1851 Planche – Géricault (3)
Géricault Life
1814 – Wounded Cuirassier (Detail), Théodore Géricault, Louvre.
Gustave Planche’s study of Théodore Géricault of 1851 is one of the most important studies of the painter of the 19th century. Read the final section of Planche’s long essay, first published in the Revue des Deux Mondes, 1851, n°10, June, pp. 502-531.
Géricault
“…Arriving in Italy, Géricault had nothing but an embarrassment of choices; the models for him were not lacking, from the grace of Raphael to the the science of Michelangelo, from the ingenious elegance of Annibale Carrachi to the sometimes savage energy of Dominechino, the most striking works, the most varied, solicited his attention and his sympathy. But even in Italy, Géricault, the predestined instrument of a violent reaction against the academic school, had to maintain fidelity to the first instincts of his adolescence, to the first desires of his virile age. The rooms of the Vatican, the Sistene Chapel, despite the abundance of power and of genius which these reveal to us, did not offer enough to seduce and transform him. That which he pursued, that of which he dreamed, this was reality, quite the opposite of the conventional forms and preconceived lines taught by David and by his students. Yet, neither the School of Athens, nor the Last Judgement, nor the vault of the Sistene Chapel could content this burning thirst for reality. In the Last Judgement, everything we need to teach an intelligence receptive to the most mysterious secrets of painting is present. To attempt to demonstrate this would be simply to dwell on a commonplace. However, to those who comprehend the true sense, the complete sense of the word ‘reality,’ it is perfectly clear that the grace of Raphael and the science of Michelangelo are not reality itself. Raphael, by linear harmony; Michelangelo, by the interpretation of forms, are elevated well above reality; for these two artists comprehended the mission of painting in all its scope and did not reduce it to pure imitation. Géricault, had he lived longer, would no doubt have understood this truth with the same clarity, the same precision. Compelled by good sense, by the evidence, to react against the education which he had received, he naturally had to neglect the definitive goal of his art in order to focus entirely on the immediate goal, or was confounded too often searching for the means to reach this goal. Géricault did not mistake the profound difference which separates the method and the goal; but, given over entirely to the desire to substitute reality for convention, he could not embrace in a single look all the parts of his task, and was forced to set aside parts which he appears to ignore. For those who have lived in Rome for several months, the embarrassment of Géricault is easy to comprehend: each finds in this city without rival the physical incarnation of the beauty which previously existed only as the stuff of dreams. I regret that Géricault did not leave a journal of his everyday impressions; it would be curious to know what he thought and felt standing before the Parnasse of the Vatican, and before the First Sin of the Sistene chapel, and to follow step by step his admiration and his scruples.
When I speak of scruples, the reader familiar with the history of painting understands me without difficulty. It is evident that for a man taken with reality, who pursued the imitation of nature, if not as the supreme goal, then at least as the next step in his art, Michelangelo and Raphael are at all times a subject of admiration and a source of scruples. Neither the School of Athens, nor the Last Judgement belong to the school of realism. The Triumph of Bacchus, painted as a fresco in the gallery of the Farnese palace by Annibale Carrachi, is not more real than the School of Athens and the Last Judgement. The Hours of Guido Reni at the Rospigliosi palace, the Aurora of Guerchin at the villa Ludovisi are also not literal imitations of nature. The Tribune of Saint-André della Valle, the masterpiece of Dominechino, is closer to the goal pursued by Gericault. The Martyrdom of Saint Andrew, placed in the church of Saint Gregory, compared with a painting by Guido Reni on the same subject, is perhaps still more the neighbor of literal imitation. However, none of these masters, so varied, so ingenious, and so fecund could content Géricault. For he did not find in the Roman school, or in the Florentine school, or in the school of Bologna, reality living and complete, the pure reality which he called his whole desire. To remain faithful to the cause of truth, I am obliged to assert that the painter of the Medusa chose for a model a painter who, in the history of art, is placed far from Michelangelo and from Raphael, far