{"id":80452,"date":"2007-09-01T00:00:00","date_gmt":"2007-09-01T00:00:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/newcriterion.com\/article\/news-from-the-berkshires\/"},"modified":"2024-03-22T08:38:31","modified_gmt":"2024-03-22T12:38:31","slug":"news-from-the-berkshires","status":"publish","type":"article","link":"https:\/\/newcriterion.com\/article\/news-from-the-berkshires\/","title":{"rendered":"News from the Berkshires"},"content":{"rendered":"

I<\/font>t’s hard to believe that there’s anything left to discover
\nabout Claude Monet. Among those much loved, much studied,
\nand much exhibited perennial box-office favorites, the
\nImpressionists, he may be the most loved, most studied, and
\nmost exhibited. Not only is he well represented, often in
\nsome depth, in the permanent collection of just about any
\nmajor museum, but, in the last two decades or so, there have
\nalso been dozens of special exhibitions in the United
\nStates, Europe, and occasionally in Asia wholly about Monet
\nor at least featuring him: surveys of his evolution,
\nstudies of his late work and his series, examinations of his
\nearly efforts and his still lifes, explorations of his
\npaintings of Italy and of London, investigations of his
\nrelationship to his colleagues, and more. This spring alone,
\nfour exhibitions were devoted to Monet internationally. One
\nof them, on view at the Clark Art Institute, Williamstown,
\nMassachusetts, through September 16, and seen earlier at the
\nRoyal Academy of Arts, London, is improbably titled “The
\nUnknown Monet: Pastels and Drawings.”<\/a>[1]<\/a>
\nUnknown? What else is there to be
\nlearned?<\/p>\n

\nThe answer turns out to be “quite a lot.” Monet was
\nlong-lived—born in 1840, he died in 1926—and immensely
\nprolific during his long career, producing, according to the
\ncatalogue raisonn\u00e9 of his works, more than two thousand
\npaintings. The celebrated dealer in Old Masters, Joseph
\nDuveen, is supposed to have been contemptuous of
\nImpressionist works because there were so many of them. But
\nit’s the sheer number of Monets, so widely dispersed, that
\nallows for the possibility of surprises at a Monet
\nexhibition—encounters with unfamiliar, seldom-seen
\npaintings, pried loose from private collections or borrowed
\nfrom remote museums—that expand our perceptions of the
\nbetter known works on view. What is even more remarkable,
\nthat improbable adjective in the title of the exhibition at
\nthe Clark proves to be absolutely accurate. Even though the
\nMonet catalogue raisonn\u00e9 lists, in addition to the two
\nthousand odd paintings, more than five hundred drawings and
\nmore than one hundred pastels, this substantial body of work
\nhas rarely been seen. Most of it is sequestered in
\nfar-flung private collections. “The Unknown Monet,”
\norganized by James A. Ganz and Richard Kendall, is the first
\nexhibition ever to focus on this aspect of the celebrated
\npainter’s art.<\/p>\n

\nIt’s a rich, pleasurable, and illuminating show that, by
\noffering an intimate and unexpected view of an artist we
\nthought we knew well, adds enormously to our understanding.
\nThis probably would have been true in Monet’s lifetime, as
\nwell. He is said to have regularly given drawings and
\npastels to his friends as tokens of esteem and affection,
\nand to have allowed his dealers to sell them, but after
\nincluding seven pastels in the first Impressionist
\nexhibition, in 1874, Monet downplayed his activity as a
\ndraughtsman. For most of his life as an artist, he cannily
\ndisguised the importance of drawing and working in pastel to
\nthe evolution of his paintings, just as he disguised the
\nfact that he habitually finished his canvases in the
\nstudio—or indeed, that he used a studio at all. The
\ncarefully cultivated Impressionist legend of working
\ndirectly from the motif, at high speed, exclusively en
\nplein air<\/i>, in pursuit of fleeting qualities of
\nlight, did not permit the notion of traditional preparation
\nof any kind. Monet, a shrewd custodian of his own myth, for
\nthe most part kept his exploratory works on
\npaper—notations, tests of compositional possibilities, and
\nstudies of ephemeral effects of light and color—to himself
\nand a close circle of intimates. The show at the Clark
\nexplodes the myth. We are presented with unshakable evidence
\nthat far from restricting himself to attacking the canvas
\nspontaneously in the presence of the transient motif, Monet
\nmade both rapid studies and self-sufficient, finished works
\non paper throughout his life, filling sketchbooks with rapid
\npencil notes and exploiting the intense hues of pastel to
\nmake landscapes as complete and chromatically lush as any
\npainting in oil.<\/p>\n

