1845 Blanc – Géricault (3)
Géricault Life
1821 – Epsom Derby (detail) Théodore Géricault, Louvre.
Charles Blanc published his biography of Théodore Géricault in 1845, as part of his Histoire des peintres français au dix-neuvième siècle (pp. 403-443). Read the third and final part of Blanc’s important study.
Géricault
“…Mr. de Musigny, who was very close to this great painter, has taken great care to preserve several of his paintings, in particular the Chasseur d’elite. As for the rest, even the smallest sketch by Géricault is sought after, and commands respect. If he happened to immortalize a visit of several hours; or to leave a souvenir for a friend; to paint in haste the top of a door; or to playfully paint over the sign of a blacksmith with generous imagination, we find these inspiring studies today in the hands of collectors, encased to preserve their beauty from the elements. We have seen, for example, in the home of the art dealer, Mr. Ottoz, a piece of wooden panel upon which Géricault depicted the Diligence of Sevres, which he had just seen passing before his window. It is a small painting, or “pochade,” of the most lively sort, which Gericault painted for his friend Mr. Lebrun. Five horses surge forth at a gallop, pulling one of the coaches which served the routes to and from Paris. The diligence arrives at a turn; but we still see it and two horses in profile. The three in front have already turned left and so present their three rears, above which we can see their foreshortened necks and the movement of their ears. Their efforts to pull the coach over this hilly terrain are perfectly clear. The two other animals are also accurate in design and color, as if they had been executed after nature. At all times we can easily see, solely through the fire of his brush, the impressions made upon his memory. The hand of Géricault worked as fleetly as the horses which had just disappeared before his eyes. A cloud of thick dust envelops all the lower part, and the wheels are quite special. The painter tried to capture the spinning melee which is produced by speed and a trick of the eye. Made from first sight, this is something surprising which one perceives entirely. The tone is off-white and is stunning in its execution. For a painting made from memory, the horses, collars, bridles, all the harness and tackle are of a marvelous exactitude. This quick sketch is, however, that of a colorist – if not by the richness and clarity of the tones, at least then by their accuracy – rendered so well that one clearly recalls this coach just as the artist did when he painted it.
I was told a charming anecdote about Géricault which confirms that his love of horses was at least equal to his skill as a painter. Passing one day through the small streets which led to the Louvre, Géricault found a cart driver who was beating his horses. Indignant at the bad treatment inflicted upon his poor models, the painter complained loudly. Obtaining nothing in return for all that but insults and threats, Géricault fell furiously upon the cart driver, and with two blows of his fists sent him tumbling at the feet of his horses. The man of the people, recognizing his opponent’s superior strength remained on the ground and calmly remarked: “Given that you are so strong, surely we would be better served if you put your shoulder to the wheel.” Struck by this profound wisdom, and realizing in turn the superiority of good sense, Géricault extended a hand to the driver and together they freed the cart.
In 1820, Géricault departed for England. At this time the inspiration came to him to hold an exhibition of the Medusa. An Englishman saw the opportunity for profit and financed the project. The resulting revenues were so substantial that Géricault’s share was no less than twenty thousand francs. It was thus that the celebrated engraver Reynolds made his drawing of the Shipwreck of the Medusa, from which he executed the engraving in the black-ink style which is known to all, and which gave a second life to his masterpiece. For his part, Géricault learned from his studies of the English horse to make his own representations of the animal more lithe and elegant. Mr. Eugène Delacroix showed us a small sepia image from this period in which Géricault attained actual perfection. All elements, the grace and vigor of the animal, exquisitely proportioned, and free of exaggeration or stiffness in the limbs, are evident in this inestimable treasure.
When Géricault returned to Paris his health was already somewhat altered. His letters betray a deep melancholy and sense of loss; he was tormented by vague and insatiable desires. His affection for his friends became more intense, and he complained continually of the rarity of their visits and their letters. Susceptible to the power of his good heart, the suspicion of being forgotten by his friends hurt him. If they spent much time without coming to see him, he wrote elaborate letters of impossible politeness in which he could not completely control his anger, permitting his sensitivity to sometimes pierce through and blossom. He wrote, however, with spirit, composing agreeably on many topics, and liberated himself from his temporary discouragements by charming sallies and enjoyable flashes of wit. In a letter to Mr. de Musigny, he very pleasantly mocks the journalists who had judged his Shipwreck of the Medusa from a political point of view. Géricault was greatly amused that a liberal boasts of discovering a patriotic brush, a national touch and still more, even as an extreme nationalist critic accused him of calumny against the entire ministry of the Marine with the expression of a single head. And he conducted himself in the best taste and with great verve.
