Cézanne's questioning gaze is the challenge

Self-Portrait with Bowler Hat (1885-86)

How do we view Cézanne? In a review of the National Portrait Gallery’s exhibition of his portraiture, the Evening Standard declared that he had no relevance to art today. This is, of course, arrant nonsense – if we were only to take the example of his influence on Matisse and then consider Matisse’s continuing influence on art, then we can see it as a piece of empty provocation.

Yet however indignantly one might reject such an assertion, there is something oddly flat about this exhibition.

That could be because it opened last year to almost universally hysterical praise and simply cannot live up to the hype.

A number of the works appear unfinished – perhaps even careless. Cézanne’s sense of proportion is, on occasion, absurd. Though I must confess that, just as with the Picasso portraits in the same rooms early last year, it is a marvellous thing for any art practitioner to see that famous artists didn’t always find it easy to paint hands!

Madame Cézanne in a Red Armchair

It’s possible that, thinking of the Provencal sun, I had expected a riot of colour and the sharp contrasts between light and shade that one finds in southern Europe.

But Cézanne’s palette is incredibly restrained. Ironically, given such an expectation, this limited palette was actually one of the most fascinating things about the show.

Blue and blue-greens dominate. And the tones of green that the artist used on faces – Madame Cézanne in a Red Armchair (1877) is a perfect example – instantly brings to mind The Green Line (or Portrait of Madame Matisse) that Matisse painted in 1905 to huge consternation.

It’s worth remembering that Matisse was ahead of his time in recognising Cézanne – he bought Three Bathers (1879-82) at great personal cost in 1899 and carried it with him as a talisman for years, before donating it to the Museum of the City of Paris in 1936.

Three almost identical portraits of Madame Cézanne wife hang here – reunited for the first time in a century, but only serving to give a sense of at least one not really being finished.

The Artist’s Father, Reading L’Evénement

The show opens with The Artist’s Father, Reading L’Evénement from 1866, which is wonderful – not least because of the less obvious things involved.

The newspaper had originally been Le Siècle (a republican but not revolutionary paper), but Cézanne changed that to L’Evénement – a more radical publication that had a particularly caustic art critic, who turned out to be Cézanne’s old friend and sparring partner, Zola.

Alex Danchev, in his Cézanne: A life (2013), points out that it was part of a lifetime conversation between the two.

And the artist son also makes a little point about his relationship with his father by including a painting of his own behind the chair. 

Of interest is Portrait of Paul Cézanne (1862-64), painted from a photograph of the artist himself at the age of 22, which has a fierce quality that contrasts hugely with the questioning expression that is a regular feature in so many later self portraits, including a pair from 1875, Self-Portrait with a Landscape Background and Self-Portrait with Rose Background (the latter of which looks like Clement Freud).

Old Woman with a Rosary 

In another room, we have two more self-portraits – this time, both show the artist wearing a bowler hat. Again, the look is quizzical and seems to challenge the impertinence of the viewer in a way the portraits of other people never seem to do.

Woman With a Coffee Pot (1895) is striking, but more striking yet is Old Woman with a Rosary (1895-96), with light that nods to Rembrandt and a treatment of his subject that conveys real emotion.

My most substantial previous exposure to Cézanne had been at the Courtauld, which has lent this exhibition Man With a Pipe (c1896). Yet for all that it is largely executed in a palette of browns, Cézanne here gives his subject light – dappled light on the hat and coat.

And in The Gardener Vallier (1905-06), one of his last works, there are finally the brights and the light and shade one might have expected.

Much to consider and take away for further mulling, even if nothing quite leaves you with a sense of awe.

Not that anything is ever helped by curator’s notes that seem aimed directly at winning a place in Private Eye’s Pseuds Corner – the explanation for Old Woman with a Rosary waffled on about the artist using colour to show volume, with “lozonge-shaped” slabs of colour being like “a map”. No. Just no.

But perhaps what most feels disjointed here is the contrast – or even the conflict – between the more naturalistic portraits and mask-like ones; we flit between the two through Cézanne’s career.

The self-portraits are, as a group, among the strongest works on display – precisely because they veer to the more naturalistic and because of that gaze.

Never mind how we view Cézanne – this exhibition seems to be more about how the artist makes us think about ourselves when we train our own gaze on another person and, in this age of the ‘selfie’, maybe even ourselves, just as he was gazing at himself.

Until 11 February at www.npg.org.uk.

