Cornelis Kloos- surrealism & fun on the Dutch dunes

On the Beach, 1929

Cornelis Kloos (1895-1976) was a Dutch painter and sculptor in bronze and terracotta with something of a controversial reputation.  He was born into a wealthy mercantile family in Rotterdam and considered a number of career options as a young man.  After finishing school he spent a period undertaking officer training in the army; this experience meant that, when the First World War began, he was immediately despatched to border guard duty, trying to catch smugglers entering occupied Belgium. He had planned to visit Tibet but this adventure was cancelled and his further education was put on hold until 1919.

Kloos then studied and successfully graduated in mine engineering (even though drawing had been his hobby from an early age, art was not initially something he considered as a career).  Whilst studying engineering, he also attended philosophy lectures at the university, an interest that stayed with him throughout his life (for example, when his daughter reached fifteen, he told her she was old enough to start reading Plato). The young student then opting for the arts, undertaking his studies at the Academy of Fine Arts in The Hague and passing the five year course in only eighteen months, which then qualified him to work as a drawing teacher. Having the guarantee of a steady income, he married, and, for a honeymoon, travelled around Europe. The young couple settled in Paris where he studied painting with the Cubist André Lhote at his academy in Montparnasse, Paris (although Lhote had very little direct or immediate impact upon his student’s style). Kloos then studied for three months at Hans Hoffmann’s Schule für Bildende Kunst (School of Fine Art) in Munich; Hoffmann became a major figure in Abstract Expressionism, but during the twenties was still a fairly conventional figurative and landscape painters. Kloos then returned home to teach drawing at the Hague Academy; during the 1930s his career as a painter took off and his teaching duties were relegated to evenings only.

Girl with a Cow, 1951

Kloos took part in three consecutive Olympic Games in the art competitions- in 1928, 1932 and 1936. His entry Springende meisjes for the 1932 Olympics has been lost, but a reproduction survived. It is reported that the German Minister for Propaganda, Heinrich Goebbels, admired and wanted to buy the painting after the exhibition. However, he asked Kloos was to change the dark-hair of the gymnasts to blond, which- to his credit- he refused to do. The purchase did not proceed.

When the Second World War broke out, Kloos was briefly recalled to military service before Germany occupied the Netherlands. During the war, he apparently covered espionage activities noting down coastal troop positions by going on ‘painting trips’ to the dunes along the North Sea coast. After the war, Kloos was a lot poorer than he had been but he struggled along, living frugally and dedicated to his art. Sadly, by the 1950s, interest in his style of unfashionable pictorial and figurative work steeply declined whilst he had no sympathy at all for modern abstraction. Later in life, Kloos concentrated on writing about aesthetics and trying to establish a museum that would teach people to understand art, but these projects came to nothing and he felt considerable disappointment and frustration.

Twee meisjes op een badlaken in de zon, c.1930

Although he produced some landscapes, Kloos concentrated upon nudes, painted in a realist style and almost exclusively using young women as his models.  One Dutch auctioneer has said that the artist “obsessively painted and drew nude young girls in a way that came dangerously close to the boundaries of the pornographic – at least in our puritan times.”  Another critic has spoken of Kloos’ “meisje fascinatie”- his ‘girl obsession’ and it is true that his liking for posterior pictures of the naked figures treads a very fine line between academic life study and ‘glamour’ shot. The artist’s daughter Carola has described how “He always sat in his studio, often with young girls as models, whom he sketched; he made his paintings based on the sketches. The models met him on the beach, for example, where he sat down to draw (which was always a crowd pleaser).” She also said of her father that, if he could be blamed for anything, it was his rather old-fashioned views on the nature of feminine beauty: “Woman is meant to allure,” he said. Carola does not try to defend his views and recognises that there in his work there “may have been sublimated sexuality, but can’t we say the same about the ancient sculptors or the Renaissance painters with their female nudes?” The parallels between Kloos’ work and that of Balthus are very clear; both artists had a lifelong obsession with a particular sort of model (although the young women painted by the Dutch artist are generally a little older than the adolescents depicted by the French painter). The image below- Meisje met roos (Girl with a Rose) has a pose very similar to that adopted by the models in numerous studies by Balthus, which makes me suspect that Kloos must have been familiar with the French artist’s work. I have shown an example of one of his paintings of Thérèse Blanchard; he created multiple pictures of girls in extremely similar postures.

Meisje met roos
Balthus, Thérèse sur une banquette (1939)

Many of the Kloos’ pictures are consciously sensual in their poses. As we’ve read, he often drew his models in the studio, an example being Naakt met blauwe doekt (c.1930), a sensual study that imitates Velazquez’ Rokeby Venus, yet at the same time is honest and unsentimental enough to show the dirty soles of the model’s feet.

Velazquez, Rokeby Venus, 1647
Naakt met blauwe doekt

Just as frequently, though, Kloos painted outside, in full sun: thus, Twee meisjes zittend op een strandlaken (c.1930, above) presents us with two glossy skinned girls sunbathing, Gondola of 1952 has its young subject stripping off on a pontoon before a swim and Springen (Jumping) from 1952, which is a kind of follow-up- two naked girls leaping into the water- and which must also echo his Olympics entry. It seems extremely likely such healthy, active nudity outdoors (somewhat akin to the output of Fidus) would have appealed strongly to Goebbels.

Despite the clear sensuality that imbues much of his work, Kloos often incorporated a sense of bizarre humour that has close parallels with the work of Austrian illustrator Franz von Bayros.  In multiple paintings created post-war he incongruously juxtaposed young nudes outdoors with wildlife, such as Liggend naakt met hert, Alligators (1951), Ape Ring and Polar Bears (both 1952), as well as with sea-lions, a flock of sheep, a wolf and lions.  The models’ responses to their circumstances vary- from surprise, through embarrassment at being seen naked, to fearless confrontation with the wild beasts. They seldom look threatened or truly vulnerable.

Alligators, 1951

The sheer surrealism of these watercolours tends to distract from the nudity; they seem charmingly silly rather than erotic. Kloos is almost unique in the playfulness of these pictures, but they arguably stand in an identifiable heritage of western European fine art- over and above von Bayros bizarre bestial encounters. Surrealism probably contributed to Kloos’ ideas: for example Dali and, more particularly, Max Ernst, whose collaged novels, Loplop (1930) and Une semaine de bonté (1934) feature strange creatures, often part-human and part-beast. Belgian Symbolists such as Fernand Khnopff and Felicien Rops featured animals as significant presences in some of their images- and we might, perhaps, trace the inspiration all the way back to The Garden of Earthly Delights by Bosch.

Liggend naakt met hert, 1954
Air Travel (1950s)

Several of the artist’s later works also situated the nudes in exotic environments, from Greek and Egyptian shrines (Aphrodite) through African villages (White Beauties) to eastern temples, thereby also placing Kloos within the orientalist genre. What differentiates Kloos here is that these were purely imaginative works, their far-flung settings merely providing an intriguing backdrop for his figures. Mountains often form the background for his nudes too, obviously not a familiar feature in the Low Countries (see, for example, Meisje In Weiland, Springende Meisjes, Meisjes In De Wei, Meisje In Weide Met Huis, Liggend Meisje Met Koe or Meisje en Schapen). The scenery creates interest but probably adds little to the message of the pictures; their titles, however, tend to confirm that “meisje fascinatie” we saw attributed to the artist earlier.

An Asiatic scene

All in all, Cornelis Kloos’ oeuvre is distinctive. There is much that seems uniquely personal to him, yet many aspects of his work locate him within wider trends of contemporary art as well as within European painting heritage. He is instructive about prevalent trends and themes amongst painters and illustrators during the early twentieth century, shedding light on the parallel tendencies in book illustration, which we have seen played out in the responses of artists to the work of Pierre Louys, Verlaine, Apollinaire, de Sade and others.

