Art Class #9 (Georges Braque)

“Truth exists; only lies are invented.”

Born in 1882, Georges Braque was a Parisian painter from the 20th century. He was most well known for being the founder of Cubism alongside famous artist Pablo Picasso. In addition to the invention of Cubism, he did also focus on other forms of art which were prominent during this time period as well. He did work which touched on Impressionism, fauvism, and even focused on collage styles of work, which brought together a series of imaginative pieces, bold colors, and distinct shapes and styles to his work. During the wartime period, the work he put together would change in order to represent the somber, dark period the world was going through. In between wartime, he would also change the style and themes, to represent lighter times, and happier things which were taking place around him. Although he did change his style, tone, color use, and design features, he never strayed too far away from Cubism. There were also tinges or hints of this style, in every piece that he created during the course of his career, and is the reason his work was so distinct, in comparison to other artists of the time, who did not delve in to as many different forms in their work.

Early Works

Early in his life, Georges Braque wanted to focus on painting, so moved from the smaller town he was born in, to Paris. This not only allowed him to be around more painters of the period, it also allowed him to see what was out there, and what styles were prominent during his time. Prior to painting at the Academy of Humbert, he apprenticed for a short period of time with a house decorator.

Early on in his art career, much of the style which he focused on was that of impressionism, the 19th-century art movement that originated with a group of Paris-based artists, main Impressionists and post-impressionists include Cezanne, Monet, and van Gogh. A distinctive feature of his works during that period was not only a unique decorative beauty but also much more vivid than that of other artists, constructiveness of the composition. Unlike other fauvist painters, Braque paid attention not only to the position of the color elements on the plane of the picture but also to building space. Even at that time, he was inspired by Cezanne more, than by Van Gogh.

Shortly after 1905, he made the transition over to fauvism, and followed many of the color schemes, and design aspects which were more prominent in this form of art. During this time he was in a series of exhibitions, and was around artists like Henri Matisse and Andre Derain. Loose form structures, along with bold color schemes to convey the deep emotions of the artist and his subject, were prominent in his work, and in the fauvism style in general.

Successes During his Career

1908 was when Georges Braque took part in his first solo exhibit; from 1909 up to 1914, he spent a majority of his career working with Picasso. This was when the two men focused on developing a new style of art, and a new depth to what fauvism had already brought to the art world. The two developed new themes, bold lines, and a series of darker color schemes, and created the Cubism style.

The Cubists challenged conventional forms of representation, such as perspective, which had been the rule since Renaissance Art. Their aim was to develop a new way of seeing which reflected the modern age. Georges Braque also incorporated collages, and the use of the entire canvas, to convey pieces that were created. Collages were a major addition and style which he followed during this period in his art work as well.

Following WWI, the style that Georges Braque followed changed once again. It was less planned and structured, so he did not really have a focal theme in the types of work he created. In 1922, he had a very successful solo exhibit in Paris, which not only garnered much attention to his work, but also to the new form which he and Picasso had introduced. It not only showcased the new color and collage style paintings, it also helped propel him to the front of the art world, as a prominent name during this period.

During the end of the 1920s, the works created by Georges Braque took yet another transformation in style and tone. He began to focus more so on real interpretations, and focused much of his work on nature, and natural light. Even though this was the third stylistic change he had made in the decade alone, his work never seemed to stray too far from the Cubism style which he created. So, square, straight lines, and bold colors, were always seen in the images which he displayed on the canvas. There were always aspects of the cubism style, in every piece he created, regardless of which period he was working in, or which new style he was focused in on.

New Works

In 1931, Georges Braque added to the painting work, and began to do sculpture pieces as well. He gained some recognition with this, as he showcased a few pieces he had carved in an exhibit in 1933. In 1937 he had gained international success, as some of his works were displayed not only in Paris and around Europe, but even had made their way in to the US, and different art museums and exhibits in the US.

During WWII, and following this period, the works which Georges Braque created, took yet another turn, and focused on darker, more somber pieces. Darker colors and dark scenes were much of what he painted. Following the war he focused on painting lighter subjects, he painted images of birds, landscapes of land, and he did many pieces which focused around the sea. During this period, he focused on more than just painting; Georges Braque also crafted many lithographs, sculptures, and he even did work on stained glass windows and creative design styles.

