1841 Batissier – Géricault (2)
Géricault LIfe
1814 Cuirassier Blessé (detail) Théodore Géricault Louvre.
Louis Batissier published the first major biographical study of Théodore Géricault in the Revue du Dix-Neuvième Siècle in 1841. Read the second part of the first English translation of Batissier’s influential essay.
Géricault
“…During the following year, Géricault went to Versailles, where he completed his magnificent studies of the rumps and chests of horses, which are part of the collection of Lord Seymour. He then put the final touches on a new composition, the Cuirassier Blessé (Wounded Cavalryman.) This canvas appeared at the Salon of 1814 and was judged with the same disfavor as the Charging Chasseur, which he presented once more to the public at the same exhibition. Both the style and the quality of color of the Wounded Cavalryman were much superior. Géricault painted with greater energy and in a manner that was larger and more vigorous. The painting documented, in a manner of speaking, the cavalryman and all the disasters of the Moscow campaign. It was impossible not to be moved when viewing this cavalier on foot, eyes raised skyward, burdened by pain on an icy landscape, his steed still animated with the fire of warfare. The public remained keenly interested in the famous battles fought by the grand army; however, at the Salon they had eyes only for the Déluge of Girodet, the Sabines of David, the Phaedra of Guérin, and Gérard’s Portrait of Louis XVIII. The painters Ingres and Prud’hon disappeared in the same vacuum of indifference and forgetfulness as Géricault. The painter received no medal or compensation for his Wounded Cavalryman.
When the Bourbons returned to France in 1814, several friends from Géricault’s circle were commissioned in the King’s Musketeers. This life of a soldier seemed then irresistibly appealing to him. His application was accepted and he wore his fine red uniform with great pride. Moreover, he lived amidst the horses and military company he loved so much.
He accompanied the king as far as Bethune when the events of Elba forced Louis XVIII to quit Paris for exile. Géricault returned from the frontier alone through a countryside teeming with imperial troops, quite satisfied with his actions, which he regarded as his duty. Freed from military service the moment he arrived in Paris, he was filled with great joy. He was at last able to take up his brushes once again, brushes he had abandoned against his heart’s wishes. We know that Géricault was angry afterwards about enlisting in the service of Louis XVIII, and that he later regretted being led into this error of youth, which could have completely ended his career as an artist.
Once again installed in his own studio, Géricault resumed his studies, painting and drawing after nature with greater passion than ever. He even began a large painting representing a great horse race, but he did not finish this. For a long time he had been planning to travel through Italy in the company of friends. In 1817, he decided to depart. On this topic, we present a small anecdote which tells us something of the man. (We share this account from a letter which we have in our possession written by Mr. Lebrun, director of the School of Versailles. We will offer other excerpts from this letter when discussing the Shipwreck of the Medusa.)
We would make the trip together, writes Mr. Lebrun. We had formed a plan to consecrate two full years, with our sole goal being observation and work. All our preparations were made and the date of departure set. Deciding to visit him one evening to make our final dispositions, I found him getting dressed, preparing to go the ball. He was young at this time, and greatly concerned with his appearance. His hair was in curlers and he was setting his hair. Even so, the care he was then investing in his grooming did not prevent us from completing the plans for our trip, and I left completely enchanted to have a companion such as he. Unfortunately, the demands of the Empire compelled me to bid farewell to this worthy project soon after. Despite my very real regrets, I was forced to inform him by letter that it would be impossible for me to leave Paris. The excellent Géricault believed that his grooming habits had left a less than favorable impression upon me, and that I did not wish to travel with a man in curlers. He said as much to one of his friends. I rushed to reassure him about the opinion he supposed I carried of him; but to do so I found it necessary to detail for him the reasons which prevented me from making the trip, of which I had made such a celebration. This fear that he had transformed himself into a man of fashion caused him real anguish.
