Toulouse! Toulouse! Even More Lost in Lautrec

 

Or maybe I'm just lost. My only consolation, these days, is how I can still lose myself in the creative process, whether anyone else sees it or not - which they likely won't. 

 But I LOVE this poster! It's an illustration  for that series Waldemar did (I won't even try to spell his last name), which I had mixed feelings about. He seemed to be giving Henri the once-over, and surely he deserved better than that. Besides, he hated Jose Ferrer in Moulin Rouge, making me wonder if he ever actually watched it.

One of my many favorite photo portraits of Henri. He always wears such an enigmatic expression  and never smiles, though this clashes with everything I'm reading about his hysterical nocturnal revels and the way he loved to roll around with all those women he so accurately portrayed. Here he looks serious, as if striking a pose, and no doubt this is one of his many costumes (what's that thing on his head??). But there is also something tragic in his eyes. Or is it the alcohol? No one knows better than I what it can do to a soul, the corrosive effects of what is supposed to be a pleasure.

This painting has the strange title of Poudre de Riz (Rice Powder), so named after the chalky mask this woman is forced to wear to attract customers. Though the woman is obviously young, not much more than  a girl, there is nothing young about her facial expression, the tough, jaded look that has so much vulnerability and sorrow behind it. No one starts off in life planning to be a prostitute. nor did  Henri decide to be a dwarf and an alcoholic. One must make the best of it, mon cheri.

I laughed out loud when I realized that this is a portrait of Oscar Wilde! Yes, he has captured the man, though in the most cartoonish way possible. The dissipated look with the drooping eyes, the bee-stung lips, the massive body in powder-blue velvet. . . yes, that's Oscar, all right. The two knew each other, and no doubt Henri realized that Wilde was yet another stigmatized soul who would pay dearly just for being himself.

I  LOVE finding more candid shots of Henri! This one is a treasure. Think of  being the anonymous, scruffy-looking character sitting on the park bench next to one of the greatest geniuses of the art world. Wonder what they're saying to each other? Is it happy hour yet? Is it wine o'clock? At any rate, it was always happy hour chez Lautrec. Though I refuse to believe the man was ever happy.

I love how this captures the hard work, sweat and exhaustion behind the most delicate ballet performances. She has plopped down for a second, huffing anf puffing, probably craving a cigarette or a drink, or both. But all the audience ever sees is the delicate illusion. Lautrec was never satisfied with that. As usual, the image seems to have been captured in mid-breath, so you can practically hear her speaking. You are there - always, but it's not always comfortable.

I don't even know who  this  is, but it's an example of why some people loathed his art. They were afraid they'd show up in it somewhere. The woman in the background seems to be someone I knew once, or saw in a dream, or a nightmare - or did I just hear her voice? Lautrec was one of the first artists to paint artificial light, the glaring electric lamps and spotlights in the cabarets making every color look garish, with a gloom in the background in  which things seem to be crouched and coiled.

I love the brothel paintings, the way he portrays tenderness and affection between women who must be tough and hard-boiled to survive their lives. It has been said that these are the only works in which Lautrec shows human beings displaying any tenderness to each other. But it also reveals that there is a world of women which is absolutely NOT dependent on the favors of men. Did Lautrec feel shut out of this world, or did his art provide him with a magic key?

I don't know who this is either, but she is electrifying! The face, the eyes - I  don't know, I can't get out of this thing I've fallen into, this tub of love, this gay Purr-ee that I now know was anything but gay, except maybe in the sexual sense. How can mere paint bring someone alive like this? And why can't I do it? Stick to what you know. Keep writing, even if it kills you. Even if NO ONE is listening and no one even knows you are there. Which is probably true. Everyone noticed Henri, and rightly so, even though he flamed out well before the age of 40. But can you imagine Lautrec old? Or anything else other than what he was - a total original?