Pensées et visions d'une tête coupée (1991) - full transcript
“The only reward
I ask for,
“which must be promised me
before a hand is laid on my work,
“is that my paintings will always
be seen next to immortal works."
THOUGHTS AND VISIONS
OF A SEVERED HEAD
I the undersigned, Antoine Wiertz,
artist, philosopher and painter,
hereby declare
that after my death
I wish my body to be embalmed
in the so-called "Egyptian” manner.
Before that,
my heart shall be removed
and embalmed separately,
then placed in a silk bag
knotted with a pink ribbon.
As for the rest,
I wish to spend my life
depicting impossible beauty.
I want the public to feel
unsettled before my paintings,
for some to tear at their hair,
unable to express
the feelings that grip them,
for young women to faint,
and for children to flee, screaming out in terror.
A monumental studio
must be built
to house the immense pictures
I have decided to paint.
In exchange for the cost
of the construction,
the state will become the owner
of all my works.
I ask that after my death
this workshop become a museum
in which my paintings
must be exhibited for ever more.
It is to this temple
that I invite all those
who would meditate in solitude
on the forming of my art.
“The painter Antoine Wiertz
“has sent to the Louvre
his large and heavy paintings,
“which threaten to fall
onto the museum-goers.
“His efforts to impress his public
“should not let him forget
“that large dimensions
do not equal grandeur."
Edmond Von Offel,
La Revue d'Art, 1842.
“Monsieur Wiertz is not
to be scorned as an artist,
“and there is something
of the painter about him.
“But with this Cyclopean confusion
of arms and legs,
“he has crossed the line between
the sublime and the ridiculous.”
Pierre Ménard,
Le Courrier Français, 1840.
Ladies and gentlemen,
we shall now begin the visit.
Would you be so kind
as to not touch the works of art,
and to maintain the silence
that befits the respect
due to a great genius.
Here first of all is a painting
by means of which the painter
invites us to meditate.
In fact,
it is both
a rigorous pictorial study
and an evocation
of the spiritual life.
This painting is called
The Young Witch,
and provides us with the spectacle
of a young and voluptuous creature
being initiated
into Satanic practices.
An old crone dressed in black
lurks in the darkness behind her,
whispering in her ear
some cruel and painful confession.
But she remains impassive,
a prisoner of her childhood dreams.
And nothing
could ever disturb her loneliness.
Yet...
The Suicide, oil painting.
Disgusted with life,
his heart empty,
his mind vacant,
this handsome young man
said to himself,
“I want to die."
As his head,
blown away by the bullet,
explodes in several pieces...
the Angel of Death,
whose hand holds a second pistol,
primed to fire,
smiles at his triumph.
The suicide's body collapses
next to the Good Angel,
who prays and cries
at the same time.
A farewell letter reveals to us
the philosophy
which brought about the end
of this pure soul:
materialism!
You can also see here
to what extent the painter
valued the moral duty of the artist,
and the admonitory virtues
of his work.
This was equally true
for the series
to which he dedicated
many nights of toil,
which is called
Thoughts and Visions
of a Severed Head.
Seeing the guillotine at work,
I asked myself
the following question:
"Does the severed head
“retain the faculty of thought
for a few seconds?"
At the time, a man
was condemned to be executed.
Accompanied
by Professor Clovis Trouille,
I managed to slip
under the scaffold.
We awaited the fatal moment
which would bring us the head.
Suddenly we heard the horrible blade
send the head into the red sack.
Our hair stood on end,
but this was not the time
to flinch.
My companion seized my hand,
led me to the pulsing head
and spoke to it.
“What do you feel?
“What do you see?"
With horror we realized
that the head could still see,
suffer, think
and even speak short phrases.
He asked why his head was burning
and turning on itself, as though
it were thrown into a fire.
He felt as if he were stretching
his hands toward his face,
but never reaching it,
never touching the torturous wound.
He said he could see
his mother's corpse putrefying.
He asked for help,
screaming in pain.
Then he became incoherent.
Through a hideous smile,
the head coughed up blood.
It desperately tried
to catch its breath,
to rejoin its body.
Finally it went still,
the face illuminated
by an insane grin.
“This painting is the work
of a madman or an imposter.
