"In the Garden" by Édouard Manet, 1870.
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The subtle sexuality of Édouard Manet

It would be impossible to paint “modern life” without touching on the touchy subject of sex.

To the left of the central figure in Édouard Manet’s The Luncheon (1868) there is a black cat, bent over its genitals – assiduously wheedling and scouring with its sandpaper tongue. Easily overlooked, it is a quiet variation on Rembrandt’s niggling, splayed dog in the foreground of his etching Joseph Telling His Dreams. Like Rembrandt, Manet was a realist painter. He was the friend of the realist writers Jules Champfleury and Edmond Duranty – his duel with Duranty notwithstanding. (Manet could be touchy: he publicly slapped Duranty, who had written a review Manet regarded as niggardly.) Zola, the begetter of naturalism, itself an alias of realism, was an indefatigable and trenchant supporter.

This absorbing show at the Royal Academy – composed mainly around Manet’s portraits – has the title “Portraying Life”, which neatly fuses the idea of the portrait with Baudelaire’s crucial coinage, “the painter of modern life”. In general, this entailed the embrace of the contemporary – stovepipe hats, pipeclayed spats – and a rejection of the antique plaster cast, which can stand for the set subjects, the safe syllabus of the academic painter. But in the case of Manet, “modern life” meant something more subtle, more understated than is generally allowed. This exhibition lacks many of Manet’s more notorious paintings, such as, for instance, Olympia, and is therefore a valuable provocation in a different way.

To return to Rembrandt’s etchings, there are several self-portraits in which Rembrandt strives to capture emotion – astonishment, anger, contempt – a little crudely; Sainsbury’s Basics, as it were. Manet’s best portraits are conspicuous refinements, subtly understated, less dramatic, more realistic.

In The Luncheon, Manet gives us a little, implicit, essayistic credo. Evidently set in his studio, to the left is costume bric-a-brac, props – a helmet, two swords, the old way. There is a coil of lemon peel, that standard flourish of expertise. There is an oyster shell – another test of skill – but here without the demanding mother-of-pearl. There is also a benchmark bottle of beer with a cork in it. A background figure is exhaling cigar smoke. At the centre is a young man, the 16-year-old Léon Leenhoff, son of Suzanne, Manet’s wife (née Leenhoff) – and possibly the son of either Manet or of Auguste, Manet’s father. (Suzanne was originally hired as a piano teacher for Manet’s two younger siblings.)

Léon’s enigmatic status is mirrored in his expression, which is often read as haughty but is neutral, occluded, giving nothing away. Its expression is without expression – and utterly convincing, a cul-de-sac of almost intimidating blankness that has us looking elsewhere for clues. At the hand bulging in the pocket of the corduroy trousers, at the straw hat with the black hatband, at the black velvet jacket – all perfectly painted. (Manet is said to have said that all colours existed except for black but he paints it better than anyone. “Black does not exist, that’s the first precept,” reports Gaston La Touche.) As a picture, it is the opposite of Rembrandt and an early marker of modernism’s central inquiry into the actuality of emotions – what we really feel, what we actually express, how much we withhold. It’s modernism as a riposte to romantic overstatement, as an insistence on accuracy. Less is more.

Berthe Morisot with a Bouquet of Violets (1872) is another case in point. She is boldly lit from the left, so half her face is brightly lit, while the other is in pronounced shadow. Again, there are Manet’s incomparable blacks – her piled hat, her scarf, her dress – and her brown hair, her ribbons, so casual, so beautifully natural. It is a portrait of unwavering conviction, from her earrings to the expression in her eyes. What makes this picture so alive? A small thing. A thing you hardly notice. Manet has painted her so that we can tell which is her leading eye. She is looking out of her left eye. It is nothing and it is everything.

Berthe Morisot (1868-69, 1870-71) repeats the casual hair. Her mouth is an inspired daub that brilliantly captures another neglected feeling – preoccupation. Her thoughts are elsewhere. It is a picture that illustrates two characteristics of Manet – the way he draws with paint (like his revered Franz Hals) and the way he trusts to suggestion and avoids the pedantry of finish. Here he uses a starved brush to paint her fur coat and her muff on its strings – differentiating perfectly between the pelts and the muff, the one a species of parquet, the other a big, beautiful burr.

Stéphane Mallarmé (1876) is a tiny masterpiece, showing the poet lolling against a cushion, a cigar in his right hand, the thumb of his left hand outside his jacket pocket. In reproduction, Mallarmé looks, I have always thought, a little bit pissed. The painting puts you right. This is a portrait of someone thinking – and it is all in the eyes once again, which have a look of distance, of inwardness, as they look down to the right. (When we are asked to do mental arithmetic, we look up to the right.) Again, the touch is virtually invisible – especially in reproduction and more so if you are accustomed to Rodin’s Penseur, demonstratively crouched at stool, fist to his forehead, a marble QED.

