Der Rosenkavalier, Royal Opera Home, London

Renée Fleming in ‘Der Rosenkavalier’ at the Royal Opera Residence, London © Alastair Muir

An aura of nostalgia hangs over Der Rosenkavalier. No other opera is so preoccupied with time passing, as it looks back to a as soon as golden era, musing over the finish of a connection and how life slips from one’s grasp. Whatever could have made Richard Strauss and his librettist Hofmannsthal so obsessed?

Robert Carsen, director of the Royal Opera’s new production, proffers a clear answer. Der Rosenkavalier was written in 1910 and he updates the action to that turning point of history, as a world order faced oblivion. His final image of a generation of young men going to their doom certainly requires away the saccharine at the final curtain.

It is, though, a glamorously handsome production — appropriately so, when it might also mark a notable farewell on stage. Renée Fleming has mentioned that this might be her final look at the Royal Opera. If it is, then she goes out, if not really on a high (her soprano no longer carries as effectively as it did), then nevertheless sounding and searching stunning.

The complete of the initial act is a delight. In her grand palace, with its interconnecting doors receding into the distance, Fleming plays a Marschallin nevertheless in thrall to her teenage lover. The interplay between her and Alice Coote’s Octavian, sounding a touch hard-edged of voice, is like watching two fine actors in a sentimental comedy. Fleming, particularly, finds feeling in every line.

A chill, though, falls more than the second act. Carsen is producing a valid point that the nouveau-riche Faninal has produced his money as an arms dealer, but do we actually want to see the presentation of the rose, 1 of opera’s romantic higher points, set against a backdrop of artillery? Or the heavy-handed symbolism of a battalion of young folks, doubles of Sophie and Octavian, waltzing about on the eve of war?

The enormous cast boasts strength in depth. Sophie Bevan sings confidently, but with out fairly the silvery fragility needed for Sophie. Matthew Rose’s Baron Ochs is significantly less lovable than this old rogue can be, but he scores highly for playing the part straight and singing it so effectively. Jochen Schmeckenbecher tends to make Faninal a self-confident wheeler-dealer. Alasdair Elliott raises a smile as a cross-dressing Innkeeper in the finale, played out in a crowded bordello, as in Carsen’s earlier Rosenkavalier at the Salzburg Festival. What ever doubts 1 may possibly have, this new production is a virtuoso piece of stage direction.

There is a lot of time to admire all its detail as the conductor, Andris Nelsons, lavishes enjoy and languorous speeds on Strauss’s luscious score. Several moons ago, Carlos Kleiber dazzled with no the need for such indulgence. But is this the moment for seeking back? Far better to catch Fleming as the Marschallin a single much more time and Carsen’s bravura production whilst it is nonetheless fresh.

To January 24,

Section: Arts

Paul Simon, Royal Albert Hall, London — evaluation

There were properly over 30 kinds of musical instrument on stage, from such humble staples as the tambourine to much more uncommon contraptions, at least to western ears, such as the single-stringed gopichand that Paul Simon was offered in India. Its twanging sound led him to dub it “the twanger”. “I have a way with words,” he told the Royal Albert Hall drily. His a variety of drummers resisted the urge to punctuate the remark with a “ba-dum ching”.

The show was the second of Simon’s two dates at the venue in support of his new album Stranger to Stranger, which finds the singer-songwriter, 75, in formidable form. Typically at gigs when a rock veteran unveils their most current material, punters locate an urgent excuse to go to the bar. Here it was a minor disappointment that only three new tracks have been played.

“The Werewolf” featured the gopichand and an infectious handclap beat in a tale of gothic US anxiousness, sung with reassuring wit by Simon, a genuine demonstration of his way with words. “Wristband” featured elastic bass-playing and deft vocals. “Stranger to Stranger” was a hazy shimmer of music with tenderly sung lyrics about the work necessary to preserve going: “It’s just tough operating/The exact same piece of clay/Day after day/Year following year.”

Simon’s present as a songwriter is the capability to make the challenging sound straightforward. The demonstration of this ability, aided by a crack band of nine, produced up for the modest distribution of new songs.