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.

Another chance to examine the modern

Landscape of the Moon's Last Phase, Paul Nash

In between work commitments in Liverpool at the weekend, there was enough time to pop into two of the city’s galleries for an injection of art.

First up was the Walker Gallery, which is currently hosting a small exhibition of early work by David Hockney alongside its permanent collections.

Those collections include some real gems – my own highlights were a vast portrait of Henry VIII from the studio of Hans Holbein, The Viaduct at Arcueil (1898-1900), which is a very early Matisse, and Interior at Paddington (1950-51) by Lucian Freud.

Then there was Landscape of the Moon’s Last Phase (1944) by Paul Nash, which has a really haunting quality, Rembrandt’s Self-portrait as a young man (1629-31) and St John the Evangelist (about 1610-1614) by El Greco.

St John the Evangelist, El Greco

The latter is, I think, the first El Greco I’ve really looked at, and what strikes you so strongly is the modernity of it.

Cézanne’s The Murder (1867-68) was fascinating – like the Matisse, it was an early work and offers you a fresh perspective on the later, more famous paintings.

We’ll skate over the Pre-Raphelites as rapidly as I scooted past them: technically brilliant, but mawkish and overly fond of pictures of dying or dead women.

On the other hand, the gallery has a particularly large collection of modern art – partly because of links with the John Moores art prize.

On the train up north, I’d finished reading Will Gompertz’s What Are You Looking At?, a history of modern art from the 19^th century right up to Banksy.

It’s an excellent read – chatty and witty, and making some complex ideas seem really simple.

Interior at Paddington, Lucian Freud

And the Walker offered the opportunity to look at some modern works against the background of what I’d learned from that book.

A fair amount of modern art is, in essence, patterns, geometric or otherwise. Generally, I find these quite easy to view – what was interesting was later noting the piece on the wall in my hotel room: simple stripes, but pleasing and soothing sea greens, with just two pencil thin stripes of a gentle pink.

In using stripes, it reminded me of a Bridget Riley I’d seen in the Walker, which used apparently simple stripes to convey something quite different – in that case, a sense of optical illusion.

Gompertz says, 'no, modern art is not art that your five-year-old could do’. And that is a pretty good illustration of just why.

Some of the exhibits still left me rather cold and/or bemused – a collection of step ladders from Yoko Ono is just one example.

But there are other works that I liked very much.

Mirage, Michael Raedecker

Mirage by Michael Raedecker, for instance, won the John Moores in 1999. Raedecker incorporates different materials in his works, such as thread where you might otherwise expect paint.

This is a piece that draws you into to a fascinating landscape that seems to hark back slightly to Dalí, but without the figures.

Emin's Bed, The Little Artists

I really liked Automobilia (1972-73) by Peter Phillips, which is a collage of super-real details of various classic cars – and I have long been a sucker for the gloss and superb technique of super realism.

And then there was the Lego version of Emin’s Bed by The Little Artists, John Cake and Darren Neave, which isn’t simply amusing, but begs questions about just what constitutes art.

The Hockney exhibition was interesting – a series of etchings provide a fascinating insight not only into the artist’s early work, but also into a world before the decriminalisation of homosexuality.

Automobilia, Peter Phillips

And it’s also interesting to see early examples of Hockney’s famous swimming pool paintings, including Peter Getting Out of Nick’s Pool from 1966, which won the John Moores competition the following year.

The following day, after work, I had a small window of opportunity in which to nip into the Tate Liverpool to see the Art Looking Left exhibition.

Given time and a certain tiredness, it was very much a dive around, but if nothing else, I was determined to see David’s The Death of Marat (although it’s one of the copies he had his studio staff make).

Peter Getting Out of Nick's Pool, David Hockney

It’s not an exhibition to run around, but demands the time to read some extensive exhibit notes and even do a spot of participation. It does, however, seem to be dominated by block-printed posters and there are only so many I can take.

On the other hand, there’s some Rodchenko’s Constructivist works and some Bauhaus exhibits, which were all worth seeing.

After that, I toddled off back to the hotel to slump.

But these had been two interesting gallery visits – albeit brief.

I would note that, if you're in Liverpool, the Walker Gallery is well wroth a visit – there's something for everyone.

And in combination with Gompertz’s excellent book – and I really recommend it, especially with Christmas on the horizon (but even without) – these two visits had offered a chance to improve my understanding of modern and contemporary art.