Another great painting is Portrait of M Brun (1879) – which superficially looks very disappointing. It shows a man with a grey top hat, blue frock coat and white linen trousers. His main features are his watch-chain moustache and button eyes. Hardly anything is happening, it seems. The whole picture is like the last pull of a worn-out plate. And yet Degas bought this from the dealer Ambroise Vollard when Renoir had identified its subject as M Brun. Why? Because it is a painterly feat by a virtuoso. Manet has brought off the impossible. He has painted a recognisable nonentity, a perfect nondescript, a rich nobody, who needed identification.

Interestingly, when Manet embraces finish and larger emotions, it is generally because he is painting thespians, whose I’s are underlined for emphasis. His Portrait of Émilie Ambre as Carmen (1880) is all kiss-curls and costume. Lit from the right, her eyelashes cast a pronounced shadow. The Tragic Actor (Rouvière as Hamlet) (1865) is a painting of acting by an actor. Manet knows they are bigging it up and paints the posturing.

One of the most unfinished portraits here is one of the most successful: Georges Clemenceau (1879-80). It shows Manet’s complete mastery of line and outline. On a background of grey, like a Banksy stencil, Manet lays down the unerring line of the lapel of his frock coat. The head is drawn rather than painted. The outline of the jacket torso is crucially confident. His arms are folded, his hair thinning, his speech on the balcony in front of him. Paul Levy said to me that the work of American artist R B Kitaj derives from this one picture. He is brilliantly right. Much of Toulouse-Lautrec is also implicit in the drawing-painting brushwork of Manet’s The Animal Painter La Rochenoire (1882). Painters owe a lot to Manet, who himself owes much to Velázquez, to Goya, to Ingres, to Hals. And, paradoxically, to the Old Masters, whom he remade.

In this show, we have not Le déjeuner sur l’herbe (1863) but a copy, an artist’s aidememoire, which has the status of a reproduction, useful to Manet perhaps but misleading for us. Manet’s picture, it is well known, is a reworking of a composition detail of Marcantonio Raimondi’s engraving of Raphael’s lost The Judgment of Paris. But what does this enigmatic, scandalous picture mean? How does it relate to modern life? We might begin with the syphilis that caused Manet’s amputated leg and brought about his early death at 51. Or we might begin with the juxtaposition of female nudity and clothed male figures.

In fact, we would be starting in the same place – the brothel. Think about Degas’s monotypes of brothels, where the only clothed woman is the Madame. Manet has cleverly rusticated this topos, blunted the obvious to mute the scandal, but the situation is clear. And the depiction relates directly to the portraits with their understated inflections. The two men take the nudity for granted. They are absorbed in what might be a discussion of philosophy. There is an atmosphere of relaxed gravitas. The woman transfixing the spectator can wait. In the brothel, nudity is ordinary, commonplace, the rule rather than the exception. And if you look at the naked body here, it isn’t sensational. There is no pubic hair, no nipples, no enticement. All the arousal is in her divested clothing spread on the grass. The excited appetite is implied in the overturned basket and its spilled contents, a wicker cornucopia. Which is perfect for the businesslike body of the sex worker before us, patiently waiting.

It would be impossible to paint “modern life” without touching on the touchy subject of sex. Manet’s Olympia (1863) tried the direct address – the barely defiant “so what?” of the courtesan, the sack artist, the cool professional – and ran into even more trouble. Yet these were paintings that referenced a commonplace of masculine life – the prostitute. What about murkier areas?

In his useful study of Manet, Alan Krell writes, “Nothing could be further removed from fancy dress, sexual commerce, and political intrigue than The Railway, the second of Manet’s two works in the Salon of 1874.” I disagree. We are in the realm of sexual commerce. The professional nude model for Olympia, Le déjeuner sur l’herbe, and The Railway was Victorine Meurent. After Manet’s death, fallen on hard times, she wrote to his widow seeking financial assistance. She was also the model for Street Singer (1862), an ambiguous figure on the margin of the demi-monde. With her guitar, the singer has just left a bar and is eating cherries from paper. Her petticoat is visible. Street singer or streetwalker?

Contemporary critics were puzzled by The Railway. Unsurprisingly, because the railway consists largely of background smoke. In the foreground, we have a young girl and Meurent looking straight at the viewer, her face an expressionless mask. In her lap she has a puppy and an unopened fan – both emblems, both clues, both related. Neither, I would suggest, innocent. The fan is waiting to be spread. She also has an open book in her lap. An index finger is keeping her place, inserted into the bare pages.

