Notes on a scandal
A woman stands against a wall, her hennaed hair swept up, her head to the side, her gaze averted. The fingers of one hand rest delicately on top of a table; her other hand gathers the skirt of her dress ever so slightly upwards but reveals no leg or shoe. Her beautifully constructed, corseted gown clings to her hourglass figure and exposes her elegant neck, creamy shoulders tinged with lavender, and a hint of decollétage.
So far, so sublime but hardly scandalous. A subtle erotic charge—the sense of intimacy versus availability, impudence versus reticence—permeates the painting finished in rather sober black and brown hues. Yet “Madame X,” by the dandyish American expatriate artist John Singer Sargent, was such a cause célèbre when it was first exhibited at the Salon de Paris in 1884 that it threatened to derail his career. So crushed was he by the controversy that he soon abandoned Paris for London.
In today’s hypersexualized world, “Madame X” seems innocuous, even tame. While superbly composed and executed, its artistic merits—Sargent called it “the best thing I’ve done”—were completely overshadowed by the reaction it received from the viewing public, which ranged from openly mocking to downright hostile.
The first iteration of the painting was admittedly far more provocative than the final version that now hangs at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. It featured her diamante strap falling off one shoulder, as an earlier study shows. This finished painting was ridiculed more than it was praised, forcing Sargent to paint over it to put the strap back on the shoulder.
Madame X—aka Virginie Amélie Gautreau—was, like Sargent, an American expatriate in Paris, more arriviste than haut monde. Perhaps both artist and sitter had hoped that the portrait would elevate their respective standings in society, though it must be said that Sargent was a gifted portrait painter who already enjoyed the patronage of the Parisian upper classes.
Much of the public vitriol against the portrait was directed beyond its suggestive theme; it was that Gautreau herself was alleged to be a woman of dubious morality, and to see her so blatantly exalted in painting was too much for French society to handle. It was certainly too much for Gautreau’s mother, who was furious with Sargent for sealing her daughter’s notoriety.
Perhaps such intimate portrayals were best kept private, as far as the French public was concerned. Far more explicit was Gustave Courbet’s painting “L’Origine du monde” (“The Origin of the World”), painted almost two decades before “Madame X.” If Sargent’s stylized portrait was a graceful seduction, Courbet’s rendering of a woman’s private parts as she lay in a state of deshabille, legs apart and breasts exposed but face concealed, was graphic—some would insist pornographic—realism, an in-your-face voyeuristic invitation to peer into, well, where life begins.
However scandalous it may have been then, “The Origin of the World” was largely spared from the prurient scrutiny and possible outrage of viewers, for it had been privately commissioned by a Turkish diplomat, Khalil Bey. Word did get around, however, and as Bey liked to entertain at home, the less puritanical among his guests would have had access to it.
Today, one can pause for as long as one wishes in front of this painting in all its bushy glory at the Musée d’Orsay, where it still has the power to unsettle.
Arguably more commonplace is male genitalia in art. Michelangelo served up David’s entire anatomy in gleaming marble. As in many similar sculptures in Greek and Roman antiquity, his penis is neither impressive nor controversial; it just is.
However, when the South African artist Brett Murray portrayed the former corruption-riddled president Jacob Zuma in a stance that recalled Viktor Ivanov’s iconic painting of a revolutionary Lenin, he left his body clothed, save for his exposed and rather substantial penis hanging out of his unzipped fly. Called “The Spear” (2012), it was a satirical portrait that alluded to a panoply of issues, among them Zuma’s sexual promiscuity, accompanied by allegations of rape and sexual assault.
Zuma often boasted of his sexual prowess, but “The Spear” had turned him into an object of ridicule. Defaced by outraged spectators, it was swiftly ordered removed from the exhibition (aptly entitled “Hail to the Thief,” by the way).
In his lawsuit, Zuma alleged that it violated the dignity of the president and all of South Africa. Pseudo-emperors, it seems, don’t like being caught with their fly open.
Murray ended up selling “The Spear” in its vandalized state to a German buyer for $15,000. A succès de scandale indeed.