Géricault departed alone for Italy during the course of 1817. However, he was preoccupied by heartache and this voyage did not profit him as he had hoped. Far from his friends, a stranger in these Italian cities, he was often consumed with boredom. In Rome, he composed some drawings for albums, which occupied him seriously enough; he then made copies of the most beautiful paintings that he saw. He intended to paint the local horse races upon a great canvas in the antique style. He worked on this project in small scale with much good humor. The composition was as vigorous as the colors were fine and brilliant. Mr. de Musigny possesses this painting, as well as another canvas of the same dimensions which also represents the races of Rome. Géricault enthusiastically visited the churches and galleries of Florence, which were packed once more with the chief works of the Florentine school which he had come to love more than any other. There he made a good number of sketches, the most noteworthy being some very well-conceived drawings after the tombs of the Medici by Michelangelo. “I have here,” he reported, “some excellent acquaintances. Last night, I was at the Opera in the box of the French ambassador. My boots were filthy, and my clothes and hair in great disarray. Nonetheless, I had the place of honor alongside the duchess de (…), who would leave later for Naples, and to whom the ambassador had much recommended me. She encouraged me to go and see her during my travels. She spoke a great deal to me of my modesty, and assured me that this was the hallmark of talent; judge for yourself if this was flattering for me. But I expected all this. A good woman, with whom I became familiar, promised and even swore (through the exchange of cards) that I would find honor and protection during my trip. She would even handle letters from my friends. Alas! She was wrong on that point. I have not received even one, which afflicts me mightily you can be sure. I need four to keep me from despair.” (Letter to Dedreux-Dorcy) [Pierre de Dreux d’Orcy]
At other times, in his isolation, he succumbed to the saddest of ideas. He wrote in another letter:
“Now, I wander and lose my way constantly, I search vainly for some fixed point. Nothing is solid – all escapes me, all defeats me. Our hopes and our desires are not truly grounded, but are chimeras; our successes are phantoms, which we are driven to futilely pursue. If one thing is certain for us upon this earth, it is our pains. Suffering alone is real, and our pleasures imaginary.”
Who has not been struck by such despair and stared hopelessly at the vanities of life? There is perhaps not an artist, nor a painter, who has not succumbed to self-doubt, to scorning his past and defying his fate, even amidst the most legitimate triumphs. Géricault could not escape this tyranny of imagination, and did little work in this unfortunate spiritual state. At this point his father called him back to Paris. Mr. Dorcy, Géricault’s great friend, travelled to join him in Siena, and there saw a great number of handsome drawings and several copies admirably executed by the artist. What became of all this wealth? This we do not know. Géricault then passed through Switzerland before returning to France; the nature there, so imposing and so majestic, made a strong impression on his soul. After returning to his studio in Paris, Géricault focused entirely on his studies, and dreamed of executing a great work which would provide an unshakable foundation for his reputation as a painter.
There was no more popular topic of discussion at that time than the shipwreck of the Medusa, and the sufferings and unforgivable trials endured by the men who had been condemned to a horrible death upon a raft. It is this scene of terrible drama that Géricault elected to represent. To give the hallmark of truth to this work, he went to the Beaujon Hospital to paint cadavers, wanting to have death before him to reproduce the ravages of death. But he also needed bodies deformed by hunger and grief. Where would he find these? One of his friends served as the model for one such hero. Here is how this friend, (Mr. Lebrun), described his encounter with Géricault:
During the time when he was composing his painting, this friend reports, I had a very severe case of jaundice, which plagued me for a very long time. After forty days of suffering and boredom, I decided to leave Paris and visit Sevres in order to be alone and there await my recovery, which was nothing more than a matter of time. I had some difficulty finding lodging as my cadaverous form frightened all the inn-keepers. None wanted me to die in their establishment. So, I was obliged to request lodging from a stable-keeper, who took pity upon me…I had been with him for eight days when one afternoon, while I was standing at the door watching people passing by, I saw Géricault approaching with one of his friends. He saw me clearly, but did not at first recognize me in my condition. He entered an inn under the pretext of taking a small glass and studied my form carefully. Suddenly, he realized my identity, ran and took me by the arms. “Ah! my friend!,” he cried out, “How handsome you are!” I was shocked, for I generated fear wherever I went. Children fled before me, mistaking me for a corpse. But I was handsome in the eyes of the painter who searched everywhere for the color of death. He urged me to go to his studio to pose for the Medusa. I was still sick, and I felt so truly consumed by the boredom which afflicts the ill that I could not easily make up my mind. “I have a better plan,” said I to Géricault; “come here, bring your canvases, brushes, and colors. Make your studies here, spend eight days with me. During this time, I will recover; and then I will go to your studio; my color will be still be very real; it only fades slowly, and for more than a month I can serve as your model.”
This anecdote reminds us of a similar incident, the hero of which was a Mr. Hautepol, a man of quite perfect ugliness. The painter David happened to see him at the Opera and brusquely stopped him, shouting out in the middle of the crowd: “Here is my executioner!” David made a sketch of this unlucky individual, who was more than a little surprised, and quite understandably mortified by the brutal salute of the artist.
