Tomasso Brothers: Géricault

Théodore Géricault Torse d’homme, le bras gauche levé TOMASSO BROTHERS FINE ART

Théodore Géricault Torse d’homme, le bras gauche levé TOMASSO BROTHERS FINE ART

Théodore Géricault Torse d’homme, le bras gauche levé

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TOMASSO BROTHERS FINE ART

Théodore Géricault Torse d’homme, le bras gauche levé

2017

TOMASSO BROTHERS FINE ART Bardon Hall, Weetwood Lane, Leeds, ls16 8hj, UK tel. + 44 (0) 113 275 5545

Text by Dr Bruno Chenique Translated by Capita Translation and Interpreting Edited by Emanuela Tarizzo Photography by Doug Currie Design by Laura Parker Produced by Paul Holberton publishing 89 Borough High Street London se1 1nl isbn 978 1 911300 26 7 www.tomassobrot h ers.co.uk in fo @tomassobrot h ers.co.uk

© 2017 Tomasso Brothers Fine Art

The first virtue of a painting is to be a feast for the eyes. This does not mean that there need be no sense in it. It is like poetry which, if it offends the ear, all the sense in the world will not save from being bad. They speak of having an ear for music: not every eye is fit to taste the subtle joys of painting. The eyes of many people are dull or false.

They see objects literally, of the exquisite they see nothing. eugď&#x;Šne delacroix, 22 June 1863

t h  o d o r e g  r i c au lt (1791–1824)

Torse d’homme, le bras gauche levé, c. 1813–14 Oil on canvas 72.4 cm (28½ in.) high 66.9 cm (26¼ in.) wide

inscribed AU GENIE DES ARTS/ HARO/ Md de COULEURS et / Restaurateur de Tableaux./ Neveu et Elève de M. REY./ Rue des Petits Augustins./ N° 26./ Faubg St. Germain, ci devant/ Rue du Colombier. / A PARIS (stamp in black ink, added to the original canvas between 1839 and 1842, according to the technical examinaton of Mr Pascal Labreuche) Vente COURTY (pencil, on the central beam of the stretcher) provenance Edmond Courty collection (1931–93), Paris Private collection, Brussels literature The present painting is to be included in the Catalogue raisonné des tableaux de Théodore Géricault currently being prepared by Dr Bruno Chenique

Previously unpublished, this exceptional painting of a Torse d’homme, le bras gauche levé (Male torso with left arm raised) by Théodore Géricault (1791–1824) is a most welcome addition to a complex field of study which, owing to a dearth of testimony, archival evidence, paintings or sketches, has received insufficient attention from the community of Géricault specialists – the artist’s period at the École des Beaux-Arts, where he enrolled on 5 February 1811 (a fact that was only recently brought to the knowledge of historians specializing in Géricault).1 For the purpose of this attribution, we have relied on the impeccable restoration work by Mrs Laurence Baron-Callegari and the scientific studies conducted by Lumiere Technology, a company with a unique know-how that uses the latest research technology, created by Mr Pascal Cotte and Mr Jean Penicaut.

Before delving into a detailed analysis of the Male torso, it is important fully to understand the weight of this discovery and to explain our attribution method.

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Attribution method First, we should explain that Géricault’s catalogue raisonné (paintings, drawings and sculptures) has never been definitively closed, and that since 1866–67, the date of the first catalogue raisonné, by Charles Clément, new and important works by Géricault have come to light. Although these have sometimes been the subject of debate (which is perfectly normal), most of these discoveries, where they were reasonable, have over time been integrated in the authenticated list of Géricault’s works by the community of Géricault specialists, art historians and art dealers.

On what basis does one decide whether a work is or is not by Géricault? Who makes such a decision? What legitimacy does such a statement hold? Who lends it any credence, why may it be later discarded, and by whom? Through a rigorous analysis of what we know, it is possible to demonstrate some fallibility in the traditional methods used by those we call specialists, authenticators, experts and generally connoisseurs.

It is crucial to understand the manner in which experts have proceeded. The task is far from easy, since the method of this ‘discipline’ relies heavily on analogies, and therefore has its limitations (hence the intensity of some of the debates). We are in the realm of empiricism, that sensory experience that is at the heart of all valid knowledge and all aesthetic appreciation. This sensory experience sometimes encounters disapproval, indifference and ridicule from positivist academics who are hidebound by their intellectual certainties and quick to decry the “virtual demiurge in the expert”.2 Happily, there are others who are brave enough to recognize the value of this science: History of art will always rely on connoisseurship (a domain where ethics are of the utmost importance) …. It should also be said that the purpose of an attribution is not to put a prestigious name on a work (specialists know well that such an occurrence, however welcome, is rare). The idea is to weave the threads of lost knowledge, to associate artworks with the context that produced them, to define them properly and, finally, to shine a new and brighter light on them.3 In other words, the notion of connoisseurship, when it is understood as a political process and a democratic exercise, is the pursuit of “the right to speak on matters of art”, as shown in the remarkable study conducted by Pascal Griener.4 This right to speak, as we have mentioned, has always existed with regard to Théodore Géricault’s work: the list of works and possible candidates for attribution is by no means complete, as is also the case for many of the great artists of the nineteenth century (drawings and paintings) – David, Ingres, Delacroix, Courbet, Degas, Gauguin. But, unfortunately, there are cases where this right to speak has been denied. The most shocking example of this without doubt came up with Edouard Manet. The catalogue of his works was closed off in 1947 by Tabarant: Let us now be done with this. Although we may still accept the hypothesis that some unseen work, painting or pastel exists to complete Manet’s catalogue, such a possibility raises many issues. Every aspect has come under scrutiny, has been studied or explored. It is no longer possible to broaden the field of research. We

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feel certain that the inventory of this production of art, so new in nature but cut short by an untimely demise, is now closed. There are no more notable surprises in store for the cataloguers who will come after us.5 Such statements are absurd and dangerous (for we know that research is in constant progress and forever casting new doubts on our certainties), but unfortunately they seem to have been accepted by the majority of Manet specialists and art dealers.

As far as Théodore Géricault is concerned, I decided, some years ago, to reconsider the corpus of his paintings. My catalogue raisonné, once published, will be the fourth, following on those of Charles Clément (published as a series of articles in 1866–67 and, in 1879, as a book, with a second edition that included a supplement), of Philippe Grunchec (1978; reprinted in 1991 with a supplement) and of Germain Bazin (1987–97, in seven volumes).

When compiling this catalogue raisonné, according to the principle that prevails in France (where an expert is bound by a code of procedure, and not by an obligation to obtain results), I decided to adopt a stringent and rigorous method. With the certainty that my predecessors did not always follow one of the fundamental rules of connoiseurship, which is to examine the original before coming to a determination, but sometimes relied on no more than a black and white photograph, I decided that a direct examination of his works was required. In all fairness, it is true that my predecessors were operating in difficult circumstances, since it was often incredibly difficult, even in the 1970s to the 1990s (not to mention the 1860s, in Clément’s case),6 to obtain such a photograph. In some instances it was a feat in itself. As for a photograph in colour, that was often out of the question. The fact that we live in an era of digital and multi-spectral photography must not allow us to forget the huge (technical and financial) difficulties that past cataloguers were faced with.

We also know that, for a long time, there was no shame among the community of specialists in making a determination based solely on a black and white photograph and that many catalogues raisonnés that are still used today were based on such determinations.

At the risk of upsetting the purists who sometimes call for extreme (and paralysing) caution, my authentication of this beautiful painting as by Théodore Géricault is based on certainty, rather than hypothesis. There was never any question of applying to it the term ‘attributed to’, which signals a methodological restraint which, however, has many limitations. I agree with Robert Curtius, the German philologist, when he remarked that “in human sciences there is no method other than a studious mind”.7 This opinion was shared by André Chastel, who said: “In the end, the approach is more important than the method. This approach, which is empirically rigorous, sticks to the evidence seen in the work, and rests on the knowledge that broad generalizations are always artificial and risk – as we have seen time and time again – being brought into question by the emergence of new works or simply by a better reading of known works”.8 It is therefore important that any specialist of Théodore Géricault’s work clearly explains that his or her affirmation is based on current knowledge before insisting that “yes, as far as I can see, this is an authentic work by the artist”. Other art historians, present and future, will make their own determinations, which is all in the normal course of the authentication process. The time factor matters little: did it not take

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the community of Leonardo specialists a full century to accept the now undisputed authenticity of Lady with an Ermine? History of art is often very slow, because the task of training a generation of specialists is a long and arduous one.

How then does one proceed when one is sure of facing an authentic Géricault painting that has remained unseen, unknown?

As I have explained, the first step is to examine the original in proper conditions and under natural light, if possible. If the state of conservation is poor, or if a yellow varnish or layers of repaint prevent an appropriate reading of the pictorial surface, the owner must then be convinced that the work would benefit significantly from cleaning (a process described somewhat hypocritically as ‘partial varnish removal’) or restoration (elimination of repaint and reintegration of the surface). From that point on, a relation based on trust and dialogue will develop.

To both these initial stages we have added, starting in 2007, a scientific examination carried out by Lumiere Technology. On the basis of the new readability of the pictorial layers that the technology allows, we were able to gain more certainty as to the artwork’s authenticity, and to support it. It has to be said that there is nothing harder than to translate this sense of certainty, which is born from a visual experience, into written arguments. However, the task is not impossible.

In this vein, we agree fully with Michel Laclotte, former chief curator of the paintings department at the Musée du Louvre, who said “any attribution is based on instinct. It is only afterwards that one tries to use reasoning to argue in its favour.”9 The expert, therefore, not only has to rely on instinct, knowledge and visual culture, but also needs the courage to make a decision, provide arguments and defend a position.

Even though the attribution is based on a detailed knowledge of Géricault’s oeuvre, it should also be mentioned that this comparative method presents its own difficulties, since this outstanding artist is known to have changed his style for every painting he started (much like Manet). As evidence of this statement I will provide this simple observation: none of the paintings displayed in the Géricault room at the Louvre truly resonates with its neighbours. Each work possesses its own characteristics and unique psychological quality. It would be impossible to compare the portrait of Louise Vernet with the 1821 Derby at Epsom, and equally unthinkable to draw any analogy between the latter and the Insane Woman. Is this a final nail in the coffin of the comparative method, or does it simply provide further evidence of Géricault’s multifaceted genius? Clearly I favour the second hypothesis. Acceptance and assimilation of this approach are therefore required before attempting to attribute a painting to Géricault. From such visual evidence, one could conclude that only the comparable should be compared. The challenge resides in the implementation of such an exercise.

