Deshays (Salon of 1763)

[p.367]

Deshays

Deshays is unquestionably the greatest church painter we have. Vien is not his strength in this genre, and Carle Vanloo has given way to him; there is, however, de Vien a certain Piscine¹...

I do not balance to pronounce that Le Mariage de la Vierge² is the most beautiful composition there is at the Salon, as it is the most vast. This painting is nineteen feet high and eleven feet wide. The space is immense, and everything responds to it.

[p.368] On the right we see the altar and the seven-branched candelabra. The high priest stands at the top of the steps, his back to the altar and his face toward the bride and groom. His arms are outstretched and his head raised to heaven. He invokes its assistance. He is majestic. He is tall. He is imposing; he is full of enthusiasm. The bride and groom kneel on the last steps. The noble, tall, modest Virgin, dressed and draped naturally, in Raphael's true taste. The bridegroom, who may be forty-five, is vigorous and fresh. He presents his bride with the wedding ring. His character says neither too much nor too little. Behind the bridegroom is a Saint Anne, whose wrinkled face is the image of joy. Next to Saint Anne, behind the Virgin, is a tall girl, beautiful, simple, innocent, a veil thrown carelessly over her head, the rest of her body covered with a long drapery, and carrying a basket of roses; it's only an accessory, but one we never tire of looking at. To the right of the high priest and the altar, the painter has cast a group of assistants, witnesses to the ceremony; their eyes are fixed on the bride and groom. To the left of the high priest, and at the front of the picture, he has placed two Levites dressed in white, quite in the manner of Le Sueur. One holds flowers, the other leans on a torch. O the two beautiful figures! There are some difficult people who, agreeing on their merit and the beauty of their character, claim that they are a little contoured, and that the painter has squeezed the thighs of one with a wide band without really knowing why. Woe betide these people, they'll never be satisfied with anything! They also say that the glory³ that fills the top of the painting is a little heavy, and we have to grant them this point, especially as the glow they desire there would not have extinguished the rest of a very strongly painted composition. As for these grouped angels, they cannot deny their lightness; they are suspended in mid-air, and we are not surprised that they remain there. The more you look at this piece, the more it strikes you. The color is strong, and more [p.369] perhaps than true. The painter has not yet done anything, in my opinion, either so beautiful or so bold ; I except neither his Saint Benoît⁴, from the past Salon, nor his Saint Victor⁵, nor his other martyr⁶ whose name does not come to me, though there was both strength and genius.

Let it be said after this that our mythology lends itself less to painting than that of the Ancients⁷. Perhaps Fable offers more gentle and pleasant subjects; perhaps we have nothing to compare, in this genre, with the Judgment of Pâris⁸; but the blood that the abominable cross has spilled on all sides is a very different resource for the tragic brush. No doubt there is sublimity in a head of Jupiter; it took genius to find the character of an Eumenides⁹, as the Ancients left it to us; but what are these isolated figures compared to scenes of alienation of spirit or religious firmness, the atrocity of intolerance, an altar smoking incense before an idol, a priest coldly sharpening his knives, a praetor having his fellow man torn apart in cold blood with a whip, a madman gleefully offering himself to all the torments shown to him and defying his tormentors, a frightened people, children averting their eyes and toppling over onto their mothers' bosoms, lictors dismissing the crowd, in a word, all the incidents of these kinds of spectacles¹⁰? The crimes that Christ's madness has committed and caused to be committed are all great dramas, and far more difficult than Orpheus' descent into hell, the charms of Elysium, the torments of the Tenare or the delights of Paphos. In another genre, consider all that Raphael and other great masters have drawn from Moses, the prophets and the evangelists. Is it a barren field for genius that Adam, Eve, her family, Jacob's posterity and all the details of patriarchal life¹¹? As for our paradise, I confess it's as flat as those who inhabit it and the happiness they taste there. There's no comparison between our sadly ecstatic saints, apostles and Virgins, and those Olympian banquets where the nervous Hercules, leaning on his club, gazes lovingly [p.370] the delicate Hebe, where Apollo with his divine head and long hair, holds, by his chords, the enchanted guests ; where the master of the gods, intoxicated by a nectar poured full cup from the hand of a young boy with ivory shoulders and alabaster thighs¹², makes his jealous wife's heart swell with spite. Without question, I'd rather see Venus's rump, throat and beautiful arms than the mysterious triangle¹³; but where, in there, is the tragic subject I'm looking for? The talent of the Racines, the Corneilles and the Voltaires requires crimes, and no religion has ever been as fertile in crimes as Christianity. From the murder of Abel to the ordeal of Calas, not a single line of its history is without bloodshed. Crime is a beautiful thing, both in history and in poetry, on canvas and in marble. I sketch, my friend, with the current of the pen. I throw out seeds that I leave to the fertility of your head to develop.

