Sweet Séraphine

Monsieur L had told me about a movie months ago that we must see. It is about a french maid who painted in secret in the early part of the 20th century. Her name is Séraphine Louis, now known widely as Séraphine de Senlis, which was the town where she had lived and worked, and eventually received some level of acknowledgment due to the serendipitous discovery of her paintings and sporadic patronage of an influential German art collector.

I was taken by her name as soon as I heard it – immediately according her as Sweet Séraphine – and I had imagined a much more romantic vision of her than the real story of her life. I couldn’t wait to see this movie, [which subsequently made a splash at the Cesars this year, with the actress Yolande Moreau portraying SS being awarded best actress], but as fate would have it, we did not have a chance when in Paris before we left for Brittany.

But, as luck would also have it, we did manage to catch an exposition of her paintings at the Musée Maillol [Foundation Dina Vierny] on the Rue de Grenelle. I am happy to have seen her work first without the images from a movie crowding my head. I had not even seen pictures of her paintings [or of her] before going to the exhibition, thereby not knowing what to expect. It was a marvelous discovery! First, the explosion of oddly sophisticated colours that she had apparently mixed herself from organic ingredients and the recipes of which have never been revealed, and secondly the bold sizing of her canvases that she vibrantly filled with stylized floral designs and compulsive dots and leaf patterns.

I felt her obsessive energy oozing outwards like some astral field around her paintings. They were exalted in the sense that she truly felt what she was painting; they poured forth from some inner font that could not be dammed. They have been labeled naive work just because she was not academically trained, but saying that she was self-taught undermines the visionary quality of her creative disgorging. She was a woman possessed, a female van Gogh who could not not paint, who painted only for herself as a subconscious form of therapy. Like van Gogh, she was also hyper-sensitive, read “mad” – and who knows to what extent multiple soul-destroying circumstances had contributed to the implosion of such fragile minds.

From such singular beings are left visual legacies to provoke, to invoke, to revoke the idea that art has to conform to any limitations, any rules, any conventions. I don’t want to see this woman, this personage, demean by her dramatic portrayal, or by her biographical details – I see her soaring above it all, lifted up by her colourfully and intricately detailed halo, by her unique visionary intensity and finally, the inevitable transcendence of her creations well beyond her earthly existence.

[I did not take photos of her paintings at the museum, partly because I was too absorbed by them all, and the lighting was kept quite low to protect the integrity of the "paint" as the exact composition of some of the colours is not known...she was rumoured to have used her own blood as well as vegetal and floral extracts...juicy berries, who knows...

But this is a link to a PDF from the museum with some images and brief details of her life and work.]

[Addendum:

Finally I watched a French actress breathe life into poor sullen Séraphine in the movie of the year [in France, anyways!]. I have just returned from the seaside and countryside of southern Brittany where I was steeped in the lush verdancy so similarly and generously captured in the film, and I was there again with her, this driven and compulsive painter who would go hungry to spend her last centime on art supplies. I walked the grassy meadows with her, always drawn towards the comfort of the enormous embrace of a centuries old tree – a respiring life-affirming tree that stays dreaming long after we are gone…

The last years of Séraphine’s life were wasted in an asylum, and much like Camille Claudel, the obsessive creative output was extinguished for good. It is such a fine line we tread for artistic expression and I believe more in the fact that we go mad if we can’t paint [or sculpt or make music or any other creative relief], and not so much that the pursuit of artistic efforts can drive us to distraction, and eventual poorhouse and wild-eyed demise! – although non-artistic people will see it that way!

It is perhaps a cynical time to shine a spotlight on Sad Sweet Séraphine’s paintings after so many years of neglect – and I am grateful to have had the chance to view her work up close in Paris – but the movie will introduce her to a world-wide audience who may or may not appreciate her legacy. Some will read it more as a cautionary tale of a woman who tried to rise beyond her station in life and failed miserably, and thereby relegating her paintings to a particular genre of folk or outsider or naive or “modern primitive” art. For me, it is always an auspicious time to learn of another artist who kept working despite all odds and the lonely creative process had afforded her some degree of comfort and spiritual appeasement, before she was so cruelly dragged off in her gown of white silk and taffeta and interned in a sterile white room.