from Annibale Carrachi, and from Dominechino: it is from Lombardy that Géricault sought counsel, and he did not choose for his guide either the founder of the Milanese school, or his most illustrious pupil, not Leonardo de Vinci, nor Bernardino Luini; Géricault, who had before his eyes Michelangelo and Raphael, turned his gaze away as if dazzled by this all powerful splendor. The godfather he gave himself, vaunted and celebrated two hundred years ago as an accomplished painter, and now returned to his just value, is called Michelangelo Amerighi, and, as he was born in the small village of Caravaggio in Lombardy, he is known generally by the name Michelangelo de Caravaggio. Although this painter, dead for two hundred and forty-one years, is today deprived of his former fame, one cannot deny that he possessed a singular talent: there is in his manner of distributing light, of giving greater relief to all his figures, a power which can be compared to the power of Rembrandt. If the Dutch painter possesses a genius more fecund, an imagination more abundant, the Lombard painter battles with him in cunning and finesse when it comes to depicting the form of shadows; to render, as Milton so beautifully expressed, darkness visible. It is from Michelangelo de Caravaggio that Géricault sought counsel, and it is with the memory of his works in mind that he composed the Raft of the Medusa.
Despite Géricault’s very evident prediliction for Amerighi, we must not believe that he chose the works of this master exclusively for his studies. All those who have lived in familiar commerce with the French painter know the value he placed on variety. So, I will speak briefly on the universality of Géricault’s works. His friends and his companions of the studio speak with admiration of the prodigious number of drawings and sketches which he brought back from his travels. Géricault wanted to accustom his eye and his hand to all processes, to all the tricks of his art, and this persistent ambition was not disappointed. Not only did he copy with assiduous care important pieces of all the chefs d’école from Leonardo to Michelangelo, not only did he attempt, turn by turn, to assimilate the style of Saint Mary of the Graces and of the Last Judgement, when he left Italy he chose from the Flemish school and from the Dutch school subjects which do not seem united by any relation near or far. But with his habitual meditations, and by endeavoring courageously, he reproduced in them the smallest details with a literal fidelity. I have seen flowers and fruit copied by the hand of Géricault after a Dutch master; to see the precision which is given to all the parts of this delicate work, I would never have predicted that the painter of this ingenious copy would one day produce the Raft of the Medusa.
I insist without hesitation upon these studies of Géricault, because it would be impossible otherwise to explain the prodigious talent which shines in his works. If I neglected to examine the hardships of all kinds which he assigned to himself before tackling the conception and the execution of an original work, his talent would become an effect without cause, or at least much cause for admiration; admiration of the work in such a case could not be refused, this admiration would be limited to the work, however, and not the efforts of the artist. One would be quite wrong, in fact, to believe that Géricault was a spontaneous talent. Such a notion would be greeted with profound shock by all those who assisted in his works. Despite his premature death, despite the distractions of the world, despite the pleasures which he pursued with ardor, Géricault found the time to acquire by the sweat of his brow a consummate science. He never conceived the proud idea of placing himself directly face to face before nature, and to battle with her, before having consulted several times the eminents who undertook the same task. It is not, no matter what is said by the innovators of our day, a proof of weakness, but rather proof of good sense. Géricault did not accept tradition, he did not intend to follow it docilely as a law to put an end henceforth to all discussion. However, entirely committed to his independence, while fully protesting against the exclusive manner of instruction inaugurated by David, he recognized the necessity of interrogating the masters on the manner of how we understand and interpret nature. A few words suffice for me to express more clearly my thoughts. Géricault escaped the danger of routine by addressing, turn by turn, the most diverse schools; obedience could not confine the camp of his imagination, for he submitted himself before the ambitions of sources so varied, that by his very responsiveness, he found the means to remake and renew himself.