It's an idea I've had for a long time, that if the religion of the Greeks was more favorable to poetry, ours on the other hand is far more picturesque. The passions that fanaticism inspires and that enthusiasm accompanies are the most worthy of a sublime brush, and our cult is teeming with these kinds of subjects. I don't agree with the philosopher on the subjects provided by the historical part of our sacred books, and I find that on this point the advantage lies entirely with Greek mythology. The details of patriarchal life may suggest some fine landscape paintings, but the Idylls of Theocritus and Gessner will make for equally interesting ones. As for the historical subjects taken from the Old and New Testaments, I confess that they have simplicity, and that nannies can make good enough tales from them for children's amusement; but they almost all lack nobility, poetry and grace, and have an air of poverty and meanness about them that only habit can deceive us. What a difference between the story of the Virgin and that of the Mother of Love! I'll take my turn at blasphemy with the painting of the Marriage of the Virgin. It's easily the first painting in the Salon. It's a big, beautiful machine, but it seems to me that I've seen more sublime ones in this genre. The Carracci, the Tintoretto and the Dominiquin spoil French paintings when you remember them. Deshays' Virgin is fine, very fine, but if I dared, I'd say that the good man Joseph looks as if he's saying to her: "Come on, don't be such a baby"; I'd say that the Saint Anne is so sunken that she doesn't look at all like a mother, but like a very subordinate figure; I'd say that I'd like the high priest to look enthusiastic, rather in the character of his head than in his gestures. Besides, my pastor, M Baer, chaplain to the Royal Chapel of Sweden, pointed out to me some terrible blunders against costume in this painting.

He assured me that the Jews did not celebrate their weddings in front of an altar, nor with lighted candles as if one were going to say mass; but only a heretical pastor could raise such faults, and Catholic priests are too ignorant to be shocked by them. But let the good Catholic Diderot continue his career¹⁴.

Joseph's Chastity.

Here's a machine¹⁵ not as great as the previous one, but which hardly yields to it in merit, and which comes in support of my digression. It is La Chastity of Joseph¹⁶.

I don't know if this painting is intended for a church; but it's to damn the priest in the middle of his mass, and give all the attendants to the devil. Have you seen anything more voluptuous? I do not even exclude this Madeleine by the Correge¹⁷ from the Dresden gallery, whose print you preserve with such care for the mortification of your senses.

Putiphar's wife has rushed from the bedside to the foot of his bed. She lies on her stomach, and stops by the arm the foolish, handsome slave for whom she has taken a liking. We see her throat¹⁸ and shoulders. What a beautiful throat! How beautiful those shoulders are! Love and spite, but even more spite than love, show on her face. The [p.371] painter has spread features that, without disfiguring her, reveal impudence and wickedness. When one has taken a good look at her, one is surprised neither by her action nor by the rest of her story¹⁹. Joseph, however, is in inexpressible turmoil. He doesn't know whether to flee or stay²⁰. His eyes are turned skyward. He's calling on it for help. This is the image of agony²¹ at its most violent. Deshays was careful not to²² give her that indignant, fierce air so unsuited to a gallant man whom a charming woman warns²³. It's perhaps a little less chaste than in the holy book; but it's infinitely more interesting. Isn't it true that you like him better uncertain and perplexed, and that you put yourself in his place much more easily? When I return to the Salon²⁴, I always hope to find him in the arms of his mistress. This woman has a bare leg that descends out of bed. O the admirable halftone there! We can't say that her thigh is uncovered ; but there's such magic²⁵ in that light linen that hides it, or rather that shows it²⁶ that there is no woman who does not blush, no man whose heart does not palpitate. If Joseph had been placed on this side, his chastity would have been over. Either the grace²⁷ he was invoking would not have come, or it would have come only to excite his remorse. A thick, green-backed, flowered cloth, strong and fluffy, descends in wide, straight folds and covers the bedside.

If I'm given a painting to choose from at the Salon, here's mine; look for yours. You'll find more skilful ones, more perfect ones perhaps; for a more seductive one, I defy you. Perhaps you'll tell me that the woman's head isn't very correct; that Joseph's isn't young enough; that the red carpet that covers this bit of toilet is hard²⁸; that this yellow drapery on which the woman has one of her hands pressed, is raw, imitates bark, and hurts your delicate eyes? I scoff at all your observations and stick to my choice.

[p.372] And then one more little digression²⁹...

