1851 Gustave Planche – Géricault (2)
Géricault Life
1814 – Wounded Cuirassier (Detail), Théodore Géricault, Louvre.
Gustave Planche’s long essay on Théodore Géricault of 1851 is one of the most important studies of the painter of the 19th century. Read part two of Planche’s work, first published in the Revue des Deux-Mondes, 1851, n° 10, June, pp. 502-531.
Géricault
“…no objects are quite as trivial as those poorly conceived and badly rendered.
When Géricault made his debut he was twenty-two years old. At the Salon of 1812, he presented a Scout of the Imperial Guard, which was welcomed with admiration by his comrades and with shock by the faithful disciples of the school of David. There was, in fact, something unexpected in the color and the style of this piece; the manner in which the painter conceived the attitude of the cavalier and the movement of the horse belonged to no tradition. This was nature itself taken as fact. Géricault represented naïvely, frankly, that which he had seen, without concerning himself to learn whether or not the lines he employed conformed with the rules established in the school of David, rules so docilely accepted in the studio of Guérin. However, we must say that Géricault was not the sole dissident in this same studio. Eugène Delacroix, Ary Scheffer, his fellow students, each in his own manner and in the measure of his faculties, searched for a new voice and for a method which would allow each to produce his thoughts in his own unfettered style. If the admiration was great for the Scout of the Guard, the shock was still more stunning than the admiration. The students of David, calibrating their own surprise with that of their master, demanded gravely to know from whence had this canvas come. They refused to take even a moment to discuss the merit of a work the origin of which could not be established. The Scout of the Guard was treated like a lost child, like an adventurer without a family, like one who has no pedigree to present to explain his parentage and who lacks the dignity for serious combat. However, even among those who opposed the Scout of the Guard during this singular finish of non-reception, who, to evade all exchange of arguments, demanded of Géricault: “Where did you come from? Where are you going? – Until you respond to these two questions, we will dispense with counting you among us.” – were some who could not mistake the power which shines in this work. The respect for principles had no command over the evidence before their eyes. The established masters stated their own concerns clearly: if this new manner is accepted by the public as the true and faithful representation of nature, then all that we have taught to this point will be reduced to nothing. Yet, among their students one could find a few undisciplined spirits who spoke openly and did not dare deny their emotions for the sake of principle; and the general public ended up holding the same opinions. The Scout of the Guard, placed for some years in the Salon Rouge (red salon) of the Palais Royal and now returned to the Orleans family, stands as an eloquent protest against the exclusive character of the principles professed by David, but has not abolished, and could not abolish, that which is great and serious in David’s teachings. Reality, as it is presented to us in the work of Géricault, preserves its vigor and its movement. The linear harmony, the elegance of forms borrowed from antique sculpture, despite the dangers which they offer to painting when they are not controlled by the study of the living model, still conserve a considerable value for all the spirits accustomed to reflection. The shock and the anger of the school of David could not envelop in forgetfulness the work of Géricault; and the success obtained by the Scout of the Guard did not degrade the value of the Sabines and of Leonidas.
Now that the battle has finished we can speak without prejudice and anger of the Scout of the Guard. David and Géricault are, for us, two historical figures. The pleasure which their paintings give us, or, to speak more exactly, the connection which our intelligence establishes between their power and their intention or design, between the end which they propose and the end which they achieve, is for us the sole measure of their merit. So, envisaged in this way, the Scout of the Guard cannot be placed among works of the second rank. There can be no doubt in fact that Géricault, in presenting to us a scout of the guard at the head of his squadron, inspiring his comrades with his vigor, with his resolution, wanted nothing but to depict military life with a heroic face. And who would dare to say that the portrait of Mr. Dieudonne does not fully realize the desire of Géricault? The gaze sparkles, the mouth trembles, the dilated nostrils, the movement of the body expresses the state of a man who goes joyously before danger; the horse, powerfully controlled by the cavalier, bound with ardor to the momentum of its master. The squadron unleashes itself and explodes forward to follow their chief into battle. What more must the painter do to demonstrate that he has victoriously accomplished his goal?
