Modern art in its pomp, I do like

Les Quatre Races, Ozenfant

Another day, another gallery. Okay, that’s a slight exaggeration, since we took a day off on the Thursday, heading for the Jardin des Plantes to amble among flower beds and the menagerie (I saw a baby vulture!), enjoy a decent lunch and, frankly, get absolutely toasted in the glorious sunshine.

But with rain promised for the Friday, we had planned for the Pompidou, which was a mere 10 minutes away on foot from the garret.

There was no need to fret about queues: a relatively short one disappeared quickly within minutes of the centre opening its doors at 11am, while we sat opposite supping coffees at a café.

Europe, de la Serna

On our previous visit, we’d seen an exhibition on architect Richard Rodgers, who had co-designed the Pompidou itself, and had also taken in some of the most modern exhibits.

Now to be quite frank, I have little memory of what we saw of the latter – other than a Jackson Pollock – because my feet were in the process of murdering me.

So this time, I was determined to see the key collection covering the 70 years of the 20th century.

Thus we headed to the top of the building to find ourselves at the start of a walk into artistic modernity.

It begins with two works by artists previously unknown to me.

First, straight ahead as you enter, is Les Quatre Races, a vast piece by Amédée Ozenfant from 1928, which uses highly simplified human forms and interesting, architectural textures to create an optimistic view of a post-WWI future.

Girl With a Black Cat, Matisse

The architectural aspect is not surprising when you read that Ozenfant was, with Le Corbusier, a co-founder of the Purist movement.

However, we then find Ismaël de la Serna’s Europe – painted in around 1935, as Spain was on the cusp of the civil war – and this is something altogether less hopeful: a view of a continent being handed, once again, to death.

It’s a disturbing canvas, brilliantly executed.

Beyond that, one of the next things to see was a Matisse canvas – Girl With a Black Cat (1910), which was posed by his daughter, Marguerite, and had been in a private collection until last year.

And through a door next to it was an entire room – albeit a small one – full of nothing but works by Matisse, including Portrait of Auguste Pellerin II (1916-17) and Portrait de Greta Prozor (1916).

Femme nue couché, Picasso

Beyond that was a larger room, hung on one long wall with a couple of dozen paintings, like the rooms of early 20th-century Parisian collectors such as the Steins.

High up were a couple of works by artists who were very clearly trying to emulate Matisse and, in effect, reproduce the likes of Luxe, Calme et Volupté and others.

The colours merely managed to look garish – providing an excellent illustration of just how good Matisse really was.

We avoided the one tour party that was breezing through and then enjoyed another Matisse.

Still Life With Arums & Mirror, de Lempicka

Luxe I, which was painted in 1907, provided an opportunity to appreciate what I’d learned when reading Hilary Spurling’s excellent Matisse biography.

In this case, the hills in the background are those marking the south of Collioure, while it was painted in the hills above the village, beyond the railway line, because the rather religious inhabitants would not have been impressed by nude models.

Moving through initial rooms, the art gradually abstracted, while The Other Half got vaguely excited by a replica of the Tatlin Tower.

And since the museum was so generally quiet, it was with great pleasure that we able to sit down and contemplate Picasso’s Femme nue couchée (1936) without interruption for some time.

Perhaps I’m wrong or simply linking the blue of the Blue Period rather too greatly with Picasso’s entire oeuvre, but the green background seemed to lend the work a very different tone to many of those I’ve seen.

The Journalist Sylvia von Harden, Dix

Since you cannot go wrong with a spot of Art Deco, I also enjoyed seeing works by Tamara de Lempicka, and while the portrait style might be familiar, It was nice to see Still Life with Arums and Mirror (1938), which showed the style in a less-familiar way.

We also found Otto Dix’s iconic and absolutely wonderful Portrait of the Journalist Sylvia von Harden from 1926, which seems to so utterly represent the Weimar period that it’s no surprise that it was recreated fleetingly in the opening titles of the 1972 film of Cabaret.