“Monsieur Wiertz's macabre jokes
amuse no one but himself,
“and one can really judge
his talent
“when one knows
that his first monumental work
“was given to a provincial grocer
“as the prize in a raffle."
JErôme Tonnerre,
La Revue des Trois Mondes, 1846.
Art critics are asses.
To prove this, I anonymously sent
two paintings to the competition
of the Beaux-Arts in Paris.
They were refused.
One of them
was an authentic Rubens.
Criticism as regards art
is impossible.
Write, then, all the ill you wish
about my works.
You will never equal
the ill I think of myself,
as a result of the high standards
I set myself.
I wish to dedicate my life
to this new religion.
I shall sacrifice everything.
I shall exhibit a courage,
a constancy and a heroism
worthy
of the finest ancient virtues.
I take the oath
never to sell a single painting
except for a few portraits
to pay my way.
An art that is sold
is an art of prostitution.
The public
are nothing but ignoramuses
who at times
praise ignoble works to the skies,
and at others scorn masterpieces.
The glory to which I aspire
is on another level,
and I await a more glorious theater
in which to make my virtues shine.
Talent does not lie in
one's facility at imitating nature.
I dream
of another kind of painting,
of an art more abstract through
being more faithful to reality.
For painting
is but a transitory stage,
a preparation, a toy...
It will soon be replaced
by a more serious art,
by the imitation of life itself.
And I shall be the one who perfected
this definitive painting process.
Initial tests
have already given me great hope.
It is as if life itself
has seized the canvas,
and the person will soon
start speaking and moving,
and take your hand
to drag you even further away.
But, alas,
these first works quickly vanish.
The colors fade,
the lines of force diminish.
The medium itself falls to pieces
and all must be begun again.
Yet I am not giving up hope.
I work the same motifs
day and night.
I relentlessly pursue the great
picture of eternal suffering.
Hunger,
madness
and crime
are the edifying motifs
by means of which
the painter moves us.
What, in fact,
could stir the heart more
than the sight
of these little angels,
bruised by authentically everyday dramas?
What greater lesson could be given
to the century's moralists?
What worthier goal
for a work
dedicated to virtue
and the love of mankind?
Yet
the painter launched himself
towards a new conquest:
the immortal woman,
the source of all pain
and all pleasure.
Art was invented by men
as a means of doing without women.
That is why
I only want them veiled,
artificial, dumb,
out of reach,
like my paintings themselves,
at a cold distance, always less
than the luxury of which I dream.
I am the absolute master
of their painted bodies
and I could count all those
I have taken in this way,
at the cost of strenuous work
trying to seize the impossible.
There is no woman
whom I cannot, if I so wish,
bed on my canvas.
When visitors to my studio claim
to be shocked by certain paintings,
I maintain that there are
few paintings as moral as mine.
Yet I have decided, in my studio,
to hang my strongest works
behind a thick wooden door,
through which
a hole has been bored.
I hope that future generations
will benefit from this set-up,
whose advantage is to inspire
a feeling of guilt in the viewer.
My art is not political,
but philosophical.
It will serve no revolution.
It IS the revolution.
A new life, which feeds as much
on horror as on the sublime.
They who refuse
to see some of my works
do not know what life is.
They believe they can still tell
the beautiful from the ugly.
“Monsieur Wiertz is one of those
who believe provocation
“is proof of genius.
“Yet he cannot draw
“and his stupidity is as great
as his giants."
Charles Baudelaire,
Fusées, 1865.
The insults I suffer
are also a great chance for me,
for they keep me unwaveringly
focused on my ideal.
This is why I've placed these words
over the entrance to my studio:
“He who dreams in a meadow
should be resigned
“to hearing asses braying
all around him."
I feel I have never painted
but the preface to my work.
Illness weakens me more every day
and I look desperately upon
the miserable works I've painted.
How will history
be able to judge me
when I have barely begun?
I have ideas
for even more terrible pictures,
but I don't know
if I'll have time to paint them.
For the rest, I bequeath to glory
my modest paintings
and exhort future generations
never to tolerate
the slightest hindrance
in their difficult quest
to conquer beauty.
Antoine Wiertz died
on June 18, 1885.
This film must later
be replaced by a better one.
Doing better
is only a matter of time.
