Fakes, Mistakes and Discoveries at the National Gallery
Its spooky poster, born from an extramarital affair between a mid-century French banknote and a Matrix promotional cut-out would be enough to make Fakes, Mistakes and Discoveries a very unusual show indeed. Set as it is, in the nippy underground confines of the Sainsbury Wing at the National Gallery in London, it fairly takes the breath away.
The exhibition opens on a simple yet tantalisingly irreverent question: do museums always get it right? Despite the increasing emphasis placed on fashions and personal tastes, large museums still shape the public’s opinion of what Genuine Art really is. In other words, much like science is always right and we are not to be misled by facts, it is widely understood that the items they opt to display define and condense the qualities of Fine Art. In fact, it is common practice to keep works of questionable origin or quality well out of sight, preferably in airtight lockers, so as not to disturb the peaceful and definite quality of the official collections—regardless of the aesthetic merit these works may have in their own right.
Thus primed, the visitor is quickly taken on a compact and playful tour of the various techniques, scientific or not I am glad to report, that help a museum appraise the quality of the works on display: from microscopic observation to simple matters of historic accuracy, every conceivable area of expertise seems to be called upon in this never-ending, somewhat neurotic and much needed quest for certainty.
From faux fakes to legitimate lemons, the exhibit brilliantly highlights the respective influences of morality, commercial interests, conservation deficiencies and scientific progress to explain why pieces were purchased in the first place, how they came to be questioned and, ultimately how their challenge was met. A few questions are neatly left unanswered, thereby keeping the proverbial box open, and foregoing any pretence to contemporary omniscience—a tempting, yet costly abuse.
Of course, the entire display is conceived as a monument to the National Gallery’s curators and conservators, to their cutting-edge tools and their artistic acumen. We are told of conservation studios, gleaming appliances with belts and motors, low-pressure chambres and special lights. Were it not for the occasional courageous admissions of failure and impotence, one could very nearly mistake the setup for a propaganda piece, a sort of live-in poster, a pied-de-nez to the Gallery’s colleagues who have not yet reached such a level of sophistication. Yet, the exhibition is mercifully so devised that the scientific discourse informs rather than overwhelms the underlying analysis of museology, both as an art and as a science, the general impression being one of bonhomous erudition.
Because the works have been chosen to illustrate various fates and challenges, the visitor should not expect much stylistic or historical cohesion from the exhibits. However, the puerile delight of discovering the hidden “truths” lurking behind each canvas more than makes up for the inevitably jarring juxtapositions. This is more of a demonstration than an exhibition in the traditional sense, and its discourse is, in that regard, faultless. The displays themselves have been designed to isolate each work from its surroundings, placing emphasis on the accompanying explanations. The result is lively and a little overbearing, although it could successfully be argued that this is by design.
The exhibition comes complete with DVD and catalogue, both of which delve deeper into the topic, and provide an opportunity to see the works close up, with a clarity seldom attained in crowded and dim-lit exhibition rooms. For once, these traditional add-ons feel like worthy extensions of the show, and their purchase officially doubles as a contribution to the Gallery’s cause.
Some critics have argued the exhibition features “a lot of bad painting” indeed, wondering how their elders could ever have been taken in by the few comically bad fakes on display. How unforgiving they are with the supposedly ignorant upper-class nincompoops who, incidentally, founded and developed the National Gallery. Far more interesting would be to analyse the power of persuasion of these works, ultimately devising an acid test which could be applied to the Gallery’s guaranteed genuine paintings.
Fakes, Mistakes and Discoveries is amongst these shows that are inconsequential on paper, a mere piece of self-serving summer fluff, but make a lasting impression on their visitors. By proving that curators have not yet found all the answers, by showing how works and their public image have evolved through time, it reminds us all that a museum is a living, ever-changing entity. Its informed playfulness makes it easy to enter a world of beauty and masterpieces—be they genuine or not—in a way that is neither obtuse nor condescending.