If, as I believe, the merit of a work is measured by the relationship established between the marked objective and the route taken, it seems difficult to me to contest the value of the Scout of the Guard, for the intention of Géricault has surely nothing of equivocation, and the emotion which is seized from the viewer in the presence of his painting proves clearly enough that his spirit found in his hand an interpreter eloquent and responsive. I know that some judges, indeed very kindly, find in the movement of the cavalier something theatrical. I would accept this reprimand and I would take it as valid if he were not encouraging a squadron to hurtle down upon the enemy; but I would struggle to understand how Géricault could lend to his cavalier a different movement given the thought which inspires this painting. The scout half turns upon his saddle as if to provide his companions with a final word of encouragement. I do not wish to deny that we see this half-turn, executed on a horse racing at a gallop each day at the circus and during dressage. The question reduces itself to knowing if the movement rendered to the cavalier by Géricault conforms to the truth. Yet, I do not believe this can be contested, which is why I do not see in the reproach which I just now described anything but a specious objection. Provided, in fact, that the movement condemned as theatrical expresses very clearly a very true intention, the discussion is closed, and the objection not worth the trouble of refuting.
As to the execution, properly speaking, the Scout of the Guard does not merit any lesser elegies. If the composition is well conceived, all the parts of the painting are treated with an energy, a precision which reveals in the young painter a very advanced knowledge. For better or worse, we are clearly forced to admire the ease with which the painter plays with the difficulties of his art. Although, he was only then twenty-two years old, he treated all parts of his work with the skillful dignity of a consummate master. As a result, around the year 1812, the rank of Géricault in the French school was noted in a precise fashion among the true connoisseurs. Even the disciples of David, moaning against the intrusion of an unforeseen new manner which flew in the face of all the sacred doctrines, were compelled to recognize in the indocile pupil of Guérin a hand familiar with the secrets of sound execution. The Scout of the Guard obtained a popular success.
Nonetheless, if the delicate spirits accustomed to reflection before carrying a judgment upon a new work understood why the painter gave to his cavalier an attitude not without analogy to the equerries of the Olympic Circus, if, far from condemning the slightly theatrical character of the scout racing at a gallop, they see in the fire of his eyes and in the bellicose expression of his carriage the complete justification of the path adopted by the painter, many spirits less clear and more in love with bickering reproached Géricault for not having put in his painting all the simplicity that the subject demanded. For these unhappy judges, popular admiration plays no part in the consideration of merit and the emotion of the viewer signifies nothing; theirs is a deplorable error which cannot be invoked as an argument. Géricault, without allowing himself be turned from the path he had chosen by the reproaches which he full comprehended, even in all their emptiness, sensed nonetheless the necessity of producing his talent under a new form. To those who bitterly condemned the exaggeration and the theatrical attitude of the Scout of the Guard, he wanted to demonstrate by treating very simply a gift of insignificant appearance, that he knew how to move the viewer. To the Scout of the Guard he gave, for a brother, the Wounded Cuirassier – to finally shut the mouths of the obstinate detractors of his first work.