When one has measured with an attentive regard the route travelled by Géricault, his skill is nothing unexpected. The admiration is not diminished, but emerges from astonishment. In spite of his ardent love of reality, it is not true that he had engaged an immediate battle with the living model. If the walls of his studio offered to his friends numerous studies after nature, he presented to stunned stares a harvest equally abundant, full of rich memories, drawn from all the schools. Thus, the talent of Géricault, before attempting the expression of a new idea, formed itself and completed itself slowly. Sometimes the unfaithful disciple of Guérin copied boldly that which he saw without taking into account the lessons of the school; sometimes, guided by a superior prudence for one of his age, he consulted the interpretation of nature in place of nature itself. Sure of discovering his own power and his originality as he desired, he consented for some time to work in an impersonal fashion. That which passes before our eyes today contrasts singularly with the habits of Géricault. We hear each day announcements proclaiming the coming of a new Messiah who must regenerate all. Sometimes it is Roman decadence, sometimes it is from the life of the fields that he demands his inspirations; but whether he paints for us an orgy from antiquity, or some gathering of the poor, the new Messiah never raises up anyone but himself. It is he who begins the French school. Poussin and Lesueur never lived, or never left any lasting impression of their passing. We are told that the sterile pleasure of recalling and boasting of the Sacrements and the Life of Saint Bruno must be left to learned scholars. What good is it, they ask, to consult the past when it comes to renewing the present, or of conquering the future? And yet all these presumptuous words which reason disavows, which history condemns, are gathered by avaricious ears and by credulous spirits; and the new Messiah, intoxicated on incense for several months, is then effaced from all memories, and forgetfulness renders justice upon foolish pretention.
It is in the Raft of the Medusa that we must study the talent and the knowledge of Géricault; it is there, in fact, that the painter freely deployed all the resources of his imagination, and of his brush. His numerous drawings, his drafts so varied, inspire in us a legitimate admiration; he found in Byron the subject of several compositions, sometimes energetic, sometimes touching. The lectures of the English poet had a profound impact on his intelligence. The compositions of which I speak, lithographs by the same hand, recommend themselves by a character striking in spontaneity. One divines from the first look that Géricault, to translate Byron, had only to follow the natural flow of his imagination. To comprehend fully the passions of Conrad and of Lara, he had no need to forget the habits of his mind; he rediscovered in his memories the germs of the poems which blossomed before his eyes. One notes also that Géricault’s sketches inspired by Byron seem to come at no cost; and yet when we study them with attention for a short time, one recognizes very quickly that if the conception was spontaneous, the execution was not improvised. Yet, despite the merit which one discovers in the least capricious sketches by this skillful hand, only in the Raft of the Medusa can we mark clearly the place and the role of Géricault in the history of painting, and I hasten to return there.
A subject for a painting such as this marvelously matches the character of the painter, for in him the unrestrained love of pleasure was allied with frequent attacks of melancholy, and the image of death unforeseen, or voluntary, took a large place in his thoughts. From a letter of Charlet, the authenticity of which cannot be contested, and which no doubt will soon be published by Mr. Lacombe, one of Charlet’s most faithful friends, we learn in fact that Géricault more than once attempted suicide. Without the vigilance of his comrades it is likely that Géricault would have succeeded in his sinister project. Charlet recounts how he saved him, and the discourse which Charlet employed to help him decide to live is a curious mix of affection and raillery. This unusual approach will not surprise those familiar with Charlet. Raillery was to him a gift so evident, a talent so imperious, that he could not fail to induce a smile during the most solemn occasions. Had he addressed Géricault with serious phrases chosen from philosophy or religion to dissuade him from a voluntary death, perhaps he would not have succeeded in saving him; raillery, in returning the living force of gaiety into the soul which wanted to go to meet death, came to the aid of religion and of philosophy. The anecdote may serve to explain how Géricault chose the Raft of the Medusa as the subject of his first composition. The idea of death was so familiar to him that he would rediscover a sort of joy in the representation of death. The shipwreck of the Medusa opened a free field to his imagination, and the death of the shipwrecked, such that he shows us, is a blow so frightening that it might only come from the world of dreams. If I search in an art which speaks another language, in poetry, for a comparison; if I try to show how words managed by