Symbolism in Belgium at the Royal Museum of Fine Arts
Brussels’s Royal Museum of Fine Arts is amongst these outwardly beige concerns that are unlikely to rouse any deep feelings in the bosom of the waffle-fed tourist. If it weren’t for the recent opening of the hyper-hip Musée Magritte, one would feel compelled to dwell upon the guards’ salmon-coloured casual coats, the blueish linoleum and the lucite railings in the first floor galleries. Old-fashioned, such would indeed be the slogan. Yet, one would be guilty of criminal snobbery for failing to notice the collections, stretching from the XVth century to our times, the stalwart museography, the genuinely enthusiastic, courteous and multilingual staff, the top-notch cafeteria and the clarity that permeates every guide, placard, announcement and display. Diablerie be dammed, this venerable institution invests all its energy in fulfilling its public mission with modesty and intelligence : fostering awareness of classical culture, and making it accessible to the widest possible audience, without scurrility or condescension. While I refuse to be drawn into sterile comparisons between the flagship museums of Brussels and Paris, I cannot help but wish our curators basted themselves in mussel juice once in a blue moon.
Het Symbolisme in België such is the straightforward title of the temporary exhibit on offer. If ever a museum was qualified to organise such a show, the Royal Museum of Fine Arts is, no doubt, the one, for Belgium was at the forefront of the symbolist movement in the late XIXth century. In many ways, it became something of an epicentre, with Brussels providing exceptionally fertile terrain for fin de siècle sensibilities, in a haze of social, economic and artistic advances.
In a nutshell, Symbolism is an artistic movement born from the darker side of Romanticism: while the latter’s semantic structure and emphasis on aestheticism are retained, it depicts a still, hieratic world filled with ambiguity, oppression and, quite often, menace. Spreading throughout Europe, with tentacles in the far-flung confines of the Russian and Mexican empires, it permeated literature, music and sculpture. Of course, the hollow and unsatisfying nature of nutshells is especially noticeable when they try to encompass names as prominently diverse as Fauré, Baudelaire, Edgar Allan Poe and Fernand Khnopff. One needs the kernel, the oil, the substance, as it were, and it requires long hours of extraction at the mind’s press.
Certainly, symbolists could be said to share a common outlook on the world: with the stated goal of “expressing an ideal,” they deal in feelings and perceptions as opposed to the methodic description of nature, then favoured by the naturalists, or the investment in art for its own sake, in the wake of Parnassianism. Symbolist works, therefore, should be read both for their aesthetic qualities and for what lies beyond, for their prime purpose is the conveyance of an idea — read “Idea” or ideal. Of course, with such a broad definition, lines are bound to blur, and the movement is not without its inner contradictions and specialties: incursions into hermeticism, mythical allegories and religious topoi, as well as an underlying quest amongst some leaders for accuracy and, dare we say it, realism in the pictorial delivery guarantee a long and mind-warping noviciate to aspiring followers.
Quite refreshingly, the exhibit opens on an approachable and familiar topic, namely the moral crisis of the late XIXth century, thereby offering a well-lubricated funnel through which to penetrate the knotty bowels of Symbolism. As the industrial revolution, already well underway, keeps on weaving new patterns into the fabric of society, as scientific discoveries bring religious dogma into question and start influencing the Arts under the guise of naturalism, the soon-to-be symbolists cast a pessimistic eye upon the salvation of mankind. Their mythical heroes and phantasmic landscapes directly echo the social and moral quicksands of the time. Case in point, the communicative work of William Degouve de Nuncques, a self-taught Belgian painter, who hides menacing and unnatural pronouncements underneath the reassuring harmonies of colour, tone and touch.
Speaking of tone, night falls quickly upon the exhibit, both literally and figuratively. De Nuncuqes’s remarkable Shuttered House — already hinting at Magritte and the surrealist movement —, plunges the visitor into a world devoid of physical constraints, imbued with blueish tints, fed by darkness and uncertainty. As the semantics of symbolism grow increasingly complex, feeding upon mythical allegories and religious scriptures, elements of physicality progressively disappear, in favour of a world where time stands still and emotions are felt forever, frozen in their transience. Xavier Mellery, for instance, bathes his Tour of Hours in a night of solid gold, while Khnopff places his Caress in a forever lucent landscape.
