Morandi at the Met
An artist, 'with much faith in Fascism,' gets a second look.
Dec 15, 2008, Vol. 14, No. 13 • By MAUREEN MULLARKEY
A painter's painter and one of Italy's most admired,
"It takes me weeks to make up my mind which group of bottles will go well with a particular colored tablecloth," he said. "Then it takes me weeks of thinking about the bottles themselves, and yet often I still go wrong with the spaces. Perhaps I work too fast?"
That rhetorical tease hints at the self-possession of an artist who also took time to cultivate the image of himself as a solitary genius, isolated from modernist movements and fascist career networks. A wide circle of influential friends, many of them writers and intellectuals, facilitated the posture. They hastened to gloss his crafted--and aggressively guarded--persona as an apolitical outsider. A 1945 catalogue essay by the art historian and collector Roberto Longhi set this tone of approach by referring to "the monastic Morandi in his cell." It was an edifying characterization but a pious fable.
Despite critical and financial success in his lifetime, Morandi has remained, since his death, a sidebar to the 20th century canon, and the first full survey of his work in the United States, the recent exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, is part of an effort --begun in 2001 at London's Tate Modern--to widen his audience and establish his place on the art historical time line. And, it follows, on the auction block.
At the Met, with some 110 paintings, etchings and watercolors on view, every phase of his work was represented. Here were the iconic still lifes, noiseless and austere in their muted color scale and spatial ambiguities. Rare self-portraits, several handsome landscapes, flower paintings, and a commanding group of etchings are included. It was a select gathering from collections originally assembled in collaboration with Morandi himself, who steered sales of his work to those scholars, critics, and wealthy connoisseurs who could advance his career. His patrons, including major and minor players in Mussolini's regime, were men of taste.
The formal structure and spatial organization of Morandi's paintings place him at the heart of the modernist undertaking. Lessons learned from Cézanne appear in the linear evasions of homely items compressed on a tabletop, like distilled architecture. His subdued palette echoes the ochres, browns, pinks, and brick reds of Bologna's old colonnaded buildings. The same household objects repeat like mantras throughout his work, each adjustment between them finely calibrated to break the silence--some would say monotony--of the whole.
The narrowness of his range, its compositional encores and refrains, can be misleading. His distinctions are penetrating but so discreet you have to work at observing them. No middle ground exists for the audience: These subtle shifts of tone and perspective either captivate (as they do me) or bore. To seek infinity in an arrangement of bottles is an acquired taste.
From the standpoint of pure painting, this was a welcome show; but it stumbled as a cultural event. More than an invitation to the felicities of paint, an exhibition is also a social fact, a material prompt to historical understanding. The Met's obligation is to cultural memory, not to marketing myths; accordingly, it drained culture of meaning by introducing Morandi in near-devotional terms. Or as Umberto Eco trills in the last commissioned line of the catalogue: "Morandi spent his entire life addressing the problem of the redemption of matter."
Less messianic--and more to the point of his rise to prominence in a nasty time--are Morandi's own words: "I have had much faith in fascism since its first inklings, faith that has never ebbed, not even in the darkest and most tumultuous moments."
Born into a prosperous Bolognese family, Morandi was raised in a villa on the outskirts of the city. He was 19 when his father died and the family moved, with a live-in housekeeper, to an apartment on the via Fondazza. Morandi stayed there with his sisters until he died. He worked and slept in the same room surrounded by the bottles, boxes, vases, and canisters of his still life repertory. The man never left Italy until, at age 66, he went twice to exhibitions in Switzerland. Such is the skeleton of "the Morandi myth."
Put flesh on the bones, however, and the story turns labyrinthine, even devious, and unreconcilable with the received image of the artist as the lonely embodiment of some lost ideal.