ART THAT (MOSTLY) DARES NOT SPEAK ITS NAME, Exhibition review of L’ART EN GUERRE (ART IN WAR), France 1938-47 at Le Musée d’Art Moderne de la Ville de Paris

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Andre Derain, auto-portraiture, denial, Hans Bellmer, Henri Matisse, internment camps, Jean Fautrier, Max Ernst, Nazi Occupation of France, Pablo Picasso, Pierre Bonnard, Pierre Jahan, the Shoa, war

-from Matisse’s “Jazz”

No European nation escaped the devastation of the Second World War, and yet the damage was particular to France, which suffered neither the infernal rain of the fire-bombings of Dresden nor the pluvial death afflicted on London during the Blitz— a city particularly used to downpours one might add. Of course, one must inevitably acknowledge the shellings of coastal Brittany and Normandy, the first sixth months of the war before France’s humiliating defeat &c., but France emerged from the war like a bourgeois family from a Maupassant story, its façade intact and its soul absent. This is the France that turned its coat on its capitulation from Germany and scampered over to the side of the victors, and through the maneuverings of de Gaulle joined the allied forces in occupying a quarter of Germany, Austria, and their respective capitals. This is the France that officially denied its complicity in the Shoa until 1995 when Chirac acknowledged “collective responsibility”— an avowal of guilt that was not universally welcomed in 1995. None of this is news, but this moral eye, not so much blind as glass, provides useful context.

It is not surprising, then, that much of the gallery space in a show devoted to French art “in war” from just before its outbreak to just after its close, gives one the pleasant sensation you receive after leaving the bitterness of winter to enter a room where a softly chuckling fire is lit; the room stands not so much in relation to the cold as in its refusal, or in this case denial. So while it would be churlish of me to deny the power and beauty of many of the works presented, the relationship of much of the art presented to war is one of complete negation, and it is something of a quixotic notion to try to present them as in agitation to the war, or more damagingly as noble acts of resistance. And yet, among these works there are those that truly confront the stained Nazi boot. The major current, however, is of a warming Gulf Stream soothing France from its chilly longitudinal altitude.

BRUTAL ART IN THE QUITE GENTEEL SEVENTH: Art Review of The Museum of Everything hosted by La Chalet Society

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Edgar Tolson, Folk Art, Henry Darger, La Chalet Society, Outsider Art, Paris, The Museum of Everything

Shaker Artist Hannah Cohoon’s “The Tree of Life,” painted 1854.
NB: This isn’t included in the show and I didn’t want to tempt to 1,000 Euro fine for taking photos. It does, however, serve as a good frame of reference.

Dear Readers, I have never kept a diary, but I am told that neglecting entries often leads the diarist to attempt to make up for his past negligence by filling in the wide holes with a short précis absent of lived experience until the volume born to guard thoughts and still glistening impressions becomes nothing more than a grocery list notation of life— December first, first time I ate a pomegranate; October second, first time I fell in love; November fourth, had a marvelous time out dancing; September twenty-second, broken ankle; January fourth, nothing to report. I too have neglected not a diary, but a journal. I will not make the mistake of reducing my time here to a series of telegrams. Just le me say I have felt very lucky to have lived in Paris for as long as I have and that my silence is now broken.

v

Recently, a friend of mine, a charming Parisian who reminds me of what Madeline might be like if she grew up and left me behind the “old house in Paris that was covered with vines” to study art history, showed me around the museum where she just started working, though ‘museum’ is perhaps not quite the right word. La Chalet Society (founded by the former director of Le Palais de Tokyo, Marc-Olivier Wahler) along with the London based Museum of Everything teamed up to present an exhibition of Outsider and Folk Art whose run has been extended until February 24^th. It would be perhaps unwise to credit the space on Boulevard Raspail as a museum— despite the English partner’s somewhat bombastic moniker— as La Chalet Society describes itself as, “…a new cultural project, which aims to reflect upon the contemporary art institution.  As a mobile structure, its programming operates on different types of platforms and formats, a bit like an open-source software able to run on any hardware.” I’m not sure that’s really any better than a ‘museum of everything,’ but despite my misgivings on these choice words, some of the work presented is phenomenal.

THE MET GETS FRISKY (ALSO DUTCH): Art Review of ‘Naked Before the Camera’ AND An Appraisal of “Rembrandt at Work: The Great Self-Portrait From Kenwood House,” at the Metropolitan Museum of Art

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'family-friendly', 19th Century French photography, anatomical imagery, defining 'Art', ethnograrphy, nudity, portraiture, Rembrandt van Rijn, sexuality, the female form, the male form, the Metropolitan Museum

George Brassï, “L’Academie Julian,” 1931, printed 1950s

Even in the day of the loathsome site ‘Is Anyone Up’, nudity is fraught and remains ‘controversial.’ But don’t be fooled by the marquee sign ‘Naked,’ lit up with dozens of sparkling bulbs, the show generally adheres to the Metropolitan’s customary decorum and is generally suitable for small children. During my visit there were several of them underfoot and I counted one infant. No doubt these parents are progressive, but I wonder how they would feel about taking their tots to a David LaChapelle exhibition. (His work was not on display, and the show sticks to establish 20^th Century photographers with the curious absence of Helmut Newton.) This is not to say that because of its ‘family-friendly’ nature, the show is not worth seeing; each photograph on display is a gem and deserves consideration in its own right. The three small rooms that contain the show left me only wishing for more, but perhaps this is the best way to leave a gallery: not quite sated but thoroughly content. There are never any Tantluses at the Met; one usually leaves feeling like one’s had a particularly heavy, French meal with more butter and cream than we’re accustomed to, and in that way, at least, it’s a nice change.