Gauguin at the National Gallery
Sunday, February 27, 2011
The life of Paul Gauguin, dimly remembered from a bad art-appreciation class, used to go this way: Well-off stockbroker abandons wife and children to devote himself to art; decries the increasing vacuity of his impressionist forefathers; rebels against bourgeois society; leaves Paris for places warm and exotic; and eventually makes his way to Tahiti, where he discovers the primitive, reinvents himself and produces paintings of lush sensuality filled with the enticing forms of native women.
When the National Gallery teamed up with museums in Chicago and Paris more than 20 years ago to mount a monumental exhibition of works by Gauguin, it was precisely that understanding of the pioneering post-impressionist that they sought to undermine. The blockbuster 1988 exhibition, according to its organizers, aimed to stress "his production as an artist rather than the exotic, troubled and fascinating life that has attained almost mythological proportions and is better left to biography and film."
Today, with a new Gauguin exhibition opening at the National Gallery on Sunday, taste and scholarship have changed. Subtitled "Maker of Myth," the current Gauguin show is not so large or comprehensive as the one seen in 1988. Rather, it is focused on many of the things that would have been held in bad odor two decades ago: biographical tales, narrative elements and the relation between the artist and the places and people he painted.
Perhaps the old Gauguin myth did deserve a wooden stake through the heart if anyone still believed it two decades ago. Most of it was piffle and what was true - he abandoned his wife and family and slept with underage native girls - was not very flattering to Gauguin. Close attention to Gauguin's writing, including letters not published until long after his death in 1903, revealed many of the swashbuckling elements of his life story were part of a carefully calculated PR campaign, a reinvention of himself as part "savage" in an effort to create a brand for his work, which wasn't selling as well as he had hoped and had diverged from impressionism long before he made his way to places where the weather was warm and the sex plentiful.
The old made-for-PBS-style Gauguin narrative contained two major distortions that particularly limited understanding of his work. It placed too much emphasis on Tahiti for the introduction of the large fields of bold color, flattened forms contained within dark outlines and willful conflations of two-dimensional and three-dimensional space that allow surface patterns and distinct objects to flow seamlessly into one another. And it limited collective memory of Gauguin's work - the general understanding you can hear at a cocktail party - to a small subset of his work: paintings only, and generally paintings that seem to represent the tropical paradise he hoped to find when he left Paris for the first of two extended sojourns in the South Seas in 1891.
In fact, Gauguin was already the Gauguin we know when he was working in Brittany, beginning in 1886. And the Gauguin "we know" isn't worth bothering with unless it includes Gauguin the sculptor, the printmaker, the ceramicist and, most of all, Gauguin the contrarian, the critic and social observer who could see through everything and everyone, including himself, who wrote like an annoying autodidact who has read too much Nietzsche and whose art is consequently far darker, troubling and contradictory than a handful of sunny, sexy, come-hither winking canvasses suggest.
If "Paul Gauguin: Maker of Myth" has a thesis, it is that in undoing the old Gauguin mythology, too much important information was taken off the table. But it is also arguing with the old "modernist" or formalist fetish for Gauguin, the sense (common in the history of music and literature as well) that the only thing that matters in art is the purely formal, the innovative, the interrelation with other art, not the reflection of the artist and his times.
Today, with artists once again interested in everything under the sun, especially themselves, we can rethink Gauguin in ways that make him seem terribly relevant to things such as the role of accident and chance in the creation of new forms and ideas, the fashioning of personal myths, the insertion of the artist into the art and the invention of post-modern fantasies that reach across cultural and historical lines.
The viewer is challenged to see paintings that represent the familiar but distorted view of Gauguin, such as "Two Tahitian Women," from 1899, in the context of work that shows a far darker view of paradise. "Two Tahitian Women," so familiar that you wonder whether it's from the cover of a cheap paperback edition of Herman Melville, shows a pair of bare-breasted women, one holding a plate of flowers and directly facing the viewer with a vacant expression, while the other leans in slightly and engages sideways through the corners of her eyes. Around them, a dark forest and yellow sky is so roughly and flatly rendered it might be a giant carpet hanging in a studio.
Here, it would seem, is the paradise French men had been fantasizing about since Louis-Antoine de Bougainville visited Tahiti in the mid -18th century and returned with a romanticized vision of a simple society, filled with happy people, untroubled by civilization and its discontents.
Contrast that with "The Ancestors of Tehamana or Tehamana Has Many Parents," painted in 1893, in which a young girl is seen in a striped dress and prim collar, with flowers in her hair and strange runes or characters on the wall behind her. Tehamana was one of Gauguin's teenage mistresses, and the dress suggests the degree to which the brutal imprint of French colonial administration had "westernized" her. The strange characters on the wall and an Indian-looking statue to one side, however, have nothing to do with Tahiti but are borrowed from iconography and inscriptions from India and the Easter Islands.
Upon arriving in Tahiti, Gauguin came face-to-face with what he could have easily learned had he done his homework: There was no paradise left. French rule had spread prostitution, disease, alcoholism, ennui, despair and cultural decimation. So Gauguin invented his own paradise, borrowing from different cultures, fusing Christian elements with vague approximations of the vanishing Tahitian religion. And yet many of his images are as angry with the people of paradise for failing in their appointed role - stewards of the unsullied garden - as they are celebrations of a lost ideal.