It is impossible to imagine a contrast more striking, in fact. If the same hand reveals itself with an equal power in these two paintings, there is between these two compositions a difference so profound that after having contemplated them turn by turn, one must resign oneself to seeing in Géricault, no matter which doctrine one subscribes to, a man committed to studying nature in all its facets, and not, as it was said before the Scout of the Guard, a painter unskilled in subtlety. The painter did not lose any time responding to critics, and the response appeared victorious. The Wounded Cuirassier, exhibited in 1813, was accepted as proof of a great suppleness of imagination. For if they share the same parent in execution, there is no resemblance between the two subjects. In the same way that the Scout of the Guard, encouraging his squadron forward, pulses with ardor and enthusiasm, the Wounded Cuirassier is appropriately full of gloom and despair. Dismounted, leading his horse by the bridle, eyes raised towards the sky which he implores in his distress, his entire face breathes suffering and resignation. Even though the date of this painting does not aid the viewer in divining the place of the scene, the terrain of the first plan and the frozen aspect of the ground upon which the cavalier stands out indicates that the painter wanted to present an episode of the retreat from Russia. I do not believe that the most passionate advocate for simplicity may find in the Wounded Cuirassier the faintest trace of exaggeration. The expression of the head, the movement of the body, all elements are regulated by the most severe propriety. Even the horse plays an important role in this distressing scene, for it seems to comprehend and share the sadness of its master. One might say that it regrets, like him, the dangers and the intoxication of combat, and also complains of the harshness of the environment. I do not want to move farther in the poetic interpretation of this composition, for one might accuse me, with good reasons of replacing the study of the painting with an analysis of the sentiments which I perceive, or which I believe can be divined. However, I do not think that this analysis, purely moral, is devoid of interest and utility. For if it is necessary before all to search in the painting for the painting itself, if the material part plays an immense role in the arts of design, it is not however inopportune to compare the object represented to the idea which the author wished to express, and to judge the one by the other. Without this preliminary comparison, it is impossible to pronounce a serious judgment. Yet, in the Wounded Cuirassier of Géricault, not only the material part, that which addresses the eyes and from which each can verify the valor after the real form of the body, is thoughtful, precise and easy to grasp, but the moral dimension, that which highlights directly the intelligence, is an elegy of no less dignity. The painter has very clearly expressed the idea which he envisioned. He wanted to show us military courage under the most sublime aspect, not in the middle of a melee, for the odor of powder and the sight of blood often inflames even the most timid, but struggling with a murderous climate, reduced to impotence, to inaction; and in transforming the warrior’s heroism without denaturalizing it, this warrior’s heroism is elevated into Christian resignation. In the presence of his painting, is it permissible to retain a shadow of doubt regarding the ideas which Gericault resolved to transcribe? Is there any element of equivocation and ambiguity in his composition? It is impossible to mistake the goal which he proposes. The unsteady steps of the cavalier reveal fully the profound depths of his sufferings, and the confident regard with which he reaches towards the sky shows us that moral energy survives, deep within him, the abandonment of his physical strength. Despite his wounds, despite the cold which penetrates his exposed flank and freezes the blood in his veins, he invokes divine assistance; he does not renounce all hope and does not regret that which he has suffered for the glory of his country. The battle, between the body which threatens defeat, and the soul which prays and perseveres, is translated so eloquently that the spectator comprehends from the first glance the intention of the painter, and the more one studies this work, the more one recognizes that the hand faithfully obeys the idea.
The Scout of the Guard and the Wounded Cuirassier announced clearly Géricault’s irrevocable break with the traditions of the imperial school. Among the disciples who remained faithful the alarm was equally great; shock gave way to anger, and anger to anathema. I was not there to listen to the imprecations first pronounced against the chief of the new heresy, but contemporary witnesses transmit these to us, and we must envisage these as cries of war; for in the domain of art began a serious battle, an unrelenting battle. It was not Géricault’s intention to deny all the traditions of painting in their entirety. All those who lived in his intimacy understand his ambitions; in him the symptoms of an immoderate pride never surprised them. Firmly resolved to pursue that which he had undertaken, he possessed a faith much more alive to the legitimate goal which he proposed for himself than in the extent of his own abilities. If it is permitted to compare the reform of painting to the reform of philosophy, I would happily place the efforts of Géricault and the efforts of Descartes on the same rank. Neither the one, nor the other was so misled by pride to the point of wanting to efface the past. Géricault did not believe in creating a philosophy. He revolted against the school of David as Descartes revolted against the scholastics; and just as the gentleman of Touraine, to return philosophy to the voice of truth, began by affirming the idea to deduce from this affirmation the existence of the soul, the existence of God, and the existence of the entire world, Géricault, to bring painting back towards its goal, desired a violent return to the very origins of art, in other words to the imitation of nature. I do not believe, despite the realism imprinted in his works, that he wanted to reduce art to the imitation of nature, or that he did not perceive anything beyond reality. Such an assertion would not stand against the study of the two paintings I have just analyzed. Neither the Scout of the Guards, nor the Wounded Cuirassier could be considered as literal imitations of nature: imagination played a great role in both these compositions. It is permissible to affirm in the presence of these two paintings that, for Géricault, the imitation of nature was nothing but a means to express his ideas, and not the true goal of painting. However, I accept very well, that his admirers may have misunderstood his intentions, and I am not surprised that they have confounded the method with the end; for there is in the Scout of the Guard and in the Wounded Cuirassier such a reality, which seems like imitation at first sight, and which seems to have absorbed all the energy of his will. We must gaze upon these two figures for some time in order to discern the role of the ideal, but this seems impossible not to do once we take account of the emotion produced in the soul of the viewer. There is in these two figures something more than the literal imitation of reality: there is an idea which gives to these two works a poetic value, a moral value which the merit of the execution does not sufficiently explain.