In his personal life, Georges Braque failed to ever take on larger scale projects; this was namely due to his poor health, which would not allow him to work on major pieces, or spend too much time focused on any individual piece. Although he did have issues with his health a majority of his life, this did not stop him from leading a new art movement, and developing one of the most famous art movements to transpire during the 20th century in the art world.

Alongside Picasso, Georges Braque may have been one of the most influential painters of the early 20th century.

The Portuguese, 1911

The Portuguese marks an interesting point in the development of Braque’s paintings. In the top right hand corner, he stenciled the letters “D BAL” and under them, roman numerals. Although he had included numbers and letters into a still life in 1910, they were a representational element of the painting. In this piece, the letters and numbers are a purely compositional addition. Braque’s intentions at adding the letters are many, but mostly they are added to make the viewer aware of the canvas itself.

In representational paintings, the canvas is there only as a surface to hold whatever image the painter desires. By adding numbers, out of context elements, and surface textures, the viewer becomes aware of the fact that the canvas can also hold outside elements, making the surface of the painting just as important as what is put on top of it.

Cold Coffee and Analytic Cubism

To understand Cubism it helps to go back to Cézanne’s still life paintings or even further, to the Renaissance. Let me use an example that worked nicely in the classroom.

I was lecturing, trying to untangle Cubism while drinking increasingly cold coffee from a paper cup. I set the cup on the desk in the front of the room and said, “If I were a Renaissance artist in mid-15th century Italy painting that cup on that table, I would position myself at particular point in space and construct the surrounding objects and space frozen in that spot and from that single perspective.

On the other hand, if this was the late 19th century and I was Cézanne, I might allow myself to open this view up quite a bit. Perhaps I would focus on, and record, the perceptual changes of shape and line that result when I shift my weight from one leg to the other or when I lean in toward the cup to get a closer look. I might even allow myself to render slightly around the far side of the paper cup since, as Cézanne, I am interested in vision and memory working together.

Finally, if I were Braque or Picasso in the early 20th century, I would want to express even more on the canvas. I would not be satisfied with the limiting conventions of Renaissance perspective nor even with the initial explorations of the master Cézanne.

As a Cubist, I want to express my total visual understanding of the paper coffee cup. I want more than the Renaissance painter or even Cézanne, I want to express the entire cup simultaneously on the static surface of the canvas since I can hold all that visual information in my memory. I want to render the cup’s front, its sides, its back, and its inner walls, its bottom from both inside and out, and I want to do this on a flat canvas.

How can this be done?

The answer is provided by The Portuguese. In this canvas, everything was fractured. The guitar player and the dock was just so many pieces of broken form, almost broken glass. By breaking these objects into smaller elements, Braque and Picasso are able to overcome the unified singularity of an object and instead transform it into an object of vision.

At this point the class began to look a little confused, so I turned back to the paper cup and began to tear it into pieces (I had finished the coffee).

If I want to be able to show you both the back and front and inside and outside simultaneously, I can fragment the object.

Basically, this is the strategy of the Cubists. – from smarthistory

Inside the Artist Studio of Georges Braque

John Richardson on getting to know “the antithesis of Picasso—cool, meditative, at peace.”

By John Richardson

---

I had always loved Braque’s work and soon came to love the man, who was the antithesis of Picasso—cool, meditative, at peace. He not only looked like a saint, he behaved like one: a saint of painting. Unlike Picasso, who desperately needed admirers to feed his voracious ego, Braque was self-sufficient, but he enjoyed discussing his work and his vision of art, which he would do with a wonderful metaphysical clarity. Over the next few years I would devote a couple of books and several articles, including a lengthy analysis of his great Atelier series, to his work. There was an advantage to doing this at Castille; my study was lined with some of Braque’s finest paintings and they permeated the room.

