1851 Planche – Géricault
Géricault Life
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 one of the first English translation of Planche’s work, published first in the Revue des Deux-Mondes, 1851, n° 10, June, pp. 502-531.
Géricault
” – Posterity has begun for Géricault. After twenty-six years the hate and anger which his name conjured up has had time to subside. I do not suggest that we should now pronounce judgment upon him for future generations; this would be a ridiculous presumption on my part. Yet, we can certainly say that the name of Géricault, at least, has now entered the realm of history after having served so long as the flag of the new school; and that we can talk of him today with impartiality. Among artists, as among ordinary people, one finds oneself more often than not surrounded by those willing to swear by Géricault, and who have not yet taken the trouble to examine the body of his work. The challenges of presenting our encompassing and objective study, beset with difficulties during the times of combat, and which seemed impossible to complete while the battle continued, are today much simplified by the cooling of the passions which for so long roiled around the painter of the Raft of the Medusa in 1819, and after. These cooling passions are not entirely dead, however. The admirers of the imperial school have not renounced their old beliefs; the doctrines which they supported still seem sole truths to be dignified as faith. Yet, their conviction has taken on the character of filial piety; they speak of the past with respect and of the present without bitterness; they deplore among themselves the ruin of the true religion, but no longer try to convert the impious. The disciples of Géricault, always on guard for the master who they have chosen, and whose name is for them at all times a rallying cry of fervent devotion, speak no more with the same disdain and the same injustice of the imperial school, and recognize the services rendered to art by the knowledge and perseverance of David. If Guérin and Girodet have not yet found the popularity which they enjoyed under the empire, Eylau and Jaffa, the Sabines and Leonidas, at least, are today esteemed for their just value. Even the painters who worked in an entirely different voice do not refuse the tribute of their admiration for these accomplished works. It seems, then, that the time has come to pronounce an equitable judgement on the talent of Géricault and to mark his place in the aesthetic history of our century. Those for whom the Raft of the Medusa was a sign of decadence, like those who saw in this unforeseen composition a sign of progress, today willingly listen to doctrines of which they do not approve. There are two parts in this movement towards impartiality. In place of hymns or invective, the critic can now examine that which merits the honor of discussion, and condemn, or praise, that which calls for blame or commendation. None, I believe, can regret the passing of the bitterness and anger which masqueraded as serious argument for twenty-six years. The right, the independence, and the firm resolution to highlight with the same care the defects and the quality of the most striking works are, in the eyes of reason, well worth challenging all preconceived admiration and denigration, resistant even to the test of evidence.
Yet, to understand well the role of Géricault in French painting, it does not suffice to study the painter himself; such a method leads us only to an incomplete truth. The most attentive analysis would not teach us what he wanted to reverse, and that which he wanted to promote. Géricault, reduced to himself, separated from all masters, isolated from that which produced him, is not in spirit anything but a sterile idea. To mark his place, to characterize clearly the influence that he exercised upon the French school, we must begin by determining the principles which governed the teaching of painting when Géricault, despite resistance from his family, put down his books for the brush. Without completing this preliminary condition, it is impossible to explain why, in the greater part of his works, the execution is not in accord with the conception, why the hand is more skillful than the idea is finished. If Géricault had not encountered in Pierre Guérin a fervent admirer, a faithful and committed disciple of the principles proclaimed by David, if he had not found in this capable master the firm resolution to condemn with disdain and to proscribe without pity all caprices of imagination, if he had not had to carry battles without number against tradition – which pretended to possess the sole secret of beauty, it is probable that his talent would not have taken on the character of violence and of reaction which so shocks us even in his smallest studies, and which is revealed in full display in his final piece.
