Blake Gopnik at the Corcoran Salon, Day 1: A humble subject looms large
Sunday, December 26, 2010; 7:09 PM
Museums are time machines. They let us look at all the pieces of the past they preserve. Sometimes, they also let us look at vintage looking.
Last year, when the Corcoran Gallery of Art rearranged its lovely little permanent collection, a few galleries were rehung to mimic how art was looked at for most of the last half-millennium. Many Corcoran works are now displayed "Salon-style," with pictures of every size and style, on every subject, stacked up to the ceiling. It doesn't make it easy to examine every one of them, the way we're used to doing in books and slide talks and special exhibitions. But a Salon hang does produce an interesting tussle among the works themselves, as they vie for our attention - the same struggle they would have had when they were first made and collected.
A Salon hang also changes the way we negotiate the art: It turns a modern type-A viewer into a leisurely grazer. Looking at this throng of paintings, the ease and poise of an aristocratic collector, at home among his treasures, replaces the eager-beaver art historian in you, fighting for A grades.
If nothing else, a Salon hang also saves shoe leather. You can sit on the bench in a single gallery and browse among dozens of works.
For every day one recent week, I lounged in the grand old space the Corcoran calls the Mantle Room, where the museum has created a Salon with dozens of its best old European pictures.
Each day this week, I'll be writing on a single work that called out to me from the crowd.
DAY 1: Chardin's little giantess
Shall we start off taking it easy on ourselves? Instead of looking up into a far corner of this "salon," where an obscure work has been "skied," as the term used to be, we can keep our eyes focused straight ahead, to look at one of the Corcoran's greatest treasures: Jean-Baptiste-Simeon Chardin's "The Scullery Maid," painted in 1738 in Paris and hung in that year's Salon. (We can only hope it wasn't skied.) The painting is tiny but potent. It shows a servant girl going about her duties, in a scullery space filled with an old wooden barrel and a few humble tools of the housekeeper's trade. What could be more humble, as subject or as art, than this image of a girl scrubbing a pan? When Chardin was painting, only big pictures of heroic moments in church or national history counted for much. A painting like Chardin's counted (and sold) for even less than a portrait, which is saying something.
So if it's so lowly, why does this "Scullery Maid" strike a viewer with such force? Maybe that is partly because because Chardin doesn't let us notice how tiny his picture is. He forces us to come close and take it all its minuscule detail: the roughness of the girl's coarse apron, the tiny sparkle of light (rendered by the smallest dot of paint) on the pearl or bell at her neck, the glint on a copper basin. We can't imagine how Chardin achieved his lifelike effects, especially in such a compact package, so we approach to admire his skill.
And once we've come so near, the painting fills our eyes as well as any mural could. Human vision can't tell how big something really is, out there in the world; it has to measure it by checking how much space it takes up in our field of view. Once Chardin drags us up to his painting, his maid looms so large that she might as well be in the room with us.
Chardin's figures are sometimes described as achieving a "monumental" feeling, given their tiny size. He used tricks to trigger that feeling.