Post by Admin on Apr 4th, 2004 at 10:46am
Blair and our friend Odile have been painting portraits recently. So when the "MOI" show opened at the Senate Museum in the Luxembourg Gardens, we had to go.
Paris is a city of mirrors. Wherever you go there are mirrors -- to reflect the light, but more to allow people to preen in front of them. A Catholic school alumni, I was raised on the premise Vanity was a sin (one of the seven deadly sins, in fact, up there with Envy and Sloth). I have never been one to spend much time at the mirror, as my self portrait might indicate.
The self-portrait show was nearly empty at 11:00 AM this morning. We sashayed easily around the likes of Degas (his being the classic pastel portrait -- magnificent), Sam Francis and Henry Moore. The poster was a surprise: Norman Rockwell's painting of himself, looking at himself in a mirror, and painting his image on a canvas.
All of the portraits were from the 20th century. There is a distinct shift from the first half to the second half of the century. The closer we get to the present the more sexual the self-portraits become. Blair says it sells paintings; I say people are maladjusted. Some of the works were downright base and perverse. I can hardly imagine these "artists" coming to grips with who they are before they die. There was a healthy presence of skulls in the 100 years of self-portraits shown.
My favorites were a portrait of Derain in his studio, and another by Vlaminck. Vlaminck's piercing blue eyes stand out from the small canvas; Derain is at ease with himself, white shirt sleeves rolled up. Derain painted himself again, as a face only, the year before he died. There were several early/late portraits by the same artist. Schjerbeck painted herself at age 22 and again at 82. She seemed to disappear -- losing her "self".
Parisiens are their own "works of art". A big nose, a prominent chin are always emphasized as a positive, distinguishing feature. People from all walks of life might have stepped from the pages of a fashion magazine -- a young girl with green stockings passes us on her way to class. I saw a woman sleeping on a bench in the metro with her fuzzy pink slippers arranged neatly by her side.
The self portrait drawings were great: Dubuffet stands beside himself, like Dupond and Dupont; Klee gives himself striped lips -- were they chapped? Haring's large green metal self was executed in steel.
Painting one's self is an awkward event. I am never sure I know who I really am -- and when I finally understand it, I have changed. Like Popeye, I hope one day to say, "I yam what I yam!"
Laurie and Blair PESSEMIER
laurie4-2-4selfportraits.JPG (245 KB | )
Paris is a city of mirrors. Wherever you go there are mirrors -- to reflect the light, but more to allow people to preen in front of them. A Catholic school alumni, I was raised on the premise Vanity was a sin (one of the seven deadly sins, in fact, up there with Envy and Sloth). I have never been one to spend much time at the mirror, as my self portrait might indicate.
The self-portrait show was nearly empty at 11:00 AM this morning. We sashayed easily around the likes of Degas (his being the classic pastel portrait -- magnificent), Sam Francis and Henry Moore. The poster was a surprise: Norman Rockwell's painting of himself, looking at himself in a mirror, and painting his image on a canvas.
All of the portraits were from the 20th century. There is a distinct shift from the first half to the second half of the century. The closer we get to the present the more sexual the self-portraits become. Blair says it sells paintings; I say people are maladjusted. Some of the works were downright base and perverse. I can hardly imagine these "artists" coming to grips with who they are before they die. There was a healthy presence of skulls in the 100 years of self-portraits shown.
My favorites were a portrait of Derain in his studio, and another by Vlaminck. Vlaminck's piercing blue eyes stand out from the small canvas; Derain is at ease with himself, white shirt sleeves rolled up. Derain painted himself again, as a face only, the year before he died. There were several early/late portraits by the same artist. Schjerbeck painted herself at age 22 and again at 82. She seemed to disappear -- losing her "self".
Parisiens are their own "works of art". A big nose, a prominent chin are always emphasized as a positive, distinguishing feature. People from all walks of life might have stepped from the pages of a fashion magazine -- a young girl with green stockings passes us on her way to class. I saw a woman sleeping on a bench in the metro with her fuzzy pink slippers arranged neatly by her side.
The self portrait drawings were great: Dubuffet stands beside himself, like Dupond and Dupont; Klee gives himself striped lips -- were they chapped? Haring's large green metal self was executed in steel.
Painting one's self is an awkward event. I am never sure I know who I really am -- and when I finally understand it, I have changed. Like Popeye, I hope one day to say, "I yam what I yam!"
Laurie and Blair PESSEMIER
laurie4-2-4selfportraits.JPG (245 KB | )