The systematic and preliminary analysis of artworks by Lumiere Technology is therefore a requirement for our work as experts. This multispectral analysis, the purpose of which is to provide the Géricault specialist with an enhanced reading and a better understanding of the painting’s internal logic, is a great help in making an informed decision. It would, however, be a mistake to believe that this scientific contribution can replace the experience of connoisseurship. Only the spregiudicatezza, hard work and deeply rooted certainty of the connoisseur, supported by scientific data, will allow history of art to progress. One can only hope that any ensuing debate will

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gain in quality as a result.10 It is this very debate, to which science is invited, that was for too long simply rejected. According to Guy Isnard, this was done in order to protect the “magical” status of some specialists who, like Georges Wildenstein (1892–1963), made every effort to devalue the possible contribution of scientific expertise: He ignored it, while trying to convince us that he knew its results. He believed solely in visual memory and the connoisseur’s ‘flair’. He rejected spectrographic and chemical analyses conducted in laboratories. As a pure traditionalist, he disliked the intrusion of modern techniques in the field of art, which he cherished like a sacred legacy that nothing should be allowed to tarnish. I had already heard this kind of discourse. In France, expertise relies primarily on visual observation.

I also knew what to expect in terms of the visual and ‘instinctive’ aberrations rife among some art dealers.11 Although the expert’s process is mainly visual, it must nonetheless rely on a method that he or she is able to explain and defend. More often than not, this method is based on an intimate knowledge of the painted surface and relies on comparisons with other authenticated Géricault paintings. It is therefore a professional duty to see and properly understand the original paintings one is talking about, when these are accessible. It is also important to have high-quality reproductions of the paintings and to learn to recognize Géricault’s specific brush-stroke. The problem of reproductions and of achieving a sufficiently detailed view of the pictorial layers immediately arises.

Before digital photography, such information was extremely hard to come by. It was by no means impossible, but the Géricault expert had to make enormous efforts to obtain hundreds of photographs. It was certainly an arduous task! French and international museums did not sell their colour transparencies (they loaned them), and it was therefore impossible to keep them (as scanning them was not an option until some years ago). Private owners found it difficult, and quite expensive, to achieve good colour photographs of their paintings.

Collecting this documentary information was a massive undertaking, as noted by Jean Cailleux and by Isnard in 1974: This English expert, I explained, is also a fervent defender of the visual expertise.

To make matters worse, he is completely impervious and opposed to the idea of scientific expertise.

I am not opposed to the idea of scientific expertise, replied Jean Cailleux, who understood whom I was alluding to. To use macro photography, we need to have complete macrographic data. However, such data does not exist. For instance, one would need a file on the eyes and hands of Watteau’s characters. But this kind of systematic information simply does not exist. There is currently nothing! The Louvre laboratory has some interesting elements, but, as you well know, they don’t communicate with the public, they don’t consult, and they work only for themselves. We are therefore forced to resume the process of comparative visual analysis, as practised by Morelli.12 In 1979, Philippe Grunchec, in his article ‘Géricault : problèmes de méthode’, concluded that “at this point of the assessment, the researcher must rely on his

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eyes. Not only the eye as it assesses quality – we have just seen the pitfalls of such an assessment – but also the eye as it uses undisputed elements to establish reliable comparisons, followed by convincing associations: this underlines the importance of finding reliable markers at every step of the painting’s creation.”13 It is a reasonable assumption that, by 2014, thanks to the considerable progress in research on Géricault in the past sixty years, these markers will be more numerous and will give rise to the feast that Eugène Delacroix spoke of, on 22 June 1863, shortly before his death: “The first virtue of a painting is to be a feast for the eyes. This does not mean that there need be no sense in it. It is like poetry which, if it offends the ear, all the sense in the world will not save from being bad. They speak of having an ear for music: not every eye is fit to taste the subtle joys of painting. The eyes of many people are dull or false. They see objects literally, of the exquisite they see nothing.”14 In keeping with the words of Philippe Sénéchal, it could be said that the task of the expert art historian, aided by every method of scientific exploration, will be to deconstruct the manner in which our view of Géricault was forged,15 for the purpose of better rebuilding it. Over the past six years, the scanning, at our request, of 150 paintings by Théodore Géricault (and attributed to Géricault) by Lumiere Technology has radically changed our working methods and has enabled us, day by day, slowly to reconstruct the work of this phenomenal artist, whose estate was dispersed by a sale following his death and by lengthy lawsuits between his heirs.

Finally, it should be mentioned that the vast majority of Théodore Géricault’s paintings are not signed. It appears that this was a deliberate choice by the artist. His three great paintings, for instance, displayed at the exhibitions of 1812, 1814 and 1819 (The Raft of the Medusa) are unsigned, contrary to the practice of the time. If one were to push this observation to its logical conclusion, one could claim that an as yet unseen painting signed ‘Gericault’ or ‘Géricault’ should immediately give rise to some degree of suspicion, or at least to questioning.16 In the specific case of our painting, the scientific examinations conducted by Lumiere Technology did not reveal any trace of a signature (fig. 1). They did, however, reveal an underdrawing, clearly visible under infra-red light (fig. 2).

Géricault, Pierre Guérin’s student Before we examine the formal qualities of the painting in question, we should assess Géricault’s approach to painting a male or female académie (nude drawn from the life), that mandatory exercise for any artist in training, and above all one wishing to become a ‘history painter’.

Pierre Guérin (1774–1833) opened a workshop in the first half of 181017 and later had a grand townhouse built at no. 79 rue de Lille by the architect Coussin18 (Guérin bought the land in 1810, and moved in two years later).19 We are still unsure of the reasons behind the move. His biographers describe him as a small and sickly man, for whom the task he was about to undertake would have been a momentous one.

What deep-rooted needs was he trying to satisfy when he chose to teach, to train, to share his convictions and to direct young pupils? Were his motivations of a financial nature? Was he driven by a will to teach? It was probably a combination of both, but there was also another advantage – creating a circle of young followers who were

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fig. 1 Théodore Géricault Torse d’homme, le bras gauche levé Photograph in false colours, taken in order to detect any trace of a signature © Lumière Technology

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fig. 2 Théodore Géricault Torse d’homme, le bras gauche levé Infrared photograph at IR900 © Lumière Technology

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devoted, in principle at least, to the cause and name of their master. The primary mission of these young artists was to embody his teaching methods and to act as his symbolic representatives in the various art competitions that paved the career of budding painters.20 There was much at stake in 1810, especially in a context where the dominant workshop belonged to none other than Louis David. Like it or not, the emergence of Guérin’s new workshop was a revolution in the artistic landscape of the time. The newcomer had the advantage of novelty, renown and youth (Guérin was 36, while David was 62). However, uncertainties surrounding his methods and the results he hoped to achieve could have been a disadvantage. For a young painter keen to embark on a successful career, the choice of Guérin – rather than David, Girodet, Vincent or Regnault – was a bold one, maybe even to be seen as an early manifestation of an independent mind. To be free of David’s influence, one had to risk being different. The only way to know whether the risk had paid off was to enter the official events that marked the life of any up-and-coming artist – the competitions organized by the École des Beaux-Arts, the Prix de Rome competition and the Salon in Paris.

A student of Guérin’s, therefore, was in no way released from the requirement of enrolling at the École des Beaux-Arts. It does not come as a surprise, therefore, to find Géricault’s registration on 5 February 1811. Once again, the challenge is to know how to interpret his time at the school.

From a very early stage, Géricault appears to have rejected the raison d’être of this institution, which was to train Prix de Rome winners. In 1826, Louis Vitet claimed that Ary Scheffer “as a student, along with Géricault and a handful of others, dared to request to be declared unworthy of the competition”.21 These two students of Guérin must therefore be seen as true opponents of the system. What should one think of this? The reality of the situation is, once again, far more complex than would appear.

The same is true of Géricault’s supposed participation in the Prix de Rome of 1812.

Once again, the first reference to this dates from 1826. The author of an article signed with the initials S.A. alleges that Géricault had been “rejected from the sketching competition because he was a hopeless student, a creator of unworthy daubs, and more importantly, a dangerous innovator”.22 However, why would a dangerous “innovator” attempt the Prix de Rome, a symbol of academic dogmatism? Oprescu, in 1927, provided an answer to this question – because Géricault was “Guérin’s docile pupil”.23 But let us reverse this assertion and suppose that his participation at the competition was driven by a will to provoke, by interest, by curiosity, or even by his own amusement. The fact remains that Géricault specialists are unable to come to a definitive understanding of the motives behind his participation in the competition, as they lack the archival evidence and, crucially, the drawings for the Prix de Rome of 1812. When the Getty Museum, Los Angeles, recently acquired (in late 1995) one of Géricault’s sketchbooks, dated 1812–14, the gap was partially filled.24 Several small drawings depict the subject of that year’s competition, Ulysses’s massacre of Penelope’s suitors. With regard to the Prix de Rome of 1816, we have better sources and we have known with certainty (since 1937) that he participated, only to fail at the second examination.25 As in 1812, we have some drawings by Géricault for the third and final examination – to which he was denied access – depicting Oenone refusing to save Paris during the Siege of Troy. This time, however, they are not hastily drawn sketches, but superb studies. Those who see Géricault as wholly a product of academic teaching26 regard his participation in the competition is a strong argument

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in their favour. The “docile” Géricault had only one dream – to be part of the artistic establishment.

The participation of Guérin’s students at these various competitions should not obscure what was really at stake at the Salon exhibitions. Shortly after the opening of his atelier, Guérin was represented there by one of his most turbulent pupils. In 1812, at the age of twenty-one, Géricault displayed his Portrait équestre de M. D.*** (currently known as the Charging Chasseur of the Louvre), which was destined to receive a gold medal and was noticed by the critics. One of them, C.P. Landon, remarked, maybe to make a point, on the artist’s short apprenticeship and on the name of his master.