Faithful to its introductory promise of eschewing the written word, the exhibit focuses on painting, sculpture and engraving, plunging the visitor in the middle of a hermetic dialogue between impressions of the feminine, evil flowers, Christian iconography and hints of XVth century Flemish art. The ground is, without a doubt, to be hit running, as suggested by the spartan museography: spacious rooms, like so many airport hallways, and the elliptical architecture of the entire space, designed to improve the flow of (luckily potential) crowds, seem to broaden the gap between our contemporary culture of forced action and the symbolists’s early, maybe prescient, rejection of these very values. While the wide open, slightly industrial spaces no doubt clash with the idea of personal feelings and intimate ideas, they foster an uncanny pictorial dialogue, confronting opera that were never intended to meet, let alone in such a setting.
The curators explain the exhibit itself should be seen as a complete œuvre, a work of art of its own, a sort of live-in symbolist manifesto. Curators masturbate too, such was my first thought upon reading this grandiose proclamation, as if written in the cloudy throes of an exceptionally good orgasm. Yet, something is definitely to be said for the approach, for the exhibit without a doubt carries a message of its own, beyond that of the cumulated works. While Symbolism can be seen as the bridge between XIXth and XXth century sensibilities, as the opening salvo of modern art or the last efforts of a generation crushed by progress, it is, above all, an intensely human and subjective outlook on Art and its role in a changing society. The vocabulary may have lost a touch of its vim to the great vice of time but the questions haven’t mislaid an atomium of their original vigour.
Much to my chagrin, it seems the exhibition has drawn the ire of a great many reviewers, who criticise its sponsors for a slew of admittedly questionable choices, in direct contradiction with the museum’s commitment to didacticism. The general lack of signage and guidance, the rather uncouth pushing of the catalogue and the ascetic arrangement of the works are all cause for vitriolic comments. I won’t dwell on the doubts voiced about the quality of the works, or the scope of the display, for I am certainly not qualified to pass judgement on these points. I can, however, question whether the addition of long-winded texts about symbolism would have swayed and shaped the masses, as most commentators suggest. The majority of visitors browsing the exhibit cannot be expected to have more than a nebulous definition of symbolism, and confronting them with a few strong images, calculated to fill and mould the cavernous mind, will certainly bear a fruitier outcome than spoon-feeding them eminently forgettable dates and definitions. There is, certainly, room for improvement, especially as far as technical aspects are concerned, but the setup is far from the catastrophe it is made out to be.
Because symbolism is so nebulous by nature, I doubt any human-sized exhibit could pretend to exhaustiveness. In any case, Het Symbolisme in België most definitely cannot. Nevertheless, it is a stimulating and refreshing plunge into a pivotal moment of west European Art History. For us foreigners it is also the perfect setting in which to discover Belgian household names, whose works are discretely on display throughout the world and, of course, right nearby in Brussels. If you think of this exhibit as a kind of whistle wetter, a teaser for the mind, the scallop-and-lime carpaccio that announces a fine meal, it is to be heartily commended. Connoisseurs of the genre and colourfast Art Historians will probably feel somewhat cheated of much expected meat. And that, going for the easy finale, is what I call a symbol of relativity.
Salons au temps de Proust at the Musée Marmottan
The Musée Marmottan Monet is amongst these museological aberrations that prove the generosity of a few connoisseurs and a sprinkling of good sense is all it takes to build a delightfully active cultural centre, far away from the business and turpitude of larger institutions. Originally built as a hunting lodge near the Bois de Boulogne, then home to an Art historian and his son, whose name it still bears today, this delightful hôtel was vowed to the education of the unwashed masses shortly before the second world war. Devoted at first to an extensive private collection of Napoleonic paraphernalia, it progressively diversified its funds, and now hosts, thanks to a donation from the artist’s own son, the largest collection of Monet opera in the world.
Masterful improvements and renovations, spread over the past decade, have given fresh lustre to the museum’s ground floor, that once again very much feels like a private home. While other levels now bear semblance to any well-to-do museum in the world, complete with rather gorgeous custom-made LED lighting, the original reception rooms have remained untouched. In this non-museum of a museum, masterfully arranged and yet museographically transparent, visitors cannot help but feel at home, admiring works, from jewellery to large canvases, in the setting they were intended for. In fact, one is liable to wandering aimlessly, ticket in hand, looking for the exhibit’s entrance so unusual is the complete absence of arrows, turnstiles and white walls.