It was in the destiny of Géricault to perish victim of his passion and of his audacity. One day, he went riding with Mr. Horace Vernet upon the heights of Montmartre on a horse of his which was wild, strong-willed, and could never be ridden by another. It threw him, sending him violently over the reins against a pile of stones. The legs of his trousers were tied together in a hard, tight knot. This knot caused a grave lesion. He could have recovered, but impatient with the pace of his recovery, he aggravated his injuries by imprudent exertions. He could not resist mounting his steed again and rode to assist at the races of the Champ de Mars. There he collided from another rider and received a violent shock, a shock which forced him once more to surrender himself to the care of his friends. Sick, and unable to leave his bed, he remained at the home of Mr. Dedreux Dorcy [Pierre de Dreux d’Orcy] in a house on rue Taitbout, n° 9, for about one year. (These details are not inconsequential, one wants to know the outcome of all great artists and of their final demise. So, to that end, we report with justifiable interest that the apartment in which Géricault died in the house on the rue des Martyrs, n°. 21, as we will see below, was occupied immediately after by Beranger.)
During this period Géricault spent all his time drawing, when he could, and supervising the copying of the lithographs he had published in London. These he wished to reproduce, both because the original proofs were worn and could no longer be used, and because he hoped to improve upon the printing quality of the work done in England. He was otherwise melancholy and preoccupied, and brooded over several debts that his illness prevented him from resolving. His friends colonel Bro and Mr. Dedreux Dorcy wanted to remove this worry, and proposed he let them sell some of his paintings. They made a very happy outcome of this venture, earning him thirteen thousand francs in several days. Géricault was stupefied when informed of the result. He could not believe the value others attached to his work, perhaps because at that time Mr. de Forbin, director of the Museum, was not willing to pay five thousand francs for the Shipwreck of the Medusa. In his scrupulous modesty, Géricault accused his friends of having exploited the ignorance of the collectors!
He eventually recovered and was once again able to take up his brushes. As soon as he returned to work, Géricault produced a series of oriental costumes in watercolor, remarkable studies that are in the possession of Mr. Étienne Arago, for the most part. He thought seriously about executing the great compositions which he had long contemplated, the subjects of which were the Slave Trade and the Opening of the Doors of the Inquisition. (No accident in the confluence of theme here – religion, raft, madness, imprisonment, bondage) He was about to begin work when his malady returned to strike a blow so final and so sad. Géricault died in the house of his father, on the rue des Martyrs, on the 18th of January, 1824, cared for by several friends, Mr. Dorcy, the colonels Bro and Brack, promoted since to generals. Death had horribly emaciated and changed this noble figure. There is hardly a studio today where one does not find the mask in plaster of Géricault, a long face, sunken, bones protruding, a slight smile set in an expression of mild irony and eternal regret. Upon Géricault’s death, Mr. Dedreux Dorcy, fearing to see the Shipwreck of the Medusa pass into the hands of strangers, bought it for six thousand francs. Some Americans quickly presented themselves and offered Mr. Dorcy double and triple this amount. Mr. Dorcy nobly refused their offers, believing that such a masterpiece could not possibly be in any place but the Louvre. Mr. de Forbin returned with his first offer. The director of the Royal Museum eventually paid Mr. Dedreux Dorcy the price of six thousand francs, as if the paintings of Géricault had suddenly improved with his death. This work by Géricault was thus hung upon the walls of the Louvre alongside those of Veronese, Rubens, and Poussin.