He wrote: “This portrait has given rise to intense interest, as it is the first work by a young painter who, we hear, has been handling the brush for only two years. He is a student of M. Guérin’s.”27 Furthermore, in 1819 Kératry identified Guérin’s influence in The Raft of the Medusa: the group of the “old mariner” holding “the body of his son on his lap” reminded him of the The Return of Marcus Sextus by Guérin.28 In his letter to Louis David, Henri de Latouche went even further: “One may find fault with some influences. In some of the characters we feel that we recognize aspects of the Marcus Sextus by Guérin; such similarities may easily be put down to the analogy of their sentiments; this observation may well provide Mr Géricault with an excuse, but it remains unacceptable for many of the other students, whose paintings this year are nothing more than pastiches, and who failed even to make the effort of disguising their plagiarism”.29 Kératry and Latouche were right, but they could have added that, for the famous father and son group, Géricault also drew inspiration from the painting Guérin presented at the Salon of 1808, Napoleon Bonaparte pardoning the Rebels at Cairo (Musée national du château,Versailles).30 The question, of course, is to determine where the line between plagiarism and homage lies. That is something for each of us to decide.

Going back to Guérin’s teaching, the question is his method. In truth, we know little on this point, although it is clear that the transfer of knowledge happened very much in the same way as in other workshops: various painting and drawing techniques were taught, copies were made of ancient works, models posed for the painters, and the master corrected the final rendering. The last step is, quite naturally, the most important, as it determines the nature of the relationship between the one who knows and the one who has yet to learn. In this perspective, Théodore Géricault’s time in Guérin’s workshop is highly significant, because it marked this relationship for ever. But, here again, we have to show a measure of doubt and question our sources. First seen as an excellent professor, Guérin later became a terrible teacher, and indeed a poor painter. What does this suggest? Did Guérin’s teaching really decline so radically? Maybe so, but to be honest, we lack documentary evidence. What we do know for sure is that the opinion of those who tried to explain the relationship between the master and the pupil changed radically. Needless to say, most of these hagiographers knew nothing of the reality of this relationship.

However, they quickly agreed to condemn it. In this context, the obituary written by Mahul the day after Géricault’s death offers a welcome change: Accepted at the school of Mr Guérin, he made very fast and remarkable progress.

His master, who recognized in Géricault the signs of a burning imagination, did not try to hinder his rise: he allowed his wild talent to follow the course of his inspirations, which were at time audacious, but always full of life and warmth.31

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A second and last exception can be found with Auguste Jal, who wrote in 1828 that Géricault “became the pride of his master”.32 However, a note published by L’Héritier in the month of August of the same year in the Biographie universelle et portative des contemporains places the final nail in the coffin of any perceived pride! At the height of Romanticism such a harmonious relationship was indeed inconceivable. Politically, its very existence had to be denied: In 1811, he attended Guérin’s [school], where he stayed for two years. During his studies he showed the early signs of remarkable originality, in which the influence of his master played no role. In all fairness, we should mention that this distinguished painter and man of taste, whose shyness kept his genius within the confines of classical conventions, only trained students who, with disdain for the yoke of tradition, were the brave stepping stones of the new school we call Romanticism, for lack, apparently, of a better word. Indeed, Mr Guérin played no part in the system and inspirations of the likes of Géricault, Dreux-Dorcy, Delacroix, Scheffer or Colin [sic].33 It has been said that the only distinguishing feature he discerned in Géricault was the fact that he was an extravagant who would never come to anything. And so, with very little encouragement from his master, and feeling bored with the workshop, Géricault decided one day to take his palette down to the Courbevoye barracks to paint some horses .... Upon his return to Paris, he immediately showed his studies to his master, who, for the first time, realised the immense talent of the young man. His comrades were even more struck by his talent, and from then on Géricault had a workshop reputation.34 In the alleged words of Guérin, then, Géricault was nothing but “an extravagant who would never come to anything”. In 1836, it was Darroux’s turn to cast blame, this time on Guérin’s students: “He was considered by his fellow pupils as a young man without means and without a future”35. In other words, he was seen as ‘a lost cause’.

Again, in 1836, Louis Batissier, who was soon to publish the first fundamental study on Géricault (in 1841), asked Lebrun to gather his recollections on his former classmate and to put them into words. Luckily, his report and final letter have survived. There can be no doubt about the fact that Lebrun was at the origin of the dark picture drawn of the Guérin-Géricault relationship: He was working in Guérin’s workshop, and he could not have chosen a worse master. Guérin, who struggled and toiled to produce works that were so calculated and so detailed, was not a good fit for a such a wild painter, for whom inspiration was everything. Guérin did not think much of him, and told him so. One day, Géricault asked to be allowed to copy one of his paintings. Guérin told him that he would be incapable of such a copy and, with the graciousness he was known for, advised him to give up painting as it was not something he was born to do.

This opinion, which today seems extraordinary in every way, did not discourage Géricault. It had occurred to us that Guérin, with his words of disapproval, had in fact given into the entreaties made to him by members of Géricault’s family, who were dismayed to see him carried by his artistic ambitions along a very different career path than the one they had hoped for him.36

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fig. 3 Théodore Géricault Torse d’homme, le bras gauche levé X-ray photograph © Lumière Technology fig. 4 Théodore Géricault Torse d’homme, le bras gauche levé Reverse of the canvas, showing the original lining

Pierre Guérin’s harsh words Lebrun’s judgement appears to be final, although he did admit that Guérin might have been following the wishes of Géricault’s family. In 1841, Batissier accepted Lebrun’s explanation and reported that Guérin had, in fact, recognised that “there was in Géricault the stuff of three or four painters”.37 These opinions of Guérin are most interesting and have drawn the attention of all Géricault biographers. It was La Garenne who first mentioned the harsh words. In 1838, he wrote: He worked at Guérin’s workshop, but was never his pupil. Nonetheless, the artist always listened to the advice of his master. He would often come to him with his studies of horses, but their heavy and rough texture and nervous lines caused the lukewarm professor some concern: ‘I understand nothing of your method,’ the master would say. ‘I am appalled by that colour, these haphazard effects and these light-dark contrasts have me believe that you only ever paint by moonlight.’ Géricault tried in vain to convince his master of the power that such colours could give to certain subjects. Guérin would only double the force of his attacks, and the better to drive home the fact that he felt that his pupil’s art was turgid, told him: ‘Your academies bear as much resemblance to nature as a

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violin case to a violin’. Harsh words, to be sure, that would better apply to some of the techniques we see today. However, these comments changed nothing of the artist’s ambitions. With little encouragement from his master, but relentlessly and instinctively drawn to representations of equestrian life, Géricault spent much of his time at the stables.38 Where did La Garenne get his information from? No one knows for sure. It probably came from Géricault’s friends or Guérin’s former pupils. It should be borne in mind that those sentences were printed for the first time some 28 years after the facts. Later still, in 1881, Delaborde had a new one to add: Géricault was studying in the workshop of the wise painter of The Return of Marcus Sextus, in the days when he was feverishly completing his Charging Chasseur and his Wounded Cuirassier. Guérin, who was not in the least scandalized by the apparent infidelities of his wild pupil, wanted to grant him the freedom and means to explore and find his own limits. ‘Géricault,’ he wrote one day, ‘is simmering. He is a generous liqueur that must be left to ferment before being bottled, or he will tear everything apart.’39 Further details are provided by Montfort, Géricault’s former apprentice, who shared them with Charles Clément in 1865. It is worth remembering that Montfort was not present at the time of the scenes he describes:

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I have it from Henriquel Dupont, the famous engraver who had worked in his youth in M. Guérin’s workshop at the same time as M. Géricault, that his influence over the students was so strong that many of them had started imitating his style, to the point where the master complained openly. ‘Why are you trying to imitate him?’ Mr Guérin used to say, referring to Géricault’s unique way of seeing nature: ‘Let him be! He has inside him the stuff of three or four painters, which is more than I can say for you’.

These words of praise by Guérin are attested at the same time Montfort was writing of Géricault’s respect for the painter of The Return of Marcus Sextus that “M. Géricault maintained a lifelong admiration for his master”,40 despite the fact he was famously dismissed from Guérin’s personal workshop, on the occasion when Géricault had been allowed to copy his Offering to Asclepius. Naturally, Charles Clément insisted on the happy nature of this relationship: And Géricault was grateful to Guérin, and had a profound respect for him, sentiments which lasted throughout his life. He never failed to consult him whenever he had completed a work of any importance .... When the Medusa was nearing completion, Géricault became very anxious. As a respectful, rather than submissive, disciple of Guérin, he paid him a visit to ask him to come and see his work. The creator of The Return of Marcus Sextus did not need to be begged; Géricault was alone with [his friend] M. Jamar. He stayed for nearly an hour, gave praise, cast blame, spoke much of the artist’s line, and, all in all, was not dissatisfied. Géricault walked him ceremoniously back to the door, and, when he had carefully closed the door behind him, started dancing around the workshop, still holding his palette and brush-holder, telling his student: ‘Jamar, it’s like you and me: he is my master, and I am the apprentice’. M. Jamar wanted to discuss Guérin’s observations. Géricault answered that they made a lot of sense and that he would know what to draw from his remarks.41 How should we interpret this deference for Guérin? With caution certainly. Once again, we should examine the factors in play. As time has passed, these have become too simplistic and rather caricatured. Géricault had respect for his master because he was a closet academic painter! Régis Michel was a vocal denouncer of this politicoaesthetic masquerade.42 In January, 1940, a text published by a far-right newspaper provides an eloquent example of what ideology can do when it takes hold of the likes of Guérin and Géricault: Géricault, whose short life was shrouded in mystery and shadow, did not play the role that critics have long claimed – that of a precursor, even initiator for Delacroix. Their temperaments were in radical opposition, as were their techniques. Géricault was utterly devoid of lyricism but nurtured, despite the extravagant excesses of his daily life, a surprising respect for the hierarchy of styles and stale balance that the Académie was so desperate to uphold. He lacked, to the point of disbelief, any rebellious spirit. There is a reason why he accepted Guérin’s teachings and his influence and why he showed the elderly David and the young Ingres heartfelt deference.43

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These denials of Géricault’s genius echo, in part, the comments made by Léon Rosenthal in 1905 and in 1924.44 In both instances, the famous art historian claimed that Géricault never had any intention to rebel. This attack – if it can be deemed such – emanated this time from a member of the socialist party and columnist for L’Humanité.45 If there is any lesson, big or small, to draw from all this, it is the absolute necessity of accepting all these contradictions. Was it indeed not possible for Géricault to feel, without any foible, both deference for Guérin and the need to pursue, with absolute independence, his own path? Should we not free ourselves from the oftrepeated scenario whereby a master destroys his pupil and a pupil destroys his master?