‘In the Garden of Eros’- on book illustration and art in the early 20th century

Paul Albert Laurens, Le Jardin d’amour

In my recent post on the work of painter and illustrator Paul Albert Laurens, I mentioned his painting The Garden of Eros, which is imitative of the eighteenth century galante style of art made popular and fashionable by Watteau, Fragonard, Greuze, Boucher and others.

Having just completed my book on this period, Voyage to the Isle of Venus, and being in the process of completing the editing and expansion of my book on early twentieth century art, I decided to borrow and adapt the title of the painting as the title of the book (which, in any case, features a discussion of the work of Laurens). Now published, In the Garden of Eros is my updated survey of the interactions and interconnections between book illustration and fine art during the first half of the last century. It focusses upon the art of Franz von Bayros, the many illustrators of the numerous editions of works by Pierre Louys and key figures in early twentieth century art, such as the German expressionist group Die Brucke, Paula Modersohn-Becker, Balthus, Egon Schiele, Hans Bellmer, surrealists Dorothea Tanning and Leonor Fini, Marc Gertler and many, many others. In its second part, the text examines the persistent ‘orientalist’ trend in twentieth century painting and literature, identifying how one influenced the other and how many illustrators were also orientalist painters.

The book clearly ties in with my many posts on the illustrated editions of Pierre Louys’ novels and poetry collections; in a very real sense, this blog provides the illustrations to the text of the new book. In addition it is complemented by my numerous essays about the writing of Louys that may be found on my Academia page. See, as well, my Louys bibliography and my books page for additional information.

De Sade Designs- illustrating the notorious author

I have written a good deal about the books of Pierre Louys and about the numerous illustrated editions of those works that have been published. I now want to consider how the work of the Marquis de Sade has been treated by the publishing trade. As many readers will appreciate, de Sade bears many striking resemblances to Louys- the Marquis was doubtless an inspiration to the latter and they both dealt with similar themes of transgressive sexuality in manners that were sometimes shocking and provocative. Sade was, though, much more of a philosopher than Louys, far more concerned with wider social and political questions. Very narrowly, the content of their books guaranteed stimulating material for artists to work with, so that publishers knew that illustrated editions would be likely to sell well within a certain market.

Guido Crepax, Justine, 1979

It’s interesting, therefore, to find that there are maybe twenty illustrated versions of de Sade’s key works (Justine, Juliette, Philosophy in the Bedroom and 120 Days of Sodom), not an insignificant number, perhaps, but dwarfed by the total of illustrated editions of Louys, which exceed one hundred and twenty on my latest reckoning. In the case of Sade’s most notorious title, 120 Days of Sodom, this may partially be explained by the fact that the manuscript of the text was only rediscovered and published by the poet Apollinaire and then by the surrealist Maurice Heine in the late 1920s. In point of fact, though, most of the editions of de Sade post-date the 1960s, suggesting that it was only in more recent decades that publishers felt that it would be acceptable to issue his works without the risk of public complaints and criminal proceedings.

Philippe Cavell, 1983

I suspect that one of the first artists to respond to the works of Sade, since Bornet had illustrated the original editions of La Nouvelle Justine and Juliette in 1797, was the rather obscure French artist Fameni Leporini, probably in the 1930s. As others have observed, it seems very clear that the artist was working to a text (or texts), for otherwise some scenes make little sense to the viewer- their context is obviously lacking, as if they were meant to illustrate a narrative that is now absent. Personally, I regard his portfolios not as illustrations of specific titles, but rather as interpretations of the themes and scenes also addressed by de Sade (most obviously, I would suggest, Part Two of The One Hundred & Twenty Days of Sodom); this would seem to be confirmed by the inclusion of monks in a few prints as well as some images that show eighteenth century dress. Leporini was very capable of representing intense mutual passion between lovers, but he also reflected the violence and abuse of power that could be present in Sade’s works, meaning that he depicted not shared pleasure but dominance, distress and shame- an acknowledgment that male control and exploitation have often had the potential to distort interpersonal relationships.

In rather the same way, in the 1960s the German born surrealist Hans Bellmer produced a series of darkly erotic drawings and etchings inspired by the writer. These were interpretations of Juliette, Justine and 120 Days, but the works were unconnected to any edition of those books. The first was the drawing Life & Death (For de Sade) of 1946, A Sade from 1961 and culminating with the Petit traité de morale (A Little Moral Treatise) in 1968. Bellmer’s baroque images elaborate his figures’ anatomy in unreal ways that tend to dehumanise the subjects and distance the viewers. The results can be violent and disturbing, resembling dissection drawings, stressing that corporeality is close to decay and that lust verges on cruelty.

Blaine, Justine

New illustrated editions of Sade began to be published during the 1930s. In 1931 Heine’s transcription of 120 Days, with 16 lithographs by Andre Collot, appeared. In the manner typical of Collot, the images were as explicit as this violent and pornographic text demanded. They recognised, nonetheless, that the pain and humiliation is shared in de Sade’s book, with seducers as likely to be whipped or degraded as their victims.

One of Sade’s most popular books has always been Justine- or the Misfortunes of Virtue. There was a German edition in 1900, with colour illustrations in eighteenth century style by an unknown author. These imitate Bornet’s plates from 1797, notably his tendency to pile up figures in improbable pyramids, and like their models the plates they are highly explicit. The book- probably consequentially- appeared in a very small print run. However, in 1931, the same year as Collot’s 120 Days, an English translation of Justine was published in New York, with 27 “spirited illustrations by Mahlon Blaine.” Blaine was a colourful character who liked to claim that he had been born on Easter Island. One dealer has described his work as walking “the razor’s edge between the grotesque and beautiful.” He was a self-taught illustrator notable for his darkly erotic images, which are to be found in books which also include Flaubert’s Salammbo (1927) and William Beckford’s Vathek (1928). As will be seen, there’s considerable vigour in his designs, as in the representation of Justine’s death seen below.

In 1932, the Czech surrealist Toyen (whom we have encountered before in discussing her illustrations for Pierre Louys’ Pybrac) provided plates for an edition of Justine. These match the rather abstract style of her work on Pybrac that same year. Toyen’s husband, Jindřich Štyrský (1899-1942) who was a surrealist painter, poet, editor, photographer and graphic artist, also designed a photographic cover for an edition of de Sade’s Philosophy in the Bedroom, as well as writing a study of the Marquis’ work.

Jindřich Štyrský’s cover image for de Sade

A pause in publications followed until near the end of the war, when in 1944 a new edition of Juliette, illustrated by another Surrealist artist, the Argentinian Leonor Fini, appeared. The curator of a 2018 exhibition in New York on ‘Fini and the Theatre of Desire’ described how, for the artist, life was to be lived as an “investigation in the human psyche and, for her, gender and sexuality were the greatest ways to perform those kind of experiments, both on the canvas and in real time.” Fini illustrated about fifty books during her career, choosing authors and titles that coincided with her own interests. These included the Satyricon and works by Verlaine, Jean Genet and Charles Baudelaire. Fini’s twenty-two plates for Sade’s book responded in particular to the macabre elements in the text, emphasising skeletons and decay as much as erotica. This emphasis on mortality, I think, was her way of representing those aspects of de Sade’s work where carnal desire slips into cruelty and the reader/ viewer becomes uncomfortable and alienated.

Fini, Juliette, 1944

Two years later another female illustrator, Lilian Gourari, provided twenty one plates for a new edition of Justine, ou Les Infortunes de la Vertu. I’ve been unable to find out much about Gourari (or Gourary), other than she illustrated only a few books- amongst them children’s books such as Les Neufs Lutins de la Montaigne (The Nine Gnomes of the Mountain). Her work on de Sade appears to be the most significant. She didn’t flinch from depicting the various misfortunes inflicted upon the hapless Justine.