In MoMA in New York there is a Balthus painting of André Derain. In the background there is a nymphet provocatively raising her leg like Gerty MacDowell arousing Leopold Bloom on the beach in Ulysses. Derain is facing out to the viewer but shows, by a gesture, his awareness of what is behind him. He is wearing a white fly-fronted shirt and is poking his finger into its fabric, which is a synecdoche for a hairless fanny. Might not Meurent’s book be performing the same displaced symbolic function? In Renaissance painting, the same gesture was a demonstration of piety and learning. Typically evoked and mordantly subverted here.

The young girl faces away. She is looking through the railings. She has a big bow, giftwrapping her like a parcel. Her dress is inappropriate for outdoors. Her shoulders are naked. She is wearing earrings. Her hair is coiffed in an adult way. She looks like a grown-up. But her arm has visible puppy fat. To the girl’s right there is a bunch of green grapes resting on a vine leaf . . . I think we are in Jimmy Savile territory, in one of the intractable, unpaintable margins of modern life. Except that Manet has managed to paint it. The girl is for sale. Not so you would notice, unless you were looking. The painting keeps its counsel. It doesn’t denounce or declaim like a Zola. Its careful, realistically concealed innuendo is the merest whisper – audible only if you are listening very, very carefully.

“Manet: Portraying Life” is at the Royal Academy of Arts, London W1, until 14 April

This article first appeared in the 04 February 2013 issue of the New Statesman, The Intervention Trap

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The French millennials marching behind Marine Le Pen

A Front National rally attracts former socialists with manicured beards, and a lesbian couple. 

“In 85 days, Marine will be President of the French Republic!” The 150-strong crowd cheered at the sound of the words. On stage, the speaker, the vice-president of the far-right Front National (FN), Florian Philippot, continued: “We will be told that it’s the apocalypse, by the same banks, media, politicians, who were telling the British that Brexit would be an immediate catastrophe.

"Well, they voted, and it’s not! The British are much better off than we are!” The applause grew louder and louder. 

I was in the medieval city of Metz, in a municipal hall near the banks of the Moselle River, a tributary of the Rhine from which the region takes its name. The German border lies 49km east; Luxembourg City is less than an hour’s drive away. This is the "Country of the Three Borders", equidistant from Strasbourg and Frankfurt, and French, German and French again after various wars. Yet for all that local history is deeply rooted in the wider European history, votes for the Front National rank among the highest nationally, and continue to rise at every poll. 

In rural Moselle, “Marine”, as the Front National leader Marine Le Pen is known, has an envoy. In 2014, the well-spoken, elite-educated Philippot, 35, ran for mayor in Forbach, a former miner’s town near the border. He lost to the Socialist candidate but has visited regularly since. Enough for the locals to call him “Florian".

I grew up in a small town, Saint-Avold, halfway between Metz and Forbach. When my grandfather was working in the then-prosperous coal mines, the Moselle region attracted many foreign workers. Many of my fellow schoolmates bore Italian and Polish surnames. But the last mine closed in 2004, and now, some of the immigrants’ grandchildren are voting for the National Front.

Returning, I can't help but wonder: How did my generation, born with the Maastricht treaty, end up turning to the Eurosceptic, hard right FN?

“We’ve seen what the other political parties do – it’s always the same. We must try something else," said Candice Bertrand, 23, She might not be part of the group asking Philippot for selfies, but she had voted FN at every election, and her family agreed. “My mum was a Communist, then voted for [Nicolas] Sarkozy, and now she votes FN. She’s come a long way.”  The way, it seemed, was political distrust.

Minutes earlier, Philippot had pleaded with the audience to talk to their relatives and neighbours. Bertrand had brought her girlfriend, Lola, whom she was trying to convince to vote FN.  Lola wouldn’t give her surname – her strongly left-wing family would “certainly not” like to know she was there. She herself had never voted.

This infuriated Bertrand. “Women have fought for the right to vote!” she declared. Daily chats with Bertrand and her family had warmed up Lola to voting Le Pen in the first round, although not yet in the second. “I’m scared of a major change,” she confided, looking lost. “It’s a bit too extreme.” Both were too young to remember 2002, when a presidential victory for the then-Front National leader Jean-Marie Le Pen, was only a few percentage points away.

Since then, under the leadership of his daughter, Marine, the FN has broken every record. But in this region, the FN’s success isn’t new. In 2002, when liberal France was shocked to see Le Pen reach the second round of the presidential election, the FN was already sailing in Moselle. Le Pen grabbed 23.7 per cent of the Moselle vote in the first round and 21.9 per cent in the second, compared to 16.9 per cent and 17.8 per cent nationally. 

The far-right vote in Moselle remained higher than the national average before skyrocketing in 2012. By then, the younger, softer-looking Marine had taken over the party. In that year, the FN won an astonishing 24.7 per cent of the Moselle vote, and 17.8 per cent nationwide.

