Jacques-Louis David’s Oath Of The Horatii (1784)

A gen­er­a­tion or two before the Impres­sion­ists, French artists didn’t have the lux­u­ry of lolling about fields paint­ing haystacks and gen­er­al­ly hav­ing a wheeze of a time. At a time of seis­mic social and polit­i­cal change, an artist had to box clever to stay on the right side of dan­ger­ous polit­i­cal forces. Jacques-Louis David (1748–1825) was one such painter who man­aged to suc­cess­ful­ly nav­i­gate his way — and his art — from the final years of the Ancien Régime through the French Rev­o­lu­tion and the rise and fall of Napoleon.

David was con­sid­ered to be the pre­em­i­nent painter of the Neo­clas­si­cal era, that return to the high-mind­ed sever­i­ty of the arts of ancient Greece and Rome in con­trast to the friv­o­li­ty of the late Baroque. David’s his­to­ry paint­ing matched the moral cli­mate of the final years of Louis XVI and he was favoured by the Court. How­ev­er, David lat­er became an active sup­port­er of the French Rev­o­lu­tion and friend of Robe­spierre, and his Death of Marat (1793) became one of the most famous images of the era.

Impris­oned briefly after Robe­spier­re’s fall from pow­er, he aligned him­self with yet anoth­er polit­i­cal regime upon his release: that of Napoleon, the First Con­sul of France. As well as his suit­ably hero­ic ren­der­ing of Napoleon in his Napoleon at the Saint-Bernard Pass (1801), he also cre­at­ed the mon­u­men­tal The Coro­na­tion of Napoleon (1806). Final­ly, after Napoleon’s fall from pow­er and the Bour­bon revival, David exiled him­self to Brus­sels, where he remained until his death.

How­ev­er, let’s return to David’s ori­gins with a paint­ing con­sid­ered a Neo­clas­si­cal mas­ter­piece, Oath of the Hor­atii (1784). It depicts a scene from a Roman leg­end about a sev­enth-cen­tu­ry BC dis­pute between two war­ring cities, Rome and Alba Lon­ga. Instead of the two cities send­ing their armies to war, they agree to choose three men from each city; the vic­tor in that fight will be the vic­to­ri­ous city. From Rome, three broth­ers from a Roman fam­i­ly, the Hor­atii, agree to fight three broth­ers from a fam­i­ly of Alba Lon­ga, the Curi­atii.

The three Hor­atii broth­ers, will­ing to sac­ri­fice their lives for the good of Rome, are shown salut­ing their father who holds their swords out for them. There could be no more evoca­tive a scene of patri­ot­ic duty and, although paint­ed four years before the Rev­o­lu­tion, it nonethe­less became a sym­bol of loy­al­ty to State and a defin­ing image of the time.

Of the three Hor­atii broth­ers, only one will sur­vive the con­fronta­tion and he will kill each Curi­atii broth­er in turn, seiz­ing vic­to­ry for Rome. Aside from the three broth­ers depict­ed, David also rep­re­sents, in the bot­tom right cor­ner, a woman cry­ing. She is Camil­la, a sis­ter of the Hor­atii, who hap­pens to be also betrothed to one of the Curi­atii fight­ers, and thus she weeps in the real­i­sa­tion that, what­ev­er hap­pens, she will lose some­one she loves.

Eric Satie’s Gymnopédie No. 1 (1888)

Pret­ty much all of the clas­si­cal com­posers I have writ­ten about in this blog so far (let’s see: Brahms, Mozart, Chopin, Mendelssohn, to name but a few) were pro­lif­ic and com­plex and not­ed for being child prodi­gies for whom an upward musi­cal tra­jec­to­ry was clear­ly in the off­ing. Not so this week’s enig­mat­ic com­pos­er, Eric Satie (1866–1925). The son of a French father and a Scot­tish moth­er, Satie stud­ied at the Paris Con­ser­va­toire, but was an undis­tin­guished stu­dent and left with­out even obtain­ing a diplo­ma (one tutor described his piano tech­nique as “insignif­i­cant and worth­less”; they did­n’t hold back in those days), work­ing through­out the 1880s as a pianist in café-cabaret in Mont­martre, Paris. At this time, how­ev­er, he would begin com­pos­ing works, most­ly for solo piano such as his Gymnopédies and Gnossi­ennes, that would pro­pel him to an unan­tic­i­pat­ed renown.

Satie famous­ly employed a min­i­mal­ist, pared back style of music in con­trast to the grand and epic com­po­si­tions of a Wag­n­er, for exam­ple.  In fact, he would influ­ence a whole new gen­er­a­tion of French com­posers away from post-Wag­ner­ian impres­sion­ism and towards a spar­er, ters­er style. Among those influ­enced by him dur­ing his life­time were Mau­rice Rav­el (see his Boléro, for exam­ple) and he is seen as an influ­ence on more recent, min­i­mal­ist com­posers such as John Cage and Arvo Pärt.

Satie was an enig­ma, for sure, and some­thing of a quirky char­ac­ter. He gave some of his lat­er works absurd titles, such as Ver­i­ta­bles Pre­ludes flasques (pour un chien) (“True Flab­by Pre­ludes (for a Dog)”, 1912), and Cro­quis et agac­eries d’un gros bon­homme en bois (“Sketch­es and Exas­per­a­tions of a Big Wood­en Man”, 1913). He nev­er mar­ried, and his home for most of his adult life was a sin­gle small room, first in Mont­martre and lat­er in Arcueil. He adopt­ed var­i­ous images over the years, includ­ing a peri­od in qua­si-priest­ly garb, anoth­er in which he always wore iden­ti­cal­ly coloured vel­vet suits, and anoth­er, per­haps his most endur­ing per­sona, in which he wore a neat bour­geois cos­tume, with bowler hat, wing col­lar, and umbrel­la. He was a life­long heavy drinker, and died of cir­rho­sis of the liv­er at the age of 59.

If you think you don’t know Eric Satie’s music, think again, as you’re sure to recog­nise his Gymnopédie No. 1 that you can hear here against some footage of old Paris (I love these old videos, don’t you, dur­ing the advent of mov­ing pic­tures when passers-by would stare or glance at this strange new-fan­gled giz­mo point­ing at them, and seem­ing to con­nect, albeit briefly, with we the view­er well over a cen­tu­ry lat­er).

Eric Satie