To return to Géricault, we mentioned that he stayed for a time at Sevres in the company of Mr. Lebrun. Géricault had him pose for several heads, including that of the father on the raft, holding the corpse of his dead son upon his thighs. The painter explained the situation to his friend, so that Mr. Lebrun could summon the pensive and profound expression suitable for the subject.
After completing his studies with Mr. Lebrun, Géricault painted for his friend a small, extraordinary canvas, which he still has, of that part of the park of Saint-Cloud which was then visible – the Breteuil Pavilion, the rooftops, and the surrounding street. Géricault took no more than thirty minutes to produce this study full of light and truth.
He had just finished it, reports Mr. Lebrun, when a coach approached. In an instant, Géricault opened the window and watched in admiration as the horses climbed the hill at a good trot. He was absolutely captivated, absorbed in the scene to the point of ecstasy. And when he could no longer view the carriage, he had to paint it. But he had no canvas! What to do? The room where we were had an alcove and a glass door on each side, and above each door was a frame stained in mahogany red, like the rest of woodwork. This base pleased Géricault very much, and he hastily sketched the coach and driver upon one of the frames. But he had used most of his colors, and had none remaining but yellow. So, he ran to a spice shop and purchased all the materials he could find, which he then crushed and mixed with his palette knife. Mounting the board on a chair, he painted for two hours. He wanted to capture every detail of what he had seen. He even managed to render the flashing rays of light and the rapidly turning wheels as the horses and carriage approached to brilliant effect. Yet, in the excitement of his execution, he stumbled slightly. As he had observed the coachman from his side, he placed him on the horse in the foreground, that is to say, on the right.
This account gives us some sense of Géricault’s impulsive energy and verve. Géricault loved above all to paint nature as it is, and to reproduce that which appeared before him on the spot as a first impression. It was thus that he painted a sign for a blacksmith to use for his shop, one situated at the corner of the rue de Roquencourt and the route to Saint-Germain-en-Laye. This painting, like the Diligence de Sèvres (the Sevres Coach), was sold to a private collector. (The Sevres Coach belongs today to Mr. Ottoz, the art dealer.)
Upon my return to Paris, continues Mr. Lebrun in the letter which we have just cited, I went several times to pose at the home of Géricault. During one sitting, I saw him improvise while painting the beautiful hair of an upturned head which one sees in the middle of his painting, and doing so with a vivacity which belongs only to his brush. Not content with his first attempt, he stripped the canvas and repainted this hair in less than half an hour. I watched his face as he worked; he was completely absorbed and did not utter a word; he seemed to be copying real hair which he actually saw before him. When he was done, he never returned to that part of his masterpiece again.
It is our painter Mr. Eugène Delacroix who agreed to pose for the head and shoulders of the figure just described by Mr. Lebrun. Géricault put the final touches on his painting in the foyer of the Theatre of the New, where the spiritualist Picard was then director. One day, while Mr. Delacroix was busy posing there, a number of society ladies and gentlemen arrived to view the Scene of a Shipwreck* of the young painter. Mr. Delacroix was then in plain view and quickly dressed himself. Picard approached him and said to him with some compassion: “You perform a very taxing job there, my friend.” Géricault heard the words and perceived that Picard took Delacroix for a model. Géricault quickly ran to Mr. Delacroix, took him by the hand, and presented him to Mr. Picard, introducing Mr. Delacroix as a painter he esteemed very much, and that this gentleman had very graciously agreed to work as a model. Picard burst into excuses; Mr. Delacroix protested that he was not all offended. We can be sure that if anyone was seriously mortified by the error of Picard it was neither he, nor Mr. Delacroix, but rather our fine Géricault; who, in the goodness of his heart, was more afflicted by the effect these small humiliations might have upon his friends than upon himself. (*This was the title of the Medusa in the Salon catalogue.)
These few details make quite clear the approach, and the ardor which Géricault brought to his work. Géricault did not begin a painting by first placing a cover upon his canvas, upon which he could rework each part of the design as a separate piece, as most painters do. On the contrary, he chose a head, an entire figure, and painted it without concern for the rest of the painting until it had been achieved. Yet, this eccentric manner of proceeding had no impact upon the happy harmony governing the elements of his composition.
