The Voices of Silence
Book by André Malraux
The Psychology of Art( Bollingen Series, 1949,1950 精裝3冊； English translation by Stuart Gilbert. New York, 1953, Doubleday and Co., pp. 661, $25.00.)的節選本(1978年平裝本)。
An art book is a museum without walls.
Contents
Contents
II. The Metamorphoses of Apollo 131
III. The Creative Process 274
IV. Aftermath of the Absolute 468
Synopsis 645
List of Illustration 658
我要深入點談André Malraux 在101~104+頁談的Daumier vs Manet
Daumier 有次參觀Manet的畫展，說，" Manet的所有畫，我都不喜歡，不過，他的作品倒是有了不起的品質：他的畫像有撲克牌中Lancelot (Jack像)的品質。"
這點，Courbet的看法類似：繪畫並不是劃出新的撲克牌人物......
(翻譯自Manet： A Retrospective，紐約：Park Lane，1990，頁314 )
我要深入點談André Malraux 在101~104+頁談的Daumier vs Manet
Daumier 有次參觀Manet的畫展，說，" Manet的所有畫，我都不喜歡，不過，他的作品倒是有了不起的品質：他的畫像有撲克牌中Lancelot (Jack像)的品質。"
這點，Courbet的看法類似：繪畫並不是劃出新的撲克牌人物......
(翻譯自Manet： A Retrospective，紐約：Park Lane，1990，頁314 )
Musée d'Orsay (officiel)
2 mars 1895 : death of Berthe Morisot.
"Le berceau" (1872) : http://bit.ly/1RouT8W
Illustration : © Musée d'Orsay, dist. RMN-Grand Palais / Patrice Schmidt
National Gallery
In 'Hanging the Laundry out to Dry', Berthe Morisot sets down the realities of an urbanised landscape. See it in 'Inventing Impressionism' until 31 May. http://bit.ly/1KnW0PC
National Gallery
Have you been to visit Inventing Impressionism? What did you think of this shimmering scene by Berthe Morisot? http://bit.ly/1DjM6ze
Berthe Morisot, a member of the Impressionist circle in Paris, died#onthisday in 1895 http://ow.ly/JHIkq
National Gallery
'Inventing Impressionism' opens next week on 4 March.
Berthe Morisot's intimate painting 'Woman at her Toilette' will be at the exhibition. Here we see a woman adjusting her hair before a mirror, skillfully painted using a limited palette: http://bit.ly/1AcspGc
The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York
Happy birthday to Berthe Morisot, born on this day in 1841. Learn about women artists in nineteenth-century France and view a slideshow of works: http://met.org/1AYklu1
Berthe Morisot (French, 1841–1895) | Young Woman Seated on a Sofa | ca. 1879
Berthe Morisot
Berthe Marie Pauline Morisot was a painter and a member of the circle of painters in Paris who became known as the Impressionists. Wikipedia
Born: January 14, 1841, Bourges, France
Died: March 2, 1895, Paris, France
Period: Impressionism
Children: Julie Manet
Siblings: Edma Morisot
Berthe Morisot, "Girl in a Boat with Geese," c. 1889, oil on canvashttp://1.usa.gov/1qHDtEL
Abroad
A Rendezvous With Manet in Paris
Benoit Tessier/Reuters
Visitors at the Musée d’Orsay in Paris view Manet’s “Déjeuner sur l’Herbe.” Parisians first encountered the painting around the time it was notoriously rejected from the annual Salon in 1863.
By MICHAEL KIMMELMAN
Published: May 16, 2011
PARIS — Before I do my Torquemada routine, let’s begin on a positive note with an all-time favorite, that gorgeous redhead in the woods. She’s a shocker, even now, stark naked and turned to meet our gaze, at ease beside those two stiff, fully dressed men at a picnic. Something seems to have distracted her outside the picture’s frame, our arrival maybe, or something behind us; it’s hard to tell. Her look has cracked the wall between her and us. She’s in our space.
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Collection du Musee des Beaux-Arts de Tournai, Belgique
"The Garden of Pere Lathuille," 1879.
Museum of Fine Arts, Boston
“The Execution of Maximilian” (1867-68), by Manet, an on-the-scene cameralike image.
Readers' Comments
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Which was partly Manet’s point. Europe’s latest blockbuster, “Manet, the Man Who Invented Modernity,” has opened here to some giddy reviews and a few tepid ones, but in any case to the predictable mobs. They cluster before the great “Déjeuner” and also before “Olympia,” Manet’s morphing of Titian’s chaste Venus into a dead-eyed whore, disdaining our proffered bouquet, glaring down at us like some testy official at the Department of Motor Vehicles, waiting for cash. “You want to drive this car?” she’s saying, dangling her teensy mules as if they were a set of keys. Show me the money.