Speaking of exhibits, today’s affair is dubbed Femmes peintres et salons au temps de Proust. As the refreshingly descriptive title suggests, it presents works and œuvres from the time “Salons” were all the rage in Paris — roughly 1850 to 1930. Salons, of course, had little to do with modern-day cozy corners and the expression synecdochically designates complex social affairs. A Salon was all about uniting prominent figures, social or artistic, on a regular schedule around a forceful personality of the female persuasion, with a view to fostering entertaining and improving intercourse. Well-heeled rivalry between prominent hostesses soon turned them into incubators for then-contemporary Art, each group discovering, launching or sponsoring artists of its own. Marcel Proust famously chronicled the gatherings in regular columns for Le Figaro, a prominent French daily, and based many characters and settings of In Search of Lost Time on his personal experiences.
Taking cues from the museum’s floor plan, the exhibit cleverly clusters works by Salons and benefactors, presenting works sponsored, authored or commissioned by these grandes dames of the times. While the rooms may be criticised for mixing genres and media with a prodigal hand, they offer a fresh insight into the life of these renowned but little-understood figures, whose influence on artistic life was as deep as it was complex. For once, Art is not explored through the telescope of current events but rather through the magnifying glass of interpersonal relationships, highlighting the primordial role of an artist’s own support group. Seemingly unrelated artefacts of the time such as a sterling silver tea service and an assortment of fine jewels makes for an original peek into the Salons’ refined and bustling atmosphere. Excerpts from novels and correspondence enrich and complete this perspective, stimulating the imagination where pictorial evidence lacks. So endearing is the display that one regrets the absence of any meaty historical introduction to better frame and define the phenomenon.
If you can tackle an -ism to its name, you can bet somehow somewhere it happened in a Salon. Academism, fauvism, impressionism: mutually exclusive styles and genres all rose and fell during these inspired decades. As a side-effect, the exhibit cleverly shows how, beyond the chasm of schools and personal interests, the evolution of thought encouraged painters and artists to try their hands at different genres: slight hints of impressionism appear amidst a rather academic canvas, and an impressionist oil painter draws up delightfully detailed sanguine sketches of figures in classical poses. Where art historians remember enemies crossing swords and pencils, the eye sees curious creators discovering new genres and sensibilities.
Speaking of begetters, one would be remiss not to mention the de facto star of the show, Madeleine Lemaire, a nearly forgotten artist, remembered once in a long while for her watercolours depicting flowers in bucolic settings. In a world of oil-wrangling men, her work had little chance to be noticed and remembered by posterity. Luckily, she rose to social prominence by hosting a Salon of her own and befriending the most celebrated figures of her time, from frivolous musicians to high-minded political masterminds. As a result, her pieces have caught many a keen eye and have survived to this day, somewhat discretely but peacefully. Today, thanks to extensive research from the Musée Marmottan, a major figure emerges before our very eyes: beyond her extraordinarily lifelike flowers, a few tumblerfuls of which take part in the show, we are given a few sanguines, oils and pastels to admire. Whatever the medium, she proves its master, seizing the subtleties of the genre, and making it her own: while her oils favour heroic scenes, bathed in lucent mists and sparkling light, depicting heroines with alabaster skin and soulful eyes, her sanguines betray a sharp sense of proportions and anatomy, breathing life and cheek into a geometrically ruthless academic pose. Her understanding of genres so diverse will no doubt raise the question of the artistic mind: can we still praise such a display of dexterity as the result mere good technique, or have we moved past the benefits of assiduous work and entered the Elysian realms of talent in pure form? If one had to be modern and remember the key 20% of the whole jamboree, it would, without a doubt, be the work of Madeleine Lemaire — but then, one would probably not give a rat’s ass about Madeleine Lemaire in the first place, would one?
There is, of course, a strong feminist component to the show. Because women were not considered professionals, especially when favouring the lesser media such as watercolour and sketching, many of the works on display have been kept under wraps by museums and little technical literature is available on their production. Billing the exhibit as the end to all misogynistic ills in the art world would be something of an exaggeration, despite evidence thats such feelings are very much expected of the visitor. However, it does feature never-before-seen pieces from highly talented female artists, whose production rivals that of their better-known male counterparts. In our museum-crazed contemporary society, this is enough of a feat to warrant our undivided attention. The real difference, in fact, is less about the sex and more about the professional status. In essence, the show invites us to redefine the boundaries of amateurism and to re-examine the artistic efforts of the past with a modern eye, one that, while not necessarily free from prejudice, will, at least, see something new and different.
