Back to the gallery – but Rodin is no blockbuster

As our frenzy of COVID-19 lockdown-easing culture blitz continues, The Other Half and I nipped over to Tate Modern for The Making of Robin exhibition.

A little note: it might feel like a “frenzy”, but while getting out and about a bit, we’re also avoiding the centre of London and venues that would entail using the Tube or crossing central London. Let's all be sensible.

 

Living in east London, Tate Modern is easy for us as it’s a single bus ride and a walk away. I’d deliberately booked for late on the Sunday morning of a bank holiday weekend as that was almost certainly going to be quite quiet. It was. And we also walked most of the way home – but that’s a different story.

 

Now, this is billed as a major exhibition, but while it is interesting, it’s no blockbuster for the uninitiated. That said, we are living through exceptional times, so leeway has to be given as arts organisations try to get back up and running in the face of a deeply anti-arts government in Westminster.

 

The exhibition concentrates on the processes that Auguste Rodin used in creating his iconic sculptures. This means looking primarily at how he created, used and re-used the plaster works that were rarely intended as being finished items.

 

So, for instance, there is an entire display cabinet full of hands that were initially created when he was working on The Gates of Hell. These are really interesting ... but particularly if you’ve seen a finished version of The Gates of Hell. The OH and I are fortunate enough to have visited the Musée Rodin in Paris twice, spending time with castings of many of the works we see represented here in their development phases. Including The Gates of Hell.

 

Personally, I love Rodin’s monumental Balzac ... but can you fully appreciate all the maquettes (both very large and very small – and there are many of them) if you can’t see or haven’t seem one of the final castings?

 

Equally with The Burghers of Calais – although at least visitors to this exhibition can go and view the casting that stands in Victoria Tower Gardens, next to the Houses of Parliament without too much difficulty.

 

For me, the most interesting works shown here in their own right are those representing the Japanese actor and dancer Ohta Hisa, known as Hanako (left). They include works in bronze and glass and are fascinating.

They were unlike any Rodin works we'd seen previously.

It was also good to see a couple of works by Camile Claudel – Rodin's lover and co-worker – yet I find myself wonder whether, by forcing this tiny representation in, the exhibition doesn't do her a disservice rather than a service.

 

Indeed, the OH and I have a long history of finding some curators’ notes impossibly pompous or priggish. Here, this becomes the gallery’s attempt to be ‘woke’ (and I hate myself having to describe it as that).

Further, it actually risks misrepresenting Claudel's life – reducing her problems to her connection with Rodin, rather than noting, for instance, the massive damage done to her by her mother.

 

And seriously, who really needs to be pointed, via QR code, to a chat between two women saying that there was a “gender imbalance” in art in the 19^th century? Not least for an essentially art geeky exhibition ... is Tate really assuming that visitors won’t know that the 19th century was deeply unbalanced in gender terms in general?

 

Equally, do we need a mini lecture on ‘cultural appropriation’? I mean – the examples of Rodin's personal collection of objects from the far east, then turned quite casually into new works are genuinely interesting. But would the gallery also, in such context, mention Ai Weiwei, or is smashing centuries-old Chinese vases and claiming that doing so is a ‘work of art’ okay if you’re Chinese and the centuries-old vases you smash in the name of art are themselves Chinese?

 

Look ... it was great to get back into a gallery. In terms if Tate Modern, the social distancing etc all works well and allows you to feel comfortable, for which I am genuinely grateful, but this exhibition is, in essence, for Rodin geeks. If you haven't seen finished versions of these plaster works, then it's probably not worth visiting.

 

And such things can be done better. See Matisse in the Studio in 2017 at the Royal Academy showed how – my thoughts here.

 

And as for Rodin – some thoughts from the last time the OH and I visited the Paris museum.

The gallery that leaves a big impression

Bal du Moulin de la Galette, Renoir

The original gallery plan for our Paris week had been to take in the Musée d’Orsay on the Tuesday and the Pompidou on the Friday – primarily to tally with forecasts for rather damper weather.

But after Tuesday’s thwarted effort to make it inside, we headed back to the Orsay early on Wednesday morning, crossing our fingers and hoping it would be third time lucky.

Having quaffed coffee and croissants at a café opposite, and still ensuring that we were only about fifth and sixth in the queue for our kind of pre-bought tickets, we finally made it beyond the portals – and then spent a very pleasant three hours exploring its treasures.

Evening Prayer in the Sahara, Guillaumet

The Orsay is most famous for it’s world-beating collection of Impressionist and post-Impressionist works, but there’s far more to it than that.