Géricault saw the French school lost and wandering in the exclusive study of antique sculpture, laboriously combining the lines and borrowed masses from the marbles of Greece and Rome, and neglecting to question nature. Convinced, by reflection and by history, that such a system obstinately pursued must, in a short space of time, deprive painting of vigor and of life, he resolved to violently rebel against the sculptural traditions of David. He proceeded as if nature had not mattered to the eloquent, immortal interpreters, from Phidias to Raphael. It was not his part to disdain or forget; his was rather a profound respect for the illustrious masters. He sensed that the surest method of paying just homage to them was not to servilely imitate their works, but to trace back to the very source from which they had drawn, to nature. He demonstrated a sound understanding of antiquity in not copying the Greek and Roman marbles, for the most beautiful works of Phidias, although idealized by a powerful imagination, convey evidence of the assiduous study of nature. It was not from the marbles of Aegina, which we nonetheless very justly admire, that the Attic school sought the secret of beauty. As a servile imitator of his predecessors, Phidias would never have conceived of the walls of the Parthenon. By his ardent love of nature, by his sincere desire to reproduce it in all its richness, in all its variety, Géricault demonstrated more fidelity to the traditions of Greece than the entire school of David.
He had, moreover, another reason to revolt against the exclusive imitation of antique sculpture independent of his love of reality. He understood, despite his youth, that while both sculpture and painting employ imitation as a means to an end, each are subject to very different conditions. He did not believe that it was permissible to conceive and compose, after identical means, a bas-relief and a painting. All those who reflect upon the resources of painting and of sculpture, who compare the works of the chisel and of the brush selected from all the most glorious epochs of art, understand the specific merits of picturesque statuary and of sculptural painting. Ignoring such a doctrine could not but give birth to bastardized works. Géricault, therefore, displayed great wisdom in rejecting the then widely-held belief that the imitation of antique sculpture is fundamental to painting. In following the principles adopted by the school of David, Géricault would have mistaken the goal of painting. By his violent return to the same origin of art, to imitation, Géricault demonstrated to all good spirits which path we must follow. Thus, we are permitted to affirm that Géricault’s passage, far from being marked by ruin, as is asserted endlessly by those who admire only the imperial school, left durable and glorious impressions; and that his works, far from reversing all notions of justice and of truth, exercised upon French painting an impact both salutary and fecund.
