Charge and Retreat

The Raft of the Medusa remains the most enduring image ever painted by Theodore Gericault, and rightfully so. Born September 26, 1791, Gericault capitalized on a special moment in French civilization when the sense of outrage was at its peak and people were ready to rally to a cause. Fresh from travels in Florence and Rome in 1817 and 1818, Gericault channeled his mania for Michelangelo into The Raft of the Medusa’s unique combination of Neoclassicism and nascent Romanticism. But The Raft wasn’t Gericault’s first public victory. An Officer of the Chasseurs Commanding a Charge (above, from 1812) won the medal for painting at the Paris Salon of 1812. Originally commissioned for the cavalry officer depicted, the winning painting showed Gericault channeling an earlier hero—Jacques-Louis David. Like David, Gericault jumped on the nationalist bandwagon and bought into the belief that Napoleon could change the world by ruling most of it. Like his charging chasseur, Gericault joined the fray in spirit if not in actual physical danger.

When the French invasion of Russia failed horrifically in 1812, the spirits of France and Gericault plummeted from earlier heights. They could see the beginning of the end. Gericault depicted that coming downfall in watercolors such as Wounded Soldiers Retrating from Russia (above, from 1814). In 1814, Napoleon found himself exiled to Elba. Even Napoleon’s return in 1815 concluded in the decisive loss at Waterloo. The turning of the tide for Napoleon’s fortunes mirrors the transition of Gericault from a Neoclassicist to a full-on Romanticist with an acute eye for the depths of human suffering, especially in wartime. Like his older contemporary Goya, Gericault recognized the true cost of war and faithfully reproduced that human drama in his most dramatic works. Gericault’s art literally returns to ground level in these images of retreat—a long way down from the pomp and circumstance of the charging chasseur on his high horse just two years before.

Gericault left France for England after Napoleon’s defeat, returning in 1819. Back in France, Gericault began to paint portraits of the patients of his friend, Étienne-Jean Georget, one of the earliest doctors of psychiatric medicine. Among these ten portraits, of which only five still exist, Gericault painted one poor soul who actually thought he was Napoleon in Man with Delusions of Military Command (above, from 1819-1822). In choosing this man with this particular ailment, Gericault comments on the very nature of imperialist thinking as a type of madness. Just how different is this mental patient from Napoleon himself?, Gericault asks. Unlike his previous paintings of military grandeur, Gericault shows the true shabbiness of lovers of war. Yet, he still paints this figure with sympathy, not only in acknowledgment of his illness but, perhaps, to acknowledge just how easily such delusions can infect not only individuals but whole nations at once.

In the Line of Fire

While Jacques-Louis David painted the French Revolution and the Napoleonic Wars from the home front, Antoine-Jean Gros ventured forth into the thick of the action. Born March 16, 1771, Gros actually fled France in 1793 when the Reign of Terror began in earnest. Escaping to Genoa, Italy, Gros met there Joséphine de Beauharnais, i.e., the Empress Joséphine (above in a portrait by Gros, from 1809), who introduced the artist to her husband Napoleon Bonaparte. Napoleon admired Gros’ work and enlisted him to follow his conquering armies as an official war artist. Gros also assumed the duties of selecting the plunder that would be sent back to Paris to fill the museum we know today as the Louvre.


Between David and Gros, the visual propaganda of Napoleon grew in earnest. Bonaparte Visiting the Plague House at Jaffa (above, from 1804) shows Napoleon fearlessly visiting his plague-stricken soldiers, oblivious to the risks of contracting the disease himself. Gros transforms Napoleon into a Christ-like figure, healing the spirits if not the bodies of his men purely by his miraculous presence and touch. Of course, Napoleon never exposed himself in this way in real life, but the power of this inspirational visual cemented the public’s conception of Napoleon as a leader selflessly loyal to his men and his country. Gros’ classicism comes through clearly here, as if a conventional religious scene were defaced with the insertion of Napoleon. The figures writhing about Bonaparte resemble the dramatic bodies of the Renaissance and presage the Romantic art of Gericault, Delacroix, and others influenced by Gros.

As Napoleon’s fortunes faded, Gros’ enthusiasm for conquest as a subject faltered. Gros’ Napoleon on the Battlefield of Eylau (above, from 1808) shows Napoleon still the victorious general, again the central, almost messianic force to which all others turn to for guidance. To see this painting in person at the Louvre is to understand the still-potent attraction of the cult of the personality surrounding Napoleon. Gros left many followers, including many who came to him after David fled France to avoid the Terror. Gros continued to paint until his death by suicide in 1835. A note near Gros’ drowned body spoke of being “tired of life” and “betrayed by the last faculties rendering it bearable,” reflecting his disillusionment after the fall of Napoleon and the repercussions that fall held for France as the conquered nations sought recompense. Like David, there’s something monstrous about Gros’ service to the propaganda machine of Napoleon and his wars, but there is also something compelling about the power of those images to make us want to believe.

