I don’t want to patronise you but, as I knew nothing about Bonnard, you might like the basics: born 1867, died 1947, French. Tate Modern, a right dump, has an exceptional exhibition of his work that you can see until 6th May.
Why is this exhibition so good? It is chronological. His early work, as my guest, the right wing Peer’s wife, observed depicts much too much awful French wallpaper. His still loves are nothing to write home about and his self-portraits ditto. But it is a revelation to see his use of light and colour evolve and almost all his landscapes are captivating.
The exhibition has pictures from pre WW I to post WW II. So, in the context of the Munnings exhibition at the Army Museum, it was interesting to see what Bonnard was painting in 1918 and the answer is mostly rather attractive landscapes. I’m not sure I would have warmed to Bonnard. He seems to have been self-obsessed with only a little time to spare for his wife and mistress Something which the latter found intolerable and she took her life in 1925.
He wasn’t averse to painting on vast canvases. He was commissioned by some Swiss friends but they never took delivery because the picture could not fit into their house. He was also known for fiddling with his work, improving it sometimes for decades. Once, at an exhibition in his lifetime, an elderly gent was seen to be painting over Bonnard’s work. Of course it was Bonnard lui-même.
Echoing Christopher, the Bonnard exhibit is all about the emotive power of colour and light. One is struck by how Bonnard utilizes these two elements to portray a life devoted to portraying and finding beauty in domesticity and everyday activities–depiction of gardens viewed from his window, observations of the female body lying in the bathtub. The intimacy of his paintings draws one into a seemingly tranquil and serene world.
Following the arc of 20th century painting, one imagines that Mark Kothko must have connected with the intuitive nature of Bonnard’s works and extended the world of sensuality in painting to Rothko’s own world of abstract expression.