Under the care of a master more indulgent, free – turn by turn, without constraint, without resistance, to study from nature and from the masters, Géricault would never have become a chef d’école. This role, which he could never have dreamed of, could only be assigned him by his comrades, who later became his students. Therefore, we must absolutely speak of Guérin, if we wish to understand and explain Géricault. A few banal phrases, cliched years ago, regarding the predilections of the imperial school for academic forms would provide a very unhelpful preface. I will abstain from repeating these. I prefer to follow the better counsels of good sense and to search for the doctrines of Guérin in his works. If this path is longer, it is also more sure, and the only one which leads to the proper end. A rapid appreciation of the works of Guérin permits us to clearly establish the sense and the substance of his doctrines. In seeing that which he desired, and comparing his desire to this desire revealed in the works of Géricault, we understand easily how the conflict ended with the arrival of the new school, how Géricault discovered in his resistance a fecund source of energy; how the obstinacy of his master pushed him to revolt; and how the revolt, in persisting, changed its name and transformed itself into a revolution. This entire series of ideas, reduced to abstract terms, leaves no profoundly clear impressions of facts engraved easily in memories. This is why I do not fear taxing your attention by beginning this history of Géricault with a summary of the history of Pierre Guérin.
Pierre Guérin does not much recommend himself to us – either by the severity of his drawing, or by the brilliance of his color. Yet, there is a compositional merit in several of his works which cannot be denied. Cato of Utica Tearing his Entrails and Marcus Sextus show clearly that Guérin was early on accustomed to meditation and reflection; for the first of these works, placed today at the School of Fine Arts, was conceived when Guérin was just twenty-two. Marcus Sextus, executed before Guérin departed for Italy, was presented two years later. One can, without injustice, criticize the insufficiency of anatomical knowledge in the second of these works, which established the renown of Guérin and the success of which he never surpassed in any of his paintings. One can, without exposing oneself to the reproach of malevolence, ask where one finds the type of color chosen by the painter for this composition. But, whatever our feelings as they relate to the doctrines espoused by David, one cannot fail to recognize in Marcus Sextus a true power of expression, a power which again adds to the evidence of merit which I contend is clearly present, no matter the incomplete manner in which his figures are rendered. One finds with ease today, among the men of twenty-five committed to the study of painting, a skilled hand more knowing; one finds with difficulty an intelligence capable of concentrating his ideas with as much energy. Sadness and despair are expressed in his Marcus Sextus with an acerbity and a grandeur which justified the popularity Guérin acquired with this work. As for the indecision of the drawing, for the incomplete manner in which the figures are modeled, we find sufficient explanation in recalling the fact that Guérin, although born under the domination of David, had yet to study in his studio. After several months spent in the studio of an obscure painter named Brenet, Guérin entered the studio of Regnault. However, nobody ever considers placing the Education of Achilles at Scyros on the same rank as the Sabines for the severity of design. Although Regnault shared with David and Vincent the responsibility of governing the French school, he never had by his teaching, or his works, the authority which belongs to the head of a school. We must, therefore, not be shocked that Guérin, instructed by the lessons of Regnault, did not find for his thoughts a more precise form. Deprived of the aid of a literary education, but nourished by the lectures of historians and of poets of antiquity, the hand did not reach the same heights as the mind. He conceptualized better and more strongly that which he did not know how to render; and although he had not yet lived under the severe discipline of David, even so, he put into his Marcus Sextus an openness and an evidence of expression which is profoundly moving. If the emotions of viewers do not confirm the technical excellence of the work, they prove at least that there is in the painter a highly developed poetic sentiment. I do not believe that in this respect the impact of Marcus Sextus leaves any doubt in the minds of even the most critical.
