Category: etc.

Winslow Homer, The New Novel

Isn’t it gorgeous? I love everything about it, oh, but especially, those colors …..

As can be seen by the artwork on this blog, I’m a huge HUGE fan of William Adolphe Bouguereau. He was simply a genius — a genius — of the human form, of mood, of nuance, who worked as an academic painter in the mid to late 19th century, essentially swimming against the rising tide of Impressionism roiling all around him. The Academics loved him; the avant-garde mocked him. He was libeled, slandered. His name was removed from textbooks and encyclopedias for decades. He was quite simply, as the old saying, goes, born at the wrong time. He was a genius of a soon-to-be-bygone era and he suffered for that.

But he also, nearly single-handedly, opened the French art academies to women. HE did that. He painted 825 paintings in his life, a mind-boggling accomplishment, especially when you consider that most of them were life-sized.

And he loved his work with a unfading passion, saying even late in life, “Each day I go to my studio full of joy; in the evening when obliged to stop because of darkness, I can scarcely wait for the next morning to come…if I cannot give myself to my dear painting I am miserable.”

I can scarcely wait for the next morning to come …… how does that not clutch at your heart? Such joy, such childlike abandon.

But decide for yourself. I’ve included just two of his pieces below. His work runs the gamut from moments small to huge, subtle to searing.

The header image on this blog is cropped from a painting called “Petite Maraudeuse” (Little Thief). This is one of his small captured moments that I love so much, a pretty little thief caught, I imagine anyway, moments after her oh-so-naughty theft. She’s concealing her stolen pear a bit with that sly bend of her wrist, but frankly, I don’t think she feels all that bad about it. Hahaha.

Good Lord, I love her so much:

Then he breaks us in two with this, “The First Mourning.” Adam and Eve and the body of their son Abel, murdered by their other son Cain. I love this piece, but with an asterisk, a warning, some caution cones. It is SO direct, so unflinching, so private, really, that it’s a nearly pornographic depiction of grief. Nothing is spared. Nothing is left concealed, which is amazing because you don’t see faces or, rather, you don’t fully see faces. You see shapes, lines, color. And the poses, their relationship to one another, the frankness of Abel’s splayed body, the difference in his skin color compared to theirs. You almost cannot look — or you can look for only seconds at a time. That’s how it feels for me anyway. Like I’m an intruder, a voyeur, on a personal apocalypse. You are seeing the very moment their lives changed forever. Doesn’t it feel as if it’s happening as you look at it? For me, this isn’t some mere depiction or imagination. It’s almost as if Bouguereau had a vision from God of what that moment was actually like. Bouguereau just has that gift of immediacy. He puts you there. Whether a big moment or small, you’re there. You’re there. I don’t know how he did it. I just don’t. It’s his particular genius, his God-breathed gift, and I want it to be a mystery to me. Too much knowing can rob you of awe and there’s just not enough awe anymore.

Try to look at it. Try to take it in. It’s worth it, but I tell you, when I look at it, I literally feel helpless.

Subtle and searing genius, both. I don’t know how that’s even possible.

I am, and always will be, a massive fan.