For the sake of clarity, and sticking only to contemporary sources, one should recall that Guérin appealed twice to Vivant Denon on behalf of his pupil, who was facing temporary or definitive exclusion from the imperial museum.46 The first instance was the consequence of a violent argument between Géricault and Louvre guards who asked him to return his amanuensis card (the incident occurred sometime between October 1811 and February 1812, during Vivant Denon’s Italian mission),47 and the second occurred in May 1812, when “Mr Jerico” verbally and physically assaulted a young student in the Grande Galerie of the Louvre. On 20 September 1816 Guérin wrote some flattering lines about his former student, who was preparing to travel to Florence: “I take advantage of my student, Mr Géricault’s visit to Italy, to remind you of me. I would be very much obliged if you would contribute to making the short sojourn of Mr Géricault in Florence as useful and instructive as possible. You will find him most deserving of your efforts. In every aspect he is a student for whom one holds the highest hopes, and for whom one would like to see these hopes fulfilled.”48 Was this merely an effort of politeness on the part of Guérin? We do not believe so. Guérin’s correspondence and contemporary testimonies draw a picture of a man who subtly balanced benevolence, severity and self-criticism.

Géricault’s academic portraits according to the archives In 1868, Charles Clément, Géricault’s first cataloguer, described the young student’s apprenticeship and his relation with the then mandatory academie exercise thus: Géricault at Guérin’s workshop In order to improve his skills and master his art, Géricault would think up difficulties that he would then overcome with rare ability, a tour de force many of his friends had seen him pull off on numerous occasions. Instead of merely copying, he would invert; if the model had his right arm raised, for instance, he would paint the left one. He used much more colour then than he did later. He liked the fresh and pink tones of the great painter of Antwerp [Rubens]. He would add volume and texture to his work, and his fellow students called him ‘the pastry maker’. Isabey came up with a variation on the same theme, dubbing him ‘the cook of Rubens’.49 The “rare ability”, the subtle effects of volume, the sculptural vigour of his brush-strokes, the pinkish tone reminiscent of Rubens, the rendering of the flesh and shadows seen in Torse d’homme, le bras gauche levé, its audacious composition (the

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tension of the body, the energy of the pose, the shadow engulfing the left arm), all perfectly fit Clément’s description of the manner in which Géricault painted nudes.

Although Clément makes no mention of our Torse d’homme, he hints at the fact that there were many such paintings that he had not described or included in his catalogue raisonné: Studies based on the model Many studies of live models that Géricault completed during his time at Guérin’s workshop can be found in collections. Like his copies after the Old Masters, they are generally full of beauty, energy and frankness, and show a generous, clever, personal execution and rich and powerful colours that he mastered from the early stages of his career. They may be mere student exercises, so to speak, but they bear his undeniable mark.

Clément, in his own words, limits his mentions to three Studies based on a model (in the Triqueti, His de la Salle and Binder collections) and concludes as follows: “there are three or four similar works in the MM. Marcille collection”.50 At the end of his book, in his catalogue, Clément lists a total of eight such studies (one with Leconte, three with Marcille, one with Triqueti, one with Binder and one with His de la Salle), the largest of which measured 80 × 64 cm. Finally, Clément lists an Academie that he was unable to locate, confirming that Géricault also painted studies in smaller formats: [n°] 12. Academie. Study of a Male Nude. - Delacroix sale, February 1864, 200 fr. (n° 226 of the catalogue.)

H., 28. – 21 cent.51 In 1978, Philippe Grunchec was the first to attempt a catalogue of the academic studies that can be attributed to Géricault during his time with Pierre Guérin.

He catalogued the studies included in the Leconte (with the note “pending confirmation”), Charlet, Triqueti, Quinto-Valdelomar, Dubaut and VilleneuveBargemont collections. He identified a total of six studies. Grunchec advanced the hypothesis (and was probably right) that the Study of a Male Nude included in the Delacroix sale did not date from the 1811–12 period but was instead from the period of The Race of the Riderless Horses. The smaller painting therefore dates from 1817.52 In 1983, Lorenz Eitner, going against the accepted chronology, made the not altogether convincing argument that most or all of Géricault’s known académies were much later than previously thought: Although there is a strong likelihood that Géricault painted academies during his time with Guérin, from 1810–11, the ones that survived were painted when he had already left the workshop and, based on their style, date from 1815–16 or even later.

In short, the work of Géricault the student is mostly unknown.53 In 1987, Germain Bazin undertook a catalogue of academic studies that had escaped Clément’s efforts and examined those that had been wrongfully attributed to Géricault over the years. For the time Géricault spent under Guérin, he accepted

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the académies included in the Binder, Triqueti, Marcille, Charlet, Comairas, Robinson, Quinto-Valdelomar and Renand collections, totalling eight paintings (which are not necessarily the same ones that Clément describes), and rejected more than thirty.54 Some years later, in 1992, bent on contradicting Clément and, more importantly, on rejecting the existence (despite any proof we may have)55 of good relations between Guérin and Géricault, Régis Michel claimed: A dubious tradition, started by Clément, attributes to Géricault the paternity of ‘numerous academies’. These attributions are wrong. Documentary evidence suggests that their production was limited. This is because the painter, who disliked tradition, had no appreciation for history painting, which earned him only censure, not only from Guérin, but also at the Prix de Rome.56 We have seen that the “numerous academies” were in fact only eight paintings.

It is rather a low tally. And as for the “documentary evidence” mentioned by Régis Michel, it paints a very different picture! In the inventory made some five months after Géricault’s death, the following mentions are made: [n°] 4. Ten canvases with studies of heads and other studies of the human form, estimated price fifteen francs. [n°] 5. four painted studies of nudes and models in military attire, estimated price twenty-five francs. … [n°] 18. six other sketched paintings and studies, estimated price twelve francs. [n°] 19. six other portrait studies and academic figures and composition, estimated price twenty francs. … [n°] 28. eight paintings, for the most part studies from life, estimated price ten francs. … [n°] 33. six paintings, academic study of Lyons, composition and landscapes, estimated price thirty francs. … [n°] 55. four sketch studies of figures and an old painting and coloured engraving, estimated price three francs.57 Although the descriptions included in the inventory are somewhat summary, they reveal that Géricault painted and kept in his workshop much more than eight ‘academies’. This fact is confirmed a few months later, in November 1824, by the sale catalogue following the death of the painter: Paintings and sketches by Géricault … [n°] 14. Twelve sketches: compositions and figure studies. [n°] 15. Forty academic portraits: studies of heads and portraits. … [n°] 17. Ten anatomical studies of the human body.58

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There is, however, nothing here to say that these academic studies date from his formative years under Guérin (1810–12). Géricault, as we know, would continue painting académies his entire life – for example, in 1817 in Rome, when he was envisaging a monumental painting of The Race of the Riderless Horses, and in 1818–19, when he was working on The Raft of the Medusa.

Géricault’s powerful academies include Male Torso with Raised Left Arm,59 c. 1812–13, Profile of a Male Torso with Raised Right Arm,60 c. 1811–12, Académie of a Standing Man with Arms Crossed,61 c. 1811–12, in the Bergé-Yves Saint Laurent collection, Académie of a Standing Man Holding a Stick,62 c. 1811–12, in the Musée des Beaux-Arts in Rouen, Back View of a Sitting Male Nude, also called The Castaway,63 c. 1815–16, in the Musées royaux des Beaux-Arts in Brussels, Male Nude Holding a Spear,64 c. 1815–16, in the National Gallery of Art in Washington (fig. 5), Study of a Male Nude, also called Sisyphus, or The Castaway,65 c. 1815–16, on loan from a private collection at the National Gallery in London, Académie of a Man Pulling a Rope, also called Fisher Towing a Boat with a Rope,66 c. 1816–17, at the Musée Bonnat-Helleu in Bayonne, and finally Study of a Male Nude for the Mossa,67 1817, in a private collection. To these should be added a recent rediscovery, the Académie in the Museum at Rochefort, lately cleaned and restored (fig. 6).68 This work was given to the museum in 1859 by the Parisian painter, miniaturist and collector Alexandre Fiocchi (1803–1893)69 and portrays Gerfant, one of Géricault’s preferred models. It was painted about 1810–12 and as such represents a further milestone in our understanding of the académies of this period.

Fully accepting Géricault's status as a history painter, it is easy to see that this “eastablished genre” was far from displeasing or disgusting to him, and that Régis Michel’s interpretations are quite mistaken. The list of académies painted by this major Romantic artist is far from being definitive. The inventory merits reopening, and all the pieces that have been attributed or rejected as Géricault’s work must be reexamined. As early as in 1926, Régamey wrote: Who were the artists who painted the numerous torsos attributed, often with good reason in terms of style, to Géricault, if they were not all painted by him?

Many of them boast a generous brush-stroke and beautiful texture. Géricault was not the only artist who preferred a firm and thick style. At the height of the Empire, there appears to have been some resurgence of sensuality among young painters, despite efforts to eradicate it under the Davidian reform. Sensuality had become a near-extinct feature in the great paintings, although it remained apparent in sketches and studies of the era, notably under the exceptional brush of Girodet.70

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Formal qualities and dating Is it possible to date the present Male Torso accurately?