He was also a talented sculptor. Mr. Lenormand informs us that Géricault used his knife to carve the motifs dignifying the frieze of the Parthenon on the walls of his studio. At Evreux, the honorable general de Brack possesses several sculptures by Géricault, among them the sketch of a lion in repose, and a bas-relief in wax, representing a classical cavalier. The lion is from a living model and displays a character of majestic savagery. The bas-relief is a masterpiece without price, and is truly worthy of Phidias, but is entirely more affecting than any sculpture by the Greek artist. The “flayed horse,” which one finds cast in plaster in the studio of every professional molder, is a true anatomical study of the animal, a perfect model which proves how profound the science of Géricault was, and how rare his aptitude for sculpture. Mr. Étex erected a mausoleum of marble to honor Géricault the sculptor and the painter. Géricault is represented reclining upon an elbow upn his tomb, with a small, Greek cap upon his head, which was one of his preferred habits, and draped in an ordinary robe. The three principal works of Géricault are depicted in bas-relief upon the monument. The Shipwreck of the Medusa is figured in bronze upon the front face; the Chasseur and the Cuirassier are placed upon each side. One expects that Géricault, the man of action, stirring and bold, would stand atop his mausoleum, much as David shows us Carrel [Pierre Jean David d’Anger’s statue of Armand Carrel]. Mr. Étex, perhaps seduced by the thought of a simple contrast, shows us Gericault at rest upon his tomb, thoughtful and tranquil, even as death reached out to take him early.
The name of Géricault will remain that of a reformer, but there is no value in overstating this point. He did not go to extremes. His style is well-defined, accented, and perfectly recognizable. One rediscovers, in all his works, the same energy, the same clarity, the same taste for sculpting form, and the same will to craft a work out of new elements, without abandoning ancient precepts. An individual who took as much care with his hair as he could not have, in his teaching mission, any indifference regarding his choice of subject. If Géricault was the first to take subjects from ordinary life, he did so to improve them, and to give them lustre. Without especially favoring these common types, he understood how to address them, and imprint upon them his character of force, which is another form of nobility. If he saw the horse of a passing cart driver, he painted it gladly in all its powerful allure; but he did so to uncover for us the beauties hitherto unseen, and to ennoble with pride the workhorse of the common man.
Géricault, remember, was an innovator who believed one is not obliged to do more than is necessary in order to achieve a goal. His influence was a return to good sense. He understood all that had been contrary to the essence of the art of painting; that the eternal repetition of the Greek model which David had introduced among us could only make painting a slave of sculpture. David had produced an honorable severity of design. After some years, it was no longer true that emotion, poetry, and nobility could be found only in the sublime, but frigid, regularity taught by the great master. Géricault sprang forth with the voice already formed by the painter of Eylau and of Aboukir. And yet did so in a form completely different from the classical, in a manner more humane, hardier, and more robust. By building this essential connection, Géricault placed himself within the great family of French painters. If, after having contemplated the paintings of David at the Louvre, one returns to study the Shipwreck of the Medusa, we will certainly be struck with a sense of theatre. The work of the two masters placed side by side in this way reveals an immense contrast. An entire world lies between the immobile demi-gods of the one, and the animated cadavres of the other. Yet, there is a connection linking the two paintings and the two artists – it is the intention to ennoble humanity, to bring poetry to our history and make our miseries a subject of interest. The one shows us men as beautiful as the inhabitants of Olympus; the other finds beauty enough in all the horror of their degradation and distress. From Géricault to David, the difference is simply between modern poetry and the propriety of the antique. A handful of sailors upon a raft would seem to be a subject for genre painting, at most; and yet, what a powerful interest do we not take in these abandoned mariners, in these slaves without name! Ah, Géricault has no need to name his hero Romulus in order to move us! This great artist paints the real dangers of the tempest for us, and does not fashion these for the pleasure of our eyes. But, I repeat, the form alone changed. The style is new; but the method of expression comes from a foundation unaffected by time. It will always be the particular genius of this nation to implant upon disaster a magnificent poetry such that the event becomes an Odyssey. Consider once more that sublime image of hope, appearing so small and so uncertain on the horizon of the ocean. Visit the other schools, go to Madrid, to Rome, to Florence, to Venice; travel around Germany, Flanders, England, you will find everywhere the marvels of form, the triumphs of imitation and adaption, the fine spirits of imagination, sometimes even the unintended poetry of local beauty… but in no part will you find this preeminence of thought, which is the greatness of our art, this admirable clarity which allows ordinary people to speak with great intelligence and with all their hearts, and which must one day shine upon these same schools where we will, before too long, search for the light.”