There was a profusion of notes and rhythms, a world of music arranged into supple melodies. Musicians moved between the scores of instruments, wielding gourds and cowbells, swapping piano or electric guitar for sax or trumpet. For the samba-influenced “The Clear Child” there were five drummers.

The trail led from Louisiana zydeco (“That Was Your Mother”) to the Amazon (“Spirit Voices”) and southern Africa (“Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes”). Simon &amp Garfunkel classics such as “The Boxer” sounded significantly less winsome, invigorated by the variety of musicianship. Simon rationed the high notes but otherwise his voice seemed to have hardly aged, a gentle lilt, nonetheless a token of optimism.

He devoted the 1960s satire of “Mrs Robinson” to the US election, which took spot the evening of the show, but otherwise forbore from political comment. His music inhabits a diverse space, a harmonious republic of sonorities. “Words and melodies, effortless harmony, old-time treatments,” he sang in “Stranger to Stranger”. For two and a half hours, in the hands of an old master, that remedy worked its magic.

Section: Arts

Oedipe, Royal Opera, London — ‘Mounting intensity’

Johan Reuter in 'Oedipe'. Photo: Clive Barda©Clive Barda

Johan Reuter in ‘Oedipe’. Photo: Clive Barda

The Oedipus legend casts a extended shadow more than theatre and film from Dryden and Voltaire to Cocteau and Pasolini. Opera has been a lot more reluctant to engage with it. Only Stravinsky’s Oedipus Rex, an “opera-oratorio”, comes round with regularity, a lot more in the concert hall than the opera house. Julian Anderson’s recent Thebans also tried its hand at English National Opera.

That leaves George Enescu’s Oedipe, premiered in 1936, as the primary operatic setting of the myth. Though his opera is acquiring performances much more usually than it utilised to, this new production is the very first time it has been staged at London’s Royal Opera Property. It leaves a dour, slow-moving, but ultimately strong impression.

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Enescu’s setting is ambitious in relating Oedipus’s life story from cradle to grave. Interestingly, Anderson’s Thebans took a comparable selection, telescoping an entire trilogy into 1 evening, but, unlike that, Oedipe in no way feels rushed. Far from it — the initial two acts are a extended slog, worse than Wagnerian in their refusal to hurry in engaging the audience either musically or dramatically. But don’t leave at the interval: the second half, as Oedipus discovers the double horror of his fate, rouses tragedy of mounting intensity.

Thankfully, the Royal Opera production by Àlex Ollé and Valentina Carrasco, shared with Brussels and Paris, is visually impressive from the begin. The curtain goes up to reveal a wall of ancient Greek figures, like a giant frieze, right after which the action moves to Enescu’s own time. Some modern clichés apart (the road-menders, the initial globe war aircraft), it aspires to a timeless grandeur.

A fine cast, headed by the tireless Johan Reuter as Oedipe, is offered small to perform with musically. Enescu rarely provides the singers a lot more than lyrical scraps, but Sarah Connolly’s Jocaste, John Tomlinson’s Tirésias, Marie-Nicole Lemieux’s Sphinx and Sophie Bevan’s Antigone all make their mark. The Royal Opera orchestra, carried out by Leo Hussain, plays scrupulously even when Enescu’s score is wandering about aimlessly and tends to make the most of its French-tinted higher points, as impressionist mists cloud Oedipe’s thoughts and blazing brass reinforces the final flood of light. Not a neglected masterpiece, but a critical piece of work. See it now or not at all.

To June 8,

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Section: Arts

Tannhäuser, Royal Opera Residence, London — ‘Gerhaher towers above every person else’

It doesn’t all have to boil down to sex. In fact, you could read Wagner’s Tannhäuser as a metaphor for any type of internal struggle, in which instinct and intention are diametrically opposed. Still, the tension specifically among sensual gratification and spiritual nourishment was an obsession for Wagner, and gives the motor of this 1845 opera. One ought, at least, to acknowledge it.