Gourari, 1947

A slowly accelerating flow of editions of de Sade had begun. In 1948 an edition of Eugenie de Franval (a story of incest and its punishment) appeared, with eight plates by Valentine Hugo (1887-1968). She was a writer and painter, best known for her work with Jean Cocteau and the Ballet Russes and her close association with the Surrealists (including an affair with Andre Breton). Her illustrations included editions of the Surrealist’s favourite, the Comte de Lautréamont’s Les Chants de Maldoror (1933) as well as the surrealist Paul Éluard’s Les Animaux et leurs hommes (1937) and Symbolist poet Arthur Rimbaud’s Les Poètes de sept ans (1938).

Eugenie de Franval, Valentine Hugo

Another version of Justine, this time illustrated by Schem, appeared in 1949. His twenty three coloured lithographs are typical of the sweet delicacy of his attractive illustrative work, featuring a good deal of nudity but nothing really shocking.

Schem
Eberhard Schlotter

A hiatus followed during the 1950s, perhaps because the market seemed well supplied, but interest in de Sade revived in the ’60s with three new illustrated editions of his work. Curiously, all of these featured the work of young German artists. The eldest was Eberhard Schlotter (1921-2014) who worked as a painter in Spain and Germany. In 1967 he designed a set of sixteen etchings depicting episodes from Sade’s Philosophy in the Bedroom. The following year, the Polish-German Arwed Gorella (1937-2002) created 13 etchings for the second volume of Sade’s collected works (in German). The images- mostly portrait busts- remind me of those faces constructed from vegetables and fruit created in by Giuseppe Arcimboldo (1526-93)- except that Gorella (naturally) used naked bodies. Uwe Bremer worked on volume three of the same edition, using a radically different style but yet- like Gorella- capturing the same anatomical aspect of Sade’s work that so many other illustrators had identified.

Gorella
Bremer

In 1972 Johannes Vennekamp (b. 1935), the German artist and colleague of Uwe Bremer, produced a portfolio of thirteen etchings based on 120 Days. He too opted for a kind of diagrammatic graphic approach, in contrast to which was the refreshingly cartoonish work of caricaturist and illustrator Albert Dubout (1905-76), who illustrated Justine in 1976 with some exuberant and exaggerated images. Dubout (who was married to illustrator of Pierre Louys Suzanne Ballivet) worked on satirical magazines such as Le Rire and illustrated numerous books, including Rabelais Gargantua and Pantagruel; perhaps this background helped him to locate the humour in de Sade, finding his extreme situations so over the top as to be laughable rather than shocking. In 1979 Guido Crepax took the next logical step and rewrote Justine as an exquisitely illustrated graphic novel (see image earlier). A graphic novel version of Juliette, by Philippe Cavell, followed in 1983 (see cover image earlier). His other illustrated work includes an edition of Fanny Hill and various erotic novels such as Petites alliees by Clary F and Nini Tapioca by Beatrice Tessica.

Johannes Vennekamp

Further illustrated editions have followed in the last few decades: these include (amongst others) Justine and Juliette by Martina Kugler (1945-2017) in 1991 and by Lisa Zirner in 2014. The former opted for simple pen drawings in an unusual ‘tribal’ or ‘primitive’ style, the latter for fifteen cheerful, bright, almost cartoonish illustrations which are notable for the joy and pleasure that she depicted amongst the participants. Interestingly, perhaps, in 1985 and 2006 respectively, both women had previously illustrated Histoire de l’œil by Georges Bataille, intellectual, philosopher and early associate of the Surrealists. The History is a 1928 novella that details the increasingly bizarre sexual perversions of a pair of teenage lovers. Bataille was heavily influenced by de Sade, making the separate publications quite closely linked.

Javier Gil (born 1961) created a series highly explicit pastels based on Philosophy in the Bedroom in 1996 whilst Alexander Pavlenko, who was born in Russian in 1963 but who now lives in Germany, has produced another portfolio of Sadean inspired works entitled A Sade- rather like several earlier German artists. Pavlenko’s approach was to produce rather exaggerated erotic images. Most recently, in 2014, the French illustrator Yves Milet-Desfougeres (1934-2022) created a series of quite crude-looking pen sketches to go with another edition of Philosophy; he too had also worked on Bataille’s Histoire de l’œil, in 2010.

Lastly, in 2000 a lavishly produced edition of Justine, with twenty designs by Cyriaque de Saint-Aignan, was published. These are impressive female nude studies, although not perhaps fully reflective of the book; the ‘glamour’ style of the pictures, most notably the frontispiece, which renders the virtuous and innocent Justine as a Carmen-like figure, seem at odds with the story.

What many of the illustrators of de Sade have confronted in the author’s texts is the risk that carnality can tip over into depersonalising cruelty, that a sense of the individual, consent and volition can be lost. This sets this body of work apart from many of the books I have previously discussed. Nevertheless, as I’ve proposed before, we see how the provision of illustrations with text can amplify the written word, reinforcing its impact as well as making the reader focus more closely upon what is being described or discussed. This can have an especially powerful effect with work such as de Sade’s.

Andre Collot- from de Sade to Louys

André Collot (1897-1976) was a French painter, engraver and illustrator, who was active from the 1930s. His early work was in a colourful art deco style, depicting topographic views, the natural world and allegorical or mythical scenes and he exhibited at the Salon d’Automne and Salon des Artistes Independents during 1942 and 1943. Before and after the Second World War, he produced a large number of illustrations, sometimes for undated works, some of which were published clandestinely. He also illustrated fine art editions of Rudyard Kipling’s Jungle Book, Francois Villon, Don Quixote, Henri Barbusse’s war novel, Marco Polo, Rabelais, Moliere, Aristophanes, Goethe, Aesop, Jules Verne, Ovid and Anatole France. In 1943 he illustrated Rene Maran’s Animals of the Bush and he also found work designing posters.

from the Works of Francois Villon, 1942

Collot was especially known for his erotic drawings and book illustrations, particularly those for Pascal Pia’s notorious La Semaine secrète de SaphoLa Chronique des Dames Contemporaines in 1929- a work which established his reputation in this field- and subsequently Les Voyeurs (whose title speaks for itself) in 1930, one hundred and twenty engravings of Casanova’s Memoirs (1932), as well as plates for Gamiani and Jeunesse (both 1933), a collection titled Seduction-Young Lovers (1939) and, in 1945, his Thirty One Mottos for Big Boys. His eight colour plates for Pia are explicit and erotic- as were those that followed, all with a strong lesbian emphasis. Collot’s designs don’t always set out to be entirely realistic, but they benefit from bold, simple lines and strong design style that he developed from the ’30s onwards. As will also be seen, he was able to work in a variety of markedly distinct graphic styles and media, this flexibility helping to respond more sensitively to different texts.

Illustration from edition of Balzac, Les Contes drolatiques, 1934

His work on the preceding texts stood Collot in very good stead for approaching his subsequent commissions, working on the works of Pierre Louys. Successively, Collot illustrated the poet’s erotic Biblical parody Aux temps de juges (1933), Pybrac/ Pibrac in 1933 (alongside Berthomme Saint-Andre), an edition of Aphrodite in 1948 and the graphic sexual poems of Douze Douzains de Dialogues in an edition of 1950. Such is the explicit nature of so much of Collot’s work that it’s not really feasible to reproduce here- but it’s readily found on art auction websites.