At first glance, the painted surface is reminiscent of the period from 1810 to 1812. The predominant use of pink tones for the flesh and certainly the manner in which paint is applied remind us somewhat of Rubens, one of Géricault’s favourite painters. Upon seeing the young artist copying the Flemish masters “with such enthusiasm” Isabey called Géricault “a cook of Rubens”.71 The aesthetic audacity of his choice of model was noted in 1832 by Gustave Planche: Without the assiduous and preliminary study of Rubens, it would be difficult to understand the significance of the insurrection of the younger generation against David and his school. The energetic protests that multiplied against the The Intervention of the Sabine Women and the Leonidas at Thermopylae seem like mere skirmishes if one fails to comprehend the principles and rights that this revolution called for. When one forgets that the past justifies his audacity, it is easy to misunderstand the wisdom and scope of his ambitions.72

fig. 5 Théodore Géricault Male Nude Holding a Spear, c. 1815–16 Oil on canvas, 92 × 73 cm Washington, National Gallery of Art fig. 6 Théodore Géricault Étude de tête d’homme, d’après le modèle Gerfant, 1810–12 Oil on canvas, 62 × 48 cm Collections des musées municipaux de Rochefort, cliché Simon David/CARO

A decade later, in 1842, Charles Blanc added: “Géricault, having started his studies at the museum, quickly began to copy Rubens, an incredibly brave choice in those days. This is why he uses pink tones and mannerist forms, and why his bold approach strikes a dissonant chord within that sancta sanctorum of academic contouring, sculptural figures, wise men, heroes and Gods”.73

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As we have seen, in 1983 Lorenz Eitner claimed that most of the known and catalogued academies by Géricault did not date from his time with Guérin and concluded: “In short, we know nearly nothing of the work of Géricault the student”.74 We believe instead that the present Male Torso is one of the links we were so badly missing and is therefore a significant discovery.

The audacity for which Guérin reproached him would become a constant feature in Géricault’s future studies of live models. In my opinion, the Male Torso is a perfect example of his extraordinarily inventive talent (texture of the paint, audacity of the lighting, sculptural quality of the modelling), which, much later (20 February 1847), would be praised by Eugène Delacroix: “Dined with M. Moreau. Returned with Couture. He reasons extraordinarily well .… I told him how Géricault used the model – that is to say working freely and yet requiring the pose to be held exactly.

We both exclaimed in admiration at Géricault’s great talent.”75 Within this context, the Rochefort Study of a Male Head presents, from a purely formal point of view, very relevant qualities – a closely cropped composition (the canvas has not been re-sized), a torso defined by sharp brushwork, paint built up and crafted as if with a chisel. A wild boldness, a wholly sculptural verve, combined with a very subtle play of light, all seem to illustrate Clement’s words: “At the time Géricault coloured more [vigorously] than later in his career. He loved the fresh, pink tones of the great painter of Antwerp. He favoured a thick impasto.”

Géricault’s aesthetics in this picture are a fascinating field of study, as is his unique approach to the anatomy, with its tight framing, the handling of the brush-strokes, the chiaroscuro and finally “the appearance of life”.76 Alfred Darcel wrote in 1890, when a male académie by Géricault was put up for sale:77 In the aforementioned galleries of E. Petit, the contents of the landscape painter Jules Dupré’s workshop have been sold. Among the beautiful drawings and some paintings, somewhat dulled by age, there were two works by Géricault.

One of them is a portrait of Jamar, one of his fellow painters and friends.

Slightly larger than real size, the model is depicted in three-quarter view, wearing his city attire. The freehandling of the disegno is to an extent reminiscent of Gros’s paintings, and the powerful pose is characteristic of the master’s work. This wellknown painting went under the hammer for 6,000.00 francs.

The other is a life-size academic study of a half-length male figure. The lighting is highly original, with the head hidden in the shadows, apart from the tip of the nose catching the light. It is a beautiful study, featuring thick and powerful brushstrokes. But is it by Géricault? We have heard of an attribution to Pagnest, the author of the magnificent portrait of M. de Nanteuil, at the Louvre, and of a torso at the École des Beaux-Arts. The colour of the académie in the Jules Dupré sale is slightly lighter than is characteristic of Géricault, whose tones are somewhat more sombre. However, the technique is as broad and vigorous as Géricault’s. Whoever painted it, it is a truly remarkable study and, despite the subject, was sold for the very respectable price of 3,500.00 francs.78 This académie has been in Moscow since 1925, at the Pushkin Museum. Philippe Grunchec in 1978 omitted to mention it, and Bazin, in 1987, attributed the study to one of the “unknown artists”, ignoring its prestigious 1890 provenance.79 I have not been

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fig. 7 Amable Pagnest Torse d’homme, le bras gauche levé, 1813 Oil on canvas, 100 × 80 cm Paris, École nationale supérieure des Beaux-Arts © Pascal Labreuche

able to examine this beautiful study and therefore have to remain cautious but, as we have mentioned, the issue should be reconsidered.

The artist Darcel compared Géricault to is Amable Pagnest (1790–1819), a fellow student at the École des Beaux-Arts, whose work inspired the present painting.

Indeed, the context of this Torse d'homme, le bras gauche levé by Géricault provides important clues as to the date of its creation, around 1813. It cannot be older, since Géricault drew upon the Torso that earned Pagnest the Male Torso award, also called the “Prix de la demi-figure”, on 19 August 1813 (fig. 7).80 Chesneau tells us that Pagnest’s model was called Leduc. He is resting on his elbow, “his body reclining heavily, on a large step. His head is resting on the model’s right fist, the left arm is raised very high and the open and upturned left hand rests on the hair. The style of the head and arms is similar to previous académies, the difference being that on the chest the lively brushwork, faceted, accented, flattened, has been executed with a larger paintbrush. On the forehead, the transparent and elegant quality of the half-tone is in strong opposition to the highly textured work in the highlights.”81 According to Chesneau, the painting was completed in six days, in accordance with the rules. This is proof that “Pagnest, when he felt so inclined, could complete an excellent painting as fast as his fellow students. But this result, although it drew widespread admiration, was not satisfactory to him. Perfection had become his ideal and, although he sometimes managed to achieve it, it was so absolute that he never felt satisfied with his work. Hence the constantly renewed and relentless efforts he put into his art.”82 It is probably this striving for perfection that convinced the judges, “as a mark of satisfaction”, to grant him the “favour of retouching the work”.83

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We also know that it was a tradition at the École des Beaux-Arts to have the other students copy the winning work of art. This is one of the reasons why there are numerous unsigned copies, or copies that were formerly attributed to Géricault, of Pagnest’s Torso, which was described by Charles Blanc as an “admirable piece of work”.84 One appeared in the 1995 Nureyev sale,85 another was in the former Pach collection86 and two others were published by Bazin in 1987.87 Géricault’s present version is proof – in the absence of archival sources – that he still visited the École des Beaux-Arts as late as 1813 or 1814. It could also be hypothesized that he remained connected to this official institution until 1816, at which date the archives provide evidence that he took part in the initial competitions for the Prix de Rome. As mentioned above, we know of Géricault’s entry in the Grand Prix de Rome from a letter sent in 1826 to the editor of Le Globe and signed “S.A.” (could this be “Scheffer Ary”, a fellow student of Géricault’s at Guérin’s workshop?).

The author of the letter was critical of the Grand Prix de Rome: “In this competition, nothing good will become of a student whose work shows any sign of original talent; Géricault never made it past the first round. Even at the time he was painting The Charging Chasseur, The Wounded Cuirassier and when he began work on The Raft of the Medusa, he was rejected from all the sketching competitions as a worthless student, producer of vile daubs, and, more importantly, as a dangerous innovator.”88 By mentioning The Charging Chasseur of the 1812 salon, “S.A.” gives some credence to the notion that Géricault entered the 1812 contest, as well as those in 1814 and 1818.

Such claims have long been deemed baseless (especially that relating to 1818) as they contradict our ‘modern’ and mythical view of a fiercely independent Géricault, free of the constraints of a traditional artistic education.89

Amable Pagnest and Géricault: An aesthetic brotherhood uniting two Romantic artists Amable Pagnest was accepted in 1805 into the workshop of Anne-Louis Girodet, an artist who had come to prominence following the success of his Scène de déluge.90 By 28 July 1805, the young Pagnest was enrolled at the École des Beaux-Arts.91 Girodet was quite quick, it appears, to pick up on the qualities of his student, who was said to be of a “sombre character, and had little patience for pleasantries, did not submit to workshop duties, and refused to accept the servitudes imposed on apprentices”.92 Desirous of winning the Prix de Rome, he later went on to work under Louis David.

Like a Prodigal Son, towards the end of the year 1810 he would return to his former master. Girodet then entrusted him with the completion of a copy of his Entombment of Atala currently at the Musée de Montargis. He eventually failed at the Prix de Rome of 1812 and 1813 (enrolled as a student of David’s).93 Pagnest would die prematurely in 1819. That same year, Girodet with his Pygmalion in Love with his Statue and Géricault with his Scenes of a Shipwreck – the censured title of The Raft of the Medusa – were the stars of the Salon, where two respective aesthetics, by now irreconcilable, clashed, thereby marking the official birth of revolutionary Romanticism.

Despite a life cut short too early, Pagnest seems to have had a profound impact on his contemporaries. From the very few testimonies that survive of the painter of

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The Raft of the Medusa, we know that Géricault clearly stated, in 1819, that he was an admirer of Pagnest’s talents. Was this not because he had had the time to study his work? The present Male Torso certainly seems to be proof of this.

As an homage to the dead painter, those close to Pagnest exhibited once again his portrait of M. de Nanteuil Lanorville (which entered the Louvre collection in 1830), noticed and praised by critics who visited the Salon of 1817. A short notice, inserted in the Salon’s brochure of 1819, gives a short description of a perfectionist artist: Amable-Louis-Claude Pagnest, a natural talent trained under the guidance of our greatest painters, did not live past his 28th year. An extraordinary drive for perfection, the result of which is seen in this portrait, explains the small number of works he left us, some three or four portraits and a couple of studies.94 The art critic Émeric David, delighted to see in Pagnest a quintessentially assiduous student, used the artist to glorify his constant and obsessional concern with perfect imitation. Pagnest can therefore logically be seen as the “victim of his hard work”,95 an irrefutable proof of his artistic honesty.

The qualities of the young artist were further glorified by the critic of the highly royalist Drapeau Blanc: “We heard from a man of spirit who cherished him an anecdote relating to the portrait we have just mentioned: tired of the endless sessions he had held for his indefatigable painter, M. D** struggled to concentrate on the pose he was asked to take. Pagnest noticed this and told his model: ‘M. D**’, he said, ‘your hand is falling asleep!’ This phrase, which is more of a quip, gives an idea of Pagnest’s scrupulous approach and his constant dissatisfaction with himself. It also explains why he left only a small number of finished works.”96 The ardour of this young man, however, failed to impress Delécluze, who found it somewhat excessive to give so much importance and effort to simple portraits: It is true that when a painter imitates to that degree of perfection, it would be unfair not to mention his merits. But, since the purpose of my comments is to explain what can be harmful and what can be advantageous to art, it should be said that Pagnest, from the moment he finished his training, completed only three portraits, and that M. D*** sat through eighty sessions for the last. It is clear that only unique and fortuitous considerations could bring a man to make such a sacrifice of his own time.