Instead, director Tim Albery has made a mêlée of suggestions that allows the tension to dissipate. More’s the pity due to the fact his revived production, new at Covent Garden in 2010, starts promisingly, with an inspired take on the Venusberg scene. Jasmin Vardimon’s imaginative choreography capitalises on the music’s erotic charge and final results in a ballet full of orgiastic fervour. Meanwhile a replica of the Covent Garden proscenium, symbolising Tannhäuser’s artistry, hovers more than this vision: the worlds of the artist and the sexually licentious are cleverly entwined.

But what of that other globe, inhabited by Tannhäuser’s actual enjoy? Wartburg is a pile of rubble, an eastern European war zone, where Elisabeth dons a refugee’s coat and scarf, and the Landgrave’s followers brandish AK-47s. On one particular level the austerity functions, as a contrast to the excesses of Venus’s lair. But, in this context, how are we to buy into the quaint formality of the song contest? Or to believe in the crowd’s shock at Tannhäuser’s debauchery? Albery and his designers Michael Levine and Jon Morrell have generated nonsense.

In the pit Hartmut Haenchen does a lot to atone, permitting the score to blossom progressively but completely, although chorus director Renato Balsadonna gets robust results from the Royal Opera Chorus. Not all the musical performances are so consistent: Peter Seiffert is a frustratingly wooden Tannhäuser, with a voice that, in this ruthlessly demanding role, sounds like frayed leather. Emma Bell brings considerably a lot more subtlety to Elisabeth, even if she is eclipsed by Sophie Koch’s smouldering Venus.

But one particular singer towers above every person else: Christian Gerhaher, whose Wolfram — tender and honey-toned — transforms the Royal Opera Residence into an intimate salon. He filled it with a whisper.

To Could 15,

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Section: Arts

Giorgione at the Royal Academy

Handful of of the Venetian painter’s works are identified to survive, however fascinating insights emerge at the RA’s new show

Giorgione’s ‘Virgin and Child in a Landscape’ (1500-05)©Alamy

Giorgione’s ‘Virgin and Child in a Landscape’ (1500-05)

For Gabriele D’Annunzio, Giorgione was “more myth than man”. For Bernard Berenson, he was a figment of our collective imagination: “Everyone has their own private Giorgione.”

The Venetian painter is the glamorous mystery man of the Renaissance. Lauded by Giorgio Vasari for his “physical functions and greatness of spirit”, a man who loved to play the lute and “sang divinely”, his star burnt bright and he died young. Born in the Veneto town of Castelfranco about 1478, by the age of 32 he was dead of the plague he had caught from a lover in Venice.

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In his wake he left a body of function that awed his contemporaries. Vasari mentioned his “talent and excellence” surpassed that of the Bellinis and even rivalled the Tuscans as they moved towards the “modern manner” — accurate to nature but classically right — which would define the Higher Renaissance.

His untimely passing may possibly account for the muddle of attributions that rapidly entangled his oeuvre. Right now only a handful of operates are agreed to be by his hand and most of these — “The Tempest” (in Venice’s Accademia), “The Sleeping Venus” (completed by Titian, at the moment in Dresden) and Vienna’s “Laura” — are not permitted to travel.

But the Royal Academy shows that, with sincere curation, it is feasible to create an exhibition around the memory of an artist whose paintings are frequently as enigmatic as his biography. With the couple of Giorgiones surrounded by operates by artists of the exact same or similar era — Giovanni Bellini, Dürer, Sebastiano del Piombo, Titian, Lorenzo Lotto — what emerges is a thoughtful, unpredictable, sometimes scintillating exhibition that illuminates one particular of the most imaginative moments in the history of art.

For any talented painter, late 15th-century Venice was a quite great location to be. Regardless of encroachments by the Ottoman Turks, the empire was still enormously wealthy. Nearby society was catching up with the sophisticated Florentines who had embraced classical humanism many decades earlier. A flourishing publishing business saw texts from Aristotle to Ovid suddenly accessible to a wider public than ever ahead of. The result was a wealthy, “nouveau cultured” elite who preferred painting that would reflect the complex new texture of their globe.

