 | Goupil's Paris Salon of 1897 |  |
NATIONAL FINE ART
SOCIETY.
L. Lhermitte pinx.
G. Greux so.
PAINTING.
The National—or, rather, International—Society of French
Artists continues its annual exhibition at the Champ de
Mars. The friends of peace, and they are many, had
hoped that a reconciliation would take place between
the rival Salons, and that it would suffice to find a neutral ground
in order that the hand of friendship should be mutually extended.
withheld. There is no ill-will on either part, nor even incompatibility
of temper. This artistic schism corresponds to a very
real thing, to a primordial antagonism born with painting itself,
and destined to disappear only when Art is at an end.
All the Schools have been divided into two irreconcilable clans
on the very subject that should unite them, on Colour and Design.
Although several artists figure at the Champ de Mars who should
count at the Palais de l'Industrie, and vice-versa, we may say,
roundly, that the Palais de l'Industrie represents Design, and the
Champ de Mars, Colour. Let us understand the terms. We do
not mean to say that here one only makes designs, and there
nothing but morsels of colour. We say merely that the Champ
de Mars is the Salon of the colourists and the Champs Élysées
that of the designers. Ingres, David, or Le Poussin would never
have been members of the National Society; but, on the other
hand Delacroix, Marilhat, Chasseriau, and the Orientalists would
have enrolled themselves in its ranks. It is the eternal strife,
that which in the 16th century set the Roman and Venetian Schools
at loggerheads, inspiring bitter and contemptuous utterance on
the part of Michel-Angelo and of Titian; the quarrel of Romanticist
and Classical; the everlasting hostility between those who see
mainly form and those who see mainly colour. The present schism
is only a very old friend with an up-to-date face. There is nothing
in it either to rejoice or worry over; we have only to recognize it
and pass on.
M. Puvis de Chavannes exhibits the cartoon of a vast decoration
intended for the Pantheon: "St. Genevieve Succouring the
Besieged Parisians." We must frankly confess that this work was
looked for with some misgiving. Neither the "Apotheosis of Victor
Hugo" nor the decorative panels intended for America were
quite up to the level of the artist's previous work. The composition
was feeble and the colour indefinite. It seemed as though
PORTRAITS
E A. CAROLUS-DURAN
SALON DE 1897
THE ROSE-MERCHANT
J. FRAPPA
Copyright 1897 by Jose Fappa
SALON DE 1897.
the surprise was all the more agreeable, to discover in the cartoon
of St. Genevieve a great and beautiful composition balanced by
an art of the freest, a landscape full of majesty; last and most,
full of lofty poetry, superior even to that of the "Childhood of
St. Genevieve." Such as it is, this sketch should satisfy the most
exacting; it will make a good figure besides the artist's best work.
What an eminent place it would occupy were he to re-find in its
achievement the tonality of his panels of Marseilles, those that by
their brilliant colouring have been his masterpiece, perhaps the
only ones that have been real painting.
Everything in this great composition lends itself, after all, to
the sumptuosities of colour. The scene passes at the foot of the
town-walls, on the banks of the Seine, which serves as moat to
the Roman fortifications that still surround Lutetia. At the news
of St. Genevieve's arrival a great joy has taken hold of the
besieged; they open the town-gates and hurry to meet their liberatress
in a long procession of the whole clergy and people together.
Meanwhile, the food brought by St. Genevieve to the famine-stricken
town is being hastily put ashore. The slopes that border
the river profile themselves against the sky, enclosing in the happiest
fashion the spectacle in the foreground. Will M. Puvis de
Chavannes return to his colour of other days, or will he continue
the parti-pris adopted in his later works?
Before this composition, so well designed, this preoccupation
imposes itself on the mind. We have the right to ask ourselves
of what kind will be the colour with which M. Puvis de Chavannes
will clothe these personages, grouped with so much thought; for
he, better than any, knows how to suit his colour to the situation,
to the lighting—in a word, to the destination—of his work.
Will it be a pendant to the "Holy Wood" in the amphitheatre
of the Sorbonne, or will it keep within the note he adopted for
his "Childhood of St. Genevieve?" We must not forget that this
Laurens has concentrated all the energies of his colour;
a morsel of such vigour that all others pale beside it.
First of all, it must be said that M. Puvis de Chavannes will
take no heed of his neighbours at the Pantheon. He will think
only of himself, and none can blame him. In that unequal mixture
which constitutes the decoration of the building, each painter has
done his work without regard to his colleagues. A thoroughly
democratic spirit has presided over the realization of the great undertaking;
that is to say, that, having been left to the free will
of the artists, each has wrought for himself, the unity of ornament
has disappeared, and the whole, composed though it be of beautiful
fragments, lacks the organic harmony indispensable to the success
of such an enterprize.
M. Puvis de Chavannes will do that which he chooses to do,
but we may guess it already. As the wall he is to decorate is
that of the apse, the furthest from any direct light, his colouring
will most likely be all the clearer proportionately to the lack of
light. That is logical, but the logic is rather primitive. By dint
of being pushed into white, colour shrinks to vanishing-point. The
charm of fresh colouring is above all others a passing charm. We
need no stronger proof than the present state of the "Childhood
of St. Genevieve." When the panel was unveiled, the public
had but one voice upon its freshness. One breathed an air so
limpid, a perfume so sylvan, that one seemed to be transported
into the earthly paradise of legend, into the golden age of history.
To-day, Time has passed over the flower and has wrought with it
as he does with all; its juvenile glow has faded, dullness has
spread over the whole canvas, and we are forced to ask what
will remain in fifty years if so little is left after fifteen.
However that may be, we cannot disguise the fact that all
friends of Art desire, and see with pleasure begin, a reaction
against the thin and pale methods of painting introduced by this
"GOOD MORNING, PIERROT."
P. CARRIER - BELLEUSE
Copyright 1897 by P. Carrier-Belleuse
SALON DE 1897
ON THE CLIFF
A. MOREAU
Copyright 1897 Adrien Moreau
SALON DE 1897.
forced the acceptance of that which would have been refused from
a lesser man. His many pupils have copied in him, as usual, only
his defects, and since then we have seen interminable rows of
pictures that had of M. Puvis de Chavannes neither his poetry nor
[ILLUSTRATION]
BLANCHE _ Young girl with hat
his knowledge of composition,but only his
conventional colour.
