And, by contrast with all this relief, by the harmony also which united them with her, who had adapted her attitude to their form and purpose, the pianola which half concealed her like an organ-case, the bookcase, the whole of that corner of the room, seemed to be reduced to the dimensions of a lighted sanctuary, the shrine of this angel musician, a work of art which, presently, by a charming magic, was to detach itself from its niche and offer to my kisses its precious, rose-pink substance. But, no, Albertine was for me not at all a work of art. I knew what it meant to admire a woman in an artistic fashion, having known Swann. For my own part, however, no matter who the woman might be, I was incapable of doing so, having no sort of power of detached observation, never knowing what it was that I saw, and I had been amazed when Swann added retrospectively an artistic dignity - by comparing her to me, as he liked do gallantly to her face, to some portrait by Luini, by recalling in her attire the gown or the jewels of a picture by Giorgione - to a woman who had seemed to me to be devoid of interest. Nothing of that sort with me. The pleasure and the pain that I derived from Albertine never took the line of taste and intellect in order to reach me; indeed, to tell the truth, when I began to regard Albertine as an angel musician glazed with a marvellous patina whom I congratulated myself upon possessing, it was not long before I found her uninteresting; I soon became bored in her company; but these were of brief duration: one only loves that in which one pursues the inaccessible, one only loves what one does not possess, and very soon I began to realise once more that I did not possess Albertine.
Marcel Proust, The Captive, pp. 390-391
"But, no, Albertine was for me not at all a work of art. I knew what it meant to admire a woman in an artistic fashion, having known Swann."
One of the many reasons why I have enjoyed reading Remembrance of Things Past is that it has introduced me to many writers and painters and composers who I knew either only tangentially or not at all. It feels like I've been pouring (stuffing?) knowledge into my head since I was around fourteen and I'm still often amazed/shocked/horrified about what an intellectual lightweight I am. Truthfully, I had never heard of Bernardino Luini (where did I go to school? did I go to school?). Proust writes: "For my own part, however, no matter who the woman might be, I was incapable of doing so, having no sort of power of detached observation, never knowing what it was that I saw, and I had been amazed when Swann added retrospectively an artistic dignity - by comparing her to me, as he liked do gallantly to her face, to some portrait by Luini, by recalling in her attire the gown or the jewels of a picture by Giorgione - to a woman who had seemed to me to be devoid of interest." Beyond my barely suppressed snort of laughter at Proust's proposal that "I was incapable of doing so, having no sort of power of detached observation" (sometimes I wonder if he's just being ironic for fear of becoming a parody of himself), this statement drove me to do a little research on Luini. As always, Proust is correct; Luni definitely produced beautiful and evocative faces for his women. It makes me even more interested in going back and re-reading the passages dealing with Swann and Odette, although I fear, much like Albertine, that Odette herself will still remain just out of reach. I'm famous/infamous among my friends for proposing endless questions on Facebook or email (people still occasionally prompt me to start up the Correct Answer series again) or as part of the Discography discussion or simply over adult scholarly beverages. What painters would you choose to capture the different women you have loved? I already have a match for Luini.
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| Bernardino Luni, Saint Catherine. |
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| Bernardino Luini, The Magdalen. |
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| Bernardino Luini, Lady With a Flea Fur. |
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