The study of the portrait is most excellent: it brings one back to the truth, which is the fundamental component of all imitation art. But it should not be abused.97 In other words, Delécluze could not understand how Pagnest had sacrificed his life to the sole study of portrait painting, when he should have spent it on the only exercise of worth, which was, of course, history painting. With much clairvoyance, this art critic and former pupil of David condemned a perversion of genres that may well have been instigated by Girodet, who dedicated a large part of his life and career strategy to promoting his own production of portraits, and claimed in one of his poems: “Only the history painter is the king of the portrait”.98 By using his immense talent to work solely on the features of his contemporaries, Pagnest, ‘king of the portrait’, more than Girodet and Gros, was at risk of weakening

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and endangering the hegemony of the history painting, an aesthetic hierarchy that the new generation wanted to bring down, using their adversaries’ weapons against them.

It should come as no surprise, then, that Géricault, visiting the Salon in 1819, had “high praise” for the portrait painted by the recently deceased artist.99 This significant testimony comes from the painter Montfort, a former apprentice of Géricault’s, who, at Clément’s request,100 around 1863–65, gathered his recollections: During the 1819 exhibition, the portrait of M. de Nanteuil by Pagnest was on display. M. Géricault was full of praise for the painting, and as I was myself struck by this work: I went so far as to say that it resembled nature more than art, and that I had never seen anything by Van Dyck that made such an impression on me, to see if there was anything in Géricault’s demeanour to indicate that he agreed with me.

He simply said: ‘Oh Montfort, Van Dyck’s work is so beautiful!’ and I understood then that I had understood.

He held the horse in Van Dyck’s The Elector of Brandenburg, currently on display at the Louvre, in the highest esteem, but I do remember that he once listed the three most beautifully rendered horses he had seen in his life – one by Gros, one by Rubens, and one by Raphael. I believe the horse in question was part of Raphael’s fresco of Attila at the Vatican.101 Charles Clément recalls the same episode with some variations: During the 1819 exhibition, the portrait of M. de Nanteuil by Pagnest was on display. M. Géricault was full of praise for the painting, and I myself was struck by this work, so I went so far as to say that it resembled nature more than art, and that I had never seen anything by Van Dyck that made such an impression on me.

As I tried to see if anything in his demeanour indicated that he agreed with me, he said simply: ‘Oh! Montfort, Van Dyck’s work is so beautiful!’, and I understood that he would not sacrifice Van Dyck for Pagnest. He held the horse in the Flemish master’s The Elector of Brandenburg in great esteem. The most beautiful horses he had ever seen in a painting were one by Gros, one by Rubens and one by Raphael (as far as I remember, it is included in the Attila fresco of the Vatican).102 With regard to Van Dyck, it should be mentioned that Musigny, a great friend of Géricault’s, owned a work by Pagnest, a copy of an original kept at the Louvre, which shows that he too had the same interest in the Flemish artist: “Paintings/ Pagnest/ – A beautiful copy of a Van Dyck male portrait”.103 Chesneau describes it too: “This copy, the only one I have seen, is treated as a sketch, and then painted in layers with a force, a decision and enthusiasm worthy of Géricault’s brushwork”.104 The painter of The Raft of the Medusa and soon afterwards of the series of Portraits of the Insane certainly saw in the portrait of Nanteuil-Lanorville, displayed at the 1819 Salon, an example of hyper-sophisticated brush-strokes creating an illusionist rendering – a pictorial ‘Moi-Peau’ – which, following in the footsteps of Rembrandt, Rubens and Van Dyck, conveyed a deep psychology transcending any social representation. In 1914, Louis Dimier was quite right in saying that there were “unique family ties” between the works of Pagnest and those of Géricault.105

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As early as 1814, Miel had clearly identified and condemned the dangerous method used by Pagnest in his portrait of the General de Salle: The artist, instead of reproducing nature, proceeds only by flattened layers. This affectation tries to pass as science; but it is an affront to good taste. Shapes, when marked with a multitude of facets, can only be hard, rough and of a hammered texture. It appears that Mr Pagnest is intent on perpetuating the traces of this horrible disease, from which a vaccine has miraculously delivered us.106 Five years later, in 1819, Miel renews his criticism: “all his surfaces are a series of facets and his work seems to have been done with a hammer”. Georges Wildenstein, quoting these comments in 1963, claimed they would apply just as well to cubist art.107 In addition to Miel’s criticisms, which underline and summarize Pagnest’s artistic perversion, one should mention the comments made by Delpech in 1814: This artist has several works on display in this exhibition; but visitors prefer the portrait of a senior officer (n° 729) displayed at the entrance of the Museum’s gallery. From a distance, this portrait creates a wonderful illusion and is a perfect imitation of life. On closer examination, a multitude of small surfaces and tones tire the eye, and make for a rather distasteful effect. This petty technique is in complete opposition to the grand style of the great masters, which is the only style worth imitating.108 But of course, it is that very multitude of facets that so many art critics found distasteful that fascinated Géricault, and that fascinates us today. A close examination of the portrait of General de Salle (kept in the Louvre’s storerooms) gives an idea of the incredible audacity driving this accumulation of volumes.109 The forehead, the centre of thought, imitates a wrinkled skin that stands out thanks to the dark background, forcing the onlooker, caught by this pictorial artifice, into a strange and unsettling dialogue.

Without entering into the myths of modernism, it seems clear that the obsessional nature of Pagnest’s art and personality places him among the ‘monomaniac’ portrait artists who were one day so bold as to replace a smooth and porcelain-like touch with something more visible, constructed with coarse brush-strokes – that “seems to have been done with a hammer”. Faced with Pagnest’s portraits and powerful académies, Girodet, Gros and later Géricault could only revere this genius who, while applying classical theories regarding imitation to the letter, pushed them to their limits.

It is therefore a true aesthetic brotherhood that can be seen in this beautiful Torse d'homme, le bras gauche levé by Théodore Géricault. A new chapter in the history of art must be written and the time has come for a serious study of Pagnest’s body of work and Théodore Géricault’s académies.

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technical analysis • Painting cleaned and restored in 2014 by Mme Laurence Baron-Callegari (French national heritage restorer, IFROA graduate) • Report by M. Pascal Labreuche, dated 15 July 2014, on the black ink stamp on the reverse of the canvas • Painting examined in 2015 by Lumière Technology: photographic multispectral examination at 240 million pixels – raking light; ultraviolet; D65 colours; false colours; inverted false colours; infra-red 900nm; infra-red 1000nm; emissiography; LAM; X-ray

notes 1 Frédéric Chappey, ‘1811 ou le début des “Trois Glorieuses”. Éléments pour une étude de l’enseignement de la sculpture des Beaux-Arts au début du XIXe siècle’, in Aux Grands Hommes, David d’Angers, exh. cat., Fondation de Coubertin, Saint-Rémy-lesChevreuse, 12 September–11 November 1990, p. 97, note 72; Bruno Chenique, ‘Géricault: une vie’, in Géricault, exh. cat., Galeries nationales du Grand Palais, Paris, 10 October 1991–6 January 1992, vol. I, p. 266.

2 Christian Michel, The ‘Célèbre Watteau’, Geneva, Droz, 2008, p. 16. See also François Duret-Robert, ‘Qui décide de l’authenticité des tableaux’, Connaissance des arts, no. 407, January 1986, p. 31, and André Chastel, ‘La voyante, l’expert et la peinture’, Le Monde, 12 December 1975, in Chastel, Reflets et regards. Articles du Monde, preface by Marc Fumaroli, foreword by P.-M. Grand-Chastel, Paris, Éditions de Fallois, 1992, pp. 81–84.

3 Maria Teresa Caracciolo, ‘Éditorial’, Les Cahiers d’Histoire de l’Art, no. 9, 2011, p. 5.

4 Pascal Griener, La République de l’œil.

L’Expérience de l’art au siècle des Lumières, Paris, Odile Jacob, 2010, pp. 92, 94–130.

5 Adolphe Tabarant, Manet et ses œuvres, Paris, Gallimard, 1947, p. 531.

6 Evidently, there is a large body of Géricault’s work included in the inventory that Clément never saw. With regard to the large gaps and biased views in Clément’s investigation, see Philippe Grunchec, ‘Géricault : problèmes de méthode’, Revue de l’art, no. 43, 1979, pp. 37–58, and Bruno Chenique, ‘Le dilemme géricaldien de Charles Clément’, in Au cœur de la création romantique. Études pour le Radeau de la Méduse, exh. cat., Musée d’art

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Roger Quillot, Clermont-Ferrand, 2 June– 2 September 2012, pp. 71–87.

7 Curtius, quoted by Dieter Wuttke, ‘L’Hercule à la croisée des chemins d’Erwin Panofsky : l’ouvrage et son importance pour l’histoire des sciences de l’art’, Review Panofsky, conference held at the Musée du Louvre by the Cultural Service from 19 November to 17 December 2001, under the direction of Matthias Waschek, Paris, Beaux-arts de Paris les éditions, 2008, p. 109.

8 André Chastel, ‘L’attribution : l’œuvre d’art et son auteur’, Le Monde, 4 September 1969, in Chastel 1992, p. 79.

9 François Duret-Robert,‘Qui décide de l’authenticité des tableaux’, Connaissance des arts, no. 407, January 1986, p. 36.

10 For more on this, see Nicolas Poussin. La Fuite en Égypte, 1657, exh. cat. Musée des Beaux-Arts de Lyon, Paris, Somogy, 2010, and more specifically ibid. Pascal Cotte, ‘La Fuite en Égypte : apports de la technique multispectrale haute définition (Lumiere Technology)’, pp. 198–213.