Chapter head from Louys, Aux Temps des juges

As part of the publishing sector that thrived in interwar Paris, Collot also found work on the flood of spanking and flagellation texts that were produced, for instance in his illustrations to the Marquis de Sade’s Les 120 Journees de Sodome (1931), a text which was unknown until the Surrealists recovered it in the late 1920s, at the same time as restoring de Sade’s reputation as a serious writer and philosopher. Collot’s preparedness to deal with some of the more niche aspects of sexuality, apparent from his faithful reproduction of scenes from de Sade, is further proved by some of his own portfolios- Viol (Rape) of 1927, Leurs rêves (1929) and the aptly named Le monde brutal (1934). As the first indicates, the dreams (rêves) that are given visual form here fully represent the brutal world of the final collection. His images are violent, non-consensual, sexist, ageist and racist. Collot’s Symphonies amoureuses (1960) is likewise full of challenging imagery, albeit not so extreme.

Collot is most interesting for what his output shows us about French literary publishing and erotic illustration in the decades after 1930. He was presented frequently with quite explicit texts and responded to them as frankly and honestly as they demanded. Within a fine art context, this was perfectly acceptable. His own output, in fact, was even more daring. For further discussion of his book illustrations, see my essay ‘In the Garden of Aphrodite.’ See too my Pierre Louys bibliography.

For more discussion of the work of Collot and of illustrated editions of the works of Pierre Louys in their wider context, see my book In the Garden of Eros, available as a paperback and Kindle e-book from Amazon.

Emile Munier- girls & kittens

Girl with a basket of plums (1875)

Émile Munier, was born in Paris on June 2, 1840. He came from a working class family of cloth mill workers but was introduced to drawing and painting at an early age. He received training as a draughtsman under Abel Lucas at the Gobelins tapestry factory where his father worked. Later, he became a close friend of William-Adolphe Bouguereau, often visiting his studio, which led him to develop a strong identification with the academic style of art and a deep respect for the sorts of canvas produced by his mentor. The 1860s marked the beginning of his professional recognition, when Munier won three Beaux-Arts medals and exhibited his work at the prestigious Paris Salon. His affinity with Bouguereau is immediately visible in Munier’s paintings, which reflected the style and composition of his teacher’s masterpieces. Perhaps more so than the latter, Munier, a less accomplished artist, focussed upon winsome girls painted for the popular art market.

Sugar & Spice, 1879

Munier at first also worked in glass and tapestry design but from 1871 he devoted himself exclusively to painting. A very important early commission was the painting Angel Comforting His Grieving Mother, requested by Jane Stanford to immortalize her son, who died at an early age. Even more important, though, was Trois Amis/ Three Friends (1885), which depicts a little girl playing with her two kittens. When this was exhibited at the Paris Salon, it received rave reviews. Reproductions of the painting sold very well and Pears Soap even purchased the rights to use the image in its advertising.

The Morning Meal (1880)

With Trois Amis Munier definitively established himself as one of the leading painters of small children and their pets (dogs and caged birds were also included- the latter surely reminding us of much more charged pictures by Greuze, who often showed girls grieving over dead birds or hugging them to their bosoms). Numerous very similar pictures followed, often using his own daughters as models. These paintings include Her Best Friend, Feeding New Friends and Little Girl and Cat (1882), Playing with the Kitten (1893), Best Friends, A Special Moment, Girl with a Kitten and Puppy, Girl with a Basket of Kittens, etc etc etc . Until his death in 1895, Munier regularly painted a wide range of other subjects, including loving mothers and daughters, rural, mythological, religious and animal scenes, as well as landscapes and seascapes, but these images were always derivative. Just like Bouguereau, he often depicted cupids, buxom nymphs and very regularly showed country girls picking fruit or gathering herbage, feeding small animals like rabbits, doves or chicks, fetching water, tending sheep or goats or washing clothes. Nonetheless, kittens were what sold- especially if they were paired with pretty young girls, often looking equally cuddly and sweet in their night dresses.

Although there was commercial success and popularity to be found in such highly sentimental subjects, Munier would still include subtexts and academic references in his paintings. Hence, The Broken Vase below consciously invokes the Broken Pitcher by Greuze, an allegory for lost virginity. In his version, Munier replaces the young woman with a little girl and, whilst retaining the disordered dress that reveals the left side of the chest, in his case substitutes Greuze’s suggestion of sexual assault with a jokey and entirely innocent accident with a skipping rope. The child here is not a victim but is the naughty offender, dreading parental anger (and we, of course, are placed in the position of the annoyed adult).

Best Friends (1892)

Munier’s Best Friends (1892) is but one example of the entire contemporary genre of paintings that matched small girls with cuddly pets. Professor of Art History, Anne Higonnet, remarked how this sort of picture tends to “liken children to animals, making the child seem less human, less conscious, more at one with nature… Occasionally the pet is absurdly huge, cueing instead the viewer’s projection of his or her adult self as the child’s protector.” In the case of Best Friends, the large eyed girl is made more vulnerable and appealing by the fact that her straw hat is slightly damaged. It’s an almost subliminal message that she’s poor and may herself be in need of care. The small child cuddling small furry animals is the epitome of cuteness and of innocence; what’s more, the wholesome innocence of the ‘Romantic’ child is consciously opposed to the knowledge of adult. Yet, simultaneously, as Higonnet recognised, “the dubious overtones of paintings [of girls with kittens] let the innocence-knowledge seesaw tip back and forth… Do the imagined girls in [paintings like Best Friends] mimic adult flirtation a bit too well, providing viewers with the signs of sexual availability coyly grafted onto bodies coded with the signs of innocence? And what about that pussy in the little girl’s lap?” Higonnet argued that a very complex process of sexualising little girls and infantilising adult women may be involved here (see Higonnet, Pictures of Innocence- The History & Crisis of Ideal Childhood, 1998, 33-34 & 38). As I’ve observed before, these mixed messages are quite common in this period; the subliminal references to the work of Greuze would achieve the same effect for those familiar with his work.

The Broken Vase

Munier’s Sugar and Spice, famously detourned and parodied in a collage by the Surrealist Man Ray in the journal Minotaure (no.7, 1935, page 16) is another case in point. The girl sits, besides another borrowed image of a naked girl, between curtains in an enigmatic room. One is reminded of the pictures of bored brothel workers idly awaiting a client painted by Toulouse-Lautrec, Jules Pascin and others. The image is printed on the page in Minotaure next to a photo of two of Lotte Pritzel’s disturbing dolls and overleaf from a strange Cupid-like figure by Hans Bellmer, heightening the sense that these girls are arranged and manipulated by others for their own purposes. Doubtless, for the Surrealists, Munier was an excellent target for their co-option and subversion: his art represented everything that was superficial and sentimental. They sought out the unconscious and repressed through their work; he catered to a public demand for decorative, reassuring and ‘nice.’ The posture of the girl in Sugar and Spice also puts me in mind of Balthus‘ paintings of Therese Blanchard. In four she has one leg raised in the same manner; in two (Therese Dreaming (1938) and Girl with Cat (1937)) she also raises her hands to her head in the same way. These were but the first of numerous very similar pictures that the artist painted over his subsequent career, all fully exploiting the potency of the pose.

from Minotaure no.7

For all his mediocrity and want of depth, Munier’s work continues to be very popular. It may be ‘chocolate box’ but it is instantly accessible and attractive, evoking in adults an instinctive wish to provide care and nurture.

For more information on Victorian era art, see details of my book Cherry Ripe on my publications page.

The Rescue 1894

Surrealism & the Dark Eros

Leonor Fini in Venice, 1951- a dark Eros?

The Surrealist movement in art was very conscious of its relationship to sexuality. The poet Andre Breton, one of the founding figures of the movement, proposed that sensuality and sensibility were identical and that there was only a difference of degree between the emotions aroused by poetry and those provoked by erotic pleasure.  Surrealist philosopher Sarane Alexandrian has identified ‘extravagant love’ as one of the key values of surrealism: “it ensures that, in most surrealist works, the image of woman shines out like that of a guardian goddess.” Breton himself praised ‘woman’ as the “great promise,” the male’s partner in sexual alchemy and creation, acting as a medium or bridge for artists.  Many of the male writers and artists who initiated Surrealism believed that women had a closer connection to the desired irrationality of dreams than men.  From their very beginning, the Surrealists were interested in the work of Freud on unconscious and how that might release creativity. The group contended that the liberation of the unconscious imagination allowed a dark light, “une lumiere noire,” to shine on human affairs.  As I have observed before, Surrealism was often a very sexist and non-progressive movement, with deplorably chauvinist attitudes to women, but it was at the same time alert to new ways of thinking and new ways of creating art.

