Manetsplaining: The Impressionist Paint Job that Went Awry
Well, well, well! It turns out that almost 140 years before we slapped a label on the charmingly condescending habit of men explaining things to women—what we now know as mansplaining—there was a certain French artist who had already perfected the art, practically making it his signature. Yes, folks, I’m talking about Édouard Manet and his masterclass in patronizing creativity, or as I like to call it, Manetsplaining.
Enter the stage of this art world shenanigan, a new book by the Pulitzer Prize-winning Sebastian Smee titled Paris in Ruins: Love, War and the Birth of Impressionism. Now, I thought ‘mansplaining’ was a modern-day problem, but apparently, it has roots so deep, you could excavate it at a Parisian café!
Picture this scene: Berthe Morisot, a brilliant impressionist in her own right, toiling away on a portrait of her mother and sister, preparing for the prestigious Salon of 1870. “All hands on deck!” Manet presumably thought, storming into her studio, ready to coach. “You may put yourself in my hands. I shall tell you what needs to be done,” he said, probably while twirling his moustache and puffing his beret because, you know, it’s France!
Morisot, bless her, was feeling ‘dubious’ about her painting. But one can only imagine the brewing storm of emotions as Manet, without so much as a “may I?” launched into a series of unsolicited modifications. Now, when someone begins touching your art like it’s an all-you-can-eat buffet, alarm bells should sound. But alas!
“Before she could say anything,” Smee reveals, “he picked up her brushes and put in ‘a few accents’.” A few accents? More like a complete orchestration! Morisot recalled how, “from the skirt he went to the bust, from the bust to the head, from the head to the background,” before unleashing a torrent of jokes, probably thinking he was the Pinocchio of painters. But in this case, more like a bull in a china shop, if the china shop were filled with brilliant impressionist art!
By the time they wrapped up, the “prettiest caricature” emerged—not exactly what Morisot had in mind but let’s disregard that, right? As she stood there aghast, waiting for her painting to be carted off to the Salon, she mused, “My only hope is that I shall be rejected.” Unfathomably, her mother found this all amusing, while Morisot clutched her heart, having just lost her artistic autonomy to a man who seemed to think humor and chaos were the colors of creativity.
The tragic irony is that while Manet may have metaphorically stepped on Morisot’s artistic toes, he apparently acknowledged the uphill battle women faced in the art world. When he first met the Morisot sisters back in 1868, he bemoaned, “What a shame, they are not men.” I mean, isn’t that just the cherry on the passive-aggressive cake?
Morisot’s work, often described as exploring an “infinitely subtle and secretive” world of women, shines uniquely compared to her male counterparts. As art critic Laura Cumming pointed out, Morisot’s “evanescent and shifting technique” couldn’t be further removed from the rigid style of her male contemporaries. Perhaps if she’d had the freedom to paint without the ‘expert advice’ of a mustache-twirling Manet, she would have left us with even more astounding pieces.
So let’s raise a glass to Berthe Morisot: a pioneer among the Impressionists who had the talent to capture the delicate movements of the feminine spirit, often at the mercy of the artistic chaos brought on by her peers. As for Manet, perhaps he should have stuck to his own canvas and left the ladies to their art, if only to save himself from becoming the punchline in the ongoing comedic saga of art history.
In conclusion, it’s high time we examined how art was birthed not just from laughter and creative brilliance, but also from some extraordinarily cringe-worthy moments of artistic overreach. Now that’s something to muse upon while sipping your espresso!
Satirically embracing the tones and styles of Carr, Atkinson, Gervais, and Evans, this commentary touches upon history, art, and gender dynamics with sharp humor and observational wit!
Nearly a century and four decades prior to the coining of a modern term that describes the phenomenon of men condescendingly instructing women on appropriate perceptions or actions, a certain French artist had already mastered what can only be dubbed Manetsplaining.
The circumstances surrounding this 19th-century example of mansplaining are meticulously discussed in a new and enlightening work by Pulitzer Prize-winning art critic Sebastian Smee of the Washington Post, which delves into the emergence of impressionism against the backdrop of the tumultuous siege of Paris and the civil unrest that characterized that era.