the most powerful intelligence battle in energy and in horror with painting, I can find nothing in my memories but the tower of Ugolino. There is, in fact, an evident analogy between the scene recounted by the Florentine poet and the scene retraced by the French painter. In the tower of Ugolino, as on the Raft of the Medusa, we see despair pushed to the final limits. If the painter does not offer for our eyes the horrible image which the poet borrowed from history – that of starvation choking the most tender sentiments, the imagination of the viewer comes to the aid of his brush, and has no difficulty divining that starvation upon the waves of the ocean, as it did within the walled tower of Pisa, must have reduced to silence the most sincere affections. If I point to this relationship, it is not that I attach the least importance to it. The works of poetry and of painting are truly distinct, the laws which regulate these two forms of imagination are so truly diverse that one could not, without being childish, insist upon comparing them equally. I am not unaware that my position finds a number who will contest such a claim. The eloquent pages which Diderot left us have accustomed the public to judging a painting more by the thoughts suggested, than by the thoughts which are expressed. Despite my great admiration for Diderot, I consider this manner of evaluation to be completely false. With such a system, one comes to praise mediocre works, leaving works of great value among the shadows and the forgotten. If imaginations equal to that of Diderot are rare, we can safely say that among the lettered classes we encounter a great number of minds capable of completing, interpreting, and of sometimes denaturing with their memories the painting which stood before their eyes – if the spectator judges it after the ideas which it suggests, or which it reveals, in place of estimating the work itself. Such a practice can lead one trained in the best faith in the world into the most iniquitous judgments. I know too well the dangers of such a method for me to adventure upon the path of Diderot. Sure of being wrong as often as he, I could not invoke the same excuse. Open to the counsels of prudence, I prefer to follow a more modest path and judge the painting that I see, rather than lend to the canvas ideas which the painter never imagined.
It is easy to grasp in the Raft of the Medusa a double character: the character of pathos and the character of the academy. Had Géricault lived longer it is probable that he would have delivered himself completely from the habits acquired in the studio of Guérin; one can even regard this conjecture as certain. But we would misunderstand the composition of which I speak, if we do not recognize there the profound impact of the lessons collected by the painter in his youth. At all times, although the majority of his individual figure studies carry the imprint of academic tradition, justice commands us to praise without reserve the despair which animates all the faces. I do not want to stop myself to discuss the general disposition of the figures, which form that which is called, in the language of the studios, the pyramid. For my part, I do not believe that Géricault was obeying the counsel of his master in adopting this disposition; I think that the pyramidal form was dictated to him by the very nature of the subject. The distant white sail flashing on the horizon explains the disposition of the figures sufficiently; all the shipwrecked, who have conserved part of their strength, turn and raise themselves upon the debris of the raft as they can to perceive this sail. It would be hardly possible to express otherwise the hope which survives in the misery of the most terrible anguish, or that at least awakens to restore courage and to reanimate vigor in a few moments. Thus, it is not in the general form of the composition that I recognize the traces of an academic education, the very nature of the scene which Géricault has undertaken to represent justifies fully the path that he has chosen; but we must close our eyes to the evidence if we do not see, in almost all the figures of this painting, clear signs of the teachings instituted by David. Is that to say that these figures lack truth? That is not my view. I see nothing there of the poetic conventions which shock good sense. However, recognizing entirely that these figures accord with the very nature of the scene, I am obliged to attest that all is not as simple as one might wish. Have I need to indicate the difference which separates simplicity from truth? Would not this be a superfluous pretension? And if I attempt to indicate it, am I sure of rendering it evident? Where do we find the words to mark this difference? If it is easy to sense, it is very difficult to explain All those who have studied French painting of the Consulate and the Empire with care understand me to half a word. Those who are waiting for me to provide a precise definition of this difference, I must renounce hope of ever convincing them, and I do so without regret. The figures placed upon the Raft of the Medusa, though true in the most rigorous sense of the word, because they accord with the nature of the subject, are not simple; in other words, they are not conceptualized spontaneously, all have at once something