A stupendous clutch of portraits in the initial area include Dürer’s 1506 painting of Burkhard of Speyer, a German resident in Venice when the painter was himself passing via the lagoon city. With each flaw and shadow moulded in the full-wattage optics that were Dürer’s signature, its unflinching realism speaks of an age no longer frightened of psychological depth.

But Dürer’s crystalline gaze is less powerful than the far more impressionistic strategy Giorgione takes with his “Portrait of a Man” (often identified as the Terris portrait), on loan from San Diego. In 3-quarter profile, the sitter’s hooded, sideways gaze is simultaneously piercing however inward, his cheekbones softened by a Leonardesque sfumato — Giorgione utilised a grisaille undercoat — so that they melt into his gauzy grey locks and powder-soft black collar.

The lack of sharp contours heightens his air of vulnerability. No touch-me-not patrician, this is a man acutely aware of fortune’s slings and arrows. There’s no better proof that Vasari was correct when he says Giorgione could “reproduce the freshness of living flesh much better than any other artist who had ever painted . . . anywhere”.

The portraits of young males in the next room all boast an elusive dreaminess that typifies an age when poetry and music, especially courtly ballads sung by enjoy-struck young lute-players, have been considerably in vogue. That all of these had been regarded as to be by Giorgione at a single time or yet another tells us how thorny the issue of attribution can be.

Giorgione’s ‘Portrait of a Man’ (c1506)©San Diego Museum of Art

Giorgione’s ‘Portrait of a Man’ (c1506)

Assuming the attributions given here are right, the painter who shines is Giovanni Cariani. Slightly younger than Giorgione, Cariani — who shuttled in between Venice and Bergamo — is rarely regarded in the identical breath as his renowned Venetian peers. However the delicacy of the rose flush that colours the sitter’s pale complexion in “Portrait of a Young Man with a Green Book” (c1510-15) suggests the author was inspired by Giorgione’s gift for verisimilitude.

On the far side of the room, a drawing of a young man (1512) in coloured chalks, also attributed to Cariani, employs equally achieved shading. His grey-blue eyes boring into the viewer’s thoughts, this wary youth epitomises an era that saw portraiture evolve from an art that kept the audience at a distance to one that tugged them into intimacy.

This was when all manner of boundaries have been loosened. Sacred and secular, topic and viewer, object and background, all shaded into one particular another with far more fluidity than preceding generations could have imagined. Nowhere is this clearer than in the vogue for landscape painting.

Giorgione’s “The Tempest”, a mysterious encounter in between a man and woman in a storm-lit wilderness, is the fulcrum about which the bucolic style turns. Unable to borrow the real point, why did the curators not proffer a life-size reproduction rather than the diminutive replica on show right here?

Alternatively, pride of spot goes to Giorgione’s second string, “Il Tramonto” (1506-10), usually in London’s National Gallery. Even just before misguided restorers added in St George and the Dragon in the 1930s, this was a baffling painting. Untouched by the sulphur-rimmed sunset, its powdery dun-coloured rocks produce a Delphic stage for two males, a single fiddling with the leg of the other their presence may signal that Giorgione had read Sophocles’s play about Philoctetes (who was bitten by a snake en route to Troy), which had been published in Venice by 1502.

The printing boom that swept across the Veneto is the secret to this genre’s glory. From Petrarch to Ovid and Virgil, by way of contemporary literature such as Jacopo Sannazaro’s poem “Arcadia” and Pietro Bembo’s “Gli Asolani”, Giorgione and his peers suddenly had a tsunami of adore-in-a-landscape literature on which to draw.

Cariani’s ‘Portrait of a Young Woman’ (c1508-10)©Museum of Fine Arts, Budapest

Cariani’s ‘Portrait of a Young Woman’ (c1508-10)

They thrilled to the challenge. Representing the vogue for Ovidian mischief, two scenes by Sebastiano del Piombo — “Birth of Adonis” and “Death of Adonis” (c1505-08) — clasp the figures inside a fecund, frothy canopy of oaks as if nature rather than God was in handle.

