View the scanned original illustrations
Jordaens himself, so strong and so free, could not escape the overpowering memory of him. But at least he illumined his soul with the flame of Rubens instead of gathering up his bones. He brought even more sun into the flesh of his big women, he caused more blood to flow under their skin, they radiated a greater amorous power, and he discovered in himself, as he watched the passing of the god who opened upon life his two generous hands, rustic poems which he had barely suspected. He saw fauns, their hoofs clotted with mud, sitting in Flemish cottages into which cows and chickens came behind them; he saw the fauns partaking with the peasant of the juice of grapes, and bread rubbed with garlic. He saw more liquid light in the eyes of the girls and more furtive grace in the smile of their mouths. The spirit of the world passed through him in a broad flash.
The
others divided up the universe of Rubens. Snyders gathered into biblical arks
the beasts scattered through the three thousand canvases of the hero. Of the
immense spectacle of the world into which Rubens had plunged, the skies, the
seas, the nude women, the living woods, the springs and the meadows, the marble
palaces and the cottages which he had dissolved in the blood of his veins to
spread them forth upon the canvas to the beating of his heart, Snyders retained
no more than messes of fish and the pork shops of the streets, the palpitation
of the pearly bellies, the glistening tremor of the scales, the slimy motion of
the great cylindrical bodies, the thickness of the meats, the warmth of fur and
feathers heaped up pellmell, an odor of the sea and of clotted blood floating
amid the russets of autumn game, and the blues and greens of seaweed and of
ocean depths. Even so it was too much for him. Fyt helped him in his work. Grayer,
who also delighted in fish, the sea, and the meat of the butcher shop, closed
his eyes timidly so as to leave to them this domain, and thought it his duty to
confine himself to equestrian portraits, monarchical triumphs, and pompous
theologies against a setting of twisted colonnades and brocaded hangings. The
good painter Jacob van Oost left to him the athletic nudes and the muscular
melodramas that he might shut himself up in his dying city of Bruges with the
enriched middle class who draped themselves in the mantles and the doublets in
which Rubens had dressed his princes as they appeared silhouetted against the
grandeur of the skies. Van Dyck seized upon hands and faces, despoiled the
soldiers of the harness of war in order to get a better view of their ankles
and wrists, and dressed the divinities of pagan Flanders in robes of heavy
stuff so as to have a more perverse pleasure in undressing them afterward.
Where, before, there had been sureness of gesture, ease of power, superb
elegance of force in action, there were now prepared gesture, mannered grace,
and the faded elegance taught by the servitude and idleness of courts.
The
noble had doffed his armor. He had permit led his stronghold to become a
pleasure house; he had given over to the king his bridges and roads in exchange
for finely embroidered garments. But deep within him there was still the vigor
of a cavalier, even though a touch of corruption was visible at the tips of his
fingers and in the pallor of his face. From the south to the north van Dyck's
gaze roved with easy and careless penetration. In Italy he discovered, in great
sad palaces, the grandsons of a violent aristocracy abandoning itself to its
morbid decline. The grandsons of a brutal aristocracy, which was giving up its
struggle for power against the merchants, brought him to England. In the
southern country—nervous faces, marked by the inner storm which can no longer
vent itself; in the northern country—pale faces with blond hair, long pale
hands resting on the hips as men stand in proud resignation when forced to shut
up their idle strength in great parks full of leaves rotted by the mist that
rises from the lawns drenched with moisture. On every hand, men standing apart
from the torrent of the century, isolated in their pleasures, isolated in their
boredom. The master had treated with the great; the pupil was treated by the
great. His taste, his easy culture, his elegance as of a musketeer, and his
dressmaker's talent rendered him indispensable to them. He employed the
strength left him by the artificial life of an artist overpraised by idlers and
too much loved by women, to become the painter of society and of fashion, the
first in date and of importance. For a proud or delicate head outlined against
a great living sky, for a fair hand holding a batiste handkerchief, for a flash
of comprehension which one day turned a charming and silly face into the
incarnate symbol of the old races devoured by their time (which they imagine
themselves to have dominated while in fact they have not even tried to
understand it)—he frittered away a talent already weary from playing with
doublets, from trying on gloves and then tossing them carelessly aside, from
turning lace into foam, from the madcap elegance that made him don his
broad-brimmed hat with its waving plume, from pointing out the toes of feet
shod in soft leather while his hand rested on a tall cane and he twirled his
mustache.
