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Paris
- “Napoleon’s Eye” is the title of the great Louvre exhibition dedicated
to Dominique-Vivant Denon, its inspirer and noble father, held in Paris
during the last few months.
Two
hundred and fifty crates had left Germany, Dazig and Warsaw for Paris.
In the Gallery of Apollo on the first floor of the museum, the gigantic
bronze bust of Napoleon by Lorenzo Bertolini towers above the great
painting by Rubens “Mars crowned by the Goddess of Victory” requisitioned
at Cassel: it is surrounded by shields, arms and flags, framed by the
suits of armour of Francis I and Rudolph of Habsburg hoisted on finely
harnessed horses.
In
1808 it was Spain’s turn, in 1811 there was a second “campaign” (a private
one, this time) in Italy, after the “incomparable collection” achieved
upon Napoleon’s descent, at a time when he was not yet Emperor but already
a conqueror.
There
are works by Veronese, Tintoretto and Tiziano taken from Venice, works
by Raffaello and Andrea del Sarto taken from Florence, works by Domenichino
taken from Bologna, works by Ribera taken from Naples... The “eye” was
trained, his taste was confident, the claw was sealed in a velvet glove.
What was the motive that prompted him? With a sentence he described
his mission: “Born with a passion for art, I have devoted to it a cult,
rather than a veneration”.
His
Louvre could not simply be a museum, but had to be THE Museum, where
all the painting schools should be gathered, where with a single glance
you could appreciate the history of art, “from its beginnings to the
present day”.
The
apotheosis was in 1814: paradoxically Napoleon’s servant survived his
liege lord and the Empire which for the last three months had no longer
existed. It was his swan song, even though he did not yet realise it;
but the universal concept was still there, and in the Salon Carrè the
“Primitive Schools” exhibition was arranged: 123 paintings, ranging
from Bruegel to Carpaccio, Cima, Ghirlandaio, Memling, Pontormo, Van
der Weyden, Zurbaran...
There
were two hundred thousand people at the opening of this incredible exhibition
displaying pre-Renaissance art, even though there were arbitrary inclusions,
lame chronologies and belated contributions. This crowning achievement
of a long-awaited dream was the fruit of selection and not of the frenzy
brought about by abundance.
“Out
of over 4000 paintings examined by me, I have singled out the production
of 60 masters, completely unknown in France”, he wrote as early as in
1812, upon summarising for the Ministry of the Interior the objectives
of his mission “I have therefore acted with the maximum care: I have
selected only one painting for each master, at the most two, when I
saw that in so doing I would not deprive the city of all the works of
these artists”.
As
a matter of fact, the directors of the museums involved did not feel
quite the same way “On August the 18th Denon has left Paris”, wrote
the Milanese Giordani to Leopoldo Cicognara, Director of the Venice
Accademy: “We believe he is coming for new spoils.
Never
mind: at least minds cannot be loaded on a ship or on a carriage”. Canova
was the proudest inspirer of these patriotic and national “lamentations”.
Denon admired him: “In the name of a century in which everything must
be great, a sacred character should be granted to sculpture”, was his
cry.
But
Denon also knew that he had taken Canova’s place. Napoleon, who had
promised the “famous artist” the army’s protection “by special right”
ever since 1797, had also attempted to get him to join him in Paris,
as the theoretician of a vision of art which would parallel his military
genius. Only when he refused, was Denon chosen.
Torn
between admiration and resentment, the Corsican did not forget: he did
not like Canova’s masterpiece representing him “as Mars the Peace-Maker”
which Denon would have wanted at the Louvre museum, where “Laocoon”
stood. It was too naked, too muscular, too far from that idea of sovereign
calm which the Emperor wanted to pass down. Ironically, today it stands
in the entrance hall of the Wellington residence, in London.
France,
the land of the immortal rulers, replaced the silver of its previous
sovereigns with the bayonet of its armies, but it advanced an ideological
justification: the true domicile of a work of art is the country of
freedom, because a work of art, is, in essence, a creation of freedom
and it can only be directed to free people.
Denon’s
megalomaniac project, the idea of the Louvre as an enormous public space
at the continent’s disposal, which everybody could see, which anybody
could access, as an encyclopaedic and universal museum, a marvel of
safety and preservation, was bound to fail as soon as the rules of the
game (both military and diplomatic) changed.
The
Borbons’ restoration in 1814 gave for one wild moment the illusion that
things could be left as they stood. Louis XVIII thanked the Duke of
Brunswick and the King of Prussia for the assistance offered, and gave
back to them what the Empire had taken away ten years earlier, but the
peace treaty stated that the works stacked and displayed at the Louvre
remained the crown’s property.
But
then came the One Hundred Days followed by Waterloo, and this time they
got to the bottom of the issue. One could excuse the French as long
as they had placed the old dynasty back on the throne, but they could
not excuse them for realigning with the fatal charms of the “Enemy of
Mankind”.
To
this end, the letter written by the Duke of Wellington to Lord Castlereagh,
Pitt’s right-hand man, published in the Journal des Débats on 18 October
1815, is exemplary. “Our allies’ behaviour, with respect to the Museum,
at the time of the Paris Treaty, should be ascribed to the desire to
please the French Army and thereby sanction its reconciliation with
Europe, towards which it appeared well-disposed. But today, the Army
has failed to meet the world’s just expectations, turning against its
sovereign at the first opportunity, with the aim of returning to those
times of terror and despoliation, against which the world has performed
such unbelievable endeavours. Now that it has been defeated
and disbanded, there is no further reason for wanting to satisfy it”.
Once
cleared out, the Museum turned into a radiant memory: “a colossus which
imagination will make even greater”, were the sad and proud words Denon
wrote to the English Foreign Undersecretary Hamilton.
In
resigning his mandate as director to Talleyrand, despite defeat, his
tone remained proud: “It took the conquest of Europe to create this
trophy of war; all of Europe had to unite to destroy it.”
(traduzione
Interpres sas-Giussano)
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