Now the reaction has
begun. One would like
to see true painting once
more, and the spontaneous
success that has
attended all pictures
really painted is proof
of a return to truth.
We have done, we hope,
with the white, flat, thin
manner; we beg as a
favour for a little warmth,
a little life.
M. Albert Bernard is
a rare artist. To his instinctive
qualities as a colourist
he unites a classic
education, a solid ground
of most serious study, that gives a special force even to his fantasies.
Gifted with a refined, even literary imagination, he has evoked
and fixed most delightful apparitions. The decoration of the Mairie
of the First Arrondissement, of the School of Pharmacy, of the Hôtel
de Ville, among others, has attested the variety of his talent. Not
all his portraits are of equal value, though each has its share of
originality; but time will make its usual selection from such rich
an artist a high place in contemporary art. He shows portraits
again this year; that of Dr. Calot, of Berck-sur-Mer, whose recent
methods of treatment have made him a benefactor, a saviour even,
of those ill-treated by Nature. His portrait is classic in attitude
and execution; no effort after fantasy, which is as it should be.
The men of science whom one calls in only during pain or sorrow,
are not appropriate themes for the play of fancy, however ingenious
it may be. They need an austere art. The artist understood
this well when he placed his model, alone, with folded arms,
upright before a bare wall; he has shown thus how easy it is
for him who has approached the Masters, to attain style without effort.
The portrait of "Mesdames L... and D..." on the other hand,
belongs completely to the rich series of feminine images regularly
exhibited by M. Besnard; but we say nothing further of it than
that it ranks with its most successful predecessors. The portrait
of "M. L. D...," on the contrary, is new in the work of the painter.
His temperament has led him up to the present toward brilliancy
of colour, and here is a picture wholly in subdued shades, in elusive
transparencies. This modulation in grey has nothing of the tour-de-force
in which a tone plays upon itself; it is truthful, natural. One
would say an exact reality seen through a souvenir or a dream.
The effect is exquisite.
M. Ary Renan's "Voices of the Sea" is the work not only
of a painter, but of a poet as well. In the pale green flood of
the Breton sea, a woman, her bust emerging from the water,
reclines dolorously on the neck of a gull that skims the crest of
the waves. Symbol of the dying voices that seem to rise from the
depths, image of the monotonous and tireless plaint of the Ocean.
The transparent colour of the water, which seems to be a weakened
emerald, the stormy atmosphere which broods upon the
sea, give a very original aspect to the canvas. One feels the impression
of a poetic thought seeking expression beyond the usual
DECLARATION OF WAR
FRANCE AND AUSTRIA, 1792.
F. LAFON
Copyright 1897 by Franois Lafon
SALONDE 1897
THE FANTASIA
E GIRARDET
SALON DE 1897
comes from the brush of this artist, so largely comprehensive, bears
the double mark, after all, of great and high thought and the
subtile search after the rarest modes of expression. We have here
one of the most attractive examples.
M. Simon's picture, "Portraits," attracts attention amidst the
long white galleries of the Champ de Mars. This bourgeois family,
assembled in a bourgeois drawing-room, does not strike us by the
individual significance of the physiognomies; but the picture is solidly
painted, and that is enough to conquer attention. And yet its
robust execution does not shine by any extreme delicacy; there
are many unjustified violences and summary processes. No matter,
there is in it a quality which covers all its defects. It is the
picture of a painter; we wish to know nothing more. Amid the
profound anæmia in which the talent of most artists atrophies
itself, a wholesome work is a joy to the eyes. We must salute
it in passing as the promise of a brilliant future.
It is precisely these qualities of vigorous execution that once
constituted the essential genius of the French School, and that
the foreign painters have learnt from us, with what success one
knows. The artists of the North, whom we ungrudgingly applaud,
perform nothing else than good French painting, such as it flourished
fifty years ago. We have lost the tradition, if not the remembrance.
They bring it back to us, and this is the sole profit we draw from
the hospitality offered them by our Salons. The remarkable portrait
of "Madame B..." exhibited by M. Zorn has nothing in it
that comes from the North. We see very clearly from whence
that art comes, and might easily claim it as our own. However
that may be, the portrait is charming, clear in execution. M. Zorn
has not known how to assimilate the secret of feminine attitudes,
like M. Boldini. He does not know that which his Italian colleague
knows so well, the charm of line; he has not the intuition
of plastic beauty, but he paints light. The face, the bare arms
coat the young lady allows her hands to fall, is bathed in light.
All this very summarily executed, in a sort of brilliant sketch. One
may question whether this same portrait, pushed to the utmost
limit of execution, like those of the ancient masters, would preserve
that glowing youth which makes its charm. The question
is allowed, and even the doubt. The artists of to-day know well
the magic of the incomplete, the grace of the "almost," which
leaves the spectator's imagination to complete that which they have
indicated. They know it and they profit by it. But those who see
further than the current hour, have reason for the reserves they
make, even in giving themselves up to the pleasure of the moment.
"Time spares nothing that is made without him," is a precept
adapted to everybody. Many of our contemporaries will find the
truth of it and pay for the lesson.
The portrait of "Madame V. P.," by M. Boldini continues the
elegant gallery consecrated by this master to feminine beauty. To
speak the truth, they are grisailles; little or no colour, but plenty
of light. The artist delights only in black and white. Hence a
certain uniformity in the first glance at his work. It is varied,
nevertheless, and original through the astonishing fantasy of the
attitudes. M. Boldini is an enthusiast for Woman. He understands
her, he loves her for her infinite suppleness. He watches
patiently for the unforeseen gesture, the unpremeditated pause of
the young woman or the girl; one might say that he surprized
them in the midst of a conversation, in the roguish movement of
contradiction or of coquetry. As did the artists of the Renaissance
who came to France to work at Paris or at Fontainebleau,
M. Boldini amplifies or diminishes certain proportions in order to
arrive at a more complete expression of elegance. Thus he lessens
noticeably the thickness of the extremities, and lengthens them, as
did Francesco Primaticcio and his pupils. Thus he gives a singular
expression of nervous fineness to his portraits; thus he executes
AT HOME
J. STEWART
SALON DE 1897.