labored and traditional. Under pain of exaggerating the merit of Géricault, we must absolutely proclaim the double character of this capital work. The old man who regards the corpse of his son stretched upon his thighs certainly displays a poignant expression. However, it is permitted to find in the attitude, even of the old man, no matter how handsome and how great, something solemn, something a little theatrical. The corpse of the young man, whose color is so true, seems disposed by a knowing hand to affirm all the details of his form; one admires the livid pallor of the cheeks and lips, the eyes buried beneath the immobile eyelids; one senses that the limbs and inferior members did not receive death in this elegant disposition: a knowing hand, a practiced eye, has arranged the lines of this cadaver. The members are separated in a fashion to mark all the anatomical finesse; the form of the hips, the knees, the legs, ankles, which could have been revealed incompletely had the painter copied the cadaver after nature, charms and surprises us by the grace of the precautions of which I have just spoken. My very sincere admiration for the talent of Géricault does not prevent me from perceiving the artificial side of this figure. That this figure is very skillfully and very elegantly conceived of, I do not deny; but that it was executed very simply and according to nature is another question, the solution to which cannot be in any doubt.
I do not think, as I have often heard repeated, that the composition of the Raft of the Medusa reveals in Géricault a sterility of imagination. It is to my eyes a purely gratuitous imputation and one which does not rest on any foundation. No, the individual who has conceived such a scene is not a spirit without power, an imagination without fecundity. That which is true, that which is evident, is that Géricault, until he conceived of the Raft of the Medusa, was not yet fully master of himself, and had not yet shaken off the yoke of his school. Not the spectacle of Italy, not the Vatican, not the Capital, had succeed in effacing completely his memory of the lessons of Guérin. In retracing for us the death of the shipwrecked of the Medusa he struggled courageously against these memories, but could not entirely escape them. It is this that explains the double character of this composition. The dimension of pathos belongs entirely to Géricault; it is this that is his glory, that ensures the posterity of his work; the academic dimension belongs to Guérin. Do not forget the age of the artist at the time when he conceived this painting imprinted with such a poignant despair. He was twenty-nine years old. Must we be shocked if he does not give to his composition all the originality that he had dreamed of, that he had pursued with so much ardor? The number of trials and errors by which he passed, the proofs of which have been preserved, are there to attest to the energy of his efforts. If death had not interrupted his work, I do not doubt that he would have triumphed over the importunate memories which hampered the development of his talent. Such that it is, his part is still beautiful enough.
The execution of the Raft of the Medusa merits the greatest elegies. It is impossible to misconceive the energy and the realism which blaze in the details of this composition. In spite of the imitation of Michelangelo Amerighi, it is not possible to contest the power which is revealed in all the figures of this vast poem. The processes are very close to those of Amerighi. We see the same manner of distributing light – to sharpen the relief of the parts in light by the exaggeration of shadows. All recognize that the French painter surprises with a rare skill and practices with a rare talent all the secrets of Amerighi, for better or worse; the most severe viewer cannot deny to Géricault the merit of originality. If the distribution of light recalls the manner of the Lombard painter, the choice of figures possess nothing which we must disentangle from the paintings which the Lombard left us. Thus, in spite of the analogy that I have made, that I maintain as evident and undeniable, I do not hesitate to praise the manner of Géricault as one which is truly original. The processes were the same, but the figures are different, and the accusations of plagiarism cannot be affirmed without injustice. If Géricault, in adopting the method of Amerighi, had borrowed from him the lines and the figures of his compositions, we would have the right to assert that the work is not the result of his own efforts, but those of another. The models which Géricault chose, however, and the types which he presented stand triumphantly against such a reproach, or rather prevent us from fairly expressing it. The cadaver of the young man stretched at the feet of his father has nothing in common with the figures which we find in the paintings of Amerighi. The galleries of the Louvre possess several important works of this master, and each can easily verify the exactitude of my assertion. I have, therefore, no need to insist. The proofs which I could furnish, the arguments which I could invoke become perfectly redundant in the presence of the compositions of Amerighi. Christ at the Tomb demonstrates better than any words the ways in which Géricault differs from Amerighi.