Géricault understood at this point in his career that this particular piece would determine his future as a painter, and he put into this grand work all the care which its importance demanded. He did not equivocate in the conception of this terrifying drama, or in the style of its execution. He dared greatly, understanding that the critics habituated to a different manner of painting would descend upon him and attack him for all his possible weaknesses without pity, and without taking account of the qualities which distinguished his new production.
Géricault applied the last brush stroke to the painting and dispatched it to the Louvre. The opening day of the Salon, so impatiently anticipated, finally arrived. Géricault ran to the exhibition to judge with his own eyes the effect his painting produced, set amidst the cluster of academic subjects which would surround it. He entered the Salon Carré (the Square Salon) and searched for his canvas. He spotted it hanging at the highest possible point above the door of the long gallery. So placed, the Shipwreck of the Medusa seemed almost insignificant. The composition’s perspective could not be seen, and every element seemed confused. Géricault was unable to recognize his own work. A bolt of despair flashed in his eyes; he clasped his forehead like a man struck by a cruel disenchantment. He raced from the gallery, and fled to Versailles to bury his disappointment, declaring his intention to abandon painting to his companions there.
During the second month of the exhibition Mr. Dedreux-Dorcy, his devoted friend, committed himself to securing a better position for Géricault’s beautiful canvas. As a result of his efforts, Géricault’s painting was lowered to a place where it could better be judged. Finally, all the world could view the imposing ensemble of this magnificent work, which is too well known to require us to provide a detailed description. Everyone remembers this raft, submerged by the waves, composed of planks barely bound together, and the teetering mast supporting shreds of sails filled by the wind. Who has not imagined this troop of men tossed upon this frail platform of salvation between the sky and the water, between life and death? We note only that the painter chose the moment when the shipwrecked perceived something which resembled a ship on the horizon, and discovered, in fact, the brig Argus, which would rescue them on the 17th of July, 1816. In the composition of Géricault one distinguishes three principal groups: first, Mr. Savigny standing, leaning against the mast; Mr. Corréard indicates to him with a gesture the point in space to which is attached their final hope. (Everyone knows that it is to Mr. Corréard and Mr. Savigny that we owe our understanding of the shipwreck of the Medusa.) Then, to the right, are several sailors, who at great pain and effort hoist a Negro upon a barrel, so that he can wave a flag in the air as a signal of distress. Finally, to the left, we see an old man with a face of bronze, his body imprinted with a gloomy and profound sadness, who holds upon his knees the corpse of his expired son. Behind him, a passenger gripped by the most horrible despair, clutches his hair with his convulsing hands. You will agree that one could not arouse more interest in a more eloquent drama, assemble in one group poses more varied, discover physical expressions more diverse, or render different passions with greater energy. What dismal sadness reigns over this entire scene! What terrible desolation! We divine all the misery endured by the shipwrecked, we experience all their sorrows and all their anguish. We share the despair of some, the worry of others. We want to discover the sail of some ship on the horizon, to see the moribund return to life, these cadavers resuscitated – each a new Lazarus. It is a drama like nothing ever produced in painting – a gripping drama built from true events, and one which floods our souls with emotion.
Although the Shipwreck of the Medusa contains nothing academic, and that one does not find the eternal Greek profiles which we usually see in paintings over time, the figures of the Géricault composition are not lacking in style. They have a great allure without departing from a noble simplicity. The nudes are carefully studied and powerful. And yet, what vigor of touch! What fiery execution, so sure of itself! How the general effect fits so well with the subject of the painting! Was it not, in the end, a happy inspiration to project a great cloud above this scene of dark mourning, and to mark the arrival of rescue with the reddish rays of the sun descending to the horizon?
Whatever may be said of the Shipwreck of the Medusa, this beautiful piece reveals to us, in Géricault, not only a great painter, but also a great poet, who understands how to pluck upon the strings of our hearts. All the heads are alive with ideas and thoughts, all the physiques express true emotion. The elements of the composition forcefully impress. The design is large and challenging, and its color holds us; one could not establish a happier contrast between the shadows and highlights. Throughout this painting we encounter a profound science and an enormous skill with the brush. At all times, one senses that the man who produced this canvas is not only an intellectual, but also a man who has studied his art to the foundations. In our view, there are few pieces of our modern school of painting which can be placed on the same rank as the Shipwreck of the Medusa.