Perhaps
he did not understand that successes and pleasures sucked his pale blood little
by little, and if he suffered, it was because he felt his decline without
knowing its causes and without being able to win back his strength. Like all
sensitive beings who have become men of pleasure, he is sad. There are more
blacks and grays in a single one of his canvases than in all those of Rubens.
He never knew the sensual joy which that master lavished everywhere. He never
had his broad pagan faith, nor any other to replace it. In his religious
pictures, his insinuating and insipid sensualism is the mark of his full consent
to be the painter of the Jesuits whom Rubens had served, indeed, when he filled
the churches with enchanting virgins, which they ordered from him, but whom he
had profoundly combated when he upheld, contrary to their beliefs, the
revolutionary force of life and carried it across his century. Van Dyck
flattered the convenient devotion of those who no longer believe. Through his
religious pictures he consented to play the rôle in Flanders—with more grace
and more frequent evasions, it is true—which Bernini was to assume in Italy
with noisy grandiloquence, Lesueur in France with insipid sweetness, and
Murillo in Spain, with his dubious and unhealthy sensualism. Philippe de
Champagne, who was about of his age, was forced, in order to maintain his
position against the tendencies of the century, to make a severe and continued
effort, and more so because he had received, as van Dyck himself had, the pagan
education of the old Flemings and saw on the horizon of his youth the
tumultuous passing of Rubens. With one of those sudden breaks of equilibrium
which only the great mystics can force upon themselves, he forgot even the joy
of painting, which is the whole reason for existence of the masters of his
country. He fixed his eyes upon the wooden crucifixes nailed to the bare walls
of the Jansenist cloisters. He painted flesh clothed in gray fustian: he
covered with cold ashes the kneeling portraits of the martyrs of Christian
doubt. Rubens had conquered without a struggle, without even feeling their
fetters, because his life swept everything along, the impedimenta of the
allegories and the need for dogmatic demonstration which his time imposed upon
him. After his death, we undoubtedly enter a century when art will no longer
live—or rather, will no longer try to live—save through formulas, pedagogical
preoccupations, theories, and moralizing intentions.
The
century, besides, will take as its field of action another soil than that of
Flanders, which scarcely sufficed, after the visit of Hercules, to nourish
Jordaens. Van Dyck was unable to live there for more than six years of his
maturity. Philippe de Champagne deserted Brussels for Paris. Victorious Holland
sapped the life of the Low Countries. When she did not send her painters to
Flanders—as, for instance, that strange Brouwer who died at the age of
thirty-two after haunting the taverns of Antwerp in order to catch sight, among
the shadows, of faces filled with joy, grimacing pain, or comical attention as
they appeared suddenly, and who was perhaps brushed by the great invisible
pinion which was to lift up Rembrandt—she imposed upon the last Flemish artists
her most undeniable faults. David Teniers was seized by her love of anecdote
and spread forth motionless dances, silent orgies, and dead kermesses in
landscapes, gentle and gray. A tremor as of sorrow, pale and cold, passed over
the Flemish soil. Its free spaces, where the mists of the Scheldt and of the
North Sea had furnished amber and opal to its artists from van Eyck to Rubens,
were to burn out completely. Their last flicker vibrates over the battles
staged like quadrilles and the burlesque fortresses which van der Meulen humbly
offered to the king of France, and over which a few blue and delicate vapors
arise amid the slender trees. Flanders had given enough to the world. Her
confused life, heavy and rich, her life swelling with blood and sap, drunk with
strength and sweating with its odorous fecundity, had caused its spirit to
pass, through Rubens, into the veins of the future.
Jordaens himself, so strong and so free, could not escape the overpowering memory of him. But at least he illumined his soul with the flame of Rubens instead of gathering up his bones. He brought even more sun into the flesh of his big women, he caused more blood to flow under their skin, they radiated a greater amorous power, and he discovered in himself, as he watched the passing of the god who opened upon life his two generous hands, rustic poems which he had barely suspected. He saw fauns, their hoofs clotted with mud, sitting in Flemish cottages into which cows and chickens came behind them; he saw the fauns partaking with the peasant of the juice of grapes, and bread rubbed with garlic. He saw more liquid light in the eyes of the girls and more furtive grace in the smile of their mouths. The spirit of the world passed through him in a broad flash.
Jordaens - Three Buskers* |
van Dyck - Self Portrait with a Sunflower* |
van Dyck - Wife of an Aristocratic Genoese* |
Philippe de Champagne - Nuns of Port-Royal* |
Brouwer - The Surgeon* |
No comments:
Post a Comment