Phaedra and Hippolytus and Andromache and Pyrrhus are very far from the work which I have just described in terms of value. The gestures of these individuals have in them something of the theatrical in the most vulgar sense of the word. Rather than finding the inspiration to translate upon canvas two tragedies of Racine by re-reading and meditating upon the models of Euripides’ Hippolytus and his Andromache, both of which Racine himself consulted, Guérin examined memories of contemporary theatrical performances for all the elements of these two compositions, specifically those of watching Miss Duchesnois and Talma perform as Phaedra and Orestes. Talma, in spite of the excellence of his talent, despite the genius which animated all his roles, was obliged to adjust the conditions of different scenes to win the applause of his audience. Despite his ardent love of truth, despite his constant passion for the natural, he could not dispense with accentuating with an involuntary exaggeration certain effects of gesture and expression, and if I repeat this, it is not to reproach him – it was one of the necessities of his art; absolute simplicity would not have been understood. Thus, Talma himself, no doubt very useful to consult, should not have been the sole model for the painter who wished to depict Orestes. As for Miss Duchesnois, I confess frankly that I have never understood her renown; she was to my eyes a perfectly false talent. Although she received the advice of an ingenious poet, she played the role of Phaedra as a perpetual cantilena. No matter who was her interlocutor – Œnone, Hippolytus or Theseus, she never consented to speak simply. She sighed, she hummed, and I do not recall having any surprise in the ordinary accents of her voice. Her renown is one of those gross blunders the tradition of which has unfortunately not been lost. It was therefore very imprudent, if not foolish, for Guérin to study the facial expressions and the gestures of Miss Duchesnois to find the true type for Phaedra; for the facial expressions and the gestures necessarily follow all the inflections of her voice. As well, these two paintings of Guérin, even though defended with ardor by his numerous friends, remain for all clear-sighted men, tainted in manner, and by false taste. I do not doubt that the author would have avoided this error by re-reading the Hippolytus and Andromache of Euripides. If the last of these tragic Greeks, whose works we possess, cannot be compared to Aeschylus or Sophocles for grandeur and simplicity, it is nonetheless certain that he understood, amidst his declamations, how to find accents of truth and accents of pathos. As Racine had taken from Virgil the dramatic argument for his Andromache, the counsels of the Athenian poet should not have been neglected for the representation of Andromache and of Pyrrhus; Talma and Miss Duchesnois could not replace the lecture of Euripides.
Dido Listening to the Recitation of the Woes of Aeneas offers remarkably strong qualities. It is impossible not to render justice to the pose of Dido, at the same time gracious and nonchalant. The angle of the body is of a great suppleness which recommends itself with very happy lines. The entire face is attentive. Guérin has very skillfully rendered the expression of the Latin poet, who presents the queen of Carthage to us hanging upon the lips of Aeneas. The voluptuous attitude of the individual blends effortlessly with the attention which radiates in all her traits. One finds the Trojan hero somewhat insignificant, and I declare that it would be difficult to grasp upon his face an idea clearly determined. However, there is in his attitude, if not in his regard, an expression of nobility and of grandeur. The sister of Dido, leaning upon the bed where the queen reclines, is one of most gracious figures born from the brush of the painter. The eyes and the mouth are full of tenderness, and in this tenderness is a mingling of generosity. Anna listens with an attentive ear to the account by Aeneas, as if she represents the fateful passion that this account ignites in the heart of Dido. I do not profess a great admiration for the false Ascanius, although this figure has obtained in the last thirty years a prodigious popularity. The malice which the painter desired to place in the eyes and upon the lips of the false Ascanius is not exempt from affectation. Yet, if there is in the world one poet who counsels, who prescribes simplicity, it is surely Virgil. In the work of the Latin poet there is no trace of the fault I find in the false Ascanius. However, despite the insignificant physiognomy of the narrator, despite the affectation which spoils the malice of the son of Venus, there still remains in this painting much to praise. The canvas is entirely inundated with light. The sea stretches into the distance, and the eye swims happily in this indefinite space. One could wish for a greater sobriety in the details of the clothes of the queen, in the bed even, where she reposes. It is certain in fact that the prodigious ornaments from the painter expose the gaze of the viewer to frequent distractions, and detract from the poetic effect of the composition. Yet, we must not forget that Virgil presents Dido to us as a beautiful woman and one proud of her beauty, and the illustrious Mantouan, in his portrait of the queen of Carthage, does not omit her coquetry. Thus, I do not attach a great important to the preceding remark. Although I prefer, on all occasions, simplicity to profusion, I cannot see in the ornaments imagined by the painter for the clothes of Dido a subject of serious reproach, and I gladly praise the elegance and elevation which reigns in all parts of the painting; for the false Ascanius himself, despite his slightly affected malice, is not devoid of elegance. To translate the poets of antiquity, we must have lived with them in familiar commerce, and the Dido of Guérin endures as a brilliant testament to his assiduity, and to the perseverance of his studies.
