By Christian Viveros-Fauné
By Miriam Felton-Dansky
By Tom Sellar
By Tom Sellar
By Jessica Dawson
By Tom Sellar
By R. C. Baker
By Tom Sellar
"Avoiding the popular 'Wolfe collection,' whose anecdotic canvases filled one of the main galleries, they had wandered down a passage to the room where the 'Cesnola antiquities' moldered in unvisited loneliness. 'It's odd,' Mme. Olenska said. 'I never came here before.' 'Ah, well.Someday, I suppose, it will be a great museum.'"
By 1920, when Wharton's novel was published, the Met had begun to fulfill that prediction. British art critic Roger Fry, one of the Met's early directors, and his successors gradually pruned the museum's hoard of academic painting, a legacy of the prominent 19th-century New Yorkers who were its first benefactors. And they strengthened its holdings in the French avant-garde works at the center of a newly forming modernist canon.
No one visits the Met today in order to be alone. And, in fact, crowds have been thronging its refurbished and expanded galleries for 19th- and early-20th-century painting and sculpture since they reopened last month. Illustrator Edward Sorel's clever advertisement for the new installation presents familiar figures from the paintings congregating before the museum's Beaux-Arts facade: Gauguin's Polynesian Madonna carting a museum shopping bag; Monet's little son, Jean, astride his hobby horse; a Degas ballerina caught in mid-twirl atop the grand staircase.
They have always seemed, to Met devotees, something like family. (I vividly recall my own early adolescent fascination with the supine figure of Rebecca, abducted by Saracen slaves in Delacroix's canvas, a faint glitter of gold swirling about her neck and shoulders; and the moment, decades ago, when Manet's portrait of Victorine Meurent holding a parrot emerged from restoration with the opalescent sheen of her pale pink dressing gown suddenly gleaming.)
Architecturally, the expanded galleries mime the 19th-century look of their predecessors, with prune-colored walls, cornices, and wainscoting. So what's new? The French, for one thing, have now been joined by a host of EuropeansBritish and Italians, of course, but also Germans, Scandinavians, Spaniards, and Russians, each with their own society portraitists, plein air painters, Realists, Impressionists, and the like. The message is more complicated than one of mere inclusion. Decades before Gauguin's Tahitian idyll, it seems, 19th-century European painting was the product of manifold international influences, both real and imagined: Manet, with his soberly elegant portraits, channeling Velázquez; Monet looking to Hokusai for inspiration; Delacroix in his Paris studio conjuring the birth of a Native American infant by the banks of the Mississippi.
So the North Africa on display in a new gallery for Orientalist art is mostly a European creation. The Salon painter Jean-Léon Gérôme's Arab beauty in a transparent top and harem pants, shadowed by a figure veiled in black, represents an imaginary Orient's simultaneous lure and threat, while the space of his grand Cairo mosque recedes in Renaissance perspective to infinity.
Scores of 19th-century artists left their studios behind, embarking on bohemian versions of the Grand Tour. Four intimately scaled new galleries offer the fruits of their wanderingsquick outdoor sketches of the Bay of Naples or the Temples at Luxortestifying to the long relation between art and tourism, which continues to this day. The innumerable studies of clouds and ephemeral effects of weather also on display in these rooms appeal to our contemporary taste for the provisional and incomplete.
A room devoted to that Realist provocateur Courbet (billed as the first art star for his canny manipulations of the media and the market) should look a lot better once some major canvases, including his marvelously sensuous and scandal-mongering nude, Woman With a Parrot, return from Paris. They're on loan for a major Courbet retrospective at the Grand Palais, which arrives at the Met next month.
Meanwhile, the curators have rummaged around and come up with some surprises, such as Henri Lerolle's The Organ Recital(1885), a serene and luminous mural-sized canvas depicting the artist's friends (including the composer Claude Debussy) as if gathered for a church concert, which was hidden away for 90 years in storage. And a haunting portrait by the Russian painter Ilia Efimovich Repin of his friend, the young dissident author Vsevolod Mikhailovich Garshin (1884), hints at the depths of social misery and utopian longing that fueled the 19th-century's revolutionary movements.
Politics are hardly the order of the day here, though a pair of canvases by the American expatriate Mary Cassatt, portraying her invalid sister and spinsterish aunt, suggest in their compact way alternative destinies for women amid the fresh-faced young girls, dancers, odalisques, and ladies of the night that populate works by Renoir, Degas, Lautrec, and others.
Cassatt's inclusion here, along with that of other American expatriates such as Whistler and Sargent, is in part a matter of convenience: The museum's galleries for American art are currently under renovation. But portraits by Whistler, Sargent, and Eakins (who stayed home in Philadelphia while the others worked in Europe) resonate with Manet's stunningly modern canvases, all of them in dialogue with their Spanish antecedents.