If I abandon the Lombard master to compare Géricault to the more illustrious painters of his own time and consider no question but that of execution, I have no choice but to proclaim him superior to all his contemporaries. The most beautiful canvases of Gros, so striking in richness and variety of invention, indeed, are quite far from the power displayed in the Raft of the Medusa in terms of execution. In the Battle of Eylau, in the Battle of Aboukir, and in the Plague of Jaffa, the figures of the first plans lack solidity. It is this which one calls in the language of the studios lantern painting. I allow myself the use of this expression, which could seem barbaric, because this term renders with a rare precision the true sense of my thoughts. I do not wish to compare Gros and Géricault, this would be a pure exercise in spirit, a parallel without interest and of no profit for the reader. It is incontestable that Gros, in his diverse compositions which I have just discussed, offers proof of a suppleness, of a fecundity that Géricault would have perhaps displayed had he lived longer, but which one cannot find in the works which he left us. If Gros, in terms of the poetic, must be considered superior to Géricault, then Géricault in terms of execution is incontestably superior to Gros. Preoccupied quite justly with dramatic effect, Gros neglects too often the imitation of reality, above all in the figures of his first plan; he contented himself with rough silhouettes and did not take the trouble to model more fully that which he indicates. Géricault, without according less importance to dramatic effect, treats the imitation of reality with a persistent effort; he forces himself to reproduce all the details with a scrupulous care, and his efforts are almost always crowned with success. The torso of the young man stretched at the feet of his father, incontestably the most remarkable of any painting I have ever studied, leaves nothing to be desired in terms of imitation; the lower ribs are depicted with a precision which defies all reproach. In the entire history of painting, it is very difficult to find a model rendered more precisely. All the parts of the corpse are translated with a fidelity which stuns, and which horrifies. David, Girodet, and Gros could not present the human form with the power and the energy we admire in Géricault’s work. Even the Deluge of Girodet, so justly applauded elsewhere for the science which is revealed to us, remains very far from the figure who first and foremost commands our attention in the Raft of the Medusa.
Thus Italy, which all narrow minds regard as a dangerous test, far from altering the originality of Géricault, left him in all his power; and I contend that it even doubled. The student of Guérin, in studying the murals of Rome, did not renounce his instincts; he borrowed only a safer method of satisfying his instincts from the Italian masters. It is this which comes always to truly strong natures. The spectacle of great works cannot but annoy indigent natures. All the spirits gifted with rich faculties, in contemplating the efforts of human genius, sense themselves gripped in a generous emulation; and without proposing a servile imitation, strive to steal from the privileged masters the secrets of all which they had so gloriously practiced. They remain that which they were before finding themselves face to face with immortal works; they keep their nature, their voices, their inspirations, and do not employ their energy except to catch the devices of their trade. For my part, I believe sincerely that Géricault, had he not visited Italy, would not have given to the Raft of the Medusa the beauty which so stuns us and ensures the posterity of his name.