For some people of my generation, the FN has already provided opportunities. With his manicured beard and chic suit, Emilien Noé still looks like the Young Socialist he was between 16 and 18 years old. But looks can be deceiving. “I have been disgusted by the internal politics at the Socialist Party, the lack of respect for the low-ranked campaigners," he told me. So instead, he stood as the FN’s youngest national candidate to become mayor in his village, Gosselming, in 2014. “I entered directly into action," he said. (He lost). Now, at just 21, Noé is the FN’s youth coordinator for Eastern France.

Metz, Creative Commons licence credit Morgaine

Next to him stood Kevin Pfeiffer, 27. He told me he used to believe in the Socialist ideal, too - in 2007, as a 17-year-old, he backed Ségolène Royal against Sarkozy. But he is now a FN local councillor and acts as the party's general co-ordinator in the region. Both Noé and Pfeiffer radiated a quiet self-confidence, the sort that such swift rises induces. They shared a deep respect for the young-achiever-in-chief: Philippot. “We’re young and we know we can have perspectives in this party without being a graduate of l’ENA,” said another activist, Olivier Musci, 24. (The elite school Ecole Nationale d’Administration, or ENA, is considered something of a mandatory finishing school for politicians. It counts Francois Hollande and Jacques Chirac among its alumni. Ironically, Philippot is one, too.)

“Florian” likes to say that the FN scores the highest among the young. “Today’s youth have not grown up in a left-right divide”, he told me when I asked why. “The big topics, for them, were Maastricht, 9/11, the Chinese competition, and now Brexit. They have grown up in a political world structured around two poles: globalism versus patriotism.” Notably, half his speech was dedicated to ridiculing the FN's most probably rival, the maverick centrist Emmanuel Macron. “It is a time of the nations. Macron is the opposite of that," Philippot declared. 

At the rally, the blue, red and white flame, the FN’s historic logo, was nowhere to be seen. Even the words “Front National” had deserted the posters, which were instead plastered with “in the name of the people” slogans beneath Marine’s name and large smile. But everyone wears a blue rose at the buttonhole. “It’s the synthesis between the left’s rose and the right’s blue colour”, Pfeiffer said. “The symbol of the impossible becoming possible.” So, neither left nor right? I ask, echoing Macron’s campaign appeal. “Or both left and right”, Pfeiffer answered with a grin.

This nationwide rebranding follows years of efforts to polish the party’s jackass image, forged by decades of xenophobic, racist and anti-Semitic declarations by Le Pen Sr. His daughter evicted him from the party in 2015.

Still, Le Pen’s main pledges revolve around the same issue her father obsessed over - immigration. The resources spent on "dealing with migrants" will, Le Pen promises, be redirected to address the concerns of "the French people". Unemployment, which has been hovering at 10 per cent for years, is very much one of them. Moselle's damaged job market is a booster for the FN - between 10 and 12 per cent of young people are unemployed.

Yet the two phenomena cannot always rationally be linked. The female FN supporters I met candidly admitted they drove from France to Luxembourg every day for work and, like many locals, often went shopping in Germany. Yet they hoped to see the candidate of “Frexit” enter the Elysee palace in May. “We've never had problems to work in Luxembourg. Why would that change?” asked Bertrand. (Le Pen's “144 campaign pledges” promise frontier workers “special measures” to cross the border once out of the Schengen area, which sounds very much like the concept of the Schengen area itself.)

Grégoire Laloux, 21, studied history at the University of Metz. He didn't believe in the European Union. “Countries have their own interests. There are people, but no European people,” he said. “Marine is different because she defends patriotism, sovereignty, French greatness and French history.” He compared Le Pen to Richelieu, the cardinal who made Louis XIV's absolute monarchy possible:  “She, too, wants to build a modern state.”

French populists are quick to link the country's current problems to immigration, and these FN supporters were no exception. “With 7m poor and unemployed, we can't accept all the world's misery,” Olivier Musci, 24, a grandchild of Polish and Italian immigrants, told me. “Those we welcome must serve the country and be proud to be here.”

Lola echoed this call for more assimilation. “At our shopping centre, everyone speaks Arabic now," she said. "People have spat on us, thrown pebbles at us because we're lesbians. But I'm in my country and I have the right to do what I want.” When I asked if the people who attacked them were migrants, she was not so sure. “Let's say, they weren't white.”

Trump promised to “Make America Great Again”. To where would Le Pen's France return? Would it be sovereign again? White again? French again? Ruled by absolutism again? She has blurred enough lines to seduce voters her father never could – the young, the gay, the left-wingers. At the end of his speech, under the rebranded banners, Philippot invited the audience to sing La Marseillaise with him. And in one voice they did: “To arms citizens! Form your battalions! March, march, let impure blood, water our furrows...” The song is the same as the one I knew growing up. But it seemed to me, this time, a more sinister tune.