Skip to main content

Renoir at the Morgan

 To me, it's strange for a survey of one artist's work to be emotionally overwhelming--but the Renoir show at the Morgan is moving in the way that a good film is moving. You see approximately fifty years of one person's work. As Renoir ages, his arthritis makes his career difficult. But he doesn't give up; he starts using red chalk, which is apparently easier for his hands. Then he moves into sculpture--he collaborates. The collaboration lets him keep an eye on his health. It would be impossible to give up.


I have been interested in Renoir since taking a trip to Paris when my son was very little. Staring at Renoir's many images of his own children, I understood that the artist was mainly compelled by the idea of different kinds of flesh. He wanted to show how the light hits a child's cheek--and how it hits a mother's cheek. The light behaves in different ways in different contexts. That one apparently small observation can be the "reason" for making a painting. The reason doesn't need to be something on an epic scale.

The thing that makes the Morgan special is its interest in rough drafts and in process. I am not a visual artist, but I know a few secrets about rough drafts. When you try to write something difficult, entire settings and characters are missing from the first draft. Certain characters might appear in the second draft--but they have two heads or they have alien tales. It's not until the third or fourth draft that they start to resemble human beings. You can see this kind of refining work or refining obsession in the Morgan show, especially as Renoir prepares to make his large painting, "Dance in the Country." You can also see this in a series that concerns babies and nursing. (Here come the babies, yet again.)

I had no idea that Renoir, a father of Impressionism, ultimately rejected Impressionism. I had no idea that he entered a collaboration with Edith Wharton. I had no idea that he also loaned his talents to an Emile Zola "project."

Wonderful exhibit.













Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...
3 comments
Read more

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...
1 comment
Read more

My Favorite Pop Song

  One thing I admire about Prince is his weirdly pretentious verses: Dream, if you can, a courtyard-- An ocean of violets in bloom. Also: Touch, if you will, my stomach. Feel how it trembles inside. No one else writes like this. Did people try to shoot down these choices? Did a producer say, "We'd like to rethink this one... Touch, if you will, my stomach...."  I can't help but wonder. But it's the chorus that makes this a classic. It's direct and universal--and it ends with that bizarre flourish, the allusion to "the crying doves." (Prince's song was number one in America for quite a while; it defeated Bruce Springsteen's "Dancing in the Dark.") How can you just leave me standing-- Alone in a world that's so cold? Maybe I'm just too demanding. Maybe I'm just like my father--too bold. Maybe you're just like my mother; She's never satisfied. Why do we scream at each other? This is what it sounds like when doves cr...
Post a Comment
Read more