A Requiem for Modigliani

On a dulcet Sunday afternoon one late fall, ochreous leaves swirled about in a light breeze grazing by the impatient crowds that have gathered at the Musée du Luxembourg. They were here to view another gathering within, one that is more subdued – largely immobile, in fact – and most securely suspended. Vividly rendered in two dimensions on flattened surfaces, each character is no longer life-sized, nor regrettably quite alive!

Nevertheless, this particular grouping had been assembled together for the first time to command the attention of the livelier one slowly filing by, paying continuous homage to the personages arranged in such orderly formations and who gazed passively back in serene detachment. The cast of hundreds, now immutably committed onto canvases, were once the lovers, friends and patrons of Amedeo Modigliani, the ill-fated Italian painter and sculptor who had valiantly tried to seek his fame and fortune in Paris in the early part of the 20th century. His artistic output was prolific considering that his life ended at the age of thirty-five, when having endured years of poverty and extreme hardship [ frequently leavened by compulsive imbibition of cheap brandy to fuel his frenzied spates of painting], he finally succumbed to tuberculosis in 1920.

As the masses congregated to marvel at the sheer voracity of his achievement, much of which was represented in this momentous retrospective, glimpses of his turbid existence were rarely witnessed through the subjects he had somehow managed to draw and to paint so eloquently, instinctively capturing enigmatic souls with a few simple lines to envelop a few patches of muddied colours, and fixing the fleeting expressions to reveal the very essences of the personalities by the poses, the gestures, the clothes [or lack thereof!], the settings and the accompanying possessions [if any]. With every depiction, he eventually stylized an iconic Modigliani image all his very own, while simultaneously immortalizing the diverse entities of his bohemian world.

Hush now… the Requiem has commenced and the ensemble was being introduced…

“La fillette en bleu” [1918] appeared… A little girl with pale blue eyes and dressed in a matching pale blue frock. She was standing stiffly in the corner of a room with chalky gray-blue walls. A seemingly icy domain, yet her cheeks and delicate lips were rosy and she wore a festive red ribbon in her short brown hair. Her small hands were clasped shyly in front of her. For such a young child, she bore the solemn expression of the angel that Modigliani had once written about to a friend, “Le bonheur est un ange au visage grave.” [Her face had adorned the exhibition's tickets and brochures, and the show was titled "L'ange au visage grave".]

Her bright, clear voice began the Requiem:

“These flowers in your sweet hands/ Just how I feel to you/ If you could only touch me now…”

“Nu assis” [undated]… Painted on the back of another work and framed in by the wooden stretchers still pasted randomly with the various shippers’ labels, it was of a young girl, almost adolescent. She was seated nude with her long slender arms draped languidly over her lap. Her thick black hair was loosely gathered up behind her head and her large dark eyes reflected a guileless innocence.

She joined in the Requiem softly:

“Just a ghostly paper sigh/ Until you kiss me back to life/ I’m soon to breathe the roses bloom…”

And then to more of the Nudes… The languorous older ones, and so many of them! They made a fine chorus, with some seated [legless - a shame!], some standing [trying out Botticelli's Venus pose with one hand modestly concealing the delta], and the rest were, of course, lying around emulating Goya’s Maja and even Manet’s brazen Olympia! Elegant flesh-coloured curves were spread out over richly textured backgrounds. The bodies were elongated but still voluptuous and voluminous, punctuated by prominent nipples and curlicues of pubic hair. Faces had become somewhat more stylized but retained a hint of indifferent disdain. These were undoubtedly Modigliani’s roses in full bloom, earthy and sensual… and inviting…

They sang along nostalgically, tenderly:

“All your flowers fill my room/ And sing to me their happy tune/ Like nature’s flowers destined to die…”

Turning their gaze to the numerous portraits of Jeanne Hébuterne, Modigliani’s greatest muse, his last true love and mother of his child, who looked on sadly, they continued:

“Filling her room with all the flowers she can find, she commits the ultimate erotic suicide…”

Jeanne paid her tragic tribute to Modigliani by jumping to her death just a day after he had perished, leaving behind their only creation together – a forsaken baby girl. Through the multiple countenances of Jeanne, Modigliani had assuredly conveyed the élan vital of his spiritual sensuality and the distinctive lyrical style of his last paintings.