A beautiful space in a building that was formerly a railway station, an initial stroll through the centre of the ground floor gives you a great sense of context, with a plethora of the sort of rather staid, classically-styled sculpture that was sanctified by the Académie des Beaux-Arts, the body that held a vice-like grip on the country’s art.

L'Absinthe, Degas

It provides a valuable background against which to understand the radicalism of the Impressionists and other artists from the second half of the 19th century and into the 20th.

But before we got to the Impressionists came other galleries.

There were two rooms of Second Empire furniture and decorative arts, which were frankly hilarious in their utterly over-the-top quality – not least in the sheer farcicality of representations of Napoleon III as a Ceasar.

But another two rooms contained fascinating works by the Orientalists – an entire movement I had never come across.

The antithesis of present-day demonisation of Muslims and Arabs as a whole, it was fascinating to see how artists had explored and then portrayed the exoticism of the Middle East and North Africa.

Gustave Guillaumet’s Evening Prayer in the Sahara, from 1863, is a fascinating picture with beautiful light.

Olympia, Manet

And Café in Adalia, by Charles Emile de Tournemine (1856) is another really interesting work.

Heading upwards to the top floor for the main course, we were fortunate that, even through the crowds had headed there first, the place wasn’t overwhelmingly full.

There was no lack of things to enjoy among the Impressionists.

For me, these included L’Absinthe by Degas (1875-76), a painting that scandalised in its day, both in France and when shown in England, for its portrayal of characters who could be – and were – damned as  ‘dissolute’.

Les Coquelicots: Environs D'Argenteuil, Monet

Quite differently, although I’m generally not particularly fond of Degas’s ballet paintings, Dance Class at the Opera (1873-76) is a pleasure to behold, while Dancers Climbing the Stairs (1886-90) provides an object lesson in just what a difference a quirky perspective can make.

The Luncheon on the Grass (1862-3) and Olympia (1863) by Manet also both shocked in their day, and while it may seem difficult to comprehend that now, it’s worth remembering particularly that the directness of the women’s gaze was a prime cause of the scandal.

It was a pleasure to see works by Manet again – some of them for the second time – after last year’s exhibition at the Royal Academy in London.

Flood at Port-Marly, Sisley

But on the other hand, I’ve never held much of a candle for Monet. That would change dramatically later in the week, but in the meantime, Les Coquelicots: Environs D’Argenteuil (1873) proved lovely, and Rouen Cathedral paintings provided a greater insight into how he conveyed light.  

And at least I’m getting better at unmuddling by Manets and my Monets.

Mind, by the end of the week, The Other Half was declaring that we’d “seen more Renoir than you could throw a chocolate box at”, and I am bound to think that that was an excellent way to put it.

When I was studying art history for A’level, one of the first Impressionists that I liked was Renoir. But in recent years, I’ve found him far too … well, chocolate boxy.

The Card Players, Cézanne

Bal du Moulin de la Galette (1876) restored my faith to an extent – the dappling light on the boaters, for instance, is lovely – but Les Baigneuses from 1918-19 reminded me exactly why it’s a long time since he was a personal favourite.

We missed out on the van Goghs and the Gauguins, as those were in a separate exhibition while their usual rooms are being restored.

However, one of the revelations of the visit was discovering Walter Sisley, whose works I was only slightly familiar with.

Yes, Britain really did manage to produce one world-class Impressionist – even if was born in Paris to British parents, and didn’t live very long on this side of the Channel, but let’s sketch over such facts.

Luxe, Calme et Volupté, Matisse

The d’Orsay has 46 Sisleys: I was particularly taken with Flood at Port-Marly from 1876 and Regatta at Molesey (1874).

Although I found myself surprised that Cézanne was included within the general gallery of Impressionists, it was, as always, good to see more of his work, and one of his six versions of The Card Players (1894-95) is wonderful.

And there’s nothing wrong with a Cézanne still life or two either.

But one of the great personal joys of the visit was turning a corner in one of the later, post-Impressionist galleries, to find Matisse’s Luxe, Calme et Volupté from 1904, the year before he and Collioure collided in the explosion that gave birth to Fauvism.

Art Nouveau room

With crowds at a minimum, I had time to stand back and admire – and then to get up close to really see the precision of the brush work.

This was the start of his moving away from pointillism and divisionism, and it’s fascinating to see how he set out to capture the light in comparison to how the Impressionists had done so.

One of the things with Matisse is that the colours really shouldn’t work. But you realise on seeing some other artists who tried but couldn’t do the same thing, just how – almost magically – Matisse made them work.

There was plenty more sculpture upstairs – including several by Rodin, together with works by Camille Claudel.

