THE BATH: Alfred Stevens
MOONLIGHT OVER THE PORT OF BOULOGNE: Edouard Manet
THE CRADLE: Berthe Morrisot
ARGENTEUIL 1875: Claude Monet
SNOW AT LOUVECIENNES: Alfred Sisley
THE MAINCY BRIDGE: Paul Cezanne
THE ESCAPE OF ROCHEFORT: Edouard Manet