\nThe curators are to be loudly applauded for having tracked
\ndown and assembled this marvelous group of rarely seen
\nworks, but fascinating, surprising, and visually satisfying
\nas the drawings and pastels in “The Unknown Monet” are, the
\nmost dramatic revelation may be found not on the walls of
\nthe Clark’s galleries, but in the exhibition catalogue. The
\nstory is worthy of a B<\/font> thriller. Rather late in their
\nresearch, Ganz and Kendall gained access to a family archive
\ncontaining an unpublished manuscript of an after-the-fact
\nmemoir, written by a close friend of Monet’s family,
\napparently based on diaries that have not come to light. Le
\nGrand Journal<\/i> of Count Th\u00e9ophile Beguin Billecocq
\ndescribes time spent with the Monets and their talented son,
\nwho was twelve at the beginning of their friendship,
\nincluding sketching trips and related outings. The excerpts
\nincluded in the catalogue offer absorbing insights into
\nMonet’s formative years, the character of his family, and
\nmore, much of it at odds with the version of his life given
\nby the mature painter, an accomplished self-promoter, adept
\nin the uses of publicity; Manet’s family, especially his
\nmother, for example, were far more cultivated and well
\nversed in the arts than he thought it useful to admit.<\/p>\n

A<\/font>s a very young man, between 1857 and 1860, still living in
\nhis native Le Havre (and still called “Oscar,” a name he
\ndiscarded for his middle name, “Claude,” after his fellow
\nsoldiers during his military service made fun of it),
\nMonet drew caricatures, sometimes copying the satirical
\nimages published in the popular magazines of the day. He
\nquickly developed his own robust approach and is supposed to
\nhave earned enough from these “portraits charg\u00e9s” to support
\nhimself when he was a student; Monet later said that he was
\nable to come to Paris with what he realized from his
\nsatirical drawings. At the Clark, the show begins with a
\nselection of these surprisingly assured, distorted
\nportraits with their oversized heads poised above weedy
\nbodies, their exaggerated noses and chins, often rendered in
\nprofile. The warped scale and enlarged features follow the
\nestablished conventions of the genre, but the young Monet’s
\ncaricatures are already distinguished by their subtle tonal
\norchestration and their firm rendering. A group of
\nlandscape drawings from the same years confirms the aspiring
\nyoung painter’s lifelong ability to translate his
\nperceptions into relationships of tone. The all\u00e9es of
\ntrees, the boats on the seashore, the cliff faces, and the
\npicturesque houses with which the sixteen-year-old Monet
\nfilled an album, in 1857, are neither overwhelmingly
\noriginal nor, it must be said, particularly noteworthy,
\nexcept through the clear lens of hindsight, but they
\ndemonstrate the boy’s precocious command of a variety of
\nmethods, including rapid sketching, careful line drawing,
\nand rather conventional shading and modeling—“a
\nflexibility,” the curators point out, “that will
\ncharacterize his mature draughtsmanship.”<\/p>\n

\nAbout 1864, the young painter put that flexibility to good
\nuse in a group of black chalk drawings of the rugged
\nNormandy coast, with its seaside towns, beached boats, and
\nrocky shingle. Monet evokes shifting light and rough
\nterrain with vigorous strokes and scrawls, uncannily fusing
\nacute observation with a touch so energetic that clusters of
\nmarks sometimes threaten to assert an independent existence.
\nIn one particularly muscular, confrontational view, Cliffs
\nand Sea, Sainte-Adresse<\/i> (c.<\/i> 1864, Art Institute of
\nChicago), we are shoved out of the fictive space of the page
\nby a foreground of urgent loops and emphatic clumps that at
\nonce evoke pebbles piled below a craggy rockface and remain
\nunrepentantly exuberant marks on a surface; calm, parallel
\nhorizontal strokes of the sea provide some relief, letting
\nus enter the implied space of the image, only to be
\nimmediately contradicted by an unabashedly graphic, wristy
\nswirl outlining a cloud on the horizon. Monet powerfully
\ninvokes a specific place, well known to him, but for all its
\nability to suggest sharply perceived experience, his
\ntough-minded work on paper also loudly announces, “I am a
\ndrawing.”<\/p>\n

