The Art Books of Henri Matisse

The Chester Beatty Library in Dublin is currently exhibiting five out of the more than a dozen artist’s books produced by Henri Matisse. I wanted to look at the approach in these books towards marrying the elements of narrative, typography and illustration.

I was a little surprised to learn that they often came unbound, in loose sheets. Jazz (1947) is Matisse’s best-known art book, with bold colours and occasional lithographed text as accompaniment to the images. Jazz is brilliant and large-scale – and in my mind somewhat at odds with the idea of the portability of the book (it was originally conceived as a collection of plates). In terms of book production, then, I found the other exhibits of more interest.

Pasiphaé (1944) is Henry de Montherlant’s retelling of the legend of the birth of the Minotaur. For this, Matisse selected favourite phrases from the text which he interpreted in several ways – though in the book he published only one image per scene. The linoleum-produced illustrations consist of white lines on a black background, forming silhouettes which recall classical Greek representations of the figure; dispersed throughout the book, they contrast sharply with the white pages containing the black lettering of the text. (I also noted that the text incorporates a combination of verse, regular prose and dramatic dialogue.)

an image from Pasiphaé (source: henri-matisse.net)

For Poèmes de Charles d’Orléans (1950) Matisse created a backdrop to the medieval-period poems rather than direct illustrations. What stands out here is the use of his own calligraphic script for the text – surrounded by garlands and rolls; he also decided to vary the colour and motif of the script in order to avoid monotony.

In Poésies de Stéphane Mallarmé (1932) he responded to the poet’s stated emphasis on the importance of the white space around the poem by etching “an even, very thin line, without hatching, so that the printed page is left almost as white as it was before printing.” So, like in Pasiphaé, the soft-line images placed on the opposite page to the text form an attractive contrast to the dense black type.

an image from Poésies de Stéphane Mallarmé (source: henri-matisse.net)

And there’s also his illustration of James Joyce’s Ulysses (1935). Most intriguing here is the fact that Matisse chose to illustrate subjects from The Odyssey rather than scenes from Joyce’s text. His pencil studies reproduced on blue & yellow (see-through) tissue are impressive.

The exhibition continues until 25 September 2011.

wurm im bloom

On Thursday 16 June Wurm im Apfel presents a poetry reading with Sophie Mayer and Nina Karacosta. The venue is the Cat and Cage pub (function room), 74 Drumcondra Rd Upper, Dublin 9. 8pm start, free admission.

Sophie Mayer published her first daringly experimental and queer-positive poem when she was 6 years of age. She teaches creative writing at Kings College London and has published extensively on feminism and film. Her new collection is The Private Parts of Girls (Salt, 2011).

Nina Karacosta lives in Paris. Her chapbook Previous Vertigos appeared from Corrupt Press earlier this year.

The performances will be preceded by an antidote-to-Bloomsday workshop (wurmshop). From 6pm. Bring poems to discuss and share. No straw boaters please.

Whitey on the Moon, by Gil Scott-Heron

The sound of tambourines calls us to gather round. It's a summer evening on a city centre lawn, or maybe on a concrete pavement in some ghetto.

The speaker gets straight to the point. It's all come to a head: a rat bit his sister Nell. The repeated reference to “whitey on the moon” suggests that this happened around the time of man’s first walk on the moon. The juxtaposition of these images prompts us to consider the cost at which such a feat might have been accomplished, what kind of sacrifices might have been made to get a man to the moon. Where did the funds for research, medical support etc come from? The speaker links all this to his inability to pay for the treatment of his sister (who gets worse) and ruminates on his obligation to be paying off loans for the next ten years.

Being bitten by a rat in the home suggests neglect. We learn there’s a landlord involved; and that, while the rent has gone up, there’s still no adequate sewage system or supply of electricity and hot running water. Then come further, more general hardships: higher taxation, more expensive food, widespread availability and use of hard drugs, and – getting back to the start of it all – rats lurking around the house.

Up until now the man on the moon – the derogatory “whitey” notwithstanding – has been a symbol for the disparity in means between the rich and the poor. But suddenly he begins to be implicated (if it wasn’t such a terrible pun you could say that the speaker smells a rat): “Was all that money I made last year / for whitey on the moon?” he asks. And right there the anger boils over: but, as well as defiance, it's with an undercurrent of suspicion that nothing will come of it that the speaker vows to send his bills – “airmail special” – to the man on the moon.

In its vaguely defeated denouement the poem is an eloquent call to arms. There’s an uncomfortable contrast between the contempt the speaker shows to the powerful through the use of the word “whitey” and the hope of having his bills paid by him. While specifying the man on the moon as white, combined with the fact that the poet is black, may strike some as restrictive in its particularity – though there is much evidence that there are still discrepancies in standards of living between racial groups – the situation described has a broader ambit. Last year I spoke to a (white) man who was bitten by a rat on the first night after he and his family had moved into rented accommodation – a rather neglected home until the threat of litigation – very close to where I live. Taxes are indeed going up, while public services are being curtailed; heating bills and other domestic charges are increasing; crime is encroaching on areas previously thought of as safe.

At the same time comfort and riches are fenced in smaller and smaller circles – both between and within nations. Acts of thievery and thuggishness are being swept under the carpet or even justified due to the power the perpetrators command – political, financial or cultural. People lose their livelihoods and homes while those accountable are quietly retired or handed bonuses or both. Those who simply try to carry on are finding it harder to do so – and others who seek out new challenges, whether for the sheer excitement of it or because they see no other option, are often constrained by new laws and new moralities.

I read ‘Whitey on the Moon’ as a timeless revolutionary call that has found a new point in the sociopolitical cycle at which it is relevant. It questions whether the dignity of individuals should be traded for general prosperity and excellence – or indeed whether this is the only way. This year’s Arab uprising and student protests in the UK are almost certainly just the beginning, because the current – and widening – contrast between those with means and those without cannot possibly be sustained.