A YOUNG LADIES STUDIO
PRINET
SALON DE 1897
model to find better. On the contrary, it seems as though he
had added something of his own to them, and that real nature,
if it has more health, has less of the unforeseen.
At the other pole of Art, M. Leempoels exhibits two portraits
on one canvas: "Friendship." Two men, friends, of the same age,
about fifty, and hand in hand in sign of an indissoluble community
of sentiment. The moral expression of this feeling does
not glow upon these faces of medium intelligence; no visible goodness
lights up their fixed eyes, and nothing would call attention
to the picture were it not rendered striking by a curious perfection
of execution. We are here in presence of a purely local work,
showing no trace of other influence. M. Leempoels is a Flemish
primitive astray in our age of steam. He paints with the minute
patience, with the scrupulous care for truth, which made the artistic
credo of the 15th century. The faces of the friends have
the air of being reproduced in a mirror, so faithful is the image.
But that truth would he nought if the effect of the whole were
lost in the detail. Happily, the painter is too shrewd to have
made a mere photograph; he has known how to preserve the
general forms and give an art-value to his work. This mode of
interpreting Nature is not in harmony with the French genius;
it is none the less interesting as an attempt to restore a process
which lives only in our museums.
Everything has served M. Dagnan-Bouveret without his counting
any pictures of a very personal accent in his work. Continuous
good fortune protects him against his own audacities and at the
same time against the venom of the critics. Neither his religious
paintings nor his Breton scenes have taught us anything of religion
or of Brittany, but the amiable grace of their execution has
gone right to the heart of the crowd, and success has come with
extended hands to M. Dagnan-Bouveret, while she turns her back
upon others of more individual talent and deeper sentiment. The
the average to which he has accustomed us. The portrait of
[ILLUSTRATION]
BOLDINI _ Portrait of Mme V. P.
"Madame T. R." andthat of "Madame la
Comtesse de B." have
the charm of modern
painting marked by the
effort to exaggerate
nothing, to manifest no
exuberance. The art
of M. Dagnan-Bouveret
lacks defects; for his
sake one wishes it had
some.
M. Jacques Blanche
progresses from year
to year; not that his
this year's exhibit is
much superior to that
of last year. He then
showed the painter
Thaulow amid his family,
a picture which left
him without a peer. But
the qualities acquired
by him have been maintained
and fortified, and
that is a veritable progress,
rather than the
happy hazard of a successful picture. The artist remains faithful
to the English School, whose influence on his manner is still
visible. The success decreed by fashion to that School will not
encourage him to free himself from its power; we hope however
PEASANT LOVERS.
A PERRET
SALON DE 1897.
THE FAIRY TALE
MUENIER
SALON DE 1897
destiny. The "Portraits in an Interior" attract attention
less than the "Little Girl with Hat;" they are, however,
treated with greater individuality. Portraits of bourgeois home-life
have almost always inspired French painters with remarkable
works. Everyone will recall the admirable series by David
and by Ingres. Doubtless, one does not encounter that elegance—slightly
factitious, it is true—which makes at first glance
the charm of the English School, but how much our national
personalities gain by being known! How thoroughly they possess
that equilibrium, that loyalty, to which one always ends by returning
after having allowed ourselves to be dazzled for the moment by
the seductive ostentation of English artists. One always returns,
by reflection or by time. The love of the foreign is a sign
of youth, if not in age, at least in spirit; it shows that often
having explored the world one has not yet settled down. The
truth is, that it is in touching the soil of one's own country that
one becomes original. When in a foreign work, we see a reminiscence,
an influence, that is French, it loses its own value in
our eyes; we prefer to it that in which the local colour is clear
and pure. It is the same with our own pictures in which a souvenir
of a foreign School is to be seen; they have lost the best
part of their value without acquiring any in return.
The "Little Girl with Cat," by Madame Breslau, is agreeable
to look up, harmonious in colour. "Fair-Hair" is a portrait, largely
executed, a good piece of painting. Madame Breslau is certainly
at the head of feminine painting. We know of no woman her
superior either in artistic sense or technical ability. She possesses
individuality, and that is enough to distinguish her. The question
remains whether painting will reap any great benefit from the
admission of women to the official schools; the existence even of
these studios has given rise to so many criticisms that it may find
itself compromised. Artistic movements are absolutely independant
foretell them, aid, or retard them. Often, even, one sees them
rise from the very conditions that would seem destined to hinder
them. With such talent as that of Madame Breslau it matters
little whether the teaching be done officially or no. The all-important
is to suffice for oneself.
M. Aman-Jean exhibits a triptych. In the middle, the portrait
of a woman seated on a bench, in a park with vast distances;
right and left, two allegorical figures, Beauty and Poetry. M. Aman-Jean
is a distinguished mind, whose intentions are not served by
an adequate brush. His triptych takes us back to past conceptions
of decorative painting, to well-known allegories, in which Beauty,
Temperance, Justice, all the theological virtues, are represented
by women in appropriate costume. The value of these allegories
has never consisted in aught but the plastic attraction of the goddesses,
and the manner has been abandoned because of the hopeless
chilliness it engenders. We speak of allegory and not of symbol:
the two terms are widely separated in meaning. To constitute a
symbol, a fact of unchanging order is needed, as a cosmic phenomenon,
represented by a human fact, of equally certain truth.
These two terms are needed to make a symbol; thus Antiquity
understood it, and one questions whether such conceptions can be
other than the growth of centuries. As to representing any idea
by any object or creature, that is pure allegory. There are some
more or less happy; but, always being arbitrary, they have only a
very relative value. In the early days of Art, this manner seemed
handy, to serve as a pretext for figures; it has since been abandoned
because of the insufficiency of their expression. We retain
of M. Aman-Jean's triptych only the central figure, which is a
very fine portrait, rather literary, in which life shows itself less by
that which is seen than by that which is realised.