Clytemnestra Pushed by Aegisthus to Murder Agamemnon is no less worthy of attention than Dido Listening to the Recitation of the Woes of Aeneas. The blood-red light spilling upon all the figures accords very well with the scene which the painter wants to present. The lecture of Aeschylus was no less fecund than the lecture of Virgil. The adulterous queen is very well conceived. Her face, her carriage, radiate a homicidal rage. To freely possess the lover whom she has chosen, she has resolved to murder her husband; but her hand is not as hard as her heart and trembles at the moment of execution. The mother of Orestes, he who must one day avenge the murder of his father, searches in the same crime for another link to further enchain Aegisthus. All the intentions of the poet are faithfully rendered by the painter. All in this composition is so skillfully calculated that the spirit does not hesitate an instant upon the role assigned to each figure. It is permissible to criticize the proportions which the painter gives to the king of Argos. In fact, Agamemnon should be placed far enough away from Aegisthus and from Clytemnestra so that the viewer could accept these proportions. The queen and her lover are in the chamber of the king, and it seems that Agamemnon is separated from us by twenty paces. This is certainly a positive error, but an entirely material error, which takes nothing away from the grandeur of the composition. It is a question of perspective which a scholar, after six months of study, could easily resolve. As to the poetic merit of this painting, to discuss this one does not need to know the first word of the Greek tragedy. In fact, whoever has lived familiarly with Aeschylus, or Sophocles, understands all the elevation and all the fidelity of the painting of Guérin. If the execution is not as knowing or precise as one might wish, the physiognomy and the gestures of the figures are of a nature to satisfy the most demanding tastes. Are there today many painters whose works merit the same elegy? The Clytemnestra of Guerin is a composition conceived skillfully over time and with much meditation, and which will always hold a high place in the French school.
This rapid analysis of the works of Pierre Guérin shows us clearly enough that he was not an ordinary master. In fact, several eminent artists of our own time have taken from his school – if not the blind respect for the principles which he professed, then at least the practice of meditating on the example set, and not entrusting their brushes to the caprices of revelation, or to the inventions of their thoughts. I said that Géricault excited more shock than sympathy in the studio of Pierre Guérin, and this is conceivable: for if one takes some small trouble to compare the Raft of the Medusa to Dido Listening to the Woes of Aeneas, nothing in the world is easier to imagine than the shock of Pierre Guérin. There was in Géricault a passion for reality which could not accept any constraint. While he had not yet quit college, on the days he could leave he knew of no greater pleasure than assisting in the exercises of Franconi. His comrades added that, struck with admiration for the talent of this skillful horse trainer, he regarded it an honor to work with him and to learn his method in the handling of horses. Not only did he assiduously follow the exercises of Franconi, but he would place himself at the doors of the great palaces of the faubourg Saint Germain and the faubourg Saint Honore to contemplate at his ease the handsome teams of Mecklembourgeois in high harness. Enchanted, and in a state of ecstasy by their beautiful coats and their powerful muscles, he followed them on their courses for as long as he could, and when exhaustion stopped him, he recovered and began a new excursion. These details, which have been conserved for us by his friends, explain why, before entering the studio of Guérin, he spent time following the lessons of Carle Vernet. The special studies of Carle Vernet had excited in Géricault a lively desire to receive his instruction; but, over the space of several months, he sensed that Carle Vernet was not his man. In fact, this painter, who certainly did not lack talent, was too obstinately attached to reproducing certain types of horses, such as the Arabian type and the English breed, and for this latter type he retained a marked preference. Moreover, he carried into his representations of the horse certain processes which the world had accepted, but which injected into his works a singular monotony. Géricault could not accommodate a master so narrow in his tastes and in his method. His own passion for horses embraced all types, from the Norman type to the Arabian. Also, it was no difficulty for him to discover all that was petty in the talent of of Carle Vernet, although he rendered full justice to the power of his brush. For him, the craftsmanship of this first master was a purely industrial skill. The painter promptly said it was no great thing to wrestle with the paintings of Carle Vernet. Everyone had accepted the painter of horses as a consummate artist, and without taking his fame seriously he reaped the benefits. Géricault, sincerely taken with the beauty of the horse, but who understood it in all its variety, could not remain long in the studio of Carle Vernet. Despite his predilection for the stud farm, for the races of the Champ de Mars, he entered the studio of Guérin.