In December 1959, the tenth international exhibition of surrealism opened in Paris.  Its chosen theme was ‘EROS’- a subject deliberately selected because it was regarded as being both ‘anti-aesthetic’ and more directly connected with emotional power. Breton wrote to exhibitors describing eroticism as “a privileged place, a theatre in which incitement and prohibition play their roles and where the most profound moments of life make sport.”  He reminded the artists too that, “far from necessitating the representation of scabrous scenes, [eroticism] derives a great deal from equivocation and can readily undergo many transpositions.”  In other words, eroticism should not be confused with pornography; it can achieve its impact just as effectively by merely hinting at sexual desire, as well as by substituting for direct expressions of sexuality.  Overall, for Breton, eroticism could be identified as one of the defining characteristics of the surrealist movement; it was a deeply serious matter: it lay at the heart of human consciousness and self-awareness.  Art was both the “accommodation of secret desires” and the “marvellous precipitate of desire.”  

The artist Marcel Duchamp reinforced what Breton believed in an interview in which he declared how important eroticism was to his work.  Its significance to him was:

“Enormous.  Visible or conspicuous or, at any rate, underlying… I believe in eroticism a lot, because it’s truly a rather widespread thing throughout the world, a thing that everyone understands.  It replaces, if you wish, what other literary schools called Symbolism, Romanticism; it could be another ‘ism,’ so to speak… [It helps] to reveal [things that are usually hidden] and to place them at everyone’s disposal- I think this is important because it’s the basis of everything- and no one talks about it.  Eroticism was a theme… [that] kept me from being obliged to return to already existing theories, aesthetic or otherwise.”

Going further still, the expression of unrevealed erotic desire demanded the dissolution of conventional norms.  “Unleashed eroticism demands excess, blasphemy, subversion, even the blood-letting of the sadistic act.  As such, it is an act of violence akin to a revolutionary act…”  The surrealist conception of eroticism therefore saw it as a means of expression, both a revolutionary weapon and a source of revelation. However, giving unbridled sexuality such a significant status involved risks, as matters could potentially be taken to extremes.  According to one authority, the surrealist movement “has always been sympathetically predisposed towards sexual perversion. ‘Eros noir’ not only violates taboos, and trespasses in forbidden domains, it also prospects in a country where desire is without limits and freedom intoxicating.”  Surrealist art was frequently about the “multiplication of erotic possibilities.”  It searched everywhere “for fresh temptations, new stimuli and satisfaction.” This search led, logically, to what the movement called eros noir (the dark eros).

Dorothea Tanning, Eine kleine nachtmusik

Eros noir is a term that reflects the potential violence and danger of sexuality and, as such, is related to Freud’s idea of the ‘death drive’ (the destructive instinct that is opposed to the libido, but which can still be expressed sexually through S&M practices, for example).  Surrealism always particularly celebrated eros noir, both in its own output and in the works of earlier artists that the Surrealists admiredAnother surrealist philosopher, Georges Bataille (1897-1962), detected the dark eros in the Mannerist painting of the sixteenth century and in the nineteenth century works of Delacroix, Manet and Gustave Moreau.  It was at the heart of de Sade’s writings and it manifested itself in modern works by Paul Delvaux and Hans BellmerEros noir has been defined very broadly: it is decadence, an aesthetic of violence, a quest for fever and the hot, dark heat given off by eroticism; it is a hatred of convention, a high atheism and it’s to be found in perverse and wildly transgressive erotica. 

What the surrealists judged to be within the proper sphere of eroticism may be judged from the Succinct Lexicon of Eroticism that was appended to the catalogue for the 1959 EROS exposition.  The entries within this brief encyclopaedia covered psychiatrists and psychologists, such as Freud, Havelock Ellis and Reich; notable figures from literature- for example, Fanny Hill; a range of sexual terms and, lastly, leading writers and artists. The list includes such poets and authors as Baudelaire, Rimbaud, Sappho, Casanova, Pierre Louys, the Comte de Lautreamont and the Marquis de Sade; painters as diverse as Balthus and Hans Baldung Grien and, even Charles Dodgson (Lewis Carroll)- whose photographs were highlighted and accepted as being consciously erotic compositions, although the author of the entry (the film critic and writer Robert Benayoun) was ambiguous, if not critical, in his view of the man. 

This list offers a summary of what- and who- the surrealists under Breton regarded as erotic and noteworthy.  The approval given to the Marquis de Sade is especially notable: “no-one would call de Sade crazy anymore” declared his entry, and poet Guillaume Apollinaire is praised for having put de Sade in “his true place (the highest).”  Conversely, whilst Vladimir Nabokov is noted for creating the character Lolita, “the prototype of the nymphet” and for defining the type, he is condemned for his “spineless defamation of de Sade.”  The prominence given to de Sade helps to define eros noir more clearly but it also reinforces, I think, the impression of male chauvinism at the heart of Surrealism. The promotion of Sade’s extreme erotica to the level of key texts of world literature is, to say the least, surprising, whilst de Sade’s taste for writing about male domination of women and sexual violence hardly seems like something to be condoned or encouraged. Nevertheless, he was seen as a major source of ‘dark erotic’ inspiration and was promoted accordingly. The Surrealists’ rehabilitation of de Sade probably has to be viewed in the wider context of a taste for BDSM and fetish erotica that flourished in interwar France; it is in this light that we might also understand portfolios published by artists such as the pseudonymous French illustrator Fameni Leporini, like his series titled La grande orgie (The Big Orgy); Jules Pascin’s Erotikon of 1933; Orgien published in 1924 by German Otto Schoff (1884-1938), or the output of Austrian Otto Schatz (1900-61). All these works exploit elements of force and group sex, but I think Leporini’s ‘Big Orgy’ especially captures some key tonal elements of de Sade, as found in One Hundred Days of Sodom or Juliette. The artist’s orgies are, indeed, ‘big,’ but the writhing bodies, drawn in a rather amateurish style, take on a febrile aspect bordering on the comic. It’s very hard to treat them as erotic; instead, they’re both unpleasant in their atmosphere of casual cruelty and very silly in their over the top intensity. Leporini seems to push the dark eros over the edge into parody. Lastly, it should be noted that neither de Sade (nor any of the illustrators I’ve mentioned) displayed any of the “equivocation” that Andre Breton had praised in his letter connected with the 1959 EROS exhibition…

Academic Robert Stuart Short has contended that surrealism was “unique amongst contemporary revolutionary movements in putting itself unreservedly at the service of Eros.” Many surrealist works are expressly sexual.  Examples may be found in much of the output of Hans Bellmer and Salvador Dali; the Czech artist Jindrich Styrsky even went as far as to illustrate his 1933 book Emilie prichazi ka mne ve snu (Emilie Comes to Me in a Dream) with collages that comprised images taken from hardcore pornography. His partner, the painter Toyen, provided some notably erotic illustrations to an edition of Pybrac by Pierre Louys. The Belgian painter Paul Delvaux populated a large number of his Quattrocento townscapes with statue-like naked women; several of the paintings of the female surrealists Leonor Fini or Dorothea Tanning even more clearly demonstrate the prevalence of eroticism in the genre.  