A moment, please, Mr. Philosopher. You'll laugh at me, if you like; but I couldn't live with your Joseph. Don't you see that he's forty years old, and that the painter has given him the benign, suffering air of a saint? It's not that. I assure you that the slave whom Putiphar's wife wanted to shower with her good graces was a child of eighteen, handsome as Love, brilliant as the star of the day. I assure you that the irresolute, perplexed air cannot fail to make him comical, and that the only character that suits him is that of innocence and fright at the sight of the dangers his virtue runs; the painter must show me in the whole figure of the beautiful slave that he fears less the charms of the most seductive woman in the world than the weakness of his own heart; he must be frightened of it. This is the truth of the moment he has chosen. Despite this, I agree that Deshays' painting is superb, the woman is head-turning; but agree for your part that if the beauty and expression of the slave were worthy of the desires of her beautiful mistress this painting would have no equal for charm, seduction and voluptuousness. If you believe me, my friend, we'll forget about this beautiful woman who won't grab your coat or mine, and we'll listen to your digression, which seems very learned to me.

And then one more little digression, please. I'm in my study, from where I have to see all these paintings³⁰. This contention tires me, and digression rests me.

Jumble together objects of every kind and color, linen, fruit, liquor, paper, books, cloth and animals, and you will see that air and light, those two harmonic³¹ universals, will tune them all, I don't know how, by imperceptible reflections. Everything will bind together; disparities will weaken and your eye will reproach nothing of the whole. The art of the musician who, by touching the perfect C chord on the organ, brings to your ear the dissonant C, E, G, C, G#, B, D, C, has come this far; that of the painter will never come this far. This is because the musician sends you the sounds themselves, and what the painter grinds on his palette is not flesh, blood, wool, sunlight, air from the atmosphere, but earth, plant juices, calcined bones, crushed stones, metallic limes³². Hence the impossibility of rendering the imperceptible reflections of objects on each other; for him, there are enemy colors that will never be reconciled. Hence the particular palette, a technique specific to each painter³³. What is this technique? The art of saving a certain amount of dissonance, of dodging difficulties superior to art. I challenge the boldest among them to suspend the sun or moon in the middle of his composition, without offending these two stars or vapors or clouds; I challenge him to choose his sky, such as it is in nature, studded with bright stars as in [p.373]the most serene night. Hence the need for a certain choice of objects and colors. Even after this choice, however well made it may be, the best, most harmonious picture is no more than a tissue of falsities that cover each other. Some objects win, others lose, and the great magic consists in getting close to nature, and making everything lose or win proportionally. But then it's no longer the real, true scene that we see; it's, so to speak, only a translation of it. Hence the hundred-to-one wager that a painting whose arrangement is rigorously prescribed to the artist will be a bad one, because it's tacitly asking him to suddenly form a new palette. In this respect, painting is like drama. The poet arranges his subject in relation to the scenes for which he feels he has talent, and from which he believes he will benefit. Racine would never have filled the canvas³⁴ of Horaces ; Corneille would never have filled the canvas of Phedre.

I still feel weary. So let us follow this digression for a moment longer. I will not speak to you of the brilliance of the sun and moon, which it is impossible to render; nor of that fluid interposed between our eyes and these stars which prevents their limits from cutting hard against the space or background to which we report them, a fluid which it is no more possible to render than the brilliance of these luminous bodies. But I ask you, isn't their rigorous, spherical outline unpleasant? Wouldn't they look like blobs, no matter how brilliant the artist made them? It's impossible for a tree, such as a cherry tree, laden with red fruit, to make a good effect in a painting; and a space of the most beautiful blue, pierced with small luminous holes, will be just as sullen. I may be speaking blasphemy, but what do I care? Am I ashamed of being stupid with my friend? It's just that, in my opinion, it's not by its color, nor by the stars it sparkles with at night, that the firmament transports us with admiration. If, at the bottom of a well, you could see only a small circular portion of it, you would soon reconcile yourself with my idea. If a woman were to go to a silk merchant, and he were to offer her an a³⁵ or two of firmament, I mean, fabric of the most beautiful blue and dotted [p.374] with brilliant points, I doubt very much if she would choose it to clothe herself in. So where does the transport that the firmament inspires in us during a serene starry night come from? If I'm not mistaken, it's from the immense space that surrounds us, the profound silence that reigns in this space and other incidental ideas, some of which have to do with astronomy and others with religion. When I say astronomy, I mean that popular astronomy which limits itself to knowing that these sparkling points are prodigious masses, relegated to prodigious distances, where they are the centers of an infinity of worlds suspended over our heads, and from which the globe we inhabit would be barely discernible. What a thrill it must be to imagine a Being creating all this enormous machinery, filling it, seeing us, hearing us, surrounding us, touching us! These, or I'm very much mistaken, are the main sources of our sensation at the appearance of the firmament; it's an effect that's half physical and half religious³⁶.

But it's time to return to Deshays. There's a Resurrection of Lazarus, unnumbered and with no artist name³⁷, attributed to him and certainly by him.