Like Meurent, she leaps giddily across the transom, across the centuries, with her matching black neck ribbon and cat, a home wrecker dismantling the grand but increasingly rickety edifice of high French art.
The most subversive but ravishing of painters, Manet encapsulated Paris at its 19th-century cultural peak. He was the amused, upper-class dandy in a circle that included Baudelaire, Zola, Champfleury and Monet, who all recognized in his particular silky, cynical genius the crucial bridge between French art’s, and this city’s, past and future.
Robert Hughes, the art critic, on the occasion of the last big Manet survey organized here nearly 30 years ago, wrote that Paris was “unthinkable without Manet; Manet unimaginable without Paris.” Still true. To see Manet even today is to see not only ourselves but also how we see ourselves.
The retrospective, through July 3, catering to our endless taste for his work and the city he captured, has been organized by the Musée d’Orsay, where many of his best works have long lived. So it could hardly have failed.
But it does. I suspect that an abiding reverence for these pictures explains some of the kinder notices; otherwise, there’s no explaining. I can’t recall a major retrospective more clumsily devised. It’s a loveless exercise in curatorial pedantry, occupying a maze of cramped galleries larded with works by second-rank figures like Constantin Guys, Alphonse Legros, Giovanni Boldini and Berthe Morisot. The list goes on. A tedious section on Thomas Couture, the academic poobah in whose studio Manet trained, starts the exhibition. It’s like the heartbreak of heavy traffic on a Sunday morning on the way to the beach. Two Coutures would have sufficed. A mini-retrospective saps the soul.
I hadn’t realized that Manet, who succumbed to syphilis and rheumatism at 51, in 1883, still a peerless virtuoso, squandered so much of his later energy on brassy portraits of society dames — there are a dozen or more middling examples in the show, needlessly. They’re partly compensated for by a room of late still lifes, gorgeous little close-cropped bonbons, which (we are reminded by a wall text) accounted for one-fifth of Manet’s total output. This is one of those minor facts the show passes off as instructive. Still lifes sold well. Manet was happy to oblige a hungry market, and he also gave many of these away as gifts. He staked his reputation on grander projects about modern life and contemporary history.
But clearly he luxuriated in his otherworldly ability to make a few lush strokes approximate, say, the mauve and gray tip of an asparagus or the fading pink glories of a bunch of dying white peonies. It occurred to me: organizing exhibitions, like painting still lifes, requires tact and a deft touch. You know it when you see it.
And when you don’t.
Another 30 years must not pass before France cooks up a better Manet survey. Meanwhile, let’s salvage a few more gems from the rubble.
Manet was a fantastic painter of seascapes and quays, of the forests of slender masts, bobbing and tilting in the harbors. I was struck also by the gravity of his religious pictures. A funny thing happened. Standing before his “Christ Mocked,” painted by Manet as if Jesus were a small, pale and vulnerable man, with big feet, a red beard and knobby knees, I noticed a dead ringer for Manet’s model for Jesus waltz into the room, stop to look at the picture, then move on. Call it divine chance. It made me realize that the true supernatural is not the magic an artist conjures up in paint: Manet was painting real people. Modern art acknowledges its own artifice, he was saying. Faith is ineffable.
It helped that Manet painted like an angel and had a wicked sense of humor. I am indebted to Richard Dorment, the art critic of The Daily Telegraph of London, for dissecting so neatly the wry intricacies of “Chez le Père Lathuille,” which shows a mustachioed gigolo wooing a dowager on the terrace of an outdoor restaurant, his arm around her chair, his face pressed toward hers like a child’s into a candy shop window. She recoils, slightly, distractedly touching her plate, her eyes downcast, lips tight in embarrassment but ready to succumb. Ruthless and clinically spot-on, Manet’s picture even captures the hangdog eyes of the knowing waiter in the background, pausing discreetly until his clients’ transaction is completed.
Exhibitions come and go. Manet’s adoring, amusing portraits of Morisot, one of the show’s better moments, attest to the influence of the newfangled camera and the dawning age of a fresh medium. They’re like snapshots, akin to his ingenious painting of the execution of the Emperor Maximilian, the dead man forever obscured by that smoky puff of rifle fire from the faceless phalanx of sombrero-clad soldiers, which brings to mind a war photographer’s on-the-scene image no less than it does Goya’s “Third of May.”
Manet’s message? That the whole modern world is dangerous, shifty and strange. The camera is just a byproduct and symptom of this altered condition. We must struggle for comprehension; art can help, up to a point. But the old bearings don’t moor us. We’re on our own.
No wonder his paintings seem as fresh as ever.
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