Monument to Cézanne, (1912) Maillol

We were also delighted to find a number of works by Aristide Maillol, the sculptor from Banyuls-sur-Mer, just south of Collioure, whose large bronze figures, classical, yet simplifying the human form, are considered to be a precursor to works by the likes of Henry Moore.

And it would be remiss of me not to mention the absolutely stunning Art Nouveau room.

So, another day, another gallery. How do you follow that?

As it happened, we ambled up to the Jardin du Luxembourg, where we sat and roasted ourselves in fabulous sunshine.

More art would have to wait for the promised rain.

The most august sculptor of them all?

Rodin study. Pen on A5 paper

Six full days – four gallery visits: not a bad rate for a trip that had, having restfulness as a key aim, only been planned with two such outings in mind.

The thing with Paris, though, is not so much that it has lots of galleries, but rather that so many of them have so many excellent works.

We were always going to begin with the Musée d’Orsay – since it was the last of the city’s ‘big three’ that we had not yet managed to get inside.

We’d ‘done’ the Louvre before – well, when I say “done”, I mean visited one section: the one that lies in the opposite direction to that containing a certain painting by Leonard da Vinci.

It was the first Sunday in July, which means free entry in many Paris galleries. We were early in the queue, but even as we passed into the main hall, those in front of us and the hordes behind were charging in one direction.

We didn’t need to discuss our own response, but turned, as one, away from the crowd and spent the morning peacefully wandering among the likes of Rogier van der Weyden and Jan van Eyck.

We had made an attempt, one December, to visit the d’Orsay, but had given up after shivering in a rain-sodden queue for rather too long.

So first thing on Tuesday morning, armed with a weather forecast of rain and pre-paid tickets on our respective phones, we headed along the river in the hope of beating the inevitable queues.

Not only were we out of luck with the queues, but a technical hitch had hit the museum, delaying opening.

We gave up, had a coffee and mused over the vexed question of what to do.

Eventually, it dawned that we could take advantage of the rain’s tardiness in arriving to wend our way over to the Musée Rodin, where the lovely gardens include wooden sun loungers.

Since we’ve visited before, we didn’t bother with the interior, but made straight for the gardens, just as the first drops fell.

After a few moments looking at the good Burghers of Calais (1884-1889), a bench under a vast tree afforded protection from the pitter-pattering above, and I pulled out the sketchbook for a rapid doodle.

The rain didn’t last long, and we ambled among the sculptures, with The Other Half paying particular attention to the vast The Gates of Hell (1880-1917).

The garden, which backs onto the house where he lived and worked for some years, offers a wonderful way to view castings of Rodin’s work.

Among a wide collection is also The Thinker (1880-1904), which was originally conceived of as one component of The Gates of Hell and can be seen there too, at the top of the sculptor’s monumental piece.

Monument to Balzac (1891-97) remains one of my personal favourites. It was only cast in bronze in 1930, 13 years after Rodin’s death. The original plaster model had been heavily criticised and then rejected by the Société des Gens de Lettres, which had originally commissioned it, leaving Rodin to take it home and keep it privately for the rest of his life.

In it, Rodin had aimed to capture the writer’s personality rather than creating a photographically lifelike image, and it’s not difficult to see why it’s often regarded as the first real modern sculpture.

I love the attitude – the authority of the writer – that screams out from it. It seems improbable that Balzac himself would not have infinitely preferred Rodin’s vision to something more conventional and, inevitably, staid.

Rodin Musée gardens, rapid ink sketch

We lunched at the café in the gardens – a very nice, fresh and simple salad of tomato, cucumber and basil, with a very small amount of mozzarella, and a light dressing of oil for me – before I tried a sketch of The Thinker.

Unfortunately, my tiny sketchbook was proving inadequate for anything of any scale – particularly if it involved live figures – and while the sculpture is recognisable, my efforts at capturing the crowds thronging around were rewarded with one clunky, badly-proportioned sightseer, which was scribbled over the top of something that had been going ever more miserably.

Such are the perils of artistic endeavour.

Later that day, after a light supper in the garret, I was able to spend considerably more time in drawing a study from a phone photo of one of the sculptures, and I was subsequently rewarded by a retweet from the museum itself.

All sketching and drawing at present is retraining and training my eye, but that exercise had the added advantage of making me more aware of Rodin’s extraordinary ability to capture of musculature – and effectively provided something a life-drawing experiment too.

So if we were disappointed to have our attempts to visit the d’Orsay thwarted once more, the Rodin Musée proved – were it needed – the value of revisiting a gallery.

Rodin’s work easily rewards more than one look, and the gardens provide a wonderful way in which to view many of the works. Somehow, I doubt that last week will be our last visit.