Which rank must we assign Géricault in the history of the French school, in the general history of painting? It is incontestable, and I force myself to prove that Géricault has left us evidence of an immense talent, in works too few in number. But to what end was this talent applied? What was his direction? What was his goal? The painter of the Medusa, judged severely without prejudice or partiality, never proposed, at least in his known works, any other single thing but the expression of reality. Yet, is it permitted to see in the expression of reality the supreme goal of art? Listen carefully, I do not speak of forms of imagination, or of imitation to no purpose. It is too clear in fact that architecture and music have nothing to distinguish them from reality, but in the same arts which we agree to call arts of imitation: in painting, in sculpture, in poetry – the expression of reality does not summarize the task of human intelligence. Phidias, Raphael, and Homer built upon the most solid foundations. The tympana of the friezes of the Parthenon, the rooms of the Vatican, the poetic accounts of the Trojan wars offer to clear-sighted individuals something greater than reality. To not comprehend this, to not proclaim it, we must all simply misunderstand the role of human intelligence, and the transformation which objects undergo when passing from the exterior world into the mind which perceives them. Reducing the arts of imitation to the expression of reality, wanting that painting, sculpture and poetry propose as their supreme goal the transcription of all that they see, is to deny the nature and the power of imagination, and to confuse imagination with memory. Memory does not suffice. It is necessary to make a choice among the objects which the memory retraces for us, and combine in the most harmonious fashion the traits engraved in thought. That Géricault knew perfectly the goal of painting, which was to render full account of all the conditions of his art, I do not care to place in any doubt. The Raft of the Medusa, I remain profoundly convinced, would not have been his final word. However, as we must judge it among his works, we are forced to characterize this painting only by the qualities which it reveals to us, and not after ideas which we might attribute to him with some legitimacy. These qualities in his painting, which I have discussed, in a sense reduce themselves to expressions of reality when judged in a general fashion. If it is true, as I think it is, without wanting to try to illustrate this point again here, that the tasks of the painter are not entirely limited to imitation, we must recognize clearly that Géricault, despite his prodigious talent, was not yet a complete painter. I render him full justice, but it is impossible for me to see in him a man with the dignity to take a place alongside Leonardo, Michelangelo, and Raphael.
I fully acknowledge that such a declaration seems almost puerile to all those familiar with the history of painting. Yet, it is not to those that I speak. I address myself to the French public, accustomed to hearing Géricault cited as our chief, as the renovator of French painting. How many times have I not heard the name of Géricault ring in my ears as the name of a master who defies all reproaches! Realism has made, in recent years, frightening progress in all branches of imagination. Invention is considered to be a secondary condition by the masses and, unhappily, also by a great number of painters, sculptors and poets. To imitate, to transcribe literally, is today called proof of genius. Yet, Leonardo, Michelangelo and Raphael, who without doubt understood nature as well as the realists of our days, did not circumscribe their task within these narrow limits. For these privileged geniuses imitation was a means, not an end. If the Supper of Saint Mary of the Graces, the Last Judgement, the School of Athens, did not offer fidelity to reality, Leonardo, Michelangelo, Raphael would not occupy such a considerable place in history. Yet, there is in their works a merit independent of imitation. One can find without difficulty in the Dutch school, in the Flemish school, more than one master whose brush copied with the same fidelity as Rome and Florence have ever known, and nonetheless Rome and Florence took the first rank. Why? It is because Rome and Florence understood all the importance of the ideal in painting.
Géricault, seeing the French school exhaust itself in the servile imitation of antique sculpture, wanted to call it back to the very source of all truth, to the imitation of nature. At the time he arrived perhaps there was no more pressing task. Whatever judgment we pass upon his works, we must recognize that he exercised upon the French school a salutary impact. To clearly mark the rank which he deserves, we must study his role as well as his works; this is the only way to render him justice. If time prevented him from revealing to us all his thoughts, if he did not live to satisfy all the conditions of his art, if he always attributed, at least in his works, too much importance to reality, he left upon the French school a profound impression. Desiring to contest the services he rendered painting would render us guilty of ingratitude. The Raft of the Medusa, in which the ideal, let us recall, is not entirely absent, is not the last word in painting, nor should it be deemed the final word from Géricault. I call as witnesses all those who lived and worked alongside him, who knew that which he thought, and that which he himself said of this work, so justly admired. Géricault is to Nicolas Poussin what Ribera is to Murillo, and what Amerighi is to Raphael.
Gustave Planche, 1851.”