One can imagine without difficulty all that he would suffer under the discipline of this new master; his ardent love of reality did not find satisfaction in the studio of the pupil of Brenet and Regnault. Each time that it came to him to abandon the principles consecrated in the studio and be truant, he was sharply scolded. And, sincere or not, whether he was expressing his own convictions, or wanted to come in aid of the reservations of the family of his student, Guérin counselled Géricault to renounce painting. There was certainly much in these remonstrances to discourage a vulgar spirit, and one less strongly tempered. Happily, Géricault, without wondering whether his master was expressing his own thoughts, or those of his family, had enough good sense to include in his life both obedience and freedom: so much that when he was in the communal studio, he listened receptively to the advice of Guérin. Once alone, once free to himself, he looked upon nature with an avid eye and copied it as he pleased. Often he managed to sketch compositions borrowing from his lectures and submitted them to Guérin: the master hurled upon the sketch a look rapid and disdainful, and repeated for the hundredth time the first sentence which he had to say to the young scholar: “In pursuing such a road, you will accomplish nothing; the wisest course for you would be to renounce painting;” – the scholar persevered without respite in his independent studies. While accepting the counsel of the master for the practical material of his art, he interrogated nature with an assiduous curiosity, and gladly preferred the witness of his eyes to the teachings of the studio. Though the manner of Géricault was not in any sense in accord with the manner of Guérin, though the painter of the Medusa professed a constant passion for reality, and the pupil of Regnault preferred the choice of line to the imitation of nature, I do not believe, however, that we must regret the lessons given to Géricault by Guérin; for the future master had no doubt drawn from the contradiction a new energy. And then we must not forget that if Guérin did not possess a very skillful hand, if he did not always render with a satisfactory precision that which he had conceived, he recommended himself in the eyes of his students by the permanent elevation of his intellect. He did not believe that painting existed entirely in the eye, or in the hand, as if it sufficed to simply see and to transcribe to reach the goal. He attributed to intelligence a considerable part in the arts which we call the arts of imitation,
Such a master could not fail to develop in Géricault the practice of meditation and, happily, to combat the materialist taste which engendered the exclusive study of nature. If the instruction of Guérin did not fully succeed in effacing the influence of this exclusive study, it is permitted at least to affirm that it was not without profit for Géricault. I do not speak of the Offering to Asclepius, the execution and the idea of which do not merit serious discussion. Marcus Sextus, Dido, and Clytemnestra, whatever one can say of the anatomical indecision of the forms, offer to the intelligence a number of subjects of study. To interpret the history of poetry with such a simplicity, such a grandeur, Guérin must have nourished his own spirit with austere lectures, and it is this that Géricault learned early on, although he had not received a literary education. Géricault, who upon the benches of the College of Napoleon, gathered an ample harvest of historic memories and poetics, could without effort connect these with his master’s predilection for antiquity. Nonetheless, we see nothing in the works which Géricault left us that establishes clearly the predilection of which I speak; but there are in the drafts collected by his friends, several figures which indicate his thoughts regarding Athens. These suffice to show that the teachings of Guérin had not been without influence on the intellectual development of Géricault; for there is nothing in these sketches to distinguish them from his known completed works.
In my view, it is this that we must praise in the teachings of Guérin: his is not only the love of antiquity, but above all the love of reflection. Yet, it is an unappreciated merit which is recognized in the studios of very few masters. It was, therefore, Géricault’s great good fortune to encounter in the painter of Dido a man entirely comfortable with difficulty, and who did not merely search upon his palette for the expression of the idea which he wanted to translate. He promoted in his lessons respect for the mind and a horror of improvisation; he did not believe that the hardiest genius, the most fecund, could dispense with reflection before producing a work. The numerous sketches of the Medusa, conserved in the collection of Mr. Marcille, are there to attest to that which I advance. Following the example of his master, Géricault contented himself with difficulty and turned over his ideas in every sense before entrusting them to the canvas. His hand, so gentle and so quick, did not turn to the work until his intelligence had completed its task. Had Guérin provided Géricault only with the habit and taste for meditation, he would still deserve our grateful recognition; but this is not the only benefit which the painter of the Medusa received from him: in the works of Guérin there is an elegance, an elevation of style, which Géricault never forgot. He found the means to faithfully display the lessons of his master in the representation of scenes borrowed from everyday life. He replaced the harmony of lines with the vigor of forms and the energy of expression. He put this style into the painting of a stud farm and the forge of a blacksmith, for all things understood clearly and then clearly expressed lend themselves to style. No objects are quite as trivial as those poorly conceived and badly rendered.
When Géricault made his debut…”
Read Part II here.