M. Guillaume Roger's "Decorative Fantasy" is a beautiful page,
subdued in tone, delicate in contrast. Young women dance or walk,
QUARRY AT NANTERRE
R. BILLOTTE
SALON DE 1897
IN STORM-TIME
J. C. CAZIN
SALON DE 1897.
balance themselves like oranges in the branches. This young and
talented artist possesses serious qualities of distinction: he will
speedily acquire vigour of colour when he shall have broken with
his present preoccupations and resolved to be himself without
caring what his neighbour is thinking. In this panel he affirms a
natural elegance which will always keep him from falling into vulgarity.
We only ask of
[ILLUSTRATION]
COURTOIS _ Self-Communion
him to embolden himselfand carry out his own
ideas to the end.
M. Lerolle is a decorator
born. He has
the sense of space, horizons,
plains, all that
is simple in silhouette?
His "Pleasant Day" is
a decorative painting in
the full sense of the
word. It could not be
reduced to more modest
proportions; it has need
of being just what it is
in order that its charm
may be felt. The view is taken from the edge of a wood, the
trees of which, straight-trunked as the shafts of columns, occupy
the foreground. In the intervals of that colonnade, the eye ranges
over lawns, a lake, an enchanted landscape bathed in the light
and warmth of a long summer day. Here the emotion is not in
the colours; it is in the undefinable impression of a fine landscape,
seductive even in its lines; it emanates from the soul of the artist
and communicates itself directly to the regard, without visible artifice,
by its innate force. A remarkable work.
The "Portrait of Madame G. F. and her children" is a pretty
group, by M. Carolus-Duran. It is up to the average of this
artist, whose talent has not enough of that which that of M. Aman-Jean
has too much. There is nothing to say of the essays in landscape
that he exhibits. Like many figure-painters who improvise
a turn at landscape, he does not seem to suspect the infinite complexity
of forms, of colours, of aspects, of Nature. The art of
landscape reveals itself only to those who penetrate its secrets by
long frequenting. It must be the devotion of a life and not an
amusement.
The "Christ on the Cross" of M. Eug. Carrière is painted in
the manner he has made for himself and which has had some success
among litterateurs. There is no opinion to formulate on that picture
any more than on that manner. If the artist really sees as
he paints, it is a special case akin to that of certain painters who
cannot see certain colours; there is then such a gulf between his
vision and that of the generality of men that no discussion is possible.
If, on the other hand, that manner is a parti-pris, it is
regrettable to see a painter adopt one which, by the thick veil it
spreads over all things, does away at a stroke with all difficulties
of design, colour, light, at the same time as all artistic expression.
The process has been known for some centuries which consists
in concentrating the light on one sole point, leaving the rest in
shadow, even in the blackness of night. That method has produced
master-pieces that one may see without going very far. But then
that unique point resumes in itself the supreme degree of glow,
of colour and of light. The attempt is fine, for one fails miserably
if one does not triumph. To risk it, is needed the certainty of a
masterly execution. But covering everything with fog and smoke,
leaving form and colour to be divined through them, is a process which
too readily evades the difficulty, with whatever address it is applied.
M. Cottet, also, has made a manner for himself, but in it
we see clearly, at least. Simplification in the extreme of silhouette
STORM ON THE BEACH OF SCHEVENINGHEN
H. W. MESDAG
SALON DE 1897
RETURN OF SHRIMPERS
(HONFLEUR)
M. COURANT
SALON DE 1897
and Old Women," the "Old Apple-Woman," struck in with vigour,
painted in great splashes of colour, have the most violent look of
hardness. Here nothing veils itself, bathes itself with atmosphere;
it is the most absolute antipodes of the grey painting one meets
at each step among the nearest neighbours of M. Cottet. The
parti-pris of this painting is clear and definite, to be taken of
left. It must be accepted, because the sum of its qualities is
greater than that of its defects. Let Time do its work. With
maturity crudities ripen, sometimes even to entirely disappearing;
we have even seen them give place to radically opposite extremes.
It is the effect of years and a little reflection. How many painters
who to-day only think through Ingres would he astonished did
one recall what they thought in the days of their youth! But it
is well that it should be so. The world would die of boredom
if all that is truly great and beautiful were not continually called
in question, if each artist did not recommence the discussion of
all that has been definitely acquired and become part of the commonwealth
of humanity. After all, what should we have to talk about?
The Jewish scenes, the synagogue views of M. Brandon are
as always interesting. Why has an artist of such a robust talent,
whose works are marked with so much character, why has he
not, among the public, the reputation that he merits? The subjects
he treats are austere, which is enough to repel the indifferent.
At least, the esteem of all artists remains faithful to one
whose crime is to lack commonplace.
Lucky commonplace has also failed M. Marcelin Desboutin.
For years he has exhibited portraits of character, realistic, and at
the same time, of rare expressiveness. All friends of Art are
pleased to recognize in him a thoroughly individual painter, one
of those who, like many other irregulars, will survive the multitude
whose present success is destined to be replaced by oblivion.
The portraits of M. Baudin and of M. Fournières are works of
M. Helleu, a designer of great distinction, whose dry-points
proceed directly from the most graceful masters of the 18th century,
sends three exquisite studies of Versailles. They are corners
of the park, in autumn, when the reddened leaves fall at the least
touch of wind, raining down upon the white statues. These three
studies present themselves modestly, without shrieking tones, with
the discretion of good taste. The grandiose melancholy which forever
hovers over the admirable park has descended upon these
little canvases, so simple in motive and so reserved in execution;
and this is enough for us to place the artist in a rank apart, among
the elite of those who feel with delicacy, among the aristocrats
of Art. Besides, even the choice of site manifests a whole
order of ideas, sympathetic to all those who have some refinement
of soul. Our epoch, which in democratising also mediocratises itself
on all sides, and returns towards barbarism, disdains the marvels
of a past which was our own. It is understood that Versailles
is to be considered a bore; Versailles which was the masterpiece
of a century-and-a-half of efforts of the purest French
genius. This palace and this park, that Europe has copied in all
its capitals, are a point of pilgrimage only to a few rare artists
and writers. But yet, there is there a source of lofty inspirations,
capable of reviving our art, which runs hither and thither in the
search for that which is at its door. Versailles is the immortal
witness of a nobler, purer civilization than ours, of an art really
original, beside which our copies of foreign art are valueless and
infantile. Why does not one go oftener to demand of that dead
miracle the secret of some fine work? Are painters so little poets
that they understand neither majesty nor eloquence? Are they so
indifferent to the triumph of thought that everything outside the
technique of their art is sealed to them? The artists whose masterpieces
people our museums had a higher ideal of their art; they
had the care of grandeur, they sought as much to touch the soul
DISTRIBUTION OF PRIZES AT THE PALACE OF INDUSTRY
(INTERNATIONAL EXHIBITION OF 1889
H. GERVEX
SALON DE 1897
creations; on the contrary, it breathed into them a new force that
upholds them now that Time has wiped off the glow of their
colour and destroyed the freshness of their design. Here is an
example to imitate. So that we owe gratitude to those, who, like
RAFFAELLI _ The Church of St. Germain des Pres (Paris.)