L’art d’être un homme at the Musée Dapper
If you like your museums small, neat and casual with a strong substratum of science, the Musée Dapper is sure to delight and entertain. While the Musée du Quai Branly, its nationally run counterpart, has both feet firmly stuck in a bucket of political correctness, inclusivity and self-importance, this human-sized operation has, over the past few years, put on original, carefully arranged and thematically strong shows covering the fundamentals of African and Oceanic traditions. It is located, unlikely enough, in a quiet corner of the XVIth arrondissement in a newly refurbished building that hosts the museum’s publishing concern as well as an intimate café, home to a culinary genius whose trans-mediterranean compositions consistently enthral and ravish the senses. (If you don’t come for the culture, go for the grub.)
Their latest show, dubbed The art of being a man studies what it takes and what it means to become a man in traditional societies. Documentaries about rites and ceremonies, objets d’art and everyday items are presented as so many insights into this long and demanding journey. The exhibit consists of over 150 works, selected from the museum’s own rich fund or loaned by prominent research centres across Europe: Geneva, Vienna, Munich, all the big cities seem to have an appendage in the pie. From penis sheaths to life-size totems, with stops in daywear, haberdashery and jewellery, the variety of items on display is impressive. A small sub-exhibit, or sister display, if you will, presents a selection of photographic art around the much-celebrated “sape” movement, demurely suggesting it could be regarded as a modern expression of the same cultural phenomena.
Because independent museums readily evoke images of amateur displays and overbearing floral arrangements, I should like to immediately dispel any doubts as to the quality of the setup: the visit is fluid, the works being neatly arranged in a didactic progression, and each area is anchored around one or two key pieces — usually tall sculptures or significant objets d’art that impress a particular point upon the visitor’s mind. Especial props go to the lighting system, an underrated technicality, that transparently highlights and heightens the rich textures and subtle pigmentations of the works. One almost regrets this is not the Louvre, for the Mona Lisa would benefit from such flattering visual treatment.
Although the image of the male body permeates the entire exhibit, it is curiously deprived of photographic documentation. Indeed, the visitor will be required to call upon his fertile imagination to appreciate the proper use of bracelets, pectorals, belts and frou-frous that constitute so many symbols of a man’s age, power and social status. Certainly, a hat is a hat, but inquisitive minds want to know more about the way penis ornaments must be worn this season: after all, knowing an item’s practical value, its modus operandi as it were, is as good an introduction as any to how it looks and behaves when not placed in an environmentally controlled display case. This seems especially important when dealing with items never before seen and entirely alien to the visitors’ culture, as failure to do so runs the risk of inviting erroneous and apocryphal analyses.
Because African Art so often deals with the supernatural, it is rarely figurative, or only superficially so. Therefore, examining and appreciating the works as we would a Turner is bound to disappoint. The bead and feather work adorning many of the pieces is breathtaking, as is the expressive style in which totems and other religious statues are fashioned. Our European sensibilities will no doubt be shocked, titillated and disgusted — take your pick — by the heavy reliance on raw animal material: human teeth decorate a necklace like so many pearls while their porcine counterparts form the basis of a pectoral. Human hair is also frequently used as a fibre, and woven into hard-wearing braids. Wood, of course, is featured throughout, piled in massive blocks for statues, delicately set in smaller knick-knacks or cut in thin flexible bands, as belts and bracelets. Art, we are shown, is not necessarily a fabrication and may lie in the simple acknowledgement of natural beauty. Whether one agrees or not, there is much to be said for this straightforward approach.
The delicate wood work, the strong lines and the inimitable sheen of nacre and ivory combine to create aesthetically impressive and original ensembles. Despite heavy reliance on geometric figures and stylistic conventions, statues and totems feature uncanny detail and stimulate the imagination where the artist’s knife does not thread. Everything, from bodily features to jewellery and scarifications, is documented in minute detail, lying right below the œuvres’ seemingly rough exterior. Because these items are so close to nature in build and materials, they radiate an essential humanity that is bound to grip the visitor beyond the cultural divide.