11 Guy Isnard, Vrai ou faux, Paris, Éditions Robert Laffont, 1974, p. 214.

12 Ibid., p. 220.

13 Grunchec 1979, p. 55.

14 Eugène Delacroix, Journal, new complete edition, ed. Michèle Hannoosh, Paris, José Corti, 2009, vol. II, p. 1412.

15 Frédric Elsig, Charlotte Guichard, Peter Parshall, Philippe Sénéchal, Philippe Bordes, ‘Le connoisseurship et ses révisions méthodologiques’, Perspective. La revue de l’INHA, no. 3, September 2009, p. 349.

16 Regarding the issue of signatures in general, see Jacques Foucart-Borville, ‘Législation.

La notion d’attribution en matière d’œuvre d’art devant les Tribunaux français ’, Revue de l’Art, no. 42, 1978, p. 107.

17 Unless I am mistaken, the exact date remains unknown. On 29 August 1810, Louis Hercule Sisco was the first student of Guérin’s to be enrolled as at the École des Beaux-Arts (Chenique 1991–92, vol. I, p. 266, col. 2). One year later, on 9 August 1811, with the enrolment of Ary Sheffer, Guérin’s name appears for the first time in the registry of issued ‘work cards’ of the Imperial Library (Bibliothèque nationale de France, département des estampes, Ye. 126.

Réserve).

18 Fortuné Guyot de Fère, Annuaire des artistes français, Paris, 1832, p. 221.

19 Arlette Sérullaz and Josette Bottineau, ‘Guérin et Delacroix’, Le petit journal des

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27 28

29

30 31

32

grandes expositions, no. 236, Musée Eugène Delacroix, Paris, 24 June–21 September 1992, p. 2.

In Bordeaux on 5 July 1818, Guérin wrote to the wife of fellow artist Gérard: “By the way, if the prize is not awarded, I recommend my flock to the care of Gérard and rely on his friendship without prejudice, and on his great sense of justice” (Letters sent to Baron François Gérard, 2nd edition published by his nephew Baron Gérard, Paris, Quantin, 1886, vol. I, p. 243).

L.V. [Louis Vitet], ‘Beaux-Arts. Exposition au profit des Grecs (IVe article)’, Le Globe, vol. IV, no. 9, Saturday 2 September 1826, p. 45.

S.A., ‘Beaux-Arts. Exposition des élèves pour le prix de peinture. A M. le Rédacteur du Globe’, Le Globe, vol. IV, no. 6, Saturday 26 August 1826, p. 31.

Georges Oprescu, Géricault, Paris, La Renaissance du livre, 1927, p. 27. For more on the 1812 competition, see my essay ‘Géricault : une vie’, 1991–92, p. 267, col. 3 and p. 268, cols. 1 and 2.

For more on the acquisition of this notebook, see also Corréard and Savigny, ‘Le caleçon de Mr. Géricault, ou les dessous du marché de l’art’, La Méduse, feuille d’information de l’association des amis de Géricault, no. 3, March 1997, p. 2.

Marthe Kolb, Ary Scheffer et son temps, 1795– 1858, Paris, Boivin & Cie, 1937, p. 64; Lorenz Eitner, ‘Géricault’s “Dying Paris” and the Meaning of his Romantic Classicism’, Master Drawings, vol. I, no. 1, 1963, pp. 21–34.

Jacques Thuillier, ‘Réflexions sur Géricault’, in Géricault, exh. cat., Kamakura, Kyoto, Fukuoka, 31 October 1987–24 April 1988, p. 32.

C.-P. Landon, Salon de 1812, II, Paris, 1812, p. 20.

K[ératry], ‘Troisième lettre d’un vieil ami des arts à son ami’, Le Courrier, no. 71, 30 August 1819, p. 3.

A.F. [Henri de Latouche], ‘Huitième lettre’, Lettres à David, sur le Salon de 1819. Par quelques élèves de son école, Paris, 1819, p. 52.

Guérin depicted Vivant Denon in the scene in question.

A. Mahul, ‘Géricault ( Jean-Louis-ThéodoreAndré)’, Annuaire Nécrologique, année 1824, Paris, Ponthieu, 1825, p. 116.

Auguste Jal, ‘Géricault. Le Radeau de la Méduse’, in Joseph Lavallée, Galerie du Musée de France, engraved and published by Filhol, Paris, 1828, vol. XI, p. 1.

33 Unless I am mistaken, Colin was never Guérin’s student.

34 Anonymous [Louis-François L’Héritier], ‘Géricault ( Jean-Louis-Théodore-André)’, Biographie universelle et portative des contemporains, published under the direction of M. Vieilh de Boisjoslin (first published separately on 2 August 1828), Paris, V. de Boisjoslin et compagnie, éditeurs, 1830, vol. II, pp. 1861–62.

35 Victor Darroux, ‘Géricault ( JeanLouis-Théodore-André)’, Répertoire des connaissances usuelles. Dictionnaire de la conversation et de la lecture, Paris, BelinMandar, 1836, vol. XXX, p. 193.

36 Letter from Théodore Lebrun to Louis Batissier, Versailles, 6 April 1836, Paris, private collection, fols. 1 and 2; Germain Bazin, Théodore Géricault. Étude critique, documents et catalogue raisonné, vol. I, L’homme : biographie, témoignages et documents, Paris, Bibliothèque des arts, 1987, pp. 21–22, doc. 1. Slight differences between the final text and the report published by Maurice Tourneux should be mentioned (Tourneux, ‘Particularités intimes sur la vie et l’œuvre de Géricault’, Bulletin de la Société de l’Histoire de l’art français, 1912, p. 58).

37 Louis Batissier, abstract of the Revue du dix-neuvième siècle, Rouen, undated [1841], p. 4. Batissier’s article, known through a separate publication (printed in Rouen) is traditionally dated from 1842. A letter

by Alfred Dumesnil confirms that it was published during the month of July 1841 ( Jules Michelet, Correspondance générale, 1839–1842, texts collected, categorized and annotated by Louis Le Guillou, Paris, H. Champion, 1995, vol. III, p. 450).

38 De La Garenne, ‘Géricault ( Jean-LouisThéodore-André)’, Biographie Universelle, Ancienne et Moderne, Supplément, Paris, L.G. Michaud, 1838, vol. LXV, pp. 296–97.

39 Henri Delaborde, Institut de France. Académie des Beaux-Arts. Notice sur la vie et les ouvrages de M. Léon Cogniet, Paris, Firmin-Didot, 1881, p. 6.

40 Y. Cantarel-Besson, ‘Le Manuscrit de Montfort’, in Paris 1991–92, vol. I, pp. 311–12.

41 Charles Clément, ‘Géricault’, Gazette des Beaux-Arts, vol. XXII, 1 March 1867, p. 219; ‘Géricault (deuxième article)’, Gazette des Beaux-Arts, vol. XXII, 1 April 1867, p. 335; Géricault. Étude biographique et critique, Paris, Librairie académique Didier, 1868 and 1879, pp. 143–44.

42 Régis Michel, ‘Le nom de Géricault ou



43

44

45

46

47

48

49

50 51 52

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l’art n’a pas de sexe mais ne parle que de ça’, Actes du colloque Géricault, Paris, La documentation française, 1996, vol. I, pp. 3–4.

Paul Colin, ‘Les carnets du hérisson.

Théodore Géricault ou le précurseur malgré lui’, Cassandre, hebdomadaire belge de la vie politique, littéraire, artistique, 13 January 1940, col. 1.

Léon Rosenthal, Les Maîtres de l’Art. Géricault, Paris, Librairie de l’art ancien et moderne, undated [1905], pp. 11–12, 15–17, and ‘A Propos du centenaire de Théodore Géricault. L’art et l’influence de Géricault’, La Revue de l’art ancien et moderne, vol. XLV, January–May 1924, p. 226.

Michael Marrinan in Léon Rosenthal, Du romantisme au réalisme. Essai sur l’évolution de la peinture en France de 1830 à 1848, Paris, 1914, new edition by Macula, 1987, p. VI. Copy of a letter from Vivant Denon to Guérin, Paris, 23 May 1812, published in Chenique 1991–92, p. 317.

This chronological window of his expulsion is provided by Denon in a letter to Guérin on 23 May 1812. In it he writes: “The young man was expelled during my latest travels”.

The travels he mentions are his mission in Italy (October 1811 to February 1812), the main purpose of which was to draw the military positions of Bonaparte’s first campaign (F.B. de Mercey, Souvenirs et récits de voyages. Les Alpes françaises et la haute Italie, Paris, F. Sartorius, 1857, p. 418; Paul Mamottan, ‘Deux lettres de Denon (1812)’, Bulletin de la Société de l’Histoire de l’Art Français, 1918–19, pp. 23–24).

Letter by Guérin to an unknown correspondant, Paris, 20 September 1816 (Bruno Chenique, ‘Le meurtre du Père ou les insensés de l’atelier Guérin’, in Le Temps des passions. Collections romantiques des musées d’Orléans, exh. cat., Musée des Beaux-Arts, Orléans, 7 November 1997–31 March 1998, p. 61).

Charles Clément, Géricault. Étude biographique et critique avec le catalogue raisonné de l’œuvre du maître, [1868], 3rd edition with supplement, Paris, Didier, 1879, pp. 28–29.

Ibid., pp. 34–35.

Ibid., p. 279.

Philippe Grunchec, Tout l’œuvre peint de Géricault, introduction by Jacques Thuillier, Paris, Flammarion, 1978, p. 102, no. 109; Germain Bazin, Théodore Géricault. Étude critique, documents et catalogue raisonné,

vol. IV, Le voyage en Italie, Paris, Bibliothèque des arts, 1990, pp. 200–01, no. 1364.

53 Lorenz Eitner, Géricault, sa vie, son œuvre, [1983], translated from English by Jeanne Bouniort, Paris, Gallimard, 1991, p. 26.

54 Germain Bazin, Théodore Géricault. Étude critique, documents et catalogue raisonné, vol. II, L’œuvre, période de formation, Paris, Bibliothèque des arts, 1987, pp. 360–378.