If some writer had been wise enough to express such an opinion in 1819, all the critics who then believed themselves to be the supreme arbiters of taste would have accused this individual of madness, or at least of ignorance. It saddens us to report that this part of the public found little to admire in the canvas of Géricault when it was first presented in the Salon Carré of the Louvre. These connoisseurs were too accustomed to gazing upon the gods of Olympus, and the heroes of Athens and Rome, to be able to comprehend much in this appalling scene of a shipwreck. Only a few friends and independent artists were clear-eyed enough to congratulate Géricault on his new work.
As for the critics, they abused the painting with an incredible audacity. Looking back today upon the diverse judgements heaped upon the Shipwreck of the Medusa at the Salon, we can scarcely believe our eyes. Who could imagine that Mr. Keratry, recently nominated to join the ranks of the Academy of France, and who therefore writes on the arts with great authority, would begin his summation of this painting with these lines: “I hurry to be freed from this large work which assaults me as I enter the Salon.” The remainder of his article is written in the same taste and spirit. We must quite simply pity men like Mr. Keratry, and not reproach them with too much bitterness for their blindness. Another writer of the same stature as Mr. Keratry, a Mr. Gault de Saint-Martin, goes farther – if that is possible. He pretends that “the Scene of a Shipwreck does not seem remarkable because of its fixed focus.” This opinion is so absurd that one is tempted to attribute it to some political passion. And it must be said that this painting, which had been composed solely as a work of art, did become the subject of political debate. But Gericault did not allow himself to be bothered by all these malevolent reviews. We find proof of this in a letter which he wrote to a friend at that time. (This letter was addressed to Mr. Musigny, who became great friends with Gericault in the studio of Mr. Guérin.) Here are the passages from this missive which support our claim:
“I received your delightful letter and nothing is more important, nor better to do, than to respond immediately. All-seducing glory, as you depict her, and which I suppose her to be at times, has not yet conquered me completely. And the great attention I give her recedes before those who draw me back to a sweet and good friendship. I was more flattered by your four lines, and by the gracious view that you have formed of my success, than by all these popular articles in which one sees injuries dispensed with as little sagacity as elegies. The artist must take here the role of the historian, and exercise complete neutrality towards all which emanates from newspapers and journalists. The passionate lover of true glory must search sincerely for such only in the beautiful and the sublime, and remain deaf to all words uttered by the vendors of the empty fumes of vanity.”
“This year our gazetteers have arrived at the apogee of ridicule. Each painting is judged first according to the spirit in which it was composed. Thus, you hear a liberal article praising this or that work as one produced by a truly patriotic brush with a national touch. The same work judged by an ultra-nationalist will be nothing more than a revolutionary composition, where reigns the general taint of sedition. The heads of the personages depicted each display an expression of hate for the paternal government. Finally, I have been accused by a certain Drapeau Blanc of having defamed the entire Ministry of Marine with an ordinary expressive head. We can be certain that the unhappy ones who write similar stupidities have never suffered without food for fourteen days. They know nothing of poetry, or of painting, and are entirely unable to grasp all the anguishes thrust upon the individuals of the raft with anywhere near enough horror.”
“This is a taste of the glory which one strives to attain here, and of the destructive forces which can frustrate us. We can swear that all this truly merits to be called the vanity of vanities. But that which Pascal cherished, and which you love as well, I would not disdain.” (This allusion is to a passage from Pascal cited by Mr. Musigny in the letter to which Géricault is responding)
“All my heart to you, T. Géricault”
As we can see, Géricault gave little heed to criticisms directed against his painting, and in his equanimity proved that he was a man of both sense and spirit. However, there were works at the same exhibition which the public and journalists took under their all-powerful protection almost out of habit. The Academy of Beaux-Arts, itself, did not look kindly upon the Shipwreck of the Medusa. The Gentlemen of the Institute proposed several canvases to the king for the prize awarded to the best painting at the end of the exhibition, all of which are roundly ignored today. Thus it was that they selected for the first rank Cupid and Psyche, by Mr. Picot, and Jesus Christ and the Son of Nain, by Mr. Guillemot. The work by Géricault was placed fourth on the list, and it was said that that he was lucky to have obtained a gold medal, his second. Consider well that which we call the justice of men and marvel! Of all the academicians, perhaps only David, Gérard, and Gros – the three men who were said to possess serious talent, openly professed their esteem for Géricault. We can be sure that the unfortunate Prud’hon, so poorly understood during his own time, would have admired Géricault’s work as a form of epic from the young artist, and would have been among those who applauded his first efforts.
We know that Géricault sometimes visited Baron Gérard…”