Henry Valensi’s Symphonie verte from 1935 and Symphonie vitale from 1952 are both non-figurative canvases that I took to instantly, simply because he makes the colours work so well.

These were works that further increase the question in my own mind of just what constitutes ‘art’, and I see no reason why decorative works are not, in some minds, considered as highly as figurative.

Symphonie Verte, Valensi

We found a Max Beckmann – an artist we’d first really encountered at a Tate Modern exhibition some years ago – and Édouard Pignon, whose paintings we’d discovered at the Museum of Modern Art in Collioure, just last summer.

If there was a disappointment, it was that we didn't see any of the Centre’s works by Léopold Survage – but you can't have everything.

In another gallery, we came across an industrial scene by Bernard Boutet de Monvel (1881-1949), a French fashion illustrator and society portraitist.

View of Pont-Aven, de Monvel

His View of Pont-Aven (1928) is hardly an obvious fit with that sort of portfolio, but it is a striking image that made me think of Metropolis. It has an interesting perspective and use of angles that creates movement in an apparently deserted – dehumanised – industrial landscape.

In the same room were two canvases by Alexandre Hogue (1898-1994), an American painter whose work focused particularly on landscapes during the Dust Bowl, with an ecological message at its core.

Drought Survivors from 1936 has a naive style that completely belies its theme, with signs of man-made life dead or rusting as the man-made ecological disaster rolls in.

Petrol in the Dunes (1944) may not have the same immediately haunting impact, but it’s still a striking and impressive work with the same underlying ethos.

Drought Survivors, Hogue

The entire floor has been recast in recent years under a heading of ‘multiple modernities’, which seeks to explore modern art from across the world and also by there: there is, for instance, a room dedicated to anti-fascist art.

Tarsila do Amaral – usually known simply as Tarsila – is considered one of the most important figures in Brazilian art.

Her A cuca (1924) is another deceptively naïve work, but stays in the mind – and is certainly shown off particularly well in a snakeskin frame that was made especially for it at the time.

A cuca, Tarsila

The way in which the works have been organised does create surprises.

It was more than a tad unexpected to round one corner and find yet another Matisse – this time, Decorative Figure on an Ornamental Background (1925-26), which presented an opportunity to look at how the artist incorporated his love of decorative fabrics into his own works.

Brought up in a weaving area of northern France, Matisse later collected and carried around with him snippets of fabric that he had spotted and liked.

The final corridor, which takes you back to where you started, brings with it several pleasures – not least, Picasso’s Woman in a Turkish Turban (1955) and Giorgio di Chirico’s Il Ritornante (1918), which has all the typical strangeness of that painter’s metaphysical works.

Il Ritornante, de Chirico

Unfortunately, the light from the windows makes it difficult to really see one of Dalí’s myriad masturbation paintings. Perhaps that was a deliberate little joke on the subject matter?

And to finish, a pair of Chagall’s, one of which, Double Portrait with a Glass of Wine (1918) showed him ‘riding’ on the shoulders of his wife as way of showing how she made him feel.

We were delighted to be able to ‘get’ it without looking at the labels, on the basis of what we’d discovered at last year’s Liverpool Tate exhibition.

The Pompidou serves up a wonderful walk through the first 70 years of the 20th century – and three hours had been whiled away so easily and pleasantly.

And it also leaves the visitor with plenty to think about.

Portrait With a Glass of Wine, Chagall

To talk of ‘modern art’ is, really, such a dreadfully clumsy way of indiscriminately lumping together myriad different styles and approaches to myriad different subjects and questions.

That might not be what the Pompidou was attempting specifically to address with its exhibition title of ‘multiple modernities,’ but it is certainly one way of looking at such a wide range of artistic endeavour over almost three quarters of a century.

Picking just a handful of pictures of the works we saw to illustrate this post is evidence of the breath of ‘modern art’ – and that doesn’t even bring us slap bang up to date.

By the time we were ready to conclude our visit, we’d not seen anywhere near all the exhibits, but I had reached a point of recognising a Rothko but feeling no great need to go and examine it in detail. 