S<\/font>everal of Monet’s sketchbooks have survived intact and four
\nare included in the exhibition. Of necessity, only two
\nadjacent pages can be seen of these revealing, private
\nrecords at any time, but at the Clark, interactive computer
\nscreens allow us to turn the pages of each book and reorient
\nthem as we go—an important consideration, given the
\nfrequent shifts from vertical to horizontal among the
\ndrawings and the lack of consistent direction in sequential
\npages. No matter how mistrustful we are of digital images,
\nit’s worth spending some time with the simulated
\nsketchbooks. Even though they are clearly reproductions,
\nthey bring Monet alive. A first impression is of chaos.
\nMonet seems never to have filled a sketchbook systematically
\nbut rather appears to have grabbed the nearest book and used
\npages at random whenever he wanted to make a quick note.
\nThe images in the four sketchbooks span virtually the
\nartist’s entire working life—1865 to 1925—in no coherent
\nsequence. In one book, in use at intervals between 1886 and
\n1925, near-abstract lily pond notations from about 1919,
\nwith the cascading fronds of the weeping willows rendered as
\ndetached vertical strokes, coexist with rapid but specific
\nimages of the cliffs of Normandy done almost thirty years
\nearlier. In another, filled sporadically between 1865 and
\n1919, highly developed, affectionate drawings of the
\nchildren of Monet’s household bent over their devoirs<\/i>, made
\nin the mid-1880s, bracket a top-speed study for
\nthe
\ncelebrated paintings of the interior of the Gare
\nSaint-Lazare, datable as 1877.<\/p>\n

\nWhat’s particularly interesting is that there seems to be no
\nrelation to color in these loosely outlined, spontaneous
\nconfigurations, at least not in any way comparable
\nto, say, Pierre Bonnard’s pencil drawings, in which an
\nastonishing range of varied marks appears to be responses to
\nparticular hues. Most of Monet’s sketchbook drawings are
\nsparse records of the relationship of generously scaled
\nshapes or dominant rhythms—cliffs and sea, sails, rows of
\ntree trunks, the rooflines of small villages—often
\naccounted for with the fewest number of lines possible.
\nOccasionally, the sketchbook notations seem to inform
\npaintings of related subjects, as if the drawings were made
\nto capture ideas, based on perception, as quickly as they
\noccurred, to be mined later for possible compositions. (At
\nthe Clark, the show is punctuated with a selection of
\npaintings that underscore these connections.) Yet it’s
\ndifficult, on occasion, to imagine why Monet needed to make
\na particular sketch. What prompted him to record a small
\ngroup of lily pads, casually suggesting them with minimal
\noutlines? The lily pond was part of his own garden at
\nGiverny, a short walk from his studio. Surely he saw the
\npond daily and was thoroughly familiar with the water lilies
\nthat bloomed on its surface. Was making this notably
\npared-down little drawing a way of coming to terms with an
\nimage, of sharpening his focus, of insuring that a
\nparticular fragment of the natural world that attracted his
\nattention would be available for future use, when he wasn’t
\nin front of the motif?<\/p>\n

\nThe celebrated series of the fa\u00e7ade of Rouen cathedral,
\nrepresented by a painting from the Clark’s own collection,
\nseems to have its origins in stripped-down sketchbook
\ndrawings in fast-paced pencil. We can imagine that we are
\nwatching Monet as he searches for a motif, trying out
\nseveral viewpoints (including the one he later settled on)
\nin nervous, bare-bones scribbles. In a drawing of the
\nfamiliar final view, everything is already there: the
\nclose-up, tightly cropped confrontation with the fa\u00e7ade of
\nthe building, with its deep portal, its peaks, and towers,
\nmade almost congruent to the surface of the page; the
\nsyncopated crockets, gables, and sculptures; the elaborate
\nlayers of carving framing the main doorway; the agitation of
\nthe entire fa\u00e7ade. Yet nothing in the little drawing
\nsuggests the complexity, subtlety, and seriality of Monet’s
\nlater explorations of the theme. Those ideas, it seems,
\ncould only be developed in color, in paint.<\/p>\n

\nThat the great
\nmajority of the sketchbook drawings are as off-hand, as
\nunabashedly linear, and as devoid of modeling as the tiny
\nprefiguration of the Rouen cathedral series is striking,
\nespecially because Monet’s paintings, quite literally from
\nthe beginning—from the early 1860s on—are astonishing
\nfor the truthfulness (which is not the same as literalness)
\nof their tones. Light and shadow, both bold and infinitely
\nmodulated, are recreated not in terms of dark and light, but
\nas orchestrations of close-valued hues, applied in
\nforthright strokes. Monet remains absolutely faithful to
\nexperience but transubstantiates it into exquisitely nuanced
\npassages of paint on a surface, in images as self-aware and
\ndeclarative as the black chalk drawings he made around 1864.
\nThink of the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s dazzling Garden
\nat Saint-Adresse<\/i> (1867) with its brilliant
\nseaside light glinting off the water, casting long shadows,
\nand gleaming through the translucent petals of nasturtiums
\nand gladiolas. Nothing is depicted literally but everything
\nis immediately identifiable, reduced to its essential
\nqualities of color and intensity, startlingly particularized
\nbut just as startlingly transformed into unhesitating,
\nrapidly applied touches of pigment. This magical picture is
\nall about putting paint on a surface and yet, at the same
\ntime, you can smell the salt air, sense the tang of the
\nnasturtiums in the sun, and hear the flags snap in the wind.<\/p>\n