Subtitles by Howard Bonsor
Subtitling by TVS - TITRA FILM
I ask for,
“which must be promised me
before a hand is laid on my work,
“is that my paintings will always
be seen next to immortal works."
THOUGHTS AND VISIONS
OF A SEVERED HEAD
I the undersigned, Antoine Wiertz,
artist, philosopher and painter,
hereby declare
that after my death
I wish my body to be embalmed
in the so-called "Egyptian” manner.
Before that,
my heart shall be removed
and embalmed separately,
then placed in a silk bag
knotted with a pink ribbon.
As for the rest,
I wish to spend my life
depicting impossible beauty.
I want the public to feel
unsettled before my paintings,
for some to tear at their hair,
unable to express
the feelings that grip them,
for young women to faint,
and for children to flee, screaming out in terror.
A monumental studio
must be built
to house the immense pictures
I have decided to paint.
In exchange for the cost
of the construction,
the state will become the owner
of all my works.
I ask that after my death
this workshop become a museum
in which my paintings
must be exhibited for ever more.
It is to this temple
that I invite all those
who would meditate in solitude
on the forming of my art.
“The painter Antoine Wiertz
“has sent to the Louvre
his large and heavy paintings,
“which threaten to fall
onto the museum-goers.
“His efforts to impress his public
“should not let him forget
“that large dimensions
do not equal grandeur."
Edmond Von Offel,
La Revue d'Art, 1842.
“Monsieur Wiertz is not
to be scorned as an artist,
“and there is something
of the painter about him.
“But with this Cyclopean confusion
of arms and legs,
“he has crossed the line between
the sublime and the ridiculous.”
Pierre Ménard,
Le Courrier Français, 1840.
Ladies and gentlemen,
we shall now begin the visit.
Would you be so kind
as to not touch the works of art,
and to maintain the silence
that befits the respect
due to a great genius.
Here first of all is a painting
by means of which the painter
invites us to meditate.
In fact,
it is both
a rigorous pictorial study
and an evocation
of the spiritual life.
This painting is called
The Young Witch,
and provides us with the spectacle
of a young and voluptuous creature
being initiated
into Satanic practices.
An old crone dressed in black
lurks in the darkness behind her,
whispering in her ear
some cruel and painful confession.
But she remains impassive,
a prisoner of her childhood dreams.
And nothing
could ever disturb her loneliness.
Yet...
The Suicide, oil painting.
Disgusted with life,
his heart empty,
his mind vacant,
this handsome young man
said to himself,
“I want to die."
As his head,
blown away by the bullet,
explodes in several pieces...
the Angel of Death,
whose hand holds a second pistol,
primed to fire,
smiles at his triumph.
The suicide's body collapses
next to the Good Angel,
who prays and cries
at the same time.
A farewell letter reveals to us
the philosophy
which brought about the end
of this pure soul:
materialism!
You can also see here
to what extent the painter
valued the moral duty of the artist,
and the admonitory virtues
of his work.
This was equally true
for the series
to which he dedicated
many nights of toil,
which is called
Thoughts and Visions
of a Severed Head.
Seeing the guillotine at work,
I asked myself
the following question:
"Does the severed head
“retain the faculty of thought
for a few seconds?"
At the time, a man
was condemned to be executed.
Accompanied
by Professor Clovis Trouille,
I managed to slip
under the scaffold.
We awaited the fatal moment
which would bring us the head.
Suddenly we heard the horrible blade
send the head into the red sack.
Our hair stood on end,
but this was not the time
to flinch.
My companion seized my hand,
led me to the pulsing head
and spoke to it.
“What do you feel?
“What do you see?"
With horror we realized
that the head could still see,
suffer, think
and even speak short phrases.
He asked why his head was burning
and turning on itself, as though
it were thrown into a fire.
He felt as if he were stretching
his hands toward his face,
but never reaching it,
never touching the torturous wound.
He said he could see
his mother's corpse putrefying.
He asked for help,
screaming in pain.
Then he became incoherent.
Through a hideous smile,
the head coughed up blood.
It desperately tried
to catch its breath,
to rejoin its body.
Finally it went still,
the face illuminated
by an insane grin.
“This painting is the work
of a madman or an imposter.
