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Monet at Giverny

In her New York Times review of the new book by Nicholas Delbanco, Lastingness: The Art of Old Age, Brooke Allen makes it clear that she, like me, was excited about the topic. Making art when you are older: What shifts? What shows up? What happens to our expression as we age?

While Allen wasn’t satisfied with Delbanco’s undertaking (and put a call out for someone to take on the topic and do it up right), her review is full of memorable commentary. She includes reference to a famous poem by Yeats, “The Coming of Wisdom With Time,” that speaks to what can happen, how there is a “distillation, a new intensity, a sloughing off of excess and ornament in favor of deep essentials”:

Though leaves are many, the root is one;
Through all the lying days of my youth
I swayed my leaves and flowers in the sun;
Now I may wither into the truth.

Delbanco’s book questions why some artists continue to produce great work in their later years (such as Matisse, Monet, Picasso) while others hit a high point when they are young and then give in to the slow entropic demise of growing old. This old vs new productivity was the topic of a fascinating book by David Galenson, Old Masters and Young Geniuses: The Two Life Cycles of Artistic Creativity. Galenson is a professor of economics at the University of Chicago, and his approach to the topic is quantitative and linear. It is a valuable lens on a topic that still, in my opinion, is full of mystery and the unanswerable.

A passage from Allen’s review is worth keeping in mind:

Delbanco treats his material in anecdotal fashion and draws few conclusions from his research, though clearly some generalizations can and must be made. Look at Michelangelo’s half-finished “Slaves,” apparently struggling to escape their blocks of marble; Titian’s “Death of Actaeon”; Verdi’s “Otello”; Liszt’s “Czardas Macabre”; Francis Bacon’s minimalist late works. All these suggest that the aesthetic of old age involves a slimming down and stripping away. Delbanco does remark on this syndrome in individual cases: he is surely correct to emphasize, for instance, Monet’s “Nymphéas” and the other late-period Giverny works, in which, “if his vision now was less than ­­20-20, what he trained himself to paint had an inward-facing coherence that outstripped mere accuracy.” He discusses the same qualities in “The Winter’s Tale” (though Shakespeare, dead at 52, was not quite old even by 17th-century standards): “The late plays,” Delbanco observes, “are less sequence-bound or yoked to plausibility. It’s as though the peerless artificer has had enough of artifice.”

This is true, and Delbanco offers one intriguing explanation. In youth, he posits, “it’s the reception of the piece and not its production that counts. But to the aging writer, painter or musician the process can signify more than result; it no longer seems as important that the work be sold.” It is a profound observation; with time and age, the act of showing becomes increasingly subordinate to the act of making, and gratification turns ever further inward. But this is surely not the only reason for the concentrated effect of late style. The simple specter of mortality must count for something: as Samuel Johnson remarked in a different context, “When a man knows he is to be hanged in a fortnight, it concentrates his mind wonderfully.” And then there is the radical shifting of perspective and values brought about by age, something to which people past their 50th birthdays can attest. Delbanco quotes Carl Jung: “We cannot live the afternoon of life according to the program of life’s morning; for what was great in the morning will be little at evening, and what in the morning was true will at evening have become a lie.”

I was so struck by Allen’s phrase, “the act of showing becomes increasingly subordinate to the act of making, and gratification turns ever further inward.” That’s a shift I can attest to.

Gordon Waters is an artist, teacher and good friend who now lives in Sydney. I’m a big fan of his work (you can see more of it here) and of the way he thinks about seeing and looking. When he shared this recent essay with me, I thought it would be an inspiring guest post. Thanks Gordon.

By Gordon Waters

It became apparent to me on a recent trip to Europe, more so than ever before, that we are what we see. In this case that we are the art that we see, or more specifically, we are how we see that art. This may sound convoluted but it all comes down to how we, as artists, or laymen, driven largely by the visual stimulus around us, are able to process that stimulus into meaningful, coherent impressions. Having spent roughly a quarter of a century looking at works hanging in museums and galleries, my recent epiphany with one profound little museum makes me think that we are going about things all wrong.