succeed by the sole effort of their sincerity.
We owe great artistic consideration to M. James Tissot. His
astonishing illustration of the Gospels, witnesses to immense labour
directed by most veritable talent. After such an effort, an artist
has taken his place in contemporary art. So that it is only just
to give all his works the benefit of that sympathy which he has
won through one among them. This year he shows a vast canvas:
See, H. E. Cardinal Langénieux, by the Patriarch, H. B. Mgr.
Piavi." The first impression is not that we should have wished
to feel. The picture is an official picture, and that is its excuse.
But this mass of personages, or rather, of portraits, does not
melt into an atmosphere which gives it depth, which establishes the
planes and constitutes the vitality of the representation. With that
reserve, the picture gains by close study. All these physiognomies,
taken separately, have the individual relief and character of nature.
Each portrait could be detached from the whole and retain its
individuality. As souvenir of a pious ceremony, one can desire no
more exact resemblance; the document is precious for the future
historians of Catholicism in Jerusalem.
Not far from this great canvas of modern history, hangs another
of revolutionary history, of which something must be said, not
because of its own value, but because of the surroundings amid
which it is exhibited. It is the "Night of 9th-10th Thermidor,"
by M. Weerts. M. Weerts exhibits in this same Salon, a dozen
portraits that, on a good many points, touch miniature, not so
much by their size as by the pretty art with which they are
executed. Amidst that gallery of portraits, an historical picture,
a tragic episode that has already attracted more than one artist.
Like a simple historical painter in the Champs Élysées, M. Weerts
has recourse to the catalogue to explain his meaning. We copy:
"Opinion was divided. Saint-Just, Couthon, Coffinhal, almost all
wished to act. Robespierre wished to wait. Change his rôle,
begin a war against the law, was it not in this moment to efface all
his life, erase with his own hand the idea by which he lived, which
gave him all his force? However, the saying of Couthon: `We
have nothing to do but die?' seemed to shake him for a moment.
He took a sheet of paper, bearing already written an appeal to
insurrection, and slowly wrote these two letters that one may still
see: Ro..... But, arrived there, his conscience rebelled; he threw
NAVAL REVIEW AT CHERBOURG (OCT. 5, 1896.)
E. DAUPHIN
SALON DE 1897.
THE EVOLUTIONARY SQUADRON LEAVING TOULON ROADS
MONTENARD.
SALON DE 1897
This saying assured his fall; but his salvation also in history."
Thus, a paragraph from Michelet's History of France is needed
to explain this picture. We ask ourselves, then, what becomes
of the cutting ironies with which the separatists of the Champ
de Mars, with which the virtuosi of modern art, crush those poor
historical painters, obliged in order to make themselves understood
to explain themselves in the Catalogue or on printed labels?
These also, before the same problem, have recourse to the same
means, for the simple reason that they cannot do otherwise.
But leave this criticism on one side. The truth is that at the
Palais de l'Industrie, M. Weerts' picture would have passed unseen
among so many other historical anecdotes. At the Champ de
Mars, it strikes one as a thing which has lost its way. This
souvenir of the great events of other days, what is it doing here
in a place from which all thought of any high order is absent?
M. Puvis de Chavannes put on one side, as being a classic whose
place is not there, nobody at the National Society seems to know
that humanity has a history. It would appear that the world had
begun with them, and that nothing of what it has done, of what
it has loved and suffered, counts in our civilization. Such a state
of mind in the 15th or 16th centuries would have suppressed
religious history and mythology, that is to say, almost all painting.
If the masters of the Renaissance had been content with that
which suffices for our moderns, three-quarters of their work would
never have seen the day. They sought higher and further and it
is the honour of their genius to have enriched and glorified the
common patrimony of working and thinking humanity.
It must be said, that in suppressing from their artistic programme
everything which touches the great human questions, the
National Society has reduced its field of action to the narrowest
proportions. It is confined to landscape, portrait, genre, and even
this modest form of art grows rarer and rarer. Soon we shall
talent one may find in them, such Exhibitions will be inevitably monotonous.
Painting cannot completely rid itself of all admiration
for the past. The spectators who pass through these picture-galleries
are, sometimes, thinking beings whom the happy juxtaposition
of two complementaries will not wholly satisfy. One may be a
colourist and yet paint historical pictures—what, in the slang of
Parisian studios, are known as grandes machines. Rubens and
Velasquez have well proved it. These are names that one may
cite without disrespect to the founders of the National Society.
Historical painting has probably remained in their minds as the type
of formal imagery. The time is fitting for artists, fond of colour,
to attack some great compositions and show themselves rightful
heirs of David and Delacroix. We do not ask them to do over again
the Tableau des Lances or the Galerie de Médicis, but all attempts
in a similar direction would be hailed with joy by many people.
M. Gervex had a fine opportunity in his "Distribution of Prizes
at the Palais de l'Industrie (International Exhibition of 1889)."
