The Flowers of Evil. Illustrated by Henri Matisse.
Hazan| N° d'inventaire | 15953 |
| Format | 18.4 x 23.8 |
| Détails | 200 p., 2 volumes in slipcase. |
| Publication | Paris, 2016 |
| Etat | Nine |
| ISBN | 9782754109536 |
During the summer of 1944, Matisse decided to illustrate Baudelaire's Les Fleurs du mal, as he did for Mallarmé, Ronsard, Charles d'Orléans, and many others. He drew 34 faces in grease pencil, compositions that would adorn the 1947 edition, published by La Bibliothèque française. The 150 years that separate us from the first edition of Les Fleurs du mal have only confirmed its inaugural value and impact on artists. In 1857, the poet's aim was to shed the old, overly idealistic romanticism, to translate the spirit of the times, what he called "modernity," and to explore the dark side of his own conscience, condemned to the limits and pleasures of a disenchanted era. No one dared to illustrate such a book, after the trial that struck him upon its release. But the real reason for the artists' silence lies in the very difficulty of doubling such poetry, which is barely descriptive and unsuitable for the picturesque, with images. It took temperaments like Rodin or Rouault to tackle it. Matisse had known the latter when they both frequented Gustave Moreau's studio in the late 1890s. The desire to associate his name and his style with Baudelaire's universe undoubtedly goes back quite a long way. It awoke in the interwar period and began to take shape during the Occupation, a time when Matisse looked back on his life, which had almost escaped him. Hence the sensual and nostalgic coloring of these women's faces, alternately serious, laughing, or feline, depending on the content of the texts they accompany rather than illustrate. A relationship of harmony, and not of flat adequacy, governs drawings and pure graphic effects. The choice of poems he retains, less than a third of the 1868 edition, stems from the eroticism and creoleness that Matisse and Baudelaire shared. They had in common the experience of exotic travel, the island of Bourbon for the poet, Tahiti for the painter, and were both sensitive to black beauty. This long-cherished book opens a very feminine window on the aesthetics and psyche of the literate artist, who had reached the threshold of paper cutouts and his final Orientalist explosion. This luxurious, low-cost version of the facsimile of the 1947 edition is accompanied by an introductory essay by Stéphane Guégan shedding light on Matisse's choices and the links that unite the poet and the painter.
During the summer of 1944, Matisse decided to illustrate Baudelaire's Les Fleurs du mal, as he did for Mallarmé, Ronsard, Charles d'Orléans, and many others. He drew 34 faces in grease pencil, compositions that would adorn the 1947 edition, published by La Bibliothèque française. The 150 years that separate us from the first edition of Les Fleurs du mal have only confirmed its inaugural value and impact on artists. In 1857, the poet's aim was to shed the old, overly idealistic romanticism, to translate the spirit of the times, what he called "modernity," and to explore the dark side of his own conscience, condemned to the limits and pleasures of a disenchanted era. No one dared to illustrate such a book, after the trial that struck him upon its release. But the real reason for the artists' silence lies in the very difficulty of doubling such poetry, which is barely descriptive and unsuitable for the picturesque, with images. It took temperaments like Rodin or Rouault to tackle it. Matisse had known the latter when they both frequented Gustave Moreau's studio in the late 1890s. The desire to associate his name and his style with Baudelaire's universe undoubtedly goes back quite a long way. It awoke in the interwar period and began to take shape during the Occupation, a time when Matisse looked back on his life, which had almost escaped him. Hence the sensual and nostalgic coloring of these women's faces, alternately serious, laughing, or feline, depending on the content of the texts they accompany rather than illustrate. A relationship of harmony, and not of flat adequacy, governs drawings and pure graphic effects. The choice of poems he retains, less than a third of the 1868 edition, stems from the eroticism and creoleness that Matisse and Baudelaire shared. They had in common the experience of exotic travel, the island of Bourbon for the poet, Tahiti for the painter, and were both sensitive to black beauty. This long-cherished book opens a very feminine window on the aesthetics and psyche of the literate artist, who had reached the threshold of paper cutouts and his final Orientalist explosion. This luxurious, low-cost version of the facsimile of the 1947 edition is accompanied by an introductory essay by Stéphane Guégan shedding light on Matisse's choices and the links that unite the poet and the painter.