Matisse vs. Picasso
The
relationship between the artists Henri Matisse and Pablo Picasso is the subject
of a new exhibition at the Kimbell Art Museum in Fort Worth, Texas, called
"Matisse and Picasso: A Gentle Rivalry." The theme of this show, and of the
book that accompanies it by the Harvard art historian Yve-Alain Bois, is that
the two masters of modern painting were playing a kind of chess game all their
lives. Picasso, the younger artist, was constantly trying to get Matisse's
attention by showing off, stealing from his work, and rudely parodying him.
Matisse, envious of Picasso's success, tried to ignore him until the 1930s when
he needed Picasso's influence to bring himself out of an artistic funk. After
that they traded paintings, visits, and little notes. But they were too
competitive to really be friends.
I don't think Bois takes
this implication of this creative tension quite far enough. The Matisse-Picasso
rivalry is more than just the great artistic competition of the 20 th
century. It's a scheme for dividing all art into two parts. Side by side, a
Matisse and a Picasso can look amazingly similar. Yet at a deeper level, they
are fundamentally, radically incompatible. Although it's possible to admire
both artists, something impels you to choose sides. At the end of the day,
everyone is either a Matisse person or a Picasso person.
Matisse is a cool, calm, Northern European artist. Picasso
is a hot, temperamental Spaniard. Matisse famously said that a painting should
be like a comfortable armchair. His paintings are harmonious, luxurious, and
soothing. Picasso can virtually copy a Matisse tableau without producing
anything like the same effect. In his rendition, the same fruit on a pedestal
contains an element of dissonance, disturbance, and even violence. Where
Matisse is sensuous, Picasso is sexual. Matisse loves fabric. Picasso loves
flesh.
The division seems like a
version of the one drawn by Friedrich Nietzsche in The Birth of Tragedy
between Apollonian and Dionysian art. The Apollonian comes from the Greek god
Apollo, the god of light, who was associated with rationality and its
subspecialties law, medicine, and philosophy. The Dionysian comes from
Dionysius, the god of wine and fertility, who was worshipped with drunken
orgies in the woods at which nonparticipants were ripped to pieces. The
Apollonian spirit is one of measure, reason, and control; the Dionysian is one
of abandon, irrationality, and ecstatic release. The clash between the two
principles was what produced Greek tragedy, according to Nietzsche. That
Matisse is essentially an Apollonian artist and Picasso a Dionysian is evident
even from the backhanded compliments they paid each other. Matisse called
Picasso "capricious and unpredictable." Picasso described Matisse's paintings
as "beautiful and elegant."
In dividing all art into two categories, Nietzsche rendered
the service of coming up with one of the great intellectual parlor games of all
time. Critics love to devise variations for their fields. Richard Martin, the
director of the Costume Institute at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York
City, divides the world into Giorgio Armani vs. Gianni Versace. Armani, with
his serene, muted tones and clean lines, is the Apollonian designer. The late
Versace, with his Miami colors, outrageous impracticality, and explicit
sexuality, is the Dionysian. And it's true: The models in Armani ads look like
Greek statues. In Versace ads, they look like drugged bacchants. The Apollonian
spirit is about good taste, elegance, and beauty. The Dionysian mixes bad taste
with good taste, pain with pleasure.
You can
apply Nietzsche's dichotomy to just about any set of contemporaries or creative
rivals. With artists, you might start with Leonardo vs. Michelangelo. Leonardo,
the scientific rationalist and inventor, is an Apollonian (his work is owned
by, among others, the archrationalist Bill Gates). Michelangelo, though he
worked principally in the Apollonian medium of marble, expresses a more
animalistic violence and passion (work owned by the pope). Mark Rothko is a
Matisse type. Jackson Pollock is a Picasso type. The Beatles, with their
well-crafted melodies, are the Apollonians. The Rolling Stones, darker, more
subterranean, and with a deeper rhythm section, are more in touch with
Dionysius. Only Dionysians have sympathy for the devil. You might like both
bands, but ultimately you're with one or the other. You're either a Beatles
person or a Stones person, just like you're either a Matisse person or a
Picasso person.
In American literature, Phillip Rahv devised the classic
division into two categories in a famous essay titled "Paleface and Redskin."
American writers were either Europeanized, literary wimps like Henry James, or
celebrants of the native animalistic spirits, like Mark Twain. The Apollonian
line begins with Washington Irving, the Dionysian with James Fenimore Cooper.
In the Apollo-Matisse-Armani-Beatles column we find Emily Dickinson. Opposite
her, in the Dionysius-Picasso-Versace-Stones column, is Walt Whitman. Nathaniel
Hawthorne is a Matisse. Herman Melville is a Picasso. In the 20 th
century, we come to F. Scott Fitzgerald (Matisse) vs. Ernest Hemingway
(Picasso) and John Updike (Matisse) vs. Norman Mailer, who wrote a biography of
Picasso.
You can, in fact, apply the division to just about
any natural pairing and then use that pairing to redivide the world. (Of course
you can. Who's going to arrest you?) I've been soliciting examples from family,
friends,
Slate
colleagues, and random New York showoffs. To see
some of their nominees, . And you can play too: Send suggestions by e-mail to
[email protected] . Check , where we will post reader pairings
that meet or surpass our (pretty low) standards.