The tomb can be seen on the right. The risen man³⁸ emerges standing, head uncovered. He reaches out to the God who gave him back his life, his arms still embarrassed by his shroud. His face is the image of death that the features of joy and gratitude have just animated. His parents, leaning towards him, stretch out their arms to him from the high place where they are standing. They are overcome with astonishment and joy. The artist has prostrated the two sisters at Christ's feet. One adores, face down; the other has seen the wonder. The expression, the drapery, the character of the head and the whole manner of this one is by Poussin³⁹; this one is also very beautiful. The apostles are talking, some distance away, behind Christ. They are not as strongly affected as the rest of the attendants⁴⁰; they are made for these tricks. Christ stands above the women, about equally distant [p.375] from the apostles and the tomb. He looks like a wizard in a bad mood. I don't know why, for his business has done him well. This is the main flaw in this painting, which can still be criticized for being a little raw in color and, as in the Marriage of the Virgin⁴¹, stronger than true.

But tell me, my friend, why is this Christ flat⁴² in almost every painting composition? Is this a traditional physiognomy from which it is not possible to deviate, and was Rubens wrong in his Elevation of the Cross⁴³ to give it a grand and noble character?

Tell me, too, why are all the resurrected ones hideous? It seems to me that it would be better not to do things by halves, and that it would cost no more to restore health with life. Take a look at this Lazare de Deshays. I assure you it will take him more than six months to recover from his resurrection.

Joking aside, this piece is not without effect. The groups are well distributed. The Lazarus with his shroud is painted broadly. However, I wouldn't advise you to contrast it with Rembrand⁴⁴ or Jouvenet. If you want to be amazed, go to Saint-Martin-des-Champs to see the same subject treated by Jouvenet⁴⁵. What a life! What looks! What strength of expression! What joy! What recognition! An assistant lifts the veil covering this astonishing head and suddenly shows it to you. What a difference there is between those friends holding out their hands to Deshays' resurrected figure and that prostrate man shining a torch on Jouvenet's scene! Once you've seen it, you never forget it. Yet Deshays' idea is not without merit, no; his painting is small; but the manner is great.

But what would you think of me, if I dared to tell you that all these resurrected heads, beautiful no doubt and of the greatest effect, are fake? [p.376] Patience. Hear me out. Does a man know he's dead? Does he know that he has risen? I defer to you, Marquis of the Valley of Jehoshaphat⁴⁶, Knight of Honor of the Resurrection, illustrious Montami⁴⁷, you who have geometrically calculated the place everyone will need on the great day of judgment, and who, following the example of Our Lord between the two thieves, will have the goodness to place in this critical moment on your right Grimm the heretic, and on your left Diderot the miscreant, in order to get us through to paradise, as the great lords get contraband through in their carriages at the barriers of Paris⁴⁸ ; illustrious Montami, I defer to you. Is it not true that of all those who witness a resurrection, the risen one is one of the most authorized to disbelieve it? So why this astonishment, these signs of sensitivity and all those characteristic signs of knowledge of the state that preceded and the benefit rendered that painters never fail to give their resurrected? The only true expression they can have is that of a man emerging from a deep sleep or a long fainting spell. If there's any faint vestige of pleasure on his face, it's to breathe the sweetness of the air, to see the light of day again. But follow this idea, and the details will soon make you feel its full truth. Can't you see how this weak and vague action of the Risen One, carried towards heaven and distracted from those present, will make their joy and astonishment energetic? He doesn't see them, he doesn't hear them; his mouth is half-open, he breathes, he reopens his eyes to the light, he seeks it: yet the others are as if petrified.

I have a brand-new Lazarus Resurrection in my head. Bring me a great master, and we'll see. Isn't it amazing that among so many witnesses to the prodigy, there isn't one who turns [p.377] thoughtful, attentive eyes on the one who performed it, and seems to say to himself: What devil of a man is this? He who can give life, can just as easily give death... Not one who dared to make one of the sisters of the Risen One weep with joy; not one of the parents who fell into weakness! Let a great master be brought to me incessantly, and if he responds to what I feel, I offer you a Resurrection truer, more miraculous, more pathetic and stronger than any you have yet seen.

On your way back from Saint-Martin-des-Champs⁴⁹, don't forget to pay a visit to Saint-Gervais, and see there the two paintings of the Martyrdom of Saint Gervais and Saint Protais, and when you've seen them, raise your arms to heaven, and cry out: Sublime Le Sueur! divine Le Sueur!... Read Homer and Virgil, and stop looking at paintings. Everything in them is everything imaginable. The most meticulous observations of nature are not neglected. If he has placed two horses side by side, they kiss each other on the nose. In the midst of an atrocious scene, two animals caress each other, as if congratulating themselves on being of a different species from ours. But when a man thinks of these little things, he doesn't forget the big things. It's Madame Pernelle who, after scolding her whole family, returns scolding her servant⁵⁰.

Notes