The variety of costume lent itself to a glitter of colour; the stiffness
of an official ceremony might have been condoned, attenuated,
in that immense and many-coloured crowd. There was material
for a fine decorative page. Unhappily, the artist has given us
only the correct image of a cold ceremony. Do not accuse the
kind of picture; all kinds are good. The important thing is not
to feel emotion in an official canvas, which never lends itself to
that. But a real artist can always let himself go on the enthusiasm
of his art, the charm of his colour. Commemorative painting
is in its fixity so frozen that it would perhaps be wise to
confide its execution to the excentrics of the art, or the prodigal
sons of modernism. The results thus obtained would without
doubt be perfectly bad in themselves, but at the sight of some audacious
discovery painters of the official might dare to infuse a
little life into their pictures.
A NIGHT OF ITALY.
IWILL
SALON DE 1897.
SHEEP-FOLDS AT DRONTHEIM
A. STENGELIN
SALON DE 1897.
M. Picard exhibits two fine portraits, that of "Madame la
Comtesse de C." and that of "M. Dagnan-Bouveret." M. Roll's
[ILLUSTRATION]
Mlle BRESLAU _ Girl with Cat
"Henri Rochefort" is
excellent for the natural
attitude and the truth
of the resemblance.
M. Jeanniot possesses
in a very high degree
the sense of the essential
trait. Sometimes, even,
he emphasizes it with
such vigour that he
goes near to caricature.
This is certainly
not the case in the portraits
of "Madame T."
and of "M. G. H." but
our observation does
not go far enough to
explain a certain hardness
in these canvases
so expressive, all the
same. We must note
in passing a fine portrait
of "Madame Dolorès
de Guanabacoa,"
by M. Lottin. As to
Messrs. Alexander and
La Gandara, their
manners—so different, however—meet on the common ground of
representing the Society woman.
Looking at things calmly, not taking count of a state of mind
special to the artist and his model the paintings of M. Alexander
Despite a constant search for originality of pose, despite the perpetual
and useless fear of seeming commonplace, we are struck
neither by a large generous handling, master of itself, nor by a
keen insight into human personality. One impression only imposes
itself on the spectator; that of a constant straining after the
rare, the strange, the not-yet-seen—straining all the more obvious
that the artists are wholly devoid of real originality, that which
reveals itself unlooked for. However, we must admit that there
is an intimate connection between the represented and the representation.
This Society painting befits Society people.
We have only to glance over the history of art to note the discontent
and chagrin of the greatest artists before the obligation
of a portrait of some princess or grand dame. The endless exactions,
fantasies, whims, of his model impose upon the unhappy
painter, sometimes a genius, perpetual changes in which his best
qualities are lost. He must conform to the myriad tyrannies of
the woman who means to be made what she would like to be, and
who generally professes a thorough disdain for his art. One
suffers for the painter under that subjection, limitless because irrational.
Thus, how rare are the portraits in which one does not
feel at every glance the all-powerful will of an imperious model.
And how well one understands those sincere artists who refuse to
weave that Penelope's web that is called the portrait of a Society
woman!
But neither M. La Gandara nor M. Alexander seem to feel
these inquietudes. They well represent Society-folk, men and women,
as they are and as they would like to be. Don't let us attack
them. In the end, they are right. One must work for the happiness
of people despite themselves. That which one calls "Society"
asks no more than this. By what right should a real painter
give his emotion to those who do not, and are not in a position
to, understand it? It would be so much wasted, and there is not
CAUGHT BY THE SNOW
(HIGH ALPS)
RUCH
SALON DE 1897
DISTRIBUTION OF SOUP AT THE MARKETS (PARIS)
WINTER MORNING.
J. J. ROUSSEAU
SALON DE 1897
THE NIGHT OF 9TH_10TH THERMIDOR
WEERTS
SALON DE 1897
in vain. As everyone else is content, let us be so also.
"Marseilles Roads," by M. Montenard, is a decorative panel
intended for the palace of the Union Française at Constantinople.
It may be thought that the real object of the picture occupies a
very modest place in it. The French at Constantinople, who never
forget the mother-land and regard with tenderness all that may
recall one of its loveliest sites, may consider that the trellised
terrace, whence the view is taken, assumes an importance on the
canvas which they would rather see given to the town itself. The
"Great Basin of the Tuileries" reproduces with a certain effectiveness
one of the finest perspectives in the world.
The ceiling executed for the Sorbonne by M. Guillaume Dubufe
is an allegory of Science and Poetry. This decorative work
needs to be seen in place before we can estimate its value.
"Autumn," by M. René Ménard, gilt by the last gleams of
the setting sun, is filled with tender poetry. It has escaped the
contagion of white, which seems, after M. Puvis de Chavannes,
to be the rule in decorative technique. M. Ménard has not been
afraid to put gold on his canvas. This is no innovation, but a
return to the true tradition of decoration. The artist is to be congratulated.
The visit of the Russian royalties has its echo at the Champ
de Mars also. M. Dauphin has celebrated it in two marine pictures:
"The Emperor and Empress of Russia going on board
the Hoche" and "Pole-Star and the Standard approaching Cherbourg
escorted by the French Squadron." M. Montenard has also
sent a view of "The Evolutionary Squadron" treated with the
dash he usually gives to his land and seascapes of Provence.
Few military pictures: this form of art feels out of place at
the Champ de Mars. However, we must not omit the remarkable
studies of cavalry by M. Guignard. "At the Outposts," "The
Eve of Valmy," "Concentration of Cavalry at Dawn," "Cavalry
side is almost absent, but personages and landscapes are
treated with a special air of truth, and feeling for surroundings.
It is not Meissonier, but the impression is clear and strong. We
meet no other military studies of that value in the Salon, reserve
made for many details of execution, M. Lafon's picture: "Declaration
of War between the King of France and the Emperor of
Austria, 1792" only deserves mention.
The rustic scenes of M. Lhermitte, the "Haysel" and the "End
of the Day" respire the calm of the fields. Real country and real
peasants, without any conventional touching-up. M. Lhermitte
leaves them all their native roughness; perhaps, even, he gives
them a touch more of harshness than they really have. What must
be recognized is the noble freedom of this painting which remains
individual after Millet and Jules Breton.