Although the tears no longer flowed, the tremulous solo voice of Jeanne could now be heard sullenly despairing:

“My lips are open wide/ Stretched so far apart/ Searching for the last kiss/ With my hands pressed tight to my heart…

Bye! Bye! Bye! Bye!

A thousand hungry flowers/ Loving you for hours and hours/ Soon smothers me so tenderly….

Bye! Bye! Bye! Bye!”

In sympathetic accord to Jeanne’s weary lamentation, all the others [among them Docteur Paul Alexandre, Monsieur Paul Guillaume, Miss Béatrice Hastings, Monsieur Jean Cocteau, Monsieur Leopold Zborowski, Mesdemoiselles Lolotte et Renée, Baronne de Hasse de Villers, Monsieur et Madame Jacques Lipchitz], all raised their voices in impassioned tones to the melancholic strains of the refrain, thereby concluding a fond adieu to “un grand artiste maudit du XXème siècle” – truly one of the many profound legendary figures who had haunted the art nebula that was Paris…

“A thousand kisses say goodbye/ And then they say you’ll never die/ A lonely fanfare blew/ And then they sing to you…

Bye! Bye! Bye! Bye!”*

*The inserted verses of the “Requiem” are borrowed from “Revenge of the Flowers”, written by Malcolm McLaren and sung by the indomitable Françoise Hardy, in the provocatively inspired recording Paris [1994]… with the first stanza in French:

“Le parfum sucré de vos roses s’évapore/ Et moi je compose/ Vous ne m’aurez jamais donné/ Que le baiser du condamné…“

Parler d’amour*

The uber-siren Ute Lemper first spoke to me of love en français soon after my Paris initiation had begun. I came across her album Espace Indécent by chance at a music store [yes, it was that long ago!]. Not knowing of her before, but drawn to her striking image on the CD cover and to the listing of french-titled songs on the back, I was moved to take her home. I was, of course, pleasantly surprised how right she was for me and my listening pleasure.

Thus flowed the early soundtrack for my grande affaire with Paris, to the strong urging voice of a multi-lingual teutonic chanteuse, a contemporary Marlène Dietrich with a softer edge. I was captivated by her sultry elegance, her wide-ranging vocal and stylistic sophistication, and her talent for other art forms, including acting and painting. Inspite of her relative obscurity in North America, I felt that I had discovered her all on my own and her songs were my secret lyrical cache. When I was not in Paris, my inner Parisian contemplations unfolded to music from three of my favourite albums of hers…the above mentioned Espace Indécent, City of Strangers, and Illusions.

Many years later, I finally had the opportunity to see her perform live and in the evocative city where her singing has added such a rich auditory layer to my experience there. The concert was held at the freshly renovated Salle Pleyel on Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, not far from the Etoile. It was a warm spring evening and a friend and I made our pilgrimage on foot all the way from the Marais. I had never attended an event at the Salle Pleyel before and was not quite sure what to expect from this prestigious concert hall built in 1927 by the venerable Pleyel piano manufacturer to commemorate its centenary. Over the decades the Salle Pleyel has been home to the Orchestre de Paris and hosted the concerts of many celebrated composers and musicians.

Ute Lemper appeared on the stage as I had envisioned her – tall, graceful, discreetly glamorous. She was accompanied by only four others, on piano, guitar, bass and drums. The program for the evening included singing her own compositions, three of Jacques Brel’s old favourites, a few collaborative pieces by Bertolt Brecht and Kurt Weill, and even a traditional Hungarian song. She vocalized in German, English, French, Yiddish, Spanish, Arabic and Hungarian! Her multi-cultural and versatile repertoire was matched by her expressive and flawless performance, betraying her early dance and musical theatre training.