Trickily enough, the pieces on display are part of a complex system of initiatory and symbolic steps, and are therefore not to be appreciated exclusively for themselves. Instead, they call upon a rich system of mores and traditions, without an intimate knowledge of which patterns, colours and symbols refuse to share their well-guarded secrets. In other words, what objects look like is secondary to what powers or natural forces they invoke, stimulate, replace or repel. Ignoring their symbolic dimension is akin to appreciating works of Da Vinci purely for their tonal values — doable but limiting.
Alas, this is where the show really lets the visitor down, by failing to provide any explanations beyond terse labels listing materials and geographic origin. The keys, which are so tantalisingly suggested, are nowhere to be found. Certainly, explanations are given about the importance of body art and ornaments, and about the way particular items or colour schemes symbolise a man’s status in society. Interesting notes are provided about the importance of the body, the elastic definition of nakedness and the relationship traditional societies entertain with the male form as nature intended it. Yet, little of this goes beyond what is generally known, and part of it even applies to contemporary European societies.
Of the key social markers along a man’s passage from boyhood to adulthood, few words are said, outside of the context of bodily art, whose nature requires written explanations, for lack of other evidence to provide: scarification, circumcision and even alterations involving needles, threads and small objects are all given a polite nod to. Becoming a man, we learn, is not so much about growing up as it is about finding one’s place in society, earning and maintaining one’s status. In this very process lies the crux of the matter, the promise of the show and the question it so politely avoids.
Is becoming a man in Africa too scary an experience for European visitors? Is it too nebulous a concept for the show’s curators to condense it clearly? In any case, if the idea is good, the research seems sound and the display is impressive, the sauce, the glue, the logic of it all is sorely lacking, leaving the visitor with an interesting collection of artefacts on the one hand, a laundry-list of considerations on the other and no real way to relate one side to the other. Calling this show a failure would be unduly harsh, for it is a wonderful introduction to folk art and raises many worthwhile questions. However, try as it may, it does not live up to its promise. Had it been called Artefacts of manhood, I would have given it my full blessing but, as it stands, the ointment just does not fly.
Opera Nanguan at the Opéra Bastille
As part of its pluri-cultural series, neatly and post-modernly entitled Convergences, the Opéra de Paris is producing and promoting Nanguan music. Starting yesterday, and for two nights only, the derelict and gloomy amphitheater — a well-designed but shoddily-built intimate stage at the Bastille opera house —, will host performances of Zhubun elopes with the ghost, a traditional Chinese opera from the Song and Yuan dynasties whose premiere has been pegged around 1000 – 1200 by programmes and bulletins. Only three acts have survived the eraser of Time, making this opera something more of a lyrical bijou than a full-blown œuvre. Luckily, the salient points remain and are in no way muddled by the story’s jerky progression.
Chinese opera seems to share the love of its occidental counterpart for fanciful and questionable plots. In this particular production, a morally upstanding but impecunious young man falls in love with an equally fine-spirited young woman. Through a twist of fate, he discovers, the morning after agreeing to tie the knot with the object of his affection, that this girl has, in fact, long ago been tortured to death by her adoptive parents for refusing to prostitute herself. In a fit of panic and despair, he flees, only to be stopped by the ghost of the young girl who convinces him she is human and alive after all. Vows of love and happiness are therefore renewed, and the flame rekindled. Their touching dialogue concludes on an ambiguous note when the girl remarks how wonderful it is for a man like him to have fallen in love with a ghost like her.
Nanguan is, first and foremost, a form of classical music originating in Southern China. Evolving slowly over time, in economically active areas, it has blended many influences and, to this day, conserves some archaic traits of long-lost regional expressions. It requires few instruments, of a particular design, but is capable of crafting the most complex melodies. If history books are to be trusted, Nanguan music is a traditional accompaniment for social occasions, religious ceremonies and well-bred entertainment, as opposed to the baser forms of popular hullabaloo. Today still, its musical history remains strongly linked with questions of class and politics. As a testimony to the tonal prowesses at play here, the entire opera was accompanied by a mere seven instrumentalists, whose output successfully drove every scene from the first intimate meeting between the young protagonists to the mind-warping discovery of the girl’s death. Repeatedly throughout the performance, mime is substituted for dialogue, and the music fully replaces whatever words may have been exchanged at the plot’s most critical junctures.
The Nanguan opera we are concerned with here is born from the meeting of the Nanguan musical tradition with Liyuan xi opera, a traditional subset of the genre. As opposed to the exuberance of other schools, it strives for strict symbolism, purity of form and contemplation, as evidenced by the slow pace of both music and play.
