Musée Maillol (existentialism goes better with chocolate)

Aristide Maillol (1861-1944) was a sculptor, and his works are all over Paris, several of his nudes gracing the Tuileries at the Louvre end. The Musée Maillol in the 7ème is dedicated to him but also mounts other exhibitions. I was happy to see the Maillols, but we went today to see the exhibition on Artemisia Gentileschi. Who?

Artemisia is like many artistic women primarily known for her life rather than her works. Her accomplishments are obscured by male domination and the public’s delight in car-crash stories, so if you want her biography, look it up. She worked all over Europe in the seventeenth century, running her own studio and painting works for clients on the standard subjects of bible and legend: Judith and Holofernes, Susanna and the elders, Cleopatra, Bathsheba, and so on. Her subjects express emotion and relate to each other, rather than being static objects. I doubt if she thought of herself as a victim, but she identified with victimized women. Several versions of Bathsheba bathing are on display; the first depicts the bath as something she does with friends, as something normal and natural. Later versions are progressively darker. In one, Bathsheba and her attendants are fearful, and David watches from his palace; in another David is joined by a dozen or so members of the palace guard, all craning their necks to get a glimpse. There must have been a vicarious pleasure for her in returning to the subject of Judith decapitating Holofernes.

We amused ourselves by creating our own captions:

Cleopatra, as she clasps the asp to her breast: ‘There’s got to be an easier way of getting a piercing.’ (Megan)

Judith’s servant, holding the head of Holofernes: ‘Jeez! That was a bit… curt.’ (Kim)

Another exhibition focused on two naïve artists championed by the collector Wilhelm Uhde. Seraphine Louis was a deeply religious woman who worked as a housekeeper by day and painted extravagant floral arrangements by night. Technically she was a gifted amateur (she seems to have had problems centering the subject on the canvas), but her vision was vivid and powerful. Camille Bombois was her opposite; he worked by night and painted by day, was technically very good, and created highly erotic nudes in naïve style. Think Henri Rousseau with an erection. Funny, carnal, a joy to look at.

We wandered up the Boulevard Saint Germain in the sunshine and had lunch at the Café de Flore, legendary haunt of Sartre, Beauvoir and just about everyone who was anyone since the Second Empire. You are served by the traditional French waiter: black tie and waistcoat, full length white apron and napkin draped over the arm. The menus are booklets in cream covers with red and black text, the house style of the legendary French publisher Gallimard.

While we enjoyed our croque-monsieurs we made existential declarations, such as ‘J’ai un ennui corrosive… Il mange mon âme!’, and ‘God? Ah speet on your God!’

The chocolate is fabulous.