It is well established that when we go to a museum or gallery, on average, we spend roughly 20 seconds looking at a work of art. Of course this varies depending on the viewer, the size of the venue, etc. But in general, even the most erudite art lover would admit that the cursory glance prevails over the contemplative gaze. It cannot be helped. It is the way we are programmed.

Our contemporary society has done nothing to alleviate this problem and everything to exacerbate it. Shorter attention spans, busier schedules, media such as video and installation that often eschew deliberation have all contributed to the malaise. But it is not just our genetic character or contemporary art practice that makes it difficult for us to see what we are looking at. It is the museum itself: vast spaces filled with masterpieces and a maze of second rate works, one after the other, topped off with the clanging of the cash registers from the obligatory gift shop. Not to mention-and this pertains more to the destination museums in the world’s most famous cities and to blockbuster shows in other less famous museums- the crowds. If you are into people watching, a museum is about the best place to go. If you want to look at art, you’re in trouble.

So, when you come upon that place where these concerns are not a factor it is like re-acquainting yourself with your sensibilities, with your ability to perceive what the artist really intended. For me, this is the point of all great art. And I don’t mean the point in the sense of meaning; I am referring to the point as the sharpest end of the experience. I believe the most profound works of art are those where the artist has sublimated himself to such an extent that the work becomes devoid of subjective or objective analysis. The artwork reaches its full potential completely within itself, leaving the viewer naked to interpretation and absolute realisation. But this realisation is only possible if the viewer is provided the opportunity. An exquisite diamond is easily mistaken for glass in the wrong setting.

At the end of the Tuileries Gardens, a short walk from the Louvre Museum is the Musee de L’Orangerie. A modest building that faces onto the Place de la Concorde it would be easy to leave it off your schedule in a city which boasts so many attractions for the art lover. I was in Paris for a short stay 25 years ago on my way to Italy to study art and Italian and, as it turns out, to begin my career as a painter. I made the trek to the Louvre, the Musee D’Orsay, and the Pompidou. But, I did not get to the Musee de L’Orangerie.

The realisation of L’Orangeire as the repository for what is widely regarded as Claude Monet’s greatest works has a fascinating history. Monet, who bought the property at Giverny outside Paris in 1890, had been painting his water lily series almost from the moment he got there. In fact he is credited with inventing the concept of a series; there are 250 paintings in the water lily series alone.

Monet’s close friend Georges Clemenceau received a letter from Monet shortly after the end of World War II in which Monet offered to the French state the largest of the water lily panels, which he suggested should be placed at the Musee des Arts Decoratifs. The subsequent negotiations and the correspondence between the two friends are full of dedication, largesse, disappointment, misunderstanding, and particularly, on the part of Clemenceau, gentle prodding. After considering more than one option, including the grounds of the Musee Rodin, the site of the Musee de L’Orangerie was put forward by Clemenceau and the French administration as the best option for Monet’s work.

The building was a wreck when it was designated for the pictures. An architect, Camille Lefevre, who was the head architect at the Louvre, was hired to make the necessary changes to the building. The space had to fit the panels, and the panels were massive. In the end, the combined works added up to eight panels in two rooms with the same height (198 cm) and a total combined length of over 90 metres.

Monet did not live to see the completion of the project. In 1927 the museum itself opened to universal acclaim. While it seems normal for us to think of Monet as being lauded for whatever he created, in the late 19th century and early 20th century, Monet did not have the stature he maintains today. Despite a lukewarm response to the pictures inside the museum, Monet had reached the height of his powers. It does not happen to all great painters but it should: their best work is not achieved as a young person striving but a wise seer having arrived. Despite his failing eyesight and moments of doubt, even someone who knows nothing about painting can feel how powerful the Nymphae’s are. It is a visceral reaction to an object, pure and simple.

