And as Morgan retraced the journey of Henri Matisse’s life, he began
a life journey of his own. The author describes it best :
In 1990, after many years away from painting, I signed
up for a summer course at the Arkansas Arts Center, my only formal art instruction
other than one year in high school. It was good to smell the oils again, but
while I could create recognizable shapes I still had no idea what I was doing. I didn’t know if I wanted to be a realist or an impressionist (impressionist
looked easier). I didn’t know if I wanted to paint landscapes, still -
lifes, or portraits. And even if I’d known my mind, I didn’t know
how to control the paints so that they would express what I wanted to say. The
three-month course was way too short.
After
it was over I didn’t sign up for another. Instead, I plodded on, hit and
miss, all by myself. I also began reading about Matisse and studying his work.
But the more I painted, and the more I pored over Matisse’s brilliant panels
of shape and color, the more importance I attached to one thing the teacher had
casually tossed out during one of his art lessons that summer: ‘Most people
don’t really see,’ he said. ‘They just look. If you’re
going to be an artist, you have to train yourself to see.’
For the first time in my life I understood how
Claude Monet could paint the same haystacks over and over— and why Matisse
inevitably returned to his pewter pitcher, his wrought iron table, his goldfish
bowl, his Rocaille armchair. What I suddenly grasped was a concept as profound
as it was simple: It’s not the scene, it’s the seeing.
Matisse
himself said something on the subject that I believe is very relevant to our
contemporary times: ‘Everything that we see in our daily life is more or
less distorted by acquired habits, and this is perhaps more evident in an age
like ours when cinema posters and magazines
present us every day with a flood of readymade images which are to the eye what
prejudices are to the mind. The effort to see things without distortion demands
a kind of courage; and this courage is essential to the artist, who has to look
at everything as though he were seeing it for the first time….’
My two artistic heroes have been Ernest Hemingway
and Henri Matisse. But what I admire about Matisse’s story, compared to
that of Hemingway,
is that Matisse kept seeing freshly, without distortion—another way of
saying that he kept finding the new, the creat ive, the life affirming within
him. Hemingway shot himself at age 62. But at age 85, when Matisse could no longer
see to paint, he sat in a wheelchair in the sun-drenched south of France struggling
to express himself by cutting shapes of brightly-colored paper and pinning them
to his studio wall.
And that’s why I’m chasing Matisse—not
to try to become the painter he was, but for at least one year in my life to
boldly work at absorbing his affirming spirit, at drawing strength from his commitment
to a life of creating, at co-opting his fierce courage to see without distortion.