At first Braque came across as daunting and withdrawn. However, once he realized that I understood his “difficult” late work, he opened up. So did his wife, Marcelle—small, fat, wise, and funny, not least about Picasso, whom she enjoyed putting down with a mixture of exasperation and affection. I remember her reminiscing about the time (1912–13) she and Braque and Picasso and Eva had settled at Sorgues, near Avignon. The four of them would take long walks together in the garrigue. If the mistral was blowing, they would assume Indian file: first big, brawny Braque, then plump Marcelle, then frail Eva, and finally little Picasso, cowering in their shelter.

Picasso was less of a hero outside the studio than inside, she said. I suspect Marcelle never entirely forgave him for referring to her husband as his “ex-wife.” Apropos this famous old slight, I always wanted to, but never dared, tell them a story (circa 1938) told to me by Dora Maar. Hearing that Braque had been hospitalized, Picasso rushed off to see him. He returned home in a rage. The nurse had refused to let him into his room because Madame Braque was in there with him. “Don’t they realize that I am Madame Braque?” Typical of Picasso to stand his original joke on its head. Au fond, his most abiding male friendship had always been with Braque, Dora said. It was Braque who distanced himself, in part for ideological reasons. While he had drifted to the right—he sympathized with the fascistic Croix-de-feu—Picasso had been drawn more and more to the left.

Whenever I saw him, Picasso would ask for news of Braque. Braque never asked for news of Picasso, and on the very few occasions I saw them together, he would sooner or later do or say something to needle his old friend. One day, when we were all together at La Californie, Picasso asked us to come up to the studio and look at his recent work. Only Braque said no: he had arranged to take a ride in the photographer Dave Duncan’s hot new Gullwing Mercedes. Picasso was furious. He told me that when he had offered his old friend a studio at La Californie so that they could work together again, Braque had said he preferred to stay at Saint-Paul-de-Vence with his dealer, Aimé Maeght, a man Picasso loathed.

Another slight: Picasso had sent Braque one of his ceramics—a suitably Braque-like dinner plate decorated with fish bones and a slice of lemon—and never received any acknowledgment; would I find out what had happened? Braque had indeed received it, but thought it was une blague—a joke. “Picasso used to be a great painter,” Braque liked to say. “Now he is merely a genius.”On my first visit to the artist’s studio, I felt I had arrived at the very heart of painting. I never quite lost that feeling.

By the mid-1950s, Braque had turned into something of a hermit, much as Picasso would ten years later. His studio had become the center of his universe; it was also the primary subject of his work. If the light was curiously palpable—what Braque called “tactile”—it was because he kept his studio skylight veiled with thinnish, whitish material, which filtered and seemingly liquefied the light. In this penumbra the artist would sit as hieratically as Christ Pantocrator in a Byzantine mosaic, his great big Ancient Mariner’s eyes devouring the paintings set out in front of him.

The monastic hush would be broken only when he got up, wheezily, to make a slight adjustment to one of the many canvases arrayed in front of him. On my first visit to the artist’s studio, I felt I had arrived at the very heart of painting. I never quite lost that feeling.

Braque accepted visitors from the outside world as a hermit might, without ceremony or curiosity. Unlike Picasso, he did not mind having people in the studio when he was painting. One afternoon in 1956, he let me stick around for a couple of hours while he worked on A Tir d’Aile (In Full Flight), his eerie painting of a sleek black bird crashing into a cloud as if it were a Stealth B-2 bomber breaking the sound barrier. For weeks, Braque told me, he had been adding layer after layer of paint to the grayish-bluish sky to give it an infinite tactile density. As a result, it was so heavy he could no longer lift the  canvas on or off the easel.

Compared to the weightiness of the sky, the bird and cloud have as much substance as shadows. Braque had been reading about black holes: hence the concept of the cloud as a black void with a gravitational force that nothing can escape. It has been suggested that this blackness might also signify death. And indeed, by the late 1950s Braque was in very fragile health. Mortality held fewer fears for him that it did for Picasso; if anything, it challenged him, as in this painting, to bring le néant within his grasp, and to that extent within ours.

Apropos another bird painting, Braque talked to me about his visits to the Camargue, where our mutual friend the ornithologist Lukas Hoffmann (heir to the Hoffmann-LaRoche fortune and son of that perceptive modernist collector Maja Sacher) had established a vast bird reserve, La Tour du Valat. Douglas and I used to drive around in a jeep with Hoffmann, who would point out that the distant streak of quivering coral color ringing the vast Vaccarès lagoon was in fact flock after flock of flamingos. I also used to go riding there with our bull-breeder friend Jean Lafont, helping him round up the wild bulls that graze the salt marshes.