For more information on Lewis Carroll and the Surrealists, see my book Eat Me! When Alice Grew Up.

from Paul Delvaux’s sketchbook, 1939-40

Paris- city of pleasure

In 2019, the French author Alexandre Dupouy published City of Pleasure: Paris Between the Wars, a study of the diverse and liberated culture of the French capital in the inter-war period. He explains how, after the austerity and horror of First World War, the French longed for a care-free existence, sensuous indulgence- and sexual freedom. Men and newly-emancipated women alike rejected pre-war social values and moral restraints and instead enthusiastically embraced new lifestyles, discovering a lust for extravagance, pleasure and erotic experimentation that led to the next two decades being labelled the ‘mad years’ and Paris gaining a reptation as the ‘City of Pleasure.’

In 1971, the author Paul Morand, looked back at the era in his travel book Venises and explained: “Everything that had happened in Paris during my years of absence confirmed the revolution in morals that had begun in 1917. A generation was returning from the war, sickened by yesterday, curious about tomorrow, about those who would know how to explain it to them and reveal to them this new world…” The mood had changed and there was an acute hunger to live- as so many no longer did.

Dupouy’s book offers an uncensored photographic record of the period, revealing the daring erotic life of the capital, its fetish scene, its licensed brothels and gay nightclubs, the first sex shop chains, erotic photography, pornography, and much more. Paris became, perhaps, the world’s most decadent city.

In many respects, though, none of this was new. The ‘Gay Paris’ of the fin-de-siecle is renowned, with the can-can dancers of the Moulin Rouge and the many artists who documented the period- such as Jules Pascin and Henri Toulouse-Lautrec. Other capital cities, too, reacted to the end of the Great War in similar ways: the Berlin of Christopher Isherwood and Cabaret is an obvious example; nonetheless, Paris seemed to take matters further.

Paris already had an well-established ‘alternative’ scene: lesbian culture in the city was well-developed before 1914 and daring artists and writers were associated with a bohemian and progressive lifestyle. Nevertheless, the post-war reaction seems to have accentuated these existing trends, which were further fuelled by artistic movements such as Surrealism (who, by the way, championed the work of the Marquis de Sade, an early promoter of alternative sexualities) .

I have often written about Pierre Louys. His late nineteenth century books, Aphrodite and Chansons de Bilitis, had depicted lesbian relationships in an entirely accepting and very open manner. He carried on writing into the next century, but ceased to publish after about 1906. When Louys died in 1925, a wealth of daringly, scandalously erotic books were uncovered in manuscript, titles such as poetry collections Pybrac and Cydalise and the outrageous novella Trois filles de leur mere, and their publication in the following years is symbolic of the fact that France- and especially Paris- was a centre for an active erotic book trade. A flood of titles appeared, dealing with lesbian sex, spanking and leather fetishism (often all in the same story), materially enhancing the reputation of Paris as the city where absolutely anything could be experienced.

This was not a hidden nor a shameful trade. Notable Impressionist artists such as Louis Berthomme Saint-Andre illustrated works by Louys, as did costume designer Marcel Vertes and art deco jeweller Georges Barbier. The painter Leo Fontan both wrote and illustrated spanking erotica, as did the Expressionist Nicolas Sternberg and the Belgian Luc Lafnet, whose BDSM illustrations were a source of additional income to (believe it or not) his main work painting religious murals in monasteries and churches.

Interwar Paris is a fascinating place, a melting pot of radical art, philosophy, politics and new approaches to sexuality. There will be much more to say about the city. For details of my essays on the French interwar illustrators, and other areas of art history, see my books page.

Leo Fontan

Leonor Fini- reclaiming the sphinx

Shepherdess of the Spinxes (1941)

In several preceding posts I’ve described how the sphinx became a perhaps unlikely vehicle for the expression of nineteenth century men’s fantasies and insecurities about women. They were transformed into creatures both deadly and desirable, whose entire motivation or explanation was rooted in the idea that women were potentially demented nymphomaniacs if indulged in their sexual appetites. Some rebalancing or reclamation of the image was plainly needed.

As champions of the irrational and dreamlike, the Surrealists frequently incorporated classical monsters into their art as part of their striving for a new mythology. However, the early Surrealists were mostly men inherited various stereotypes from the Symbolists, especially the idea that women were principally sexually passive and decorative muses, in contrast with which the female sphinx and chimera were juxtaposed as sexually provocative, castrating femme-fatales (see, for example, Max Ernst’s Une Semaine de Bonté (1934)). The Argentinian-Italian Surrealist Leonor Fini (1907-1996), as an independent minded female painter, chose to diverge from this norm and to create a variety of complex and ambiguous monsters, creatures that were more than simply one dimensional expressions of the conventional lethal but enticing femme-fatale.

Sphinx Alaria, 1975
Sphinx, 1941

Fini employed a range of monsters in her art, from the classical sphinx to creatures of popular culture, such as witches and the werewolves. The monsters she depicted were almost always female, or at the very least androgynous, yet the way that she presented their appearance and activities challenged the sexist image of the destructive female monster and the ‘monstrous’ female. Fini made deliberate use of both traditional and non-traditional monsters as a method of inverting and subverting preconceived gender and social codes, ultimately reconsidering the notion of what exactly is monstrous. Witness the part horse, part women creature below, its limbs twisted around and the pubic hair defiantly present.

Fini was a fiercely independent artist. She dedicated herself to her craft and absolutely refused to consider having children. She had affairs with various men, but remained single and took female lovers as well. She said of herself “I am a woman, therefore I have had the ‘feminine experience’, but I am not a lesbian… Marriage never appealed to me, I’ve never lived with one person. Since I was 18, I’ve always preferred to live in a sort of community – a big house with my studio and cats and friends, one with a man who was more of a lover and another who was more of a friend. And it has always worked.”

Entre Deux

Fini had an especial interest in the interactions between dominant females and passive male figures, who were often shown by her as “unthreatening” and “of ambiguous sexuality.” Following from this, in many of her paintings the female character will takes the form of a sphinx; Fini claimed to feel a strong identification with the mythical beast, saying that she’d been fascinated by it since her childhood (she recalled that, as a little girl in Trieste, she had enjoyed riding on the back of a marble sphinx in the park surrounding the Miramar Castle). She often referred to the monster as being one of her first great friends. Accordingly, in later life the sphinx assumed for her the status mascot, confidant and subject. Consequently, from the late 1930s, she began painting self-portraits with sphinxes and subsequently produced numerous paintings in which she herself featured as a benevolent and many-splendoured sphinx. She can be bejewelled and enticing- yet we should never overlook those powerful paws and scythe like claws.

La Sphinx voile

Female monsters, such as the classical sphinx, chimera and siren, have come to be almost inseparably associated with a depraved and destructive sexuality- men are caught in order to consume them- sexually and literally . In order to promote her visions of women as liberated and autonomous, Leonor Fini therefore chose to deliberately destabilise these stereotypes- amalgamating the characteristics of different monsters in a single figure, so that her sphinxes might appear as protective and creative, while little girls may be presented as sensual and aggressive. She was being consciously subversive in her pictures.

Sphinx Ariene 1973
Little Guardian Sphinx 1943-44

Fini rejected the traditionally one-sided view in her depictions of the sphinx, frequently locating her sphinxes in surroundings suggestive of both decay and regeneration, as in Sphinx Philagria I from 1945. This shows the monsters to be emblematic of both creation and destruction, demolishing the stereotypical view of this monster. Fini’s sphinxes stood for dominant women, unashamed of their sexualities.

