When we arrived in Paris, and before driving to our home in Saint Jeannet on the Côte d’Azur, I thought we would enjoy a couple of days in the city, as I wanted to see the Francis Bacon exhibition at the Grand Palais.
“Since when do you like his work?” Jane asked.
“I believe we should expose ourselves ....”
“Even if we don't particularly like Bacon?”
“Yes, Jane. I hadn't thought much about Rothko before I accompanied Robert in the MoMA.”
“And, did that exposure convert you?”
“No, but at least I have a basis for whatever opinion I now have about his work. So, I say we should go.”
The following day we went to the Grand Palais to view the retrospective exhibition of the paintings of Francis Bacon.
“I can’t say I really like his work,” Jane said when we were standing in front of a large canvas whose subject was Pope Innocent X.
“It says here in the catalogue that Bacon painted the portrait after one by Velázquez. Look, Jane, there’s an illustration of the one painted by Velázquez,” and I handed the catalogue to Jane.
“I don’t like it either,” Jane said, handing the catalogue back. “I don’t understand what Bacon is doing. Why the distortion? To me, it doesn’t make any sense.”
“I’ll read you from the catalogue. ‘At the time (when Bacon was painting the portrait) Bacon was coming to terms with the death of a cold, disciplinarian father, his early illicit sexual encounters, and a very destructive sadomasochistic approach to sex.’ ”
“And that is supposed to explain why he painted the pope the way he did? Perhaps he should have seen a psychoanalyst first, and then painted the pope.”
“Had he, we probably wouldn’t be standing in front of this painting,” I told her. “I have learned — and not from our friend Irmgard who would probably disagree with what I am about to say — is that in all the arts — writing, music, architecture, as well as painting and sculpture — one should separate the artist from the work, and not judge the work prejudiced by one’s knowledge of the personal life of the artist.”
“Are you saying that what you just read to me from the catalogue should not influence my opinion of Bacon’s paintings, like this one here?”
“Yes. Forget about what I just read, and look at the painting itself. Then decide whether or not you like it and ask yourself, why?”
“Eric, I said I disliked it before you told me about Bacon’s personal life … and I still dislike it. To me, it’s a distortion of reality that I don’t understand nor appreciate.”
***
As we were driving down A7, Jane turned to me. “Why don't we stop at Beau Rivage, in Condrieu?”
The restaurant/hotel was part of the Relais et Châteaux association, and whenever possible, we stayed — and ate — at hotels in the group.
“Did you enjoy the exhibition?” Jane asked when we were seated at a table on the terrace overlooking the river flowing by. For dinner, we both ordered grilled loup de mer and drank a local wine from the vineyards surrounding the town.
“Yes and no,” I told her. “Bacon's technique is unusual and unique, and I can appreciate the mental activity going on to paint the way he does ....”
“But?”
“... but they remind me of looking out of an eye affected by wet macular degeneration, and do I want to see the world blurred and distorted?”
“How do you want to see the world?”
“You mean, which contemporary artists' vision excites me and makes my heart beat faster? The Fauves, for the most part. Remember the Derain view of the Parliament buildings in London?”
“And his other London paintings. It was as though the paint came off the canvasses. They were pulsating.”
“That's what I mean. A painting can't be simply unique or different ....”
“Chagall is different,” Jane said.
“Yes, but he's also possibly the foremost colorist since the Fauves, and his subjects take you into the supernatural. Whenever we go to their home, I hope Vava asks to sit on the couch under his painting Les Maries de la Tour Eiffel, because as I enter their living room, I feel my eyes glued to that painting, so by sitting under it, it can’t distract me and I can partake of the conversation.” I smiled when saying this. “I never tire of looking at a Chagall.”
***
“Bonjour, bonjour,” Vava greeted us at the door of La Colline. “Marc will join us in a few moments,” and she led us into the now familiar living room.
“You've been in Paris?” she asked. “Marc will be interested to know what you did. Ah, here he is now.”
“Bonjour, mes enfants,” the artist smiled as he walked in from his studio. “Jane, assois-toi ici,” and he took Jane by the arm and brought her to sit beside him on the couch. “Et bien, tu étais à Paris? Qu'est ce que tu as vu là-bas?”
Jane told him we had been to the Francis Bacon exhibition at the Grand Palais. Chagall's expression, on hearing the name of the artist, resembled a question mark: arched eyebrows, mouth turned down. He did not look at all interested. He shrugged his shoulders, and finally said,
“English painting.”
Comments