M. Muenier is the painter of tramps, of those wanderers who
are nobody knows what. He does not paint those villanous vagabonds
who live only by pillaging farms, and who, at need, set
fire to the straw in which they have slept. He likes them honest;
they have good faces; they are the disinherited, the resigned. His
"Tramps" who rest and refresh themselves beside the stream,
are really honest workmen whom one would like to meet. A great
sympathy fills this picture, which is one of the best signed by
the artist. The "Fairy Story" and above all the "Storm" are
equally works of merit.
The "Peasant Lovers" of M. Aimé Perret have chosen to
make love on a plain where they can be seen from all sides.
Certainly, that may be a touch of truth; but an irresistable prejudice
demands a more mysterious frame for these mysteries.
M. Cazin, like M. J. Breton, paints Artois, but Nature is so
small a thing by herself, and in Art the vision of the artist so
imperative, that these two painters, equally sincere, before the
same scenes, seem to describe countries foreign and far removed,
M. Cazin is only interested in landscape, but the difference of sentiment
shows over all.
"In Time of Storm," "The Sands of Arbonne," "A Village
[ILLUSTRATION]
ESCOULA _ Grief.
in Artois," are full of nervous
poetry; one feels the
touch of a sensitive nature
whose delicacy reaches
exasperation. Nothing is
less peaceful than these
desert places, these denuded
plains whence hovels
rise. Everywhere is felt
an indefinable vibration,
which gives deep emotion
to these rude desolate-looking
sites.
M. I will, who, under his
English pseudonym, hides
a good French painter,
shows some delicate memories
of Italy. He loves
mist-effects, the undecided
instant when objects half-define
themselves in the
dimness of twilight or of
dawn. This is not the
hour at which Corot surprized
Nature, in the first wakening of the shade, but it is
landscape wreathed in that veil of soft grey mist which gives
objects their true significance. The view of Assisi interests by
its strangeness; the "Italian Night" is a charming impression.
One does not expect to see a nocturne of Venice with softened
The "Marsh," by M. Damoye, when a little time has passed
over it, may well take its place beside a Daubigny for the deep
transparency of its distances. M. Stengelin's "Sheepfolds in
Drenthe" are grey; damp, muddy ground beneath a misty sky. The
impression is just.
M. Billotte does not go to Holland, like M. Stengelin, not
even to Belgium, like everybody else; he stays at Paris, and his
explorations around the great city are no less fruitful. The painters
of Paris usually choose the finest sites on the course of the
Seine; there in fact, motives abound, all unforeseen, all interesting.
M. Billotte keeps to the faubourgs, or, rather, to the neighbourhood
of the fortifications. There he finds corners, denuded,
grey, desolate, as though gnawed by vermin, which he renders
moving because he loves them. Among the crowd of cabins that
warn the traveller of the approach to Paris, on these plains devastated
as though by a cataclysm, abandoned quarries open themselves,
caves which seem to harbour a people of troglodytes. On
the summit, even at the bottom, of these chalky rocks, deserted
huts, ruined houses, make one think of unknown disasters, of unpunished
crimes. These are the landscapes over which M. Billotte
lingers, of which he expresses the sinister poetry with rare strength.
The excess of violet in the colouring of his previous exhibits diminished
the real value of his work. To-day M. Billotte has rid
himself of this parti-pris and renders exactly what he sees. So
that this year's exhibits are wholly remarkable. The "Quarry at
Nanterre," the "Quarry Path," the "Folie-Bezons," attest a painter
arrived at the complete possession of his talent.
Among foreign landscapists, M. Willaert must rank in the first
line. He shows a beautifully-executed series of views at Ghent.
His "Old Canal with Red-tiled Roofs," slumbers in deep peace
under the sunshine; not a line on the water, not a ripple; a
THE SLEEP-WALKER
E. ROSSET-GRANGER
SALON DE 1897.
INTERIOR
BIESSY
"What evil is comparable to Drink"
EDGAR ALLAN POÉ.
SALON DE 1897
houses, the innumerable shadows of the ancient walls that line
its either side. In his "Canal at Ghent, Morning Effect," the
effect is still more delicate. Here all is cool, and grey; water,
sky, and houses. It is just before sunrise, when light is everywhere,
its rays nowhere; an exquisite poetry of provincial calm
transpires from this landscape, before which one should linger.
Among the genre painters at the Champ de Mars, it is to be
noted that some seem to have agreed on doing old painting. M. Prinet
in his "Girls in a Workroom" has remembered over well the
"Spinners" of Velasquez. M. Boulard in his Parisian interiors
has looked too long upon the interiors in the museums, browned
by time. Like M. Griveau in landscape these young artists have
made old new. It is a pity.
M. Dinet, on the contrary, is a man of his time. The "Courtisan"
and "Sorrow" are Algerian types of a violence of colour
that gives them character. "On the Cliffs," by M. Adrien Moreau,
is only a woman, in 1830 costume, standing on a cliff. Why?
"At Home," by M. Stewart, is an English drawing-room, chosen
place for tea and flirtation. M. Rosset-Granger shows the portrait
of a lady walking, lamp in hand: "The Somnambulist."
M. Biessy shows us a man sitting at a table, having a spirit-bottle
beside him. "What evil is comparable to alcohol?" asks
the title. It is purely literary painting. The "Distribution of
Soup at the Markets" of Paris on a winter's morning is a lamentable
spectacle by which M. J.-J. Rousseau seeks to touch us
with the misery of the poor. Alas! there is a long way between
a good deed and a fine work of art. M. Frappa has neither so
much philosophy nor much humanity; he seeks only the agreeable,
as in his "Rose-Girl" and he is all the surer of popularity.
Before descending to the sculpture, we must cite an austere
seascape by M. Mesdag, "Storm on the Beach of Scheveninghen";
a pretty sea-view by M. Courant, "Return of the Shrimpers";
and an agreable memory of Algeria, "Fantasy" by M. Girardet.
SCULPTURE
The sculpture at the Champ de Mars cannot be compared with
that at the Champs Elysées; not that its importance is so very
different, but that the ideas inspiring it are so opposed. The
plastic doctrine of the one is the opposite to that of the other.