Like the bulls, the wild but gentle horses we rode were native to the marshes; they are still never shod and their mouths are too soft to pull on, their flanks too soft for spurs—just a flick of a rein against their beautiful white manes, and they respond. Anything stronger and they throw you in the mud. Braque told me how the apparition of a heron flying low above the marshes had inspired his large 1955 Bird Returning to Its Nest, of all the late paintings the one that meant the most to him. Maybe because I shared his feelings for the Camargue, Braque gave me an oil study for this haunting work. I remember him saying how, on still, gray days, the sky seemed to reflect the lagoons rather than the other way round, and the birds seemed to swim through the air. Nor could he forget the swarm of mosquitoes.

I stayed close to Braque because I wanted to keep track of the nine large Ateliers he worked on from 1949 to 1956. Their subject is nothing less than painting itself, as practiced by the artist in the seclusion of his studio. They constitute a microcosm of Braque’s private universe. There is no trace of a human presence, except insofar as Braque’s Zenlike spirituality suffuses them. Until I came along, nobody had studied them in depth.

To understand these Ateliers, it is necessary to evoke the carefully contrived clutter of Braque’s studio: a space that was divided in half by a cream-colored curtain, in front of which numerous recent and not so recent works were arrayed on easels, tables, and rickety stands. Some of the paintings were barely started but already signed; some looked finished but lacked a signature; others dated back five, ten, even twenty years—“suspended in time,” the artist said. “I ‘read’ my way into them, like a fortune-teller reading tea leaves.” Sketchbooks (“cookbooks,” Braque called them) lay open on homemade lecterns. Pedestals contrived out of logs and sticks picked up on walks were piled high with materials: palettes galore, massive bowls bristling with brushes, and containers of all kinds of paint, some of it ground by the artist and mixed with sand, cinders, grit, even coffee, to vary the texture.

On the floor were pots of philodendrons, which Braque liked because the shape of their leaves “rhymed” with the shape of his palette, as well as simplistic sculptures carved from chalk—fishes, horses, birds—all of which make fragmentary appearances in the Ateliers. Elsewhere a shelf was set with tribal sculpture, musical instruments, and the large white jug that dominates Atelier I.

The presence of an enormous bird in these paintings is less enigmatic than it might seem. It does not represent a real, live bird but a “painted” one, an image that has detached itself from its canvas ground. When Braque embarked on the series, there was a large painting of a bird in flight (later destroyed) in the studio, and it is this image that appears in different guises in all but one or two of these paintings. Braque pooh-poohed suggestions that the bird might have symbolic significance: an ectoplasmic materialization, a sacred Egyptian ibis, a Picasso-esque dove of peace (the journalist who made this suggestion was asked to leave), or, silliest of all, that a real bird might have flown in through the window.

These birds materialized on their own, Braque insisted. “I never thought them up; they were born on the canvas.” In a long interview I published in the London Observer, Braque went on to explain: “I have made a great discovery, I no longer believe in anything. Objects don’t exist for me except insofar as a rapport exists between them or between them and myself. When one attains this harmony, one reaches a sort of intellectual nonexistence—what I can only describe as a sense of peace—which makes everything possible and right. Life then becomes a perpetual revelation. Ça, c’est de la vraie poésie!”

Every summer, Braque would dismantle the studio clutter and reassemble it on a more modest scale in the studio of his country house at Varengeville in Normandy, so that he could work away at his paintings in his studio, or simply study them until he was ready to return to Paris in the fall. The artist took pride in the artisanal ingenuity with which he rolled up his canvases and stacked them onto the roof of his car. “No rope,” he said. He also took pride in his skill at driving very fast cars; how he enjoyed the Rolls-Royce that his dealer had provided for him.

He wished he had learned to fly a plane.

———————————————

From The Sorcerer’s Apprentice. Copyright © 1999 by John Richardson Fine Arts Ltd.