“Monsieur Wiertz's macabre jokes
amuse no one but himself,
“and one can really judge
his talent
“when one knows
that his first monumental work
“was given to a provincial grocer
“as the prize in a raffle."
JErôme Tonnerre,
La Revue des Trois Mondes, 1846.
Art critics are asses.
To prove this, I anonymously sent
two paintings to the competition
of the Beaux-Arts in Paris.
They were refused.
One of them
was an authentic Rubens.
Criticism as regards art
is impossible.
Write, then, all the ill you wish
about my works.
You will never equal
the ill I think of myself,
as a result of the high standards
I set myself.
I wish to dedicate my life
to this new religion.
I shall sacrifice everything.
I shall exhibit a courage,
a constancy and a heroism
worthy
of the finest ancient virtues.
I take the oath
never to sell a single painting
except for a few portraits
to pay my way.
An art that is sold
is an art of prostitution.
The public
are nothing but ignoramuses
who at times
praise ignoble works to the skies,
and at others scorn masterpieces.
The glory to which I aspire
is on another level,
and I await a more glorious theater
in which to make my virtues shine.
Talent does not lie in
one's facility at imitating nature.
I dream
of another kind of painting,
of an art more abstract through
being more faithful to reality.
For painting
is but a transitory stage,
a preparation, a toy...
It will soon be replaced
by a more serious art,
by the imitation of life itself.
And I shall be the one who perfected
this definitive painting process.
Initial tests
have already given me great hope.
It is as if life itself
has seized the canvas,
and the person will soon
start speaking and moving,
and take your hand
to drag you even further away.
But, alas,
these first works quickly vanish.
The colors fade,
the lines of force diminish.
The medium itself falls to pieces
and all must be begun again.
Yet I am not giving up hope.
I work the same motifs
day and night.
I relentlessly pursue the great
picture of eternal suffering.
Hunger,
madness
and crime
are the edifying motifs
by means of which
the painter moves us.
What, in fact,
could stir the heart more
than the sight
of these little angels,
bruised by authentically everyday dramas?
What greater lesson could be given
to the century's moralists?
What worthier goal
for a work
dedicated to virtue
and the love of mankind?
Yet
the painter launched himself
towards a new conquest:
the immortal woman,
the source of all pain
and all pleasure.
Art was invented by men
as a means of doing without women.
That is why
I only want them veiled,
artificial, dumb,
out of reach,
like my paintings themselves,
at a cold distance, always less
than the luxury of which I dream.
I am the absolute master
of their painted bodies
and I could count all those
I have taken in this way,
at the cost of strenuous work
trying to seize the impossible.
There is no woman
whom I cannot, if I so wish,
bed on my canvas.
When visitors to my studio claim
to be shocked by certain paintings,
I maintain that there are
few paintings as moral as mine.
Yet I have decided, in my studio,
to hang my strongest works
behind a thick wooden door,
through which
a hole has been bored.
I hope that future generations
will benefit from this set-up,
whose advantage is to inspire
a feeling of guilt in the viewer.
My art is not political,
but philosophical.
It will serve no revolution.
It IS the revolution.
A new life, which feeds as much
on horror as on the sublime.
They who refuse
to see some of my works
do not know what life is.
They believe they can still tell
the beautiful from the ugly.
“Monsieur Wiertz is one of those
who believe provocation
“is proof of genius.
“Yet he cannot draw
“and his stupidity is as great
as his giants."
Charles Baudelaire,
Fusées, 1865.
The insults I suffer
are also a great chance for me,
for they keep me unwaveringly
focused on my ideal.
This is why I've placed these words
over the entrance to my studio:
“He who dreams in a meadow
should be resigned
“to hearing asses braying
all around him."
I feel I have never painted
but the preface to my work.
Illness weakens me more every day
and I look desperately upon
the miserable works I've painted.
How will history
be able to judge me
when I have barely begun?
I have ideas
for even more terrible pictures,
but I don't know
if I'll have time to paint them.
For the rest, I bequeath to glory
my modest paintings
and exhort future generations
never to tolerate
the slightest hindrance
in their difficult quest
to conquer beauty.
Antoine Wiertz died
on June 18, 1885.
This film must later
be replaced by a better one.
Doing better
is only a matter of time.
Subtitles by Howard Bonsor
Subtitling by TVS - TITRA FILM