Decline and Fall

When history painting was en vogue in nineteenth-century France, Thomas Couture ranked among the top tier of the genre. Born December 21, 1815, Couture painted his epic Romans in the Decadence of the Empire (above) in 1847, announcing himself as a force in the Paris Salon. A student of Antoine Jean Gros and Hippolyte Delaroche, Couture absorbed the neo-classicism of Jacques-Louis David (Gros’ teacher) as well as the Romanticism of Eugene Delacroix and Theodore Gericault (friends of Delaroche). Amidst such esteemed company, Couture held his own as the art world around him began to evolve from the days of David to the new age of Manet.

Artists of the next generation, most notably Edouard Manet, Henri Fantin-Latour, and Pierre Puvis de Chavannes sought out Couture as a teacher. Couture’s Female Head (above, from 1857) demonstrates how he began to adopt some of the conventions of the time after history painting began to lose its prized place in the art world. Couture paints a young, modern woman with a confident look in her eye, mirroring the new assertive female of the nineteenth-century yearning for equal rights. Perhaps learning something from his students, Couture tired of the stuffiness of the Salon and went on his own way, teaching and painting free of all constraints.

Sadly, Couture could never fully bridge the generational gap and embrace the new wave led by Manet. His Damocles (above, from 1866) shows a return to the classical themes of his younger days. Couture’s ability to infuse a psychological life to his figures always remained, regardless of his choice of genre. We truly believe that Damocles dreads the infamous sworld perilously hanging above him. In his later days, Couture couldn’t bring himself to appreciate the work of his independent students, especially Manet. Looking at Manet’s The Absinthe Drinker, Couture snapped, “There is only one absinthe drinker, and that’s the man who painted this idiotic picture.” The painter of grand history paintings couldn’t abide the emphasis on the present and the individual artist. When asked to write his autobiography, Couture lamented that "biography is the exaltation of personality—and personality is the scourge of our time." Couture never gave in to the temptation of personality, preferring to slip gently into the shadows of the past.

Thinking Big

Theodore Gericault, born September 26, 1791, thought and painted big. The Raft of the Medusa (above) from 1819 stretches 23 feet wide and 16 feet high. Standing in front of it in the Louvre, you feel like you’re a castaway yourself, broiling under the sun and dying of hunger and thirst, just as someone cries out that a ship has been sighted. Outraged by the tale of the ship Medusa and how it’s incompetent captain led those people to misery, Gericault painted pure political rage on a grand scale. He sketched bodies in morgues to get the proper appearance of decay. The swirling classical nudes recall the figures of Michelangelo’s Last Judgment that Gericault had seen just a few years before during his travels in Italy. Upon The Raft of Medusa rode the tidal wave of Romanticism. Even Eugene Delacroix, Gericault’s fellow Romantic pioneer, hopped aboard, posing for the figure face down front and center.

Gericault could work on an intimate scale as well. When his friend, the pioneering psychologist Dr. E.J. Georget, asked him to paint portraits of some of his patients showing unique psychological conditions, Gericault showed that he could capture even the most tortured of souls. His Man with Delusions of Military Command (above), from 1819-1822, sympathetically and sensitively reproduces the troubled countenance of the unfortunate. Gericault painted kleptomaniacs and other conditions with equal insight, perhaps thanks to his own family’s history of psychological disorders and his own inner demons.

Gericault died in 1824 after years of chronic tuberculosis. In works such as The Wreck (above), Gericault presents his hopelessness. The Wreck may have been left unfinished at Gericault’s death, or he may have simply chosen to let the freer brushstrokes stand as testament to his emotional state. Even at the end, Gericault thought big, working on designs for large canvases titled Opening of the Doors of the Spanish Inquisition and African Slave Trade that he didn’t live long enough to realize. Gericault “lives” big even in death, residing in the most famous cemetery in the world—Pere Lachaise—with Delacroix, David, Proust, Wilde, and even Jim Morrison, among so many others.

(BTW, the recently published The Wreck of the Medusa: The Most Famous Sea Disaster of the Nineteenth Century by Jonathan Miles promises to tell not only the story of the doomed Medusa but also the wide-ranging cultural impact of the incident, including Gericault's painting.)