Here it is no longer pure plastic, the research for beauty of line,
for harmony of proportion. That school is abandoned or nearly
so. Nothing but expressive sculpture; the search for beauty in
movement, in colour, in all that constitutes the personality of a
human being. A Periklean Greek would note with satisfaction the
perfection of execution, but would lament the weakening absence
of the decorative sense which reveals itself in our best sculptors.
Thus, the busts, or expressive heads, form almost the whole attraction
of the Champ de Mars; the decorative compositions, like
the "Monument of the Dead," by M. Bartholomé, are worth more
for the profound sentiment that animates them than for balance
of composition or excellence of technique.
The fragment of the "Monument of the Dead," executed in
stone, has preserved the intensity of sorrow which animates it.
Here, is the triumph of mind over matter, technique, design, form,
colour—over all. It is impossible to look without emotion on this
couple, extended in their tomb in the attitude of two comrades
who died as they had lived, in absolute union of hearts. The
tiny body of their child, thrown between them, links them closer
still. These three beings symbolize all that man can love in this
lower world, all that gives a reason of being to his passage upon
earth. The group is only valuable through the deep feeling that
"THE BURDEN OF LIFE"
FAGEL
SALON DE 1897.
the grace, the beauty—above all, the serenity which gave the
ancients such grandeur in face of death, considered by them as
rest after a journey, as peace after strife. But that conception
has died out of the popular mind, and lives only in certain lofty
souls. This which has inspired M. Bartholomé is the only one
that can be generally understood. It has its charm, its constant
philosophy, and the sculptor's work keeps a significance which will
assure it a considerable place among contemporary statuary.
Another tomb, that of Alexandre Dumas the younger, by M. de
Saint-Marceau, demands attention. In the form that he has given
to his work, he has only followed the indications of the dead writer.
"After my death," he wrote in his will, "I am to be clad in
one of my usual working-costumes, my feet bare." This desire,
piously carried out, forbids us to ask if the artist left to his own
inspiration, would not have given another form to this monument.
He has, at least, put into it all the perfection of execution of
which it was capable, and has treated the marble with rare delicacy.
But, for the general effect, we must wait until it is in place,
when certain exaggerated proportions will be rectified: we allude
to the size of the crown which shelters the forehead of the dramatist.
M. Rodin shows the rough model of his monument of Victor
Hugo. We were among the first to salute the talent of M. Rodin,
at a time when juries and the public were far from accepting
him. To-day his triumph is complete and it would be futile to
praise him. We regret that the monument to Victor Hugo is
not advanced enough to enable its proper appreciation, and serve
as an occasion for speaking of all the expression embodied in such
vibrating sculpture. We know enough of the sculptor's methods
to be sure that all imperfections of detail will be effaced, that
improvement will go on up to the last moment under the guidance
of an artistic conscience that is never satisfied; we know
In its present state, the monument is a beautiful promise. Let
us hope that next year the promise will he kept, and that we may
admire without needing to give credit to friendship or to admiration.
M. Dalou's "Triumph of Silenus" has retained in the bronze
[ILLUSTRATION]
DALOU _ Pt. of Me. Cresson.
the movement and colour
it already possessed in its
previous form. M. Dalou
continues with rare vigour
the tradition of the French
School of sculpture. He
might be ranged along with
the great artists, with Coysevox
and Coustou, who have
made Versailles the most
beautiful centre of the art of
two centuries. His art owes
nothing to the Gothic nor to
the Florentines; he revives
the antique, seen through the
French tradition, which is
perhaps all that we could
stand. The "Triumph of Silenus" might not unworthily stand
on the grand parterre, in front of the château; it would be in
its place alike for intention and for value. Outside all those exotic
influences, which every twenty years, attract our artistic vision,
it is pleasant to find a talent which takes up the art where
Houdon left it for portraits and the sculptors of Versailles for
decorative effect. M. Dalou may be assured from to day of a
high place in our art. But what is he doing at the Champ de
Mars?
"Wine," bas-relief by M. Baffier, is the continuation of the
motives for decoration he has exhibited for some years past, and
is certain that he has introduced new themes into ornamental
statuary, themes which open hitherto untrodden paths. The introduction
of rustic personages into sculpture is a return to the
pure traditions of the later middle-ages. But those times are now
so far away in spirit that it is a surprise to re-find them. However
that may be, the element is fecund; difficult of interpretation, but
capable of giving a penetrating savour to a work.
M. Agathon Léonard exhibits rough models representing the
ribbon dance. They are attitudes of dancing girls, rolling and
unrolling themselves in fluttering ribbons. Most are charming.
They remind one of those Tanagra statuettes, so small in size
and so great in art.
We cannot tell what these figures will be like when enlarged;
as they are they are delicious.
"The Burden of Life" is symbolized by M. Fagel in the shape
of an old woman, seated, whose hands rest on two sticks. The
allegory would have been clear enough without the crutches. The
funerary statue of M. Escoula, "Sorrow," is simple in attitude
and adequate in expression. M. Le Duc has done a splendid
bust of M. Georges du Dramard. The "Bakers," by M. Charpentier,
are an adaptation of Assyrian art, of which the "Frieze
of the Archers," in the Louvre, is such an astonishing model. The
attempt is interesting and will give rise to curious modifications
in our decorative monumental art. M. Injalbert is the sculptor
of satyrs and bacchantes. His marble vase shows them in their
drunken fury. The whole possesses that impetuous life which he
has made the particular sign of his talent. We judge him not
only on this exhibit; both for Paris and for Montpellier he has
created powerful decorations which mark him one of the masters
of the art.
On the whole, though scattered, the Exhibition of Sculpture
upholds itself by the exceptional value of certain works, which,
rival Salon. It seems to us, however, that it comes near to having
exhausted its originality. For, after all, the themes of expression
are fewer than one would think. And then, each epoch understands
expression after its own manner: how little do the sentiments
interest us that stirred our fathers! Whereas the forms of
a line diversify themselves to infinity, and their beauty, depending
neither on fashion nor on time, endure for ever. The three
thousand statues that stood on the Acropolis differed among themselves
only by their attitude.
BAFFIER _ Wine, (plaster bas relief)
| Goupil's Paris Salon of 1897 | |