"He was there or not there: not there if I didn't see him."- Henry James, The Turn of the Screw
One sees
immediately from Felix Vallotton’s paintings that he must had been a gifted
raconteur. The painter was possessed of the natural aptitude of unfolding and
withholding the narrative flow at the most propitious timing. Mysteriousness
emerges. The viewers are bound to be tantalised. Whilst most of Vallotton’s
paintings are about the quotidian, the domestic, beneath them their pent-up
energy seethes and trembles, threatening to explode at any moment. It isn’t
just the quotidian that he depicted, but the interior dramas. Any reader of
Ibsen’s or Strindberg’s plays will know that interior drama can be the most
frenetic.
A woman
leans towards a man, her hand entwines his body in show of sensuousness. She
whispers into his ears something that the viewers are forbidden the right to
privy to. But one has the eye to deduce, from the slightly wrinkled of the
man’s nose and the slightly arched of his eyebrow, that the message she
confides to him seems to be one that pricks his annoyance. Or is it? One quickly
retracts on his original conjecture. Or could it be that the man is actually smiling,
made amused by his lover’s sweet nothings. Or is it rather a hackneyed episode
of the deceiver and the deceived, but is the latter always so blind to the trap
he is about to fall into? Perhaps not so much as his face intimates his
mistrust to the woman’s flattering words. Gradually one grows fretful of so
many possible answers to an ever-unsolvable question, especially under the
likelihood that not even one of them accurately squares with the painter’s real
intention. Therefore, out of sheer frustration, one will declare that a
painting like The Lie (1989) is
“rather baffling.”
Vallotton
died in 1925 and left a total of over 1700 paintings and 200 prints. With such
a gross oeuvre it was rather difficult to maintain the consistent quality of
each individual work. The tense feeling of emotional suspense in The Lie can stiffen into that of rigid
formality in other paintings. Once Vallotton decided to simplify the contours
of figures and skimp on the varying use of colours of his palette, the result
can be so plausibly namby-pamby. This criticism is, however, not also targeting
at those Japonist-inspired landscape paintings. Examples like Sunset (1913), with its compositional
simplification, achieves an effect both pleasing and spiritual. An orange-red
sun hangs at the centre of the painting. The sunbeam stretches vertically
across the ocean, towards the viewers. What can the symbolic meaning be? The
presence of God in the form of light? Or it denotes the fateful path every
devout believer must embark upon to assume connection with the deities?
Vallotton’s
later work, though exhibiting an obvious tendency towards abstraction, boasts
the richest and the most suspenseful of dramas in its storytelling. Everything
seems to be perfectly normal; nothing seems to be going on, whilst one suspects
that something queer is indeed afoot. There is this painting that is dominated
almost wholly with a bland, monotonous landscape: snow field, straight avenue,
some houses that are hidden behind the heavy mists, a wobbly lamppost, and no
more. A man is at the edge of the painting, hastening out of the frame. Going
where? One never knows. But one can sense that he might be quite desperate to
get out of this place, this deserted town that seems only frequented by the old
spirits. Here lies the most ingenious aspect of Vallotton’s creativity: to keep
ablaze the fire of intriguing drama even though the subject matter seems to revolve
on the most dismal, the most desolate. He never gratified his viewers more than
a glimpse of what they were most desirous of. And that is the key to the most
masterful of storytelling in art.
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