One Day Her Prince Won't Come: Paula Rego Does Fairytales

Izzy Woods

While certainly inspired by, I won’t pretend that what follows will be a review of the recent Paula Rego exhibition at Tate Britain. Mainly because the show ended a few weeks before this issue is due to be released, and it would just be cruel of me to bang on exclusively about something that no one is able to experience, wouldn’t it? Although it is certainly a joy to be able to see artworks in the flesh, there are a fair few pieces that still manage to reveal so much to the audience, even if a computer screen stands between you and the canvas. This for me is one of the triumphs of Paula Rego’s oeuvre. Fairy tales are already such a loaded subject, but combined with the context of Rego’s life and background, her paintings become an art historian's dream. Or perhaps just for the one writing this piece.

Paula Rego was born in Portugal in 1935, the daughter of an ardent anti-fascist and a keen artist. Since the 1950s, her work has publicly criticised injustices and addressed challenging themes, particularly in relation to the experience of women. Growing up in Portugal under the Salazar dictatorship, Rego regularly witnessed injustice, and has since made the victims of exploitation the subjects of her artworks. Although the Salazar regime was considered by many to have been relatively moderate, it actually exercised much of its power through violence. Subsequently, Rego became aware of the many forms of abuse, particularly towards women, as violence against women was ubiquitous during the period. A common theme throughout Rego’s work is the sexual nature of some torture, especially against women, and for me, nowhere is this more apparent than in the artist’s fairy tale inspired works. It’s most likely the juxtaposition of the recognisable childhood fairy tale characters with acts of torture and assault that achieves this end. Let me delve into one of my favourite pieces to show you what I mean...

Snow White Swallows the Poison Apple (1995) is Rego’s revision of the tale of Snow White, and I think I can quite confidently say it does not depict the pristine princess we have come to expect from Disney’s reimagination of the story. We are confronted by an intrinsically violent image depicting the moment of death. Her body is contorted, tense, having just fallen from the sofa in what can only be assumed to have been a struggle. Signs of distress are all around: her fingers pressed into her throat, the dishevelled arrangement, the red ribbon almost completely pulled from her hair. Even

Paula Rego, Snow White Swallows the Poison Apple, 1995

the use of pastel, intensely worked, creates a tactility that points to the agony of her death. The placement of the red fabric underneath her is reminiscent of a pool of blood, pouring from her head – of course we know that the cause of her death is the poison apple, but Rego’s placement of the figure falling head first with the addition of the red fabric hints at a much more violent demise. The dark fur throw in the background encroaches on the figure, about to cover it completely, perhaps symbolic of the moment that death finally overcomes Snow White.

Offsetting Snow White’s undeniably agonising death, however, are hints of sexual ecstasy. While her contorted body may be caused by excruciating pain, it could just as easily be an intense sensual experience, with her hand clasped to her chest and her hand pulling at her skirt. A classical figural pose used throughout art history (most commonly in depictions of Venus) sees the subject of the painting cover their vulva

Manet, Olympia, 1863

Titian, Venus of Urbino, 1534

with one hand. Known as Venus pudica, the device is often used to simultaneously hide and draw attention to the area. Anyone at all interested in art history will likely have heard the following comparison a million times, and for that I apologise, but it is a valid one, and one I feel is relevant to Rego’s painting. Manet’s Olympia (1863) is frequently thought to be a reimagination of Titian’s 1534 painting, Venus of Urbino, but with a few subtle, yet telling alterations. Instead of the classic, enticing Venus pudica seen in Titian’s painting, Manet’s subject defiantly blocks the gaze of the viewer with her hand, denying access to what is underneath. I believe Rego’s Snow White mimics this. She is falling, in pain, yet she scrambles to hold her skirt down. In doing so, she retains some of her agency, even in her final moment when she is completely vulnerable.

If we were to compare this image with the equivalent moment in the Disney adaptation (which Rego clearly wants us to do – the figure is dressed in the costume made familiar by the Disney film), we would see that the film omits this difficult image – all we see is Snow White’s arm outstretched on the ground, the apple fallen from her hand. So, is the moment in Rego’s painting simply filling this gap? Unlikely, in my opinion. Rego’s Snow White is not a Disney princess, she is a middle-aged woman. While the close cropping of the frame highlights the horror and destruction of Snow White’s death, it also equally points to her solitude. It seems unlikely that seven dwarves are hurrying towards her on the backs of some unusually astute woodland creatures, and perhaps even more unlikely that someday her prince will come.