Sphinx for David Barrett
Little Hermit Sphinx 1948 Leonor Fini 1908-1996

Fini’s further subverted the typically negative and solely destructive view of the monster by
equating her sphinxes with the Great Mother goddess and with parthenogenesis. For Fini, the Goddess could be simultaneously creative and destructive. Her picture Little Hermit Sphinx was painted in 1948. In September 1947, she had undergone a hysterectomy for medical reasons. She later commented: “I was happy to have undergone that operation; the thought of having children horrifies me”. Yet Little Hermit Sphinx has been seen as a self portrait of the artist after her operation, portraying a sad and lonely atmosphere, with the broken egg shells symbolising lost motherhood, an interpretation that Fini herself confirmed and linked to her inability to have children. Fini is not mourning her inability to have children, though, rather she regrets her loss of status as ‘woman-as-life-giver.’ Thus Fini’s sphinx not only subverted its traditional destructive interpretation, but also the traditional notion of feminine maternity, so as to arrive at a new, more ambiguous definition. Witness, too, her Sphinx with Rose below, a figure that is both voluptuously female, and holds a blooming flower, and yet is skeletal. The twin-headed sphinx of Dithyrambe may also suggest the dual character that Fini was exploring (the dithyrambic, by the way, is a form of poetry developed in praise of Dionysos). As for the third sphinx below, with its reptilian tail and curved, almost pregnant body, most notable to me are the bird-like claws and open (singing) mouth, indicating that this is sphinx as siren, a redoubling of the image of deadly female monster.

Sphinx with Rose
Dithyrambe

Leonor Fini was interested in exploring sexuality in many forms, hence she also illustrated erotic books by various authors, such as the Marquis de Sade‘s Juliette in 1945 and Paul Verlaine’s Parallement in 1969. Both have very marked lesbian themes, it has to be remarked.

Sphinx

In addition, please see my earlier posts and my recent book, Sea-Nymphs, Sirens, Sphinxes- Sex & Symbolism.

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Surreal Venereal- Salvador Dali and Aphrodite

After the Aphrodite of Cnidus

The Spanish Surrealist artist, Salvador Dali, seems to have a fascination with the goddess Aphrodite/ Venus, and her presentation in a variety of media. Quite early in his artistic career the young artist painted a fairly conventional Venus and Cupids (1925), in largely conventional and representational manner: Aphrodite as mother bathes with her offspring against a rocky coastal seascape.

Venus with Cupids 1925

However, Dali’s style developed rapidly (or he was experimenting with different genres) as several variations on a theme of Venus and a Sailor show. In one she is an ordinary woman in her shift, embracing a sailor. In another she is seated in a window, awaiting her lover, but the technique has become more cubist- with the result that her face looks more angular, like that of a statue. In the third image the goddess resembles a huge classical sculpture with the sailor resembling a doll in her lap (but also seen kissing her in profile). The woman’s clothes have largely fallen away and we can see her (or a fellow sex worker) on the quayside awaiting a customer, hand on hip and breast and thigh bared. These images-whatever the genre in which they are painted- stick pretty closely to the classical character of Aphrodite: she is mother of the Erotes (Eros and his brothers) and she is deity of physical love- for pay or otherwise.

Venus with Sailor 1925
Venus & Sailor
Venus & Sailor

Dali didn’t leave the love goddess there, though. His Venus de Milo with Drawers (1936) is an “anthropomorphic cabinet” with drawers- which are equipped with fluffy pompom handles- fitted into her forehead, breasts, stomach, abdomen, and left knee. This statue embodies the Surrealist principles of combining unlikely elements to surprise and disorientate the viewer, although the main response may be mild amusement. It is arguable, too, that the piece demonstrates a sexist objectification of women, an issue that many critics have raised about much of the art of the Surrealists . Arguably, it is demeaning not just to the goddess but to females more generally- consider, for example, Belgian Surrealist Paul Delvaux’s 1944 image of a Sleeping Venus, one of numerous naked women he painted during his long career.

Venus de Milo with drawers
Delvaux, Sleeping Venus, 1944

The Spanish surrealist painted an Apparition After the Aphrodite of Cnidus in 1981 (see start of this posting), in which the famous statue’s impassive face appears superimposed upon a slab of stone floating above a landscape. I have reproduced a copy of Praxiteles now lost statue for comparison. Dali’s painting is a suitably surreal image, with the goddess and other slabs of stone floating over a landscape dotted with small circular pools. A bird’s wing protrudes from a cliff face- perhaps a reference to one of Aphrodite’s doves, a bird closely associated with her. On the slab beneath the statue’s face we see a golden brown shere- perhaps a reference to the apple presented to her by Paris as the most beautiful woman; there are also two smaller shapes- her nose and lips and a pear shaped abstraction of a female body- which might be a reference to the prehistoric carvings of women with large breasts and buttocks which we have labelled Venuses.

Aphrodite of Knidos

Dali’s heliogravure and dry-point of 1963, Aphrodite, presents the viewer with a far more challenging and thought-provoking image than the previous examples. The pose of the subject’s statuesque body recalls that of Botticelli’s Birth of Venus: she stands on a scallop with her hair billowing behind her. In this instance, though, she is pierced by nails, in her face, neck, armpit, nipples, abdomen and thigh, in response to which, perhaps, one hand is clenched like a claw. At the same time, the figure is threatened by dark swirling storm clouds and a very large phallus. Here Aphrodite’s sexuality seems much more vulnerable, under assault from aroused males and subjected to some form of sadist sexual violence. This is, perhaps, the best of Dali’s works on the theme of the goddess, as he contrasts her ‘pin-up’ girl image with the reality of male desire and control.

Finally, we must discuss how Dali’s vision of the goddess fully took flight when, in 1938 at the Galerie Beaux-Arts in Paris, and subsequently at the 1939 World’s Fair in New York, he created the Dream of Venus pavilion, bringing surrealist art to a wider audience. This display was a very early example of a multi-media installation, with sound, performance and the architecture itself contributing to the overall effect. The pavilion included an aquarium in which seventeen mermaids swam around in a submerged living room. In this underwater lounge these ‘Living Liquid Ladies’ had a roaring fire, telephones and a typewriter. Another woman was dressed in a black rubber costume painted with piano keys, which the mermaids would ‘play.’

Outside, sculpted mermaids, bathing belles and coral adorned the façade, which looked something like a bright white sandcastle. The ticket office was a fish’s head and customers then entered between a pair of woman’s legs in striped socks, over which there stood Botticelli’s goddess from his Birth of Venus.

Internally, the walls were covered with reproductions of Dali’s paintings turned into wallpaper and there were fantastical furniture and objects, such as Venus herself, asleep topless on a red satin bed thirty-six feet (eleven metres) long. A recording voiced Venus’ dreams aloud: “In the fever of love, I lie upon my ardent bed- a bed eternally long- and I dream my burning dreams; the longest dreams ever dreamed, without beginning and without end…. Enter the shell of my house and you will see my dreams.” In a mirror beside Venus, it was possible to see her dreams enacted: a bare-breasted woman with crossed arms wore a massive bouquet of geraniums over her face and head. She twitched and shook, apparently trying to escape. Behind the bed, there was an oval cut-out in the headboard, a window onto the adjacent wet tank, suggesting that the aquarium and the mermaids also represented the depths of Venus’ unconscious and her dream. Another bare breasted woman would appear from time to time behind the bed, shushing visitors so as not to wake the slumbering goddess.

Other exhibits in the pavilion included a corridor roofed with umbrellas and a room containing Dali’s ‘Rainy Taxi,’ a vehicle covered in ivy, driven by a dummy and with models sprawled on the bonnet. Venus, the mermaids and the other models were all topless, although in some of the publicity photographs bunches of flowers discreetly cover their breasts.

This entire exhibit is very typical of Surrealist art, in which objects are combined unexpectedly, in disorientating surroundings, with the aim of jolting the observer into new ways of seeing. The emphasis on the dreams of Venus reflects the interest of the movement in the theories of Freud on the unconscious and its expression. That said, the emphasis on young women semi-naked is also quite typical of the rather sexist attitudes of the (mainly) male movement. Venus, of course, is co-opted because of her very association with sexuality and (from one perspective) the satisfaction of male desire. This chauvinist appropriation of her means that she was present only to be displayed with her tits out- a thrill in the 1930s that was doubled by the mirrors behind her bed. Otherwise, Venus was passive and asleep.