Of particular note is the “southern drum,” a highly surprising instrument whose membrane is stretched by the player’s foot, thereby altering its tune at will, and whose wooden outer rim is used to produce sharp clicking sounds, when hit by an expert drumstick. The percussionist suitably enjoys a special status and leads the small orchestral ensemble. Orchestral, of course, may not be the best word since the same players double as a singing and talking chorus, whose presence is most strongly felt in the prologue and finale.
Parisians will agree, this would not be the Opera if there were not a sizeable catch. Presumably because Nanguan tradition is too bland for our delicate and highly read palates, we were offered a rejuvenated version of the work, the result of careful research by the internationally acclaimed Gang-a-tsui theatre from Taiwan. Whether these alterations improve or betray the original, I could not say, but they are certainly worth noting for they are refreshingly daring. Indeed, in order to update the genre without sacrificing its traditions to the extent of butchering it totally, the group has called upon a Japanese director to revisit the staging. The result is a personal blend of “oriental influences” including breathtaking butô performances in-between each act.
Speaking of staging, yesterday’s performance was beautifully minimal. Few props, if any at times, subdued lighting and colour-coordinated linen costumes for both musicians and actors made for a traditional-looking ensemble that spoke to our modern horror of clutter. Nothing, of course, was as random as it appeared: the girl’s green and white dress was the perfect mixture of ghostly and fresh, virginal and suspiciously elegant, while the villainous parents wore hard-wearing vests whose multiple fitting layers seemed to suggest old age as much as dissimulation. The truly ascetic backdrop, from black felt on the floor to the black tarpaulin curtain, far from distressing the spirit, played neat tricks on the eye, alternatively lengthening distances, engulfing grief-stricken characters, as if their legs had been cut below the knee, and shrouding the ghost’s apparitions in tingling mystery.
Much to the surprise of our European eye, performers in Chinese theatre are limited to a finite number of acceptable poses, stemming from the repertoire of puppets — an interesting way to approach the borderline world of theatre, where the temporal and the spiritual discourse freely. This limitation, of course, suggests a different take on play, and likens the work of the comedian to that of the composer: with only so many notes, the challenge is to craft something new and unique. Each character owns a small subset of gestures and signifies his innermost thoughts through codified movements, laden with meaning and symbolism.
In a terrible anachronism, I will risk linking elements of yesterday’s performance with aspects of ancient Greek theatre. While there were no masks, one could argue they are effectively replaced by the aforementioned strict rules on play. The interaction between the performers and the chorus, the limited number of comedians and their supposed neutral gender were, in a way, remarkably familiar.
In the tradition of Opera buffa, the text contains few long monologues and raises few fundamental questions in so many words. Taken literally, the entire piece appears burlesque, in a pleasant way, and offers a few elementary take-away lessons on the importance of faith, the proper conduct of young unmarried persons and the evils of prostitution. Those expecting a treaty of Chinese philosophy, bursting at the seams with fortune-cookie proclamations were without a doubt sorely disappointed.
Nevertheless, the plot is incredibly dense, provided one looks not at the words but at the action. In many ways, the lesson is in the demonstration. Central to the discourse is the power of love and its ability to unite the living and the dead. Even further, the ambiguous ending seems to suggest that love itself is enough to resurrect the ghost, to transform this dead girl into a living entity, capable of interacting with the living, of falling in love with them and of eliciting feelings in return. Love, the play shows, is the essence of life, and being in love is akin to being alive. An interesting proposition, that concludes a series of interrogations on the need for redemption — should the evil parents be forgiven? —, on the sanctity of marriage — is an agreement made in secret between two young people a truly binding marriage? — and on the ultimate triumph of purity — the girl ends up getting the life her parents wanted to deprive her of.
In many ways, this Nanguan opera remains an indecipherable mystery for western audiences who do not have, by far, any of the tools, background and experience required to rightly appreciate it. All we can do, really, is gawk and babble. Nevertheless, it is a touching, surprisingly universal performance that strikes all the right notes. While nothing is familiar to our senses — be it the music, the staging or the performance —, the message clearly shines through, and the excellency of the production cannot be questioned. If only the Opera could get its supertitling together, this would come remarkably close to perfection.
