Morisot On Her Own

The first part of this essay contains writing that has been reworked from an older piece. Let me know what you think!

I visited the Musée Marmottan Monet on a chilly morning in late May, naïve, but eager to begin my summer studies in France. After clumsily navigating the city’s metro system, I arrived at the museum’s entrance - journal in hand, stomach full of pain au chocolat. I stood in awe in front of each canvas, dutifully recording my thoughts on each piece. Towards the end of my tour, dizzy from plein air scenes and the sugary pigments of the Impressionists, I was struck by a certain self-portrait by the artist, Berthe Morisot, tucked away in one of the final galleries. Gray hair pinned at the nape of her neck, clothed in a stained artist’s smock, eyes locked on the viewer, she captivated me. This was not the coy, sensual Morisot I recognized from another painting in the gallery, rendered by her Edouard Manet with whom she shared a life-long, intimate friendship. Manet rendered Morisot in thick, black brushstrokes, with dainty pink shoes. Morisot’s own portrait was different. She painted herself self-assured and unambiguous, identifying herself as an artist above all else.

Berthe Morisot, Self-Portrait, 1885

Edouard Manet, Berthe Morisot with Fan, 1872

These two versions of Morisot remained with me long after my morning at the Marmottan. The experience caused me to first consider the questions that have since become the basis of nearly all of research and writing in graduate school and beyond: How do we consume and consider the creativity and artistic contributions of women artists historically and in the present moment? What are the enduring expectations we have of their inner lives? What qualities, real and imagined, make a woman artist successful or groundbreaking in our minds? Do we maintain this same standard for men artists?

One can compare a work by Berthe Morisot, part of the Art Institute of Chicago’s permanent collection, with one of Edouard Manet’s most well-known paintings, Un Bar aux Folies-Bergère, to illuminate some of the problems. Edouard Manet painted Un Bar aux Folies-Bergère in 1885. The painting has been admired for its play on perspective. The viewer assumes the position of the artist and the male customer who stand before the barmaid, and we see our collective reflection in the mirror behind her. As viewers we therefore assume the male customer’s gaze, as we take in the image of the barmaid. The painting is the work of a male artist, a dandy working within the domain of modernity. As Griselda Pollock points out in her book, Vision and Difference, modernity was the experience primarily of men, who could experience the freedom Parisian nightlife, under the cover of anonymity.

Edouard Manet, Un Bar aux Folies-Bergère, 1885

Not so for women like Morisot. A similar play on perspective occurs in Berthe Morisot’s oil painting, Woman at Her Toilette, painted between 1875 and 1880. An upper-class young woman sits at her dressing table, with her back towards the viewer. Similarly to Manet’s painting, the black choker about her neck centers the work and calls attention to the woman’s slender and beautiful form. Is she preparing for the day, or taking off her mask at the end of the night? Strategically, the artist paints the woman slouching, her face hidden. This woman, confined to the interior scene of her toilette, controls what the viewer sees. The mirror does not reflect her image. Contrary to Manet’s exposed barmaid, this woman retains her autonomy despite the intimacy of this setting.

Berthe Morisot, Woman at the Toilette, 1875-1880

Morisot’s biographer, Anne Higonnet, has noted that “Morisot’s reputation has, paradoxically, been diminished by her success.”[1] Morisot made daily, highly conscious choices to pursue an intellectually rigorous and imaginative career as an artist, while delicately and purposefully navigating the society in which she lived. She did not falter in maintaining bourgeoisie expectations and societal norms, she thrived in spite of them. For this she is often forgotten. In her paintings, she captured the power of a woman’s introspection, revealing the contradictions and limitations of modernity. Her ability to negotiate interior spaces to gain access to the exterior world through her art must be at the center of any discussion of Morisot’s life and work. Morisot’s daily conviction and dedication to her artistic life culminated in her 1885 self-portrait, painted as contrast to Manet’s version, and in spite of the space allotted to her in modern society.

On October 29. 2018, the New Yorker printed a review by the highly esteemed critic, Peter Schjeldahl of the recent Berthe Morisot retrospective at the Barnes Foundation. Gracing the page of the review is Morisot’s “Woman at Her Toilette.” I am a faithful reader of Schjeldahl, he is someone whose work I have studied and hope to learn from. However, the review left me deeply disappointed.

It is my contention that Schjeldahl completely misses the mark, falling into the many traps that many critics - male and female alike- often do when writing about “women artists.” It is subtle, but his writing is dripping with errant paternalism. He begins by lamenting that the subtitle of the exhibition is “woman impressionist.” He fails to realize the true “polemical point” behind this emphasis, which he attempts to explain away merely as the historical failure of scholars to lend Morisot her rightful place among other male impressionists in the canon. He calls for the end of the act of patronizing women’s art, and yet his tone is completely patronizing in itself. I believe he is completely sincere in his admiration of Morisot, but his analysis lacks the depth he so often communicates to his readers. He still writes about her in relation to Manet and Corot and Fragonard and all the men who surrounded her. He gives barely a mention to Edma, her sister. Nor does he mention Mary Cassat, her fellow “woman impressionist” once. He wants to talk about Morisot’s genius and influence, and yet he never mentions her self-portrait, which is the cover image for the entire exhibition. Perhaps what is most irritating however, is the fact that he speaks about the exhibition and his own opinions as if they stand alone. He does not mention a single scholar who has already done the work he attempts to do now. He mentions not Griselda Pollock, Anne Wagner, Anne Higonnet nor any of the many women writers who have already revamped scholarship on Morisot. He even fails to mention the names of the curators of the exhibition, both of whom, are women.

There isn’t an excuse for this. We certainly cannot blame the word count allotted to him in the article, given he takes most of the space to expound upon his own opinions on the meaning behind Morisot’s brushstrokes. The implication is that Morisot has been deemed worthy of study and consideration by Schjeldahl himself. The epitome of condescension, he essentially communicates to his readers, that it’s time to finally give Morisot the attention she deserves, to situate her as a great creator of the Impressionist movement….because he says so. The most galling line of the entire review is at the very end. In a moment of heroic chivalry, unlike anything I’ve ever seen from Schjeldahl he writes,

“Let all canons fall until we have this imbroglio sorted out. How does the past century and a half of art register if, as an experiment, we set Berthe Morisot at center stage and look around from there? I think she can handle it.”

He feels the need to attempt to rescue Morisot from obscurity, to make it clear to his readers that he decries the way she has been relegated to the margins of history. He misconstrues the role of interiority in her work. He attempts to be her champion, to speak to her genius. What he does not grasp is the fundamental truth about women who aspire to greatness: We don’t need to be rescued, we don’t need to be championed, we don’t need to be explained...we simply need to be taken seriously. The greatest favor Schjeldahl could have done for Morisot would have been to take a day off. Step aside, and let a young woman write about Morisot. Let a young woman provide the insight his readers deserve, the understanding he attempts to provide his readers. We’re ready, prepared, and qualified to do just that.