But while a stand-alone trip is hardly problematic, a visit to the Pompidou is a perfect way to continue an exploration of the modern that began with some of the art that’s on display in the Musée d’Orsay, given that Manet is seen as the painter who began ‘modern art’.

Laughing all the way to the bank

Valium, by Damien Hirst

People seem to have been getting into a grand old funk over Damien Hirst’s claim that he copies his children’s paintings and drawings.

Well, this was certainly the case at the Observer and at the Telegraph, in response to Hirst’s claim in an interview with the former.

At the Obs, the whinging was mostly about his being ‘a corporate whore’, while over at the Telegraph, comments concentrated on most of his own art resembling the contents of used nappies.

Don’t you just lurve reasoned debate?

As Will Gompertz explained at some length in What Are You Looking At? that no, your five-year-old could not have produced even the works of modern art that you find utterly incomprehensible.

You might think that a Mondrian, for instance, is simple or that Pollock simply dripped, but actually executing such a piece is a damned sight harder than many imagine.

Now to be quite clear, I’m not personally a fan of Hirst’s work, but he’s clever – not least in being able to exploit the market for whatever is deemed to be ‘hip’ and ‘trendy’ art among those who have more money than sense.

It was all encouraged in the halcyon days of the 1980s by the dear old Saatchis, who set out to prescribe what was cool – and, most importantly, to profit from it.

These are the same Saatchis who now routinely use Facebook to tell people that they can suggest new artists whose work would be worth investing in.

Buy them and the price will go up, of course, as they then become collectible. And the Saatchis will themselves make plenty of money from you taking their advice.

Oddly, none of the painters currently being touted by them seem to have chosen to represent a man appearing to throttle his wife.

But there’s an element of the emperor’s new clothes in all this: I’ve little doubt that, as he’s laughing all the way to the bank, Hirst is also laughing at those who pay millions for a piece that someone in his studio has produced to his instructions – based on something his children did, if we’re to believe his somewhat faux humility.

Indeed, never mind that fairytale – there’s always the classic modern art story of Marcel Duchamp and his urinal, a piece of ‘made’ art that was used entirely to extract the piss out of a group of self-appointed arbiters of what was and was not art – and in the process, itself became iconic and labelled ‘art’.

This is not a real Lowry

In the past, it would be the patron – often the church – who, in effect, made such decisions, but that has broadened out over the years, helped by, among other things, public galleries and exhibitions and also increasing numbers of people with disposable incomes and a desire to decorate their homes.

Mind, the likes of Hirst are not the only ones taking the proverbial out of people.

In a prime example of fools and cash being easily parted, the Facebook page for LS Lowry warned against a spate of fakes that are being sold on eBay.

They highlighted one in particular, which was secured with a bid of £670. Let’s allow for someone being a bit taken in by the background, but the figure? And just look at that face!

Beyond that, look at the signature – and it’s easy enough to Google the authentic signature. That’s not close.

Away from cyberspace, the Telegraph reported on 82-year-old Bill Harbord, a London man who has been selling fakes for years – although at rather lower prices.

It’s difficult to feel particularly sorry for anyone all those who have bought a picture from Mr Harbord. Honestly – be sensible: it’s really not very unlikely that you'll find a genuine Raoul Dufy painting for £250.

Actually, it’s tempting to laugh in much the same way you’ll possibly laugh at those who spend hundreds of thousands on a Damien Hirst because they’ve been told it’s good.

If you’re going to buy art by a well-known figure, make sure you know who you’re buying it from – a gallery will be a safer bet, for instance – and accustom yourself with the artist in question’s work, signature, any numbering system etc.

It’s not difficult – and it’s not rocket science.

If you do want to feel for someone, though, spare a thought for Martin Lang, who spent £100,000 on what he thought was an original Chagall.

Searching for authentification, it was sent to the Chagall Committee in Paris, which decided it was a fake and that it should thus be destroyed under French law.