T<\/font>hat Monet thought differently in color than he did in line
\nis demonstrated by the exhibition’s spectacular selection of
\npastels, with a little help from the canvases on view. Not
\nthat the pastels need any help. Almost all of them are
\nsimply staggering in their freshness and breadth of
\nhandling, their brilliance and freedom. Most surprising,
\nthe curators tell us, almost all of Monet’s extant pastels
\nare independent works, not studies for images executed in
\nsome other medium. He seems to have thought of them, Ganz
\nand Kendall suggest, “as extensions of his pictorial
\nrepertoire, parallel representations of the visible world
\nwith their own technical and imaginative history.” The
\nexceptions are the uninhibited, insistent pastels of London
\nsubjects—the Thames in fog, Charing Cross Bridge, and
\nWaterloo Bridge—executed around 1900 and 1901, which are
\nintimately related to paintings of the same motifs. Most of
\nthe pastels are landscapes—there are a few figures and an
\nenchanting sleeping cat on a scribbled blue and white
\nbedcover—and all of them, whether they were, in fact, done
\non the spot or not, convince us that for once the
\nImpressionist myth is true. At the Clark, a trio of
\nspectacular “skyscapes” from the late 1860s, normally
\ndivided between a museum and a private collection, are hung
\nside by side. The grouping makes us feel that we’re
\nwatching Monet rush to capture the changing colors and
\nshifting cloud patterns of the end of a summer day, taking
\nfull advantage of the brilliance, portability, and
\ndirectness of pastel to do so.<\/p>\n

\nUnlike that other master of pastel, Edgar Degas, who used
\nthe medium slowly and deliberately, superimposing layers of
\ncolor, fixing each hue as it went down and waiting for the
\nfixative to dry thoroughly, Monet appears to have worked
\nthinly, directly, and, it seems, speedily. Broad swipes
\nand swoops coalesce into dazzling sunsets or stormy skies,
\ndrifting mist or scudding clouds, reconstituted with an
\nall-stops-out intensity that suggests that Monet used pastel
\nboth in response to the ephemeral moment and to test just
\nhow far he could push color
\ninto sheer gorgeousness before
\ncommitting himself to a similar inquiry on canvas. The
\npastels are as complete and self-sufficient as paintings,
\nbut in one sense they read as drawings—that is to say, as
\naccumulations of linear marks that somehow become masses of
\ncolor. The pastels may be mainly independent works, but they
\nalso seem to have influenced what Monet did on canvas. In
\nthe pastels of sunsets, with their risky, banal subject
\nmatter, it’s our awareness of the artist’s presence as
\nmaker, through the evidence of his hand, that keeps these
\npotentially problematic images from becoming clich\u00e9s.
\nSimilarly, while the tasty orchestrations of aqueous blues,
\ntender mauves, and milky off-whites in both the London
\npaintings and the pastels of motifs along the foggy Thames
\nteeter on the edge of sweetness, they are redeemed by the
\nnear-ferocity of Monet’s gesture. Did the vigorous,
\nstaccato strokes and the loose swirls with which Monet
\napplied pastel to paper ultimately influence the way he put
\npaint on canvas? Do the ferocious attack and the
\nrepetitive, undisguised brushstrokes of the late water lily
\npaintings owe something to Monet’s bold pastels? (Two are
\nincluded in the installation at the Clark for comparison.)
\nAs with the London paintings, the perils of sweetness
\nlurking in the unabashed loveliness of Monet’s color are
\ncountered by the rigors of touch.<\/p>\n

“T<\/font>he Unknown Monet” also includes a section devoted to prints,
\nmost of which are “after Claude Monet,” but, if I understand
\nthe complications of the process, the painter’s
\nparticipation in translating his paintings into crayon and
\nscratchwork line drawings, on specially prepared paper, was
\nrequired to reproduce the image. It’s all explained in the
\nexcellent, comprehensive catalogue, which is really
\na stand-alone book about Monet’s works on paper. The
\nexhibition, “The Unknown Monet,” seems, in fact, an adjunct to
\nthe catalogue, rather than the other way round. Not that it
\nmatters. The book is thorough, scrupulously researched, and
\ninformative. The show, no less thorough, scrupulously
\nresearched, and informative, also includes ample delights
\nfor the eye. And we learn a lot about Monet.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

Notes<\/b>
\nGo to the top of the document.<\/font><\/A><\/p>\n

    \n<\/p>\n


    \n

  1. <\/A>
    \n“The Unknown Monet: Pastels and Drawings” opened at the
    \nClark Art Institute in Williamstown, Massachusetts on June
    \n24, 2007 and remains on view through September 16, 2007.
    \n    Go back to the text.<\/A><\/font>
    \n<\/p>\n<\/ol>\n

    <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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