However, despite the striking success of his first two paintings, Géricault sensed the need to see Italy. Accustomed to reflexion and quite aware of the history of painting, he did not believe, as we hear it repeated each day, that Italy was a place of great danger to artists. He understood the necessity of studying the arts which he practiced in the most beautiful monuments of the human imagination. He had no plan to model his own ideas upon the works of the masters of the renaissance, he simply experienced the desire to consult them. In reality, only the spirits of the second rank can fear the instruction and the examples furnished us in Italy. The spectacle of supreme beauty is always free of risk to those who know how to understand it. That the talents of doubtful value, intoxicated by applause and adulation, accustomed to collecting each morning the plaudits of the ignorant crowd, dread the challenge of a trip to Italy; that beneath the superb pretext of preserving the virginity and pure originality of their genius, they persist in never seeing either the Vatican, or the Sistene chapel, this I can understand without difficulty. Their disdain, which is given for prudence, does not need to be explained. Strongly-tempered spirits never fear their thoughts may be weakened by the study of works of the first order. The lessons which the eminent artists offer fertilize those spirits capable of production, and can frighten only intelligences already condemned to sterility, those who in consulting the caprices of fashion succeed only in composing a passing popularity. Still, this ridiculous prejudice continues to find numerous partisans. All the painters, all the sculptors, who neglected to learn the first elements of their art, who, in molding the human model, in imitating literally the stuff which they have before the eyes to surprise the admiration of onlookers, continue to treat Italy as an ordinary place without value. According to them, to guard the power and the integrity of his imagination, to march in his strength and in his freedom, the painter must interdict his journey at the Alps; the independence of genius comes at just this price. Is there any merit in refuting such nonsense? To what good end is discussing ideas which have no other patronage than ignorance and pride?
One invokes, I know it, the example of Lesueur, who never saw Italy, and who nonetheless left an immortal impression of his passage in a series of compositions executed for the Carthusians. God forbid that I would put in doubt the merits which recommend the Life of Saint Bruno. I admire very sincerely the elegance, the gravity, the sobriety of these compositions, and I gladly acknowledge that they occupy a very elevated rank in the history of painting; but I am far from believing that Lesueur, had he visited Italy, would have somehow neutered the originality of his genius. That which he found in solitary work and perseverance, he would perhaps have discovered with less effort had fortune permitted him to consult Italy. The most spontaneous geniuses in all branches of the imagination: poets, sculptors, architects, musicians, are there to protest against this doctrine which wants to deny the fecundity of example. Byron, whose individual character no one would contest, who no one would try to confuse with the herd of imitators, and Beethoven, who is identified in his art by the steps of a giant – both possessed a perfect understanding of the past, and yet neither servilely reproduced it. Lesueur, if questioned about the doubts and the failings of his solitary studies, would not have failed to appreciate the true irony of this apotheosis of intelligence reduced to itself, obligated as he was to find through his reflexions the resources which these numerous works could have furnished him. Do not speak to me of privileged geniuses who raise themselves up, who received from heaven an unexpected power, who draw upon their memories as an inexhaustible source, and who can dispense with the instruction of their predecessors; such an argument cannot be invoked, for such privileged geniuses never made any law. Géricault sensed that well, and he wanted to see Italy. While he regarded this as the next step, I will not speak here of the final goal, the imitation of nature; he understood nonetheless that nature would not satisfy him. He was not blinded by pride to the point of believing that he had nothing to learn from the illustrious masters who preceded him. In departing for Italy, in leaving his country to cross the Alps, he did not do so, as it pleases some to repeat according to the vulgar teachings of fashion, for the sterile pleasure of speaking upon his return of the Vatican and of the Capital. Despite his firm consciousness of the merit and the knowledge which he already possessed, he understood nonetheless that his knowledge was incomplete, that his skill was not yet that which it could still become. He hoped to gain for his brush a power more striking, and for his imagination a greater fecundity, and marched towards Italy as towards a generous source. Far from condemning him, far from accusing his intelligence of pusillanimity, his travels are to my eyes evident testament of his good sense. Although he then possessed a full understanding of the model which he had studied, like all men who have marked the purpose of their works far from vulgar ideas, Géricault needed the experience of learning more about how best to interpret the model, and sought to consult all the eminent spirits who, from Giotto to Michelangelo, had pursued the same end. This legitimate quest could not but be condemned by artists who blindly confuse fashion with glory, and who perceive nothing beyond their own works. All men who take the expression of their ideas seriously dream always of something better than the task already accomplished. The serious artist envisions for his imagination a form more pure and more precise, a revelation clearer and more brilliant, and must search among the counsels of his ancestors in genius for the assistance which solitary study does not provide.
Arriving in Italy…”
Read Part III here.