Mr Lang wants it back – he’s still waiting to see if they’ll mark at as a forgery and send it back to him.

Survage revisited – and more

Survage: La marchande de poisson

Last week’s visit to the Collioure Musée d’Art Moderne had rather whetted my appetite, so the obvious thing seemed to be a day trip to Céret, which boasts a particularly prestigious Musée d’Art Moderne of its own.

Proper whetting of the aforementioned appetite was required, since such a trip, on public transport, is a bit of a trek.

Catching the 9.15am bus from Collioure – every journey in this area is €1, in an air-conditioned coach – the first stage took us to Argelès Villes.

After a break there, we intended to pick up the first available bus onward into the mountains to Céret.

The first part was accomplished easily, and gave us time for a brief look around the old town – so different from the tourist part, which is, frankly, rather too touristy for my liking.

We shall return one day to explore more.

Céret itself – old gate

Then we waited for the bus. It was delayed by around 10 minutes, but then we boarded for the journey, which was scheduled to take around an hour.

As it happened, traffic on the main roads added at least half an hour to that and I was beginning to get a bit like a tetchy version of Shrek’s donkey: ‘Aren’t we there yet?’

But eventually we made it – and stood at the bus ‘station’ in Céret itself thinking: ‘Have we got the right place?’ All we could see was a very modern, low-rise residential area, with a vast Carrefour nearby.

It was hardly the stuff of great artists.

Only after something of a wander, following signs for motorists rather than pedestrians, did we climb up far enough to find ourselves in the old town. Pouring sweat, the first thing on the agenda was reviving Coke.

Famed for its cherries, Céret is the capital of the historic Catalan region of Vallespir – note: if in Collioure, find Bar brasserie de la Marine and try the Vallespir salad, which comes with goat’s cheese drizzled in honey and melted on large croutons, and is served with leaves, toasted pine nuts, black olives and gloriously sweet, ripe melon. It is a dream.

Loutreuil, La conversation...

It is, entirely in keeping with the region, a very old town. The church at the heart of the old village is Romanesque – as are many others in the region: Argelès Ville, Elne and many that we passed through on the way.

As another aside, I'm rather thrilled that I can now spot the difference between a Romanesque and a Gothic church – and have at least a faint clue what it means.

Anyway, just as Collioure has been associated with art since the beginning on the 20^th century, so too has Céret.

Picasso lived there in 1911-12. Braque, Soutine and Maillol all did the same.

And in the 1950s, artists Pierre Brune and Frank Burty Haviland created the museum there, with support from their friends, Picasso and Matisse.

Nether of the founders were bad artists themselves, as the museum’s permanent exhibition shows – even if you’ve never heard of them before.

Marchand, Le couvent des Capucins

Indeed, there are several names that many visitors will not be familiar with, and this is a great way to get to know some ' new' names.

Essentially, the permanent collection is made up of two sections: the early 20^th century and the very recent.

I’m not going to go into detail on the latter, because, in general, I wasn’t really particularly impressed.

However, the first section is superb.

So, briefly: Maurice Loutreuil’s La conversation sous les platanes from 1919 impressed us both. I’m afraid the reproduction can only give a hint as to the quality of the picture itself.

The convent itself – more recent sports ground below

August Herbin’s Les trois arbres from 1913 uses colour really dramatically and vibrantly – and it works.

Jean Marchand’s Le couvent des Capucins from 1912, creates a sensuous, curvaceous landscape and inserts within it an austere, angular convent.

It was with a certain amount of chuffedness that, as we strolled back toward the bus stop later, I spotted that building on a nearby hillside – albeit softened with cypresses these days.

There would normally be some pieces by Èdouard Pignon – but they were in Collioure, where we'd already seen them last week.

Herbin, Les trois arbres

There was a substantial collection of Picasso. Now I am not the world’s biggest fan of ceramics, but the big display here may have made me change my mind.

Most were focused on the corrida and were created in the 1950s, but what they do show is that, unlike Dalí, Picasso did not become a parody of himself.

