Musings on Artistic Legacy
Why do so many artists die forgotten, penniless and destitute, only to be “discovered” and uncovered years afterwards, the value of their art only becoming visible and noticeable by the judgement of time?
I recently learned about such a “forgotten” artist—Théodore Géricault (1791-1824) while watching the YouTube series, Great Art Explained.
Géricault painted the monumental canvas titled, The Raft of the Medusa —which is now the second-most popular painting at the Louvre, after Leonardo de Vinci’s Mona Lisa.
Géricault spent three years meticulously painting the huge canvas in his studio. He researched accounts of the marine tragedy and interviewed and sketched survivors.
He even obtained a severed head from the hospital and left it out on his roof so it would decompose and he could paint it accurately to capture the horror of cannibalism.
Yet, when he exhibited his monumental painting at the 1819 Paris Salon, no one offered to buy it. Parisians were scandalized that Géricault chose an African man to be the symbol of hope and redemption of the painting. They were disturbed by the twisted, naked bodies of the surviving sailors, struggling to stay afloat on their doomed raft.
Géricault’s painting raised the question, “What is art?” Must it be inspirational, noble and beautiful? Can it be a gruesome depiction of death and a modern current event? What is the role of the artist—one who romanticizes or presents reality?
Géricault rolled up The Raft of the Medusa canvas, then exhibited it in London, where over 40,000 visitors viewed it. But Géricault died a few years later, forgotten and broke.
Time is the great revealer. One person’s influence on mankind ripples out in little waves. For some, the influence becomes larger and wider, like a spreading flood. For others, the influence peters out and disappears—a mere puddle of recognition.
What qualities must an artwork have to become remembered and important in the halls of fame? I believe the artwork must reveal a truth—a recognition. Think of Picasso’s Guernica—that so brilliantly captures the horrors of civilian slaughter in modern warfare.
Picasso’s canvas is a stark, visual representation of the aftermath of aerial bombing—the surprise, confusion, pain, dismay and destruction. An innocent horse screams out in pain. A mother, holding her dead child, cries out to an absent god. The canvas is somber—all in black, grey, and white paint, reminiscent of current war news reels.
In contrast, a work of art can depict an idealized view of beauty. Think of Vermeer’s Girl with the Pearl Earring. A young woman in a lapis lazuli turban looks alluringly at the viewer, lips slightly parted, head turned, innocent yet connecting her gaze with ours.
What is the relationship between the artist and his subject? Was this girl Vermeer’s lover? How intimate is their relationship? One wonders and will never know. Perhaps the mystery is the secret to the painting’s allure.
Paintings can preach, paintings can tease, paintings can cry.
Think of The Scream by Edvard Munch. At first glance, it seems the figure is crying out with its open mouth. But upon further examination, one realizes the figure is covering its ears—and is trying to block out the screams of society.
Munch painted this image after just visiting his younger sister who was admitted to an asylum due to schizophrenia. One can sense his overwhelming pain and remorse about his sister’s condition.
I believe great art reveals how the artist feels about the subject. We feel Picasso’s outrage at Franco’s air force that rained down bombs on innocent inhabitants of the town of Guernica. We feel Vermeer’s attraction to the girl with the pearl earring. We can even feel the curious, intimate emotions that passed between Vermeer and the young girl as we, too, experience her gaze.
How is this possible? How can colored gel from a tube produce images that connect and reveal the emotions of the artist? Is there magic between the artist’s fingers holding the brush to the spreading of color on the canvas? How do we communicate?
As a poet, we use words to relate our emotions. Their sound, connotations and meanings add depth to our verbal paintings. How we arrange type on the page can affect the message of the poem. Are there short columns of words, declaring a stark observation, or long, meandering lines which illustrate a multitude of images? Does the poet use flowery, formal language, or bold, contemporary dialect?
I am struck with how there seems to be a long, unbroken line of influence between visual artists throughout history. African masks influenced Picasso’s Demoiselles d’Avignon. Greek sculptures of Apollo and athletic disc-throwers led to Michelangelos’ striking figure of David. Géricault’s tumultuous canvas of Raft of the Medusa directly influenced Delacroix’s Victory Leading the People painting.
Connections exist between verbal artists as well. William Shakespeare drew upon works from classical antiquity, such as Ovid’s Metamorphosis and Plutarch’s Parallel Lives to provide plots and underlying history and mythology for his famous plays. He borrowed from contemporary authors, such as Christopher Marlowe, as well.
In my own writing, I often gain inspiration from artworks when composing poems. This practice is called Ekphrastic writing.
I just composed a poem called “Words” which contrasted the paintings of Girl with a Pearl Earring by Johannes Vermeer and Saturn Devouring His Son by Francisco Goya to prove how visual art and written language may be used to present very different things.
The lovely girl in Vermeer’s painting is the very picture of youth, innocence and beauty, whereas Saturn gorging on the headless figure of his son in Goya’s painting depicts the horror and grotesqueness of moral depravity.
There are so many artists that can inspire creative writing. Some of my favorite artists for Ekphrastic writing exercises are Frida Kahlo, Georgia O’Keeffe, Pablo Picasso, Salvador Dali and Rembrandt. Their paintings are rich with symbolic elements, double meanings, and just great visual effects that provide jumping-off points for poems.
To conclude, from what history teaches us, there is no way to predict whether an artist’s work will become famous after they die. Time is the great revealer, and time alone provides the perspective and distance needed to prove a painting’s worth and impact.
But I believe if the artist (or poet) manages to capture the truth of how an experience makes them feel, this unique perspective just may stand the test of time.
Our job as artists and poets is to create, share, and create some more. The less we worry about critical success or fame, the better. Our artistic legacy is like a pebble thrown in the ocean—the ripples will spread—who knows how far?