Needless to say, I was completely entranced and overwhelmed by her vocal virtuosity and her gracious charisma that flowed over the auditorium like a warm air-kiss! And even though she did not sing “Parler d’Amour” to me that night, I stepped out onto the enchanted Paris streets and floated lightly all the way home…

“Parler d’amour…parler d’amour poli…comme ces galets tiédis…aux marées finissantes…un soir d’avant tempête…

Parler d’amour, parler d’amour…”

*”Parler d’Amour” from Espace Indécent is a duet with Art Mengo whom I fell in love with a few years later when I chanced upon his CD La Vie de Château - not realizing immediately that it was him who had sang and composed the music with Ute on that first song of love…

Les Courbes de Courbet

I do believe that the eyes can emit a kind of energy that is absolutely palpable…as in his eyes bored into me…as in I could feel his eyes on me…as in our eyes met across the crowded room and shot love-rays into each other…

And when those eyes belong to a more than usual observant and sensitive artist, their power is remarkably magnified. The marvel and will of the brain to magically process what those eyes filter in and then emanate outwards the singular vision to guide the hand holding the brush to use the right stroke, to choose the appropriate colour in the correct amount, to assemble the proportionate forms and matching perspectives onto a piece of canvas or wall or wood panel, and to know, because the eyes tell it so, when to stop painting because a work of art has finally been created.

The eyes of Courbet has followed me for a long time. When I gaze upon his paintings, I want to see through his eyes and think what he was thinking, feel what he was feeling. As an artist, I would have liked to have his eyes to order and formulate my paintings. But then again, as an artist, I am happy to be true to my own vision as well and not paint what other artists have painted. I guess what I would wish for if I could is to be Courbet, to have painted his paintings, to embody his unruly passion and his spirited genius.

When the Grand Palais gathered up over a hundred of his paintings last year for the first major retrospective exhibition in 30 years, I moved in – well, not literally, but I tried to breathe in as much of him as I could. It is overwhelming to try to absorb a lifetime’s artistic output in such a limited way. To know that each painting, large or small, encapsulates so many hours, days, months of his life, and now that he is gone forever, each represents the crystallization of his intentions, his emotions, his influences and his provocations at that moment in time.

I would like to believe that Courbet was the original BoBo – bourgeois bohemian – and perhaps because of this, I feel particularly empathetic to his being. He was well brought up in a comfortable and conventional home in the riverside town of Ornans in rural eastern France, but his early desire to be an artist meant that he needed to be in Paris, the center of the art world. There he hung out with writers [notably Prudhon, Champfleury, George Sand and Baudelaire] and other painters and cultivated his ironic self-conscious dandy image that would quickly degenerate into more earthy bohemian attitudes.

All beer hall and café lounging fun aside, Courbet was quite driven to succeed as a painter. He was arrogant enough to believe that he would and egotistical enough to do it his way… and narcissistic enough to paint many many self-portraits in the meantime. One such that I love is “Self-Portrait: Man with Pipe” [c.1848-9], perhaps his most sensual self-depiction. It is a small painting with his highlighted face cropped tight, a delicate pipe angled out from the left corner of dark pink lips – curvy full lips that look raw from kissing too much. His blackened deepset eyes gaze downwards at the viewer from slightly puffy lowered lids and the strong line of his nose has a phallic suggestion [well, to me anyways!...I haven't read any art historian comparing it as such!]. His skin has a healthy glow, the skin tones modelled with loose spontaneous brushstrokes and the most confident daub of white on the upper forehead to indicate light reflection. This most intense visage is crowned by a mass of thick wavy black hair and beard, imparting an almost messianic, but more gypsy, impression. It is the face of a virile man looking down upon a woman whom he is about to make love to [after he takes out the pipe, of course!], and those eyes – those are the eyes that can sear into a soul. How can I not be seduced madly, deeply, absolument…

Monsieur L and I were the first ones at the Grand Palais when the exhibition opened on the morning that our tickets were dated, and we, amazingly for Paris, pretty much had the place to ourselves, which meant that I could enjoy my time with each painting for as long as I liked. Very auspicious circumstances with the work of a hero artist. I blissed out visually feasting through all the eight rooms accommodating the various themes of his wide-ranging oeuvre.