55 Chenique 1997–98, pp. 37–71.

56 Régis Michel, Géricault, l’invention du réel, Paris, Gallimard-RMN, 1992, p. 23.

57 Bazin 1987, vol. I, p. 88, doc. 299.

58 Ibid., p. 96, illus.

59 Bazin 1987, vol. II, p. 366, no. 128, illus.

60 Ibid., p. 368, no. 133, illus.

61 Ibid., p. 372, no. 144, ‘Auteur inconnu’, illus. Unlike Bazin, I believe the painting is authentic (see sale catalogue, Yves Saint Laurent et Pierre Bergé collection. Tableaux et Dessins Anciens et du XIXème siècle, vol. II, Paris, Christie’s in collaboration with Pierre Bergé & Associés, 24 February 2009, no. 86, col. illus.).

62 Bazin 1987, vol. II, p. 362, no. 118, illus.

63 Germain Bazin, Théodore Géricault. Étude critique, documents et catalogue raisonné, vol. III, La gloire de l’Empire et la Première Restauration, Paris, Bibliothèque des arts, 1989, p. 230, no. 936, illus.

64 Bazin 1987, vol. II, pp. 364–365, no. 125, illus.

65 Bazin 1989, vol. III, pp. 230–231, no. 937, illus.

66 Bazin 1987, vol. II, p. 363, no. 121, illus.

67 Bazin 1990, vol. IV, pp. 200–01, no. 1364, illus.

68 David Briand, ‘Au musée municipal de Rochefort. Un Géricault oublié ? Un tableau dormant depuis 155 ans dans les réserves en voie d’authentification’, Sud-Ouest.

La Rochelle/Rochefort, Thursday 5 March 2015, pp. 1, 11; Julien Bonnet, ‘La fabuleuse histoire du Géricault rochefortais. Un temps authentifié, puis désattribué, le tableau Tête d’homme de profil est finalement un véritable Géricault’, L’Hebdo de Charente-Maritime, no. 1000, Thursday 15 December 2016, p. 15.

69 Bazin 1987, vol. II, pp. 275, 376, no. 154, illus.: ‘Anonymous master’; Grunchec, Tout l’œuvre peint de Géricault, J. Thuillier ed., Paris, Flammarion, 1991 [1st edition 1978, here revised], p. 150, no. A. 265: ‘Attributed to Géricault’.

70 Raymond Régamey, Géricault, collection Maîtres de l’art moderne, Paris, Rieder et Cie, 1926, p. 12; Pierre Dubaut, ‘Les Romantiques au Musée des Beaux-Arts de Poitiers. I. Les dessins de Géricault’,

Dibutade, Bulletin des Amis du Musée de Poitiers, vol. I, 1954, pp. 46–47.

71 Batissier 1841, p. 3; Clément 1879, p. 29.

72 Gustave Planche, ‘Histoire de l’art. Rubens – deuxième article’, L’Artiste, vol. IV, 1832, p. 26.

73 Charles Blanc, ‘Études sur les peintres Français. Géricault’, Le National, Sunday 28 August 1842, p. 1, col. 2; Histoire des peintres français au dix-neuvième siècle, Paris, Cauville, 1845, vol. I, pp. 407–08; Histoire des peintres de toutes les écoles française, vol. III, Paris, Renouard, 1865, p. 2.

74 Eitner [1983] 1991, p. 26.

75 Delacroix 2009, vol. I, pp. 350–51.

76 Charles Blanc, ‘Louis-Claude Pagnest’, Histoire des peintres de toutes les écoles. École française, vol. III, Paris, Vve Jules Renouard, 1865, p. 46.

77 “Tableaux/ Géricault/ 145 – – Étude d’atelier./ Haut., 63 cent. ; larg., 52 cent” (Catalogue des tableaux et dessins provenant de l’atelier Jules Dupré, précédé d’une notice par Paul Mantz, Chevallier, commissaire-priseur, Petit et Tedesco frères, experts, Paris, 30 January 1890, no. 145).

78 Alfred Darcel, ‘Exposition du Cercle Volney et plusieurs autres [vente Jules Dupré]’, Journal de Rouen, no. 35, Tuesday 4 February 1890, p. 3.

79 Bazin 1987, vol. II, p. 373, no. 145bis, illus.

80 “Concours en 2 classes du 26 juillet et 2 août 1813, présidé par Mr Stouf. Jugé le 19 août 1813. M. Pagnest (Amable Louis Claude) a obtenu le prix de 300 fr” (‘Noms des Elèves qui ont gagné le Prix de le demie figure peinte, fondé M. De La Tour Conseillé de l’Académie, et dont le concours a commencé à avoir lieu en 1784’, École nationale supérieure des Beaux-Arts, Paris, Ms. 824, anciennement A. 93).

81 Ernest Chesneau, ‘A.L.C. Pagnest (1790– 1819)’, L’Art, vol. I, 1882, p. 220.

82 Chesneau, ‘A.L.C. Pagnest (1790–1819)’, L’Art, vol. II, 1882, pp. 4–5.

83 Chesneau 1882, vol. I, p. 220.

84 Charles Blanc, ‘Louis-Claude Pagnest’, Histoire des peintres de toutes les écoles. École française, vol. III, Paris, Vve Jules Renouard, 1865, p. 47.

85 Nureyev. Part II. Old Master and 19th Century Paintings, Drawings, Prints, Books, Sculpture, Furniture, Textiles, Ballet Costumes and Memorabilia from the Collection of Rudolf Nureyev. Sold by Order of the Nureyev Foundation, Christie’s, London, 21 November 1995, no. 1363, col. illus.

86 Bazin 1987, vol. II, pp. 367–68, no. 132, illus.

87 Ibid., no. 129, illus., and no. 130, illus.

88 S.A., ‘Beaux-Arts. Exposition des élèves pour le prix de peinture. A M. le Rédacteur du Globe’, Le Globe, vol. IV, no. 6, Saturday 26 August 1826, p. 31.

89 Chenique 1991–92, p. 267.

90 Bruno Chenique, ‘La vie d’Anne-Louis Girodet de Roussy (1767–1824), dit GirodetTrioson. Essai de biochronologie’, in Girodet, 1767–1824, exh. cat., Musée du Louvre, Paris, 22 September 2005–2 January 2006; The Art Institute of Chicago, 11 February–30 April 2006; The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, 22 May–27 August 2006; Musée des Beaux-Arts de Montréal, 12 October 2006–21 January 2007: “15 octobre 1806”, “novembre-décembre 1810”.

91 “10 Th[ermi]dor an 13 [28 July 1805]. Amable Louis Claude Pagnest de Paris, agé de 15 demt rue de Grenelle f. honoré chez Mr son Père Courier de la Malle, n° 70. Elève de M. Girodet. Février 1808, rue Neuve des bons enfans, hôtel d’hambourg n° 15 ” (‘Registre des Elèves de l’Académie Royale de Peinture et de Sculpture de Paris inscrits à mesure qu’ils ont pris des Billets de Protection … à commencer du 5 février 1778’, École nationale supérieure des Beaux-Arts, Paris, Ms. 823, formerly A. 95).

92 Chesneau 1882, pp. 197, 199.

93 Philippe Grunchec, Le Grand Prix de peinture.

Les concours des Prix de Rome de 1797 à 1863, Paris, ENSBA, 1983, pp. 152, 154.

94 Explication des ouvrages de peinture, sculpture, architecture et gravure, des artistes vivants, exposées au Musée Royal des Arts, le 25 août 1819, Paris, Ballard, 1819, p. 95.

95 T. [Émeric David], ‘Beaux-Arts. Salon.

Neuvième et dernier article’, Le Moniteur Universel, no. 343, Thursday 9 December 1819, p. 1554.

96 Louis C., ‘Beaux-Arts. Salon de 1819.

Troisième article’, Le Drapeau Blanc, no. 90, Monday 13 September 1819, p. 4.

97 E[tienne] J[ean] D[elécluze], ‘Beaux-Arts.

Onzième lettre au rédacteur du Lycée français. Paris, Ce 7 janvier 1820’, Lycée français, vol. III, 1820, pp. 143–44.

98 Girodet, ‘Le Peintre. Quatrième veillée’, published by P.A. Coupin, Œuvres posthumes de Girodet-Trioson, peintre d’histoire ; suivies de sa correspondance ; précédées d’une notice historique, et mises en ordre, Paris, J. Renouard, 1829, vol. I, p. 396; Sylvain Bellenger, ‘Girodet et la littérature, Chateaubriand et la peinture’,

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in Chateaubriand et les arts, ed. Marc Fumaroli, Paris, Fallois, 1999, p. 132.

99 Clément 1879, p. 259.

100 Regarding the failings and bias of Clément’s study, see Grunchec 1979, pp. 37–58, and Chenique 2012, pp. 71–87.

101 Yveline Cantarel-Besson, ‘Documents. Le Manuscrit de Montfort. [“Notes sur Géricault à l’intention de Mr. Charles Clément sur la vie de Mr. Géricault”]’, in Paris 1992, pp. 315–16.

102 Clément 1879, p. 259.

103 Catalogue d’une jolie collection de tableaux et dessins modernes, et de quelques tableaux anciens, livres à figures, cuirasses et divers objets arabes; chevalets grands et petits ; échelles d’atelier, chambre noire, mannequins, etc., provenant du cabinet de feu M. Musigny, Bonnefons de Lavialle, auctioneer, M. Schroth, expert, 6, rue des Jeuneurs, Paris, salle no. 1, 7–8 March 1845, no. 23.

104 Chesneau 1882, vol. I, p. 241.

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105 Louis Dimier, Histoire de la peinture au XIXe siècle (1793–1903), Paris, Delagrave, 1914, p. 52.

106 M. [Miel], ‘Beaux-Arts. Salon de 1814. – (Suite de l’article XVI)’, Journal Général de France, no. 168, Wednesday 15 February 1815, p. 2.

107 M*** [Miel], Essai sur le Salon de 1817, Paris, 1817, p. 323, quoted by Georges Wildenstein, ‘Table alphabétique des portraits peintes, sculptés, dessinés et gravés exposés à Paris au Salon entre 1800 et 1826’, Gazette des Beaux-Arts, vol. LXI, January 1963, p. 15 note 11.

108 S. Delpech, Examen raisonné des ouvrages de peinture, sculpture et gravure, exposés au Salon du Louvre en 1814, 10th delivery, 11th revision, Paris, Martinet, 1814.

109 My visit dates back to 25 January 1995. The portrait is signed Pagnest f. 1814 in the bottom left corner.