These are not just lazy daubs – they’re really fine, detailed, fascinating work.

And one of only two Picasso paintings in the collection (the first is a very early portrait, which serves to perfectly show how the exceptionally young artist had mastered art) Nature morte au crane et au pichet from 1946 is a surprise when one thinks one knows what to expect from the artist.

There is also a sketch of people doing a sardanes – with a dove above it, but that’s the nearest Picasso’s work that is displayed here even remotely approaches cliché.

Picasso, Picador, 1953

Then there was the surprise of finding Matisse sketches – all were of Collioure, except one gloriously simply one of a woman’s face. For goodness sake, we could even tell what beach he’d sketched each one on.

Then another surprise – a vast Chagall canvas, plus a number of “compositions” that the artist himself had presented to the museum.

It’s a fascinating thing to see again the work of an artist whose work you have so recently seen in an intense way, and to see it in the context of the wider art of the time.

Having thoroughly appreciated the Chagall exhibition at the Liverpool Tate, we felt that we could see these different works with a much more educated eye.

Picasso, Nature morte au crane et au pichet

But in similar vein, given last year's exhibition of his Collioure work at the village's own Musée d'Art Moderne, there was another real treat here: two Survages: La femme à la fenêtre from 1931 and La marchande de poisson from the same year.

An admission: I could barely stop myself from jumping up and down and telling anyone who was near, ‘I’ve got one of his! I’ve got one of his!’

What you really get from such an exhibition, though, is a sense of art in a time.

We'd seen the Survage a year ago. We'd seen the Chagall in June. We saw the Pignon last week.

All are linked. And here, you get the chance to see not just examples of their work, but of the wider artistic movements within which they painted and developed, and of the geography that drew them and linked them.

It's enormously rewarding in terms of helping you to develop an understanding.

Barceló, Planta

If the most modern permanent exhibits failed to excite, the temporary exhibition was a different kettle of poisson.

It was a substantial collection of work by Miguel Barceló, under the title Terra Ignis.

Born in Majorca in 1957, Barceló has worked in a number of mediums, but has recently been concentrating on ceramics.

Having traveled widely, he has been particularly influenced by West Africa.

He currently works from a brick works, creating pieces that range from table-top in size to so vast that they fill a room.

At first, when we walked into a room of vast terracotta goblets, most appearing to be in the process of breaking apart, and many apparently filled with ‘melting’ terracotta bricks, my thoughts were along the lines of ‘o-kay’.

But after paying some attention – and after seeing one in particular from a certain angle – I started to see something.

Looking at Planta from across the room, I could see a modern city collapsing. The terracotta bricks he’s fond of using become like city buildings.

There’s a hint of Dalí (at his best) when jugs or bricks are seen in a state that makes them seem to have melted. But there’s no pastiche here.

Barceló, Terra Ignis

And when you enter the room containing (barely) the exhibition’s title piece, you look and see faces staring out at you from everywhere in this mass of melting, disintegrating, chaotic construction: faces likes ghosts; faces of the ancestors – and all wanting to know what the holy hell we think we’re doing, wantonly destroying this planet.

Well, that was what I saw. In other words, I found meaning in the art – and that’s what it’s all about, isn't it?

Outside in the blazing sunshine, we moved to a café next door and ordered beers and simple food.

We were served by an aging hippy, complete with grey ponytail and a long, pink-peach shirt that had me observing that it brought to mind Hare Krishna followers.

And to conclude, wonderful colours at Céret's cemetary

After eating, I wandered off to the toilet – only to find myself walking into a tiny cubicle that was covered in Krishna artwork, with a soundtrack and flashing lights that began when the lights switched on.

I had trouble not bursting into hysterical laughter as I sat on the throne.

But we all look for meaning in different places – yes?

The journey back was better: although it was scheduled to be longer and take in stops at more tiny villages, it was traffic-free and speedier.

It was a lengthy day’s trek – but well worth it. Céret really can boast some excellent art.

Oh – and I’ve got a Survage too.