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But then, one is reminded of a previous attempt to gauge Vuillard,
researched and selected by John Russell in 1971, and so intelligently
organised by the late Mario Amaya for the Art Gallery of Ontario,
itself following on from the Museum of Modern Art, New York, when
Vuillard's friend Pierre Bonnard (and fellow Nabi) was feted, and
succeeded in 1954 by that on Vuillard. As the subsequent Paris exhibition
on Bonnard had shown, it was precisely the sublimity, the intimacy
of scene and magical sense of colour that pitched the work of Bonnard
so high in critical and public acclaim. The exhibitions on Vuillard
have dealt with an altogether more problematic artist, and yet one
that, in the final analysis, would seem to be more exploratory in
form and content, in the modernist sense. Amaya focused on a Vuillard,
most of whose early work had been lost, and whose graphic work had
tended to be routinely ignored, in all their freshness and originality
of technique. But Vuillard gave up colour lithography at the turn
of the century - just when it was reaching a summit of fashionable
exposure - with a mere forty black and white examples remaining to
tantalise a growing appreciative public. Amaya innovatively included
in the Ontario show (which travelled to San Francisco and Chicago)
examples of Vuillard's Kodak snapshots, the camera being for Vuillard
a kind of aide-memoire for picture composition later. What
was interesting in this connection was the role the camera played
in distorting, foreshortening, perspectival riddles, and in the cropping
of picture frames. Indeed as Amaya claimed, 'much of what seemed "modern"
in Vuillard was directly derived from this mechanical means of notation'.
The magical powers of the accordion diaphragm were to allow this 'instant'
spontaneity to be captured. But true to a painter of his time, Vuillard
'never allowed the camera to "draw" the final design; he almost always
shifted or re-shaped or spread out the scene in the way he thought
necessary'.
The same personae reoccurred in Vuillard's work again and again,
in a manner that Ingmar Bergman as a film director would echo. We
become familiar in the first instance with these individual characters,
and are intrigued and relieved when they reappear, in further sequences
of work. We never quite become bored with Misia Natanson, 'apple-faced,
posing against her flowery wallpapers, pouting at the grand piano,
or caught by surprise in the eerie glow of a yellow oil lamp'. Indeed,
there was a reflective essence in Vuillard's contemplation of such
an inner circle of friends and relations, which sought out secrets
rather than simply accepted their currency. Vuillard himself formed
lifelong friendships, as with the architect Frédéric
Henry, the musician Pierre Hermant, as well as Roussel.
Another particular quality of Vuillard was his ability to capture
the essence of the feminine environment, in which he undoubtedly
felt at home. Vuillard was drawn by the comportment of such females
in the great parks of Paris. Refusing to be labelled as a portrait
painter, Vuillard produced a number showing Parisian professional
men at the summit of their achievements, anticipating ciné-vérité,
by showing the dentist poised, for example, or the desks of successful
sitters carefully displaying an inventory of such everyday objects
deemed important or relevant by the sitters. Reportedly, Vuillard
went to the cinema twice a month, seeing such works as Jean Renoir's,
'La Grande Illusion' (1937), or the films of Marcel Pagnol
or Jacques Feyder. He sought out that twilight cinematic vision
shown in Eric von Stroheim's, 'Foolish Wives' (1922) or Renoir's,
'La Règle du Jeu' (1939), appropriately for his awareness
of the fall of natural light, the moving play of shadows. Earlier,
in 1906, his 'a game of draughts' incorporated what is essentially
a panning shot positioned. Given the period richness and subtlety
of his interior, their fabrics and the dresses, we are reminded
at the exhibition of how skilfully Vuillard avoided the banalities
of, say, 'Gosford Park'. Out of doors, as with 'Place Vintimille'
(1911), the five panels form a scintillating and amazing view of
the place, as viewed from the first floor window, a kind of sublime
panning shot of la ronde.
In the 1950s, for an ever-appreciative international public, French
film released the full parade of such sensibilities about privacy,
shadow light and fabric, in the work of Rene Clair, such examples
as 'Les Grandes Manoeuvres' (1955) with the wistful Michele
Morgan, or the street scenes in 'Quatorze Juillet' (1933); or 'Juilette
ou la Clef des Songes' (1951), by Marcel Carne. In the memorable
vignettes of such masterworks lay the fulfilment of the experimentation
of Vuillard. One could not claim this for Bonnard, awash in the
glow of high colour. Looking back retrospectively from the 21st
century, we can define what perceptions thus contributed the most
to modernist vision.
This is not to denigrate a masterly blockbuster of an exhibition
at the Royal Academy. The same appreciative, middle class, middle-aged
visitors as Vuillard painted in his scenes, have thronged the galleries,
self-justified in their happy, reflective silences. Probably, for
the most part, they have not realised the true importance of Vuillard
but they have also not sought to break through the enigma of Vuillard.
To do that would be disquieting, and would put their own mute lives
within a critical frame. The massive catalogue goes no further in
exploring these sensibilities, nor in making any more transparent
the figures behind the drapes and swathes of fabric. Only transferring
them to the medium of film, let alone photography, would make that
possible.
Who next will tackle the mystery of Vuillard, who died unmarried
and motherless in 1940? Unfortunately, an exhibition cannot happen
again for decades, tant pis.
Ed.
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