The Nymphea’s at L’Orangerie are sublime the way Emmanuel Kant refers to the sublime in his discussions regarding metaphysics. Their size has a lot to do with this. But this is scale not the way the Abstract Expressionists or the great historical romantic painters like Gericault used scale. The size of the pictures is almost inconsequential; they do not make you feel small or of a certain proportion, they just envelop you but in the most comfortable and unassuming way. It is an example of grand scale at its most intimate. I have seen one of the Nymphae series at another location sitting flush to the wall at New York’s MoMA. It is beautiful, but it is not profound like the pictures at L’Orangerie.

By being enveloped, by having the paintings all around us, our eyesight is thrown out of its normal comfort zone. It needs time to adjust, to allow for the brain to process the myriad impulses and to comprehend the sophisticated nature of the peripheral viewing experience. This process slows us down to such an extent that contemplation becomes not just desirable but imperative.

The building greatly assists with this act. Once through the foyer the visitor enters the first of two elongated oval rooms where the massive panels are placed. The lighting, originally natural, has been replaced for technical reasons by artificial lighting that approximates natural light. The gentle glow of that effective illumination enhances the experience as the viewer looks at the paintings. There is also a comfortable single bench in the middle of the room. The design of this piece of furniture is important: it is only just long and wide enough to accommodate one or two people comfortably. The bench is also understated as if Monet himself has just risen from contemplating his work. After standing close to the paintings, then at a distance, I sat for quite a while on the bench and, by rotating my viewpoint ninety degrees I could reflect upon each panel.

The immediate mood of these rooms is welcoming, reverent, but not dour. It says to the viewer, “quiet yourself now so that you can feel how Monet felt.”

Another crucial aesthetic component is the fact the pictures are not behind glass. Everywhere in Paris and in most other locations in Europe paintings are behind glass. This for conservation and security purposes, but being able to get close to these large paintings and not see your reflection or that of the lights, allows an intimacy synonymous with an embrace.

The size of the rooms also benefits the work. The panel at the back of the second room is 17 meters long but the room feels as if it is not lost, nor overwhelming. The Two Willows fits into the space like Cinderella in her slipper: it was always meant to be.

It is illuminating to compare the experience at L’Orangerie with that of the Louvre less than a kilometre away. This may sound like comparing apples and elephants. The Louvre is a massive building and has approximately 35,000 works in its collection. That is 34,992 more objects to look at than on the top floor of L’Orangerie. (This does not take into account a collection of 20th century paintings which was installed in a contemporary gallery downstairs in the Musee de L’Orangerie in 1966. The works were donated by Paul Guillame and his widow, Mrs. Jean Walter.)

Unless you get a particular thrill out of watching the hordes standing six deep with their digital cameras in front of the Mona Lisa, the Louvre is a conundrum for most viewers. There is just too much to see. Willem de Kooning, the famous Dutch-American abstractionist used to have a wonderful way of dealing with this problem. He would go to the Metropolitan Museum in New York, an institution of similar size, but he would pick two or three pictures to look at and concentrate solely on them. This way he could create his very own L’Orangerie. Concentrate on very little to gain a great deal.

On the same European trip I visited Gaudi’s Casa Batlo in Barcelona and felt many of the same emotions about the work and the place itself. Two years ago, after many times visiting Sienna and walking right by it, I finally sat and experienced Duccio’s Maesta in the cathedral museum. Diego Rivera’s fresco cycle in the National Palace in Mexico City is another artistic endeavour married to a perfect setting.

Nevertheless, there is something quite extraordinary about the Nympheas at the Musee de L’Orangerie. Perhaps here more than any other place the equation is just right; perhaps here it is possible to truly experience great painting without really trying; perhaps here is where the artist, his art and the place where that art is displayed coalesce in perfect union.

(Photo credits: Gordon Waters)