Dream of Venus

Salvador Dali’s successive interpretations of Aphrodite/ Venus are fascinating for the different aspects of the goddess he shows us. She is divine mother, lover, whore and a deity inseparable from the sea. In ancient Greece, her birth from the sea on the shores of Cyprus meant that she was viewed as protectress of ships and harbours and the Pavilion recognised that connection at length, playfully and sexily. She almost becomes a mermaid, in fact, as well as the dreamer of mysterious erotic dreams.

On First Looking Into Pierre Louys’ ‘Pybrac’

Toyen, A Girl Sleeping Under the Stars, 1944

“Much have I revelled in the realms below/ And many goodly parts of maidens seen…”

with profuse apologies to John Keats

I recently been reading Pierre Louys’ collection of erotic verses, Pybrac. I have mentioned Louys previously, discussing his faux classical Greek paean to lesbian love, Bilitis. That book, and another classical pastiche, Aphrodite, were his main published works during his lifetime. However, when he died in 1925, it was discovered that Louys had written vast quantities of unpublished material, both poetry and prose. The main reason that all of this output was unknown was because of its scurrilous content. Much of this writing has since been published, but it has changed somewhat our view of the author. No longer is Louys so much seen as a promoter of diversity; rather, he must be regarded as a outrageously erotic fantasist.

Pybrac is a series of just over three hundred four line poems, almost all beginning “Je n’aime pas a voir” (I don’t like to see). What Louys didn’t like to see was a vast array of more or less unusual sexual practices, from dykes with dildos to buggery and bestiality. Of course, he’s writing about them precisely because he does want to see them- and to describe them in detail to us. Very little is left to our imaginations at the end of this. If you ever felt any curiosity about what shepherdesses might conceivably get up to with goats, cart drivers with their horses or (comparatively conventionally) brothers with their sisters, this is the book for you.

The copy of Pybrac I read was the edition published by Wakefield Press, with illustrations by the Czech Surrealist Toyen. It’s a gorgeous little volume with decorative endpapers and selling at about £10/ $12. It’s not very long, but you might say it’s good value: so much shock value for so little expense!

I think the most important observation is that we ought not to try to judge late nineteenth or early twentieth century French society on the basis of Louys’ overheated and fantastical obscenities. None of it is meant literally or seriously and it is certainly not (I’m pretty sure) a genuine document reflecting the sexual mores of fin de siecle society. If it is, well, what it tells us is (as a notable example) that sex with girls under sixteen or so was pretty common (about a third of the verses describe it) and that, of these cases, about a quarter were incestuous, just under a fifth were lesbian (whether with girlfriends, sisters or even mothers) and anal sex was enjoyed in about a third of the cases. In Louys’ parody of manuals instructing young women in etiquette , The Young Girl’s Handbook of Good Manners, the content is entirely sexual: about half is heterosexual, but about a quarter deals with masturbation and another quarter with lesbian relationships. Buggery and masturbation of partners is quite popular, but most of Louys’ advice is on good manners in oral sex with lovers of both genders (including siblings and parents).

The impression, created by Bilitis and Aphrodite, that Louys was pretty fascinated by lesbian relationships is strongly reinforced by his later output. However, whilst Louys’ earlier books were as interested in same gender love, partnerships and marriage as in sex, his unpublished manuscripts are, in the main, obsessed with the carnal affairs alone. A case in point is the novella Trois filles de leur mere (Three daughters of their mother) which was also published after the author’s death. This is a very short story, set over barely a week, and very little happens in it except a great deal of intercourse. The mother, and her three daughters, who are aged from about nine to twenty, work as prostitutes, mainly offering clients their bottoms. When they’re not being paid to have sex, the family are very busy with each other. Then a young student enters their lives and they all to go to bed with him in turn. The story is scandalous, preposterous and (if you’re not in the right mood) highly disgusting and offensive; it’s pure and utter fantasy that can have very little (if any) basis in the reality of young French females at the start of the last century (but then, perhaps, that’s exactly what porn or erotica is meant to be).

Toyen, Two Girls with Flowers, 1932

Whatever the literary merits of Louys’ work, and despite his extravagantly kinky content, his works have been through numerous editions and have been illustrated by a range of notable artists. I reproduced some of these pictures in my last posting on Pierre Louys. The images produced to accompany his collections of erotic poems, Pybrac, Cydalise and the Poesies Erotiques, are as every bit as explicit as the text they accompany. Again, I’d advise not searching for these if you feel you might be shocked or offended: most of the illustrators left very little to the imagination. Toyen (Marie Čermínová) was something of an exception in this. Her delicate line drawings are relatively restrained, but the powerful fascination with sex and sexuality is evident nonetheless. This interest was strong amongst the Surrealists anyway, in addition to which her husband, the artist Jindřich Štyrský, issued the journal Erotická Revue between 1930 and 1933 and much of his own work comprised collages made from hardcore pornography (which I too was surprised to discover existed in the 1930s). Toyen illustrated several other books: these included Felix Salten’s Josefine Mutzenbacher, Aubrey Beardsley’s Venus and Tannhauser (both 1930) and de Sade’s Justine (1932), so it’s clear that she had no objection to working with challenging and provocative material.

Rather like Gerda Wegener, whom I discussed a little while ago, Toyen’s gender and sexuality seem to have been quite fluid, so perhaps she found some of Louys’ work appealing for its courageous challenges to contemporary norms. As I suggested in my posting on the work of Jules Pascin, alternative sexualities existed (obviously) but very few writers or painters acknowledged this inevitable fact at the time. For all his smut and provocation, Louys’ attitude was very much that this was part of human nature and, to a considerable extent, unremarkable.

Toyen did not work on the first edition of Pybrac. That appeared in 1927, just two years after the author’s death; it featured a woodcut on the titlepage by Leonard Foujita and internal full page plates by (it seems) Rojan. These were close illustrations of the activities described in the quatrains and not really suitable for posting on WordPress; the same (largely) was the case with the thirty illustrations provided by Marcel Vertes for a further edition in 1928 (reprinted in 1930)- although I include the titles pages here. There was another explicit edition, illustrated by another woman, the little known but prolific German graphic artist Erika Plehn (1904-88), which was published in 1927.

Toyen’s 1932 edition was closely followed in 1933 by a further one (titled this time Pibrac) with head and tail pieces provided by Louis Berthomme Saint-Andre and 32 vignettes by Andre Collot (apparently). In the very same year, the Belgian painter and printmaker Marcel Stobbaerts (1899-1979) was commissioned to work on another edition of Pibrac (which was reissued in 1934, ’35 and ’39). His twenty illustrations are brightly coloured and cartoonish- but still rather explicitly obscene. There was another edition post-war in 1946, the illustrator of which I’ve not so far been able to establish.

The 1928 edition illustrated by Marcel Vertes (and not an unknown artist as stated here)

I’ve just started to read his collected works, so I expect there’ll be more to say on Pierre Louys… See, for example, my discussion of his first novel, Aphrodite, and also about the central role it plays in my book on the cult of Aphrodite, Goddess of Modern Love. See too my consideration of the artwork created to illustrate Louys’ novel, Les Aventures du Roi Pausole.

Another of Toyen’s illustrations: a French slang word for lesbian is gousse, literally, a pea-pod (I don’t know why)

For more detail of the writing of Pierre Louys, see my Bibliography for him. A longer, fully annotated essay on Pybrac and its sources can be downloaded from my Academia page. For more discussion of the illustrated editions of the works of Pierre Louys in their wider artistic context, see my book In the Garden of Eros, available as a paperback and Kindle e-book from Amazon.