In the book – Paris in Ruins: Love, War and the Birth of Impressionism – Smee recounts a telling incident between Édouard Manet and the talented artist Berthe Morisot, who was destined to marry Manet’s younger sibling, Eugène.
A revealing excerpt, published in the Art Newspaper, outlines an episode where Morisot, celebrated as one of the leading figures in impressionism, was engrossed in creating a portrait of her mother and sister intended for submission to the Salon of 1870 when Manet visited her home and offered unsolicited assistance.
Recognizing that Morisot felt “dubious” about her painting’s merit, Manet boldly declared: “You may put yourself in my hands. I shall tell you what needs to be done.”
What followed, as Smee depicts, was an experience so distressing for Morisot that it haunted her for years.
Despite initial positive feedback concerning the artwork, Manet decided that a lower section of one of the dresses depicted needed alteration.
“Before she could say anything, he picked up her brushes and put in ‘a few accents’,” Smee reports, referencing Morisot’s own account conveyed to her sister Edma, who was also an artist.
“Once started, nothing could stop him; from the skirt he went to the bust, from the bust to the head, from the head to the background,” Morisot vividly remembered.
“He cracked a thousand jokes, laughed like a madman, handed me the palette, took it back; finally, by five o’clock in the afternoon we had made the prettiest caricature that was ever seen.”
As the carter tasked with delivering the painting to the Salon jury awaited, Manet urged her to finalize the piece without further delay.
“And now I am left confounded,” Morisot confessed. “My only hope is that I shall be rejected.” She noted that her mother found the entire episode “in ecstasies” and amusing, but Morisot herself found it profoundly distressing.
The work of Morisot, who tragically passed away from pneumonia at the age of 54 in 1895, explored what art critic Laura Cumming has termed an “infinitely subtle and secretive” realm of women’s experiences.
Cumming highlighted that Morisot’s artistry stood apart from her male counterparts, noting in a review of an exhibition of Morisot’s work in London last year that her approach was uniquely distinct.
“It would be hard to think of an impressionist with a more evanescent and shifting technique, more absorbingly strange and indeterminate surfaces, into which you look as if seeking clues to the ever-changing movements of a mind,” she remarked in the Observer. “Morisot never settles into a trademark look, a fixed and recognizable style.”
In the same review, Cumming recalled Manet’s observation when he first encountered the Morisot sisters in 1868 and recognized the likelihood of their artistic talents being dismissed by the male-dominated art scene. “What a shame,” lamented Manet, “they are not men.”
Was entirely different from what I intended,” she lamented. The experience was so jarring that when the time came to send her painting to the Salon, Morisot could only hope for its rejection.
Manet’s meddling speaks volumes about the historical context of women in the arts, where male figures often overshadowed female talent. While he may have been a groundbreaking artist in his own right, his actions suggest a disheartening lack of respect for Morisot’s vision. His lament about women not being men only adds another layer to his patronizing patronage. After all, who needs a thriving, original perspective when you’ve got a mustache and a flair for the dramatic?
Berthe Morisot’s artistry, with its focus on the intricacies of female life and its subtlety, is further emphasized by critics who recognize her unique contribution to Impressionism. Cumming encapsulates it perfectly, highlighting how Morisot’s talent contrasted starkly with the broader, more rigid approaches of her male contemporaries. One can’t help but feel that if only she had the freedom to express herself unencumbered by unsolicited advice from a domineering Manet, the art world might have been treated to a more authentic portrayal of her genius.
In closing, let’s celebrate Berthe Morisot and her delicate, nuanced paintings that encapsulate a depth of feeling often overlooked in the male-dominated narratives of art history. As for Édouard Manet, let’s kindly suggest he confine his expertise to his own canvases in the future. Maybe then he wouldn’t have ended up the unwitting punchline in this illustrious comedic saga of art history.
So the next time you sip your espresso, consider not just the beauty depicted on canvas but the often overlooked interactions and dynamics of the artists behind them, where sometimes, a little less ‘Manetsplaining’ might have paved the way for a lot more brilliance.