One of the most powerful of the enormous paintings is “The Studio of the Painter” [1855], which I have seen before at the Musée d’Orsay years ago, when I first fell for Gustave, I mean Courbet. Its sheer size [361 x 598 cm] and crowded with life-size figures conveys the monumentality of his world, a world now gathered within his atelier and directing its unwavering attention at him, the oblivious master at work, immersed in rendering a distant tree in the landscape he is painting. [As I write this I noticed that I have on the same striped pants as Courbet, but alas, there is no curvaceous nudie muse breathing down my back!]

Monsieur L was, of course, most interested in the nudes. [His only comment in the guest-book was "J'aime les courbes de Courbet!", which I have partially appropriated for the title of this piece, and because it can refer to the eyes as well.] I’ll mention right off the [in]gloriously inguinal “The Origin of the World” [1866], that most in your face fleshy expanse of womanly landscaping to captivate a fully clothed audience. It was housed within its own temple in the round, complete with peek-a-boo viewers to ogle other photographed nudes from the same era. My alter-ego once wrote of it…”The origin of life, as the artist saw it, is boldly nestled between fleshy thighs and a thick belly, then crowned with lush sable down. This truncated torso, curtly swathed and splayed open on crumpled sheets, purveys an erotic shot so unerringly aimed that no bystander can escape its blunt and powerful blast. Monsieur Courbet, cool as sorbet, had seen fit to image the point of creation as indelicately as a pinned butterfly of colossal proportions. An epic genesis, at once universal and singularly sensual, this is the voyeur’s dream of the femina non gravitas…” [excerpted from "The Origin of the World", 2004]

Courbet was known to be a big player who relished countless playmates throughout his life and never marrying. It must have been doubly pleasurable for him to possess the talent as well to wield his brush like a second penis as he stroked on the paint to realize such voluptuous forms arranged into any position he desired. I must say that Courbet’s seductive nudes are so incredibly inviting to tactile urges that one instinctively knows that these are bodies that the artist have surveyed and experienced himself in the most intimate manner. “The Bacchante” [1844-5], an earlier nude that was not a specific pornographic commission as “The Origin of the World” was, is a case in point where the fully naked girl is portrayed lying on a splash of red fabric in a forest setting in languorous post-coital repose, as if Courbet had just had his way with her and then sat up to sketch her as she laid sleeping.

Opulent and erotic nudes aside, one cannot deny his need to prove himself and his prowess with a brush on other subjects as well, and Courbet’s deliberate and ambitious prolificacy resulted in lush canvases of landscapes of his native Franche-Comté region, dramatic hunting scenes, dark primal cavern/ womb paintings, almost abstracted snowscapes, many atmospheric seascapes that he could whip up for quick sales, not to mention more conventional still-life tableaux, and yes, even pretty flowers, and in the end, some sad dead fish.

How could I not emerge from this epical exhibition a transformed woman and hopefully, an ameliorated artist as well. To have been in the presence of some of the most powerful and sensuous paintings by such a prodigious, complex, yet truly authentic artist forging new directions in the creative milieu of his turbulent epoch, was to have been transported far far away from a world that is now losing its health, whose very élan vital is clogging up with so much of everything mostly harmful to it.

Outside the Grand Palais under muted gray skies, the wide-eyed piercing gaze of a youthful Courbet [self-portrayed in "Le Désespéré"] followed us up the street, and so unrelenting and penetrating were those desperate eyes that we had to run across to seek refuge in the Petit Palais where the tropical lushness of the courtyard garden was a soothing balm for our shaken sensibilities… and our much too over-stimulated eyes.

“Savoir pour pouvoir, telle fut ma pensée. Etre à même de traduire les moeurs, les idées, l’aspect de mon époque, selon mon appréciation, en un mot, faire de l’art vivant, tel est mon but.”

[From "The Realist Manifesto" that Courbet prepared for his solo exhibition in 1855.]