That whisper of paganism offers such paintings their allure. Attributed to Titian, a gorgeous ink more than chalk drawing of a man and lady creating music in an Arcadian glade, her robe slipped down to reveal her fleshy, naked back, is a sheer celebration of sensory pleasure.

When artists are this excited by the concept of wilderness, even a Christian topic such as Lorenzo Lotto’s “St Jerome” (possibly 1506) seems in danger significantly less of divine punishment than of animistic spirits lurking in the light-splashed rocks and trees that loom above him.

What happens when such heathen pastorals encounter spiritual feeling? In the case of Giorgione’s “Virgin and Child in a Landscape” (1500-05), on loan from the Hermitage, the answer is pure magic. Despite the fact that produced for a private client’s domestic sanctuary, this little painting dominates the religious functions that are the penultimate chapter of this show. The Virgin presides more than a grassy valley with a village nestling in its kernel. From her tender milkmaid’s cheeks to the honey-stoned church tower, Giorgione has modelled colour and light into a visual praise-song for a planet where humanity, God and nature are as 1.

The final room is devoted to allegorical portraits, a style in which Giorgione had no equal. (His most touching diary of mortal flesh, “The Three Ages of Man”, was anticipated in London and may possibly still arrive from Florence’s Pitti Palace.) Happily, the presence of “La Vecchia” (1508-10), from the Accademia Gallery, satisfies all demands. As realistic a depiction of old age as any ever painted, Giorgione has utilised his mastery of sfumato to bleach all bloom from the old woman’s parchment skin and smoke-grey wisps of hair. With her eyes devoid of light and toothless mouth, she does not require the written message — “With Time” — in her hand for us to shiver with the expertise that such indignity is our destiny, as well.

The handsome “Zorzi” at least escaped that fate. Despite a scarcity of performs by him, this exhibition underlines the tragedy of such early loss.

‘In the Age of Giorgione’, Royal Academy, London, to June five.

Photographs: Alamy San Diego Museum of Art Museum of Fine Arts, Budapest

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Section: Arts

‘Painting the Modern day Garden’ at the Royal Academy

A spectacular new exhibition shows how the 19th-century garden became the perfect topic for Impressionist experiment

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The garden is the man,” declared Arsène Alexandre on going to Monet in Giverny in 1904. “When the sunlight plays upon the water, it resembles — damascened as it is with the water lilies’ excellent round leaves, and encrusted with the valuable stones of their flowers — the masterwork of a goldsmith . . . Here is a painter who in our personal time has gone as far as one particular person can into the subtlety, opulence and resonance of colour.”

Critics nonetheless mocked Monet, he added, but “when one particular owns such a stunning garden, one particular can afford to laugh at such trivialities. I believe that this is the moral of Candide.”

Voltaire addressed Candide’s concl­usion — “il faut cultiver notre jardin” — to an aristocratic, ancien régime audience, but by the mid-19th century the garden was a democratic emblem: of the leisure and privacy afforded the newly affluent middle class. Combining nature and the spectacle of modern day life, it became the ideal subject for Impressionist experiment, and Monet specially pushed the motif to formal extremes reaching far into the 20th century.

The Royal Academy’s Painting the Modern day Garden: Monet to Matisse tells this story brilliantly. It starts with the higher artifice of Monet’s silhouetted white figure against a vast screen of greenery in sunlight in the Hermitage’s iconic “Lady in the Garden” (1867), and ends with the fantastic 12-metre violet-blue triptych “Water Lilies (Agapanthus)” (1915-26), its 3 components reunited for the first time in Europe considering that they left Monet’s studio. The first perform radically appropriates the flatness and bold colour of Japanese prints in the second the swirls and dabs describing the giant African lilies in Monet’s water garden take on a tremulous, agitated abstract life of their personal.

‘Murnau Garden II’ (1910) by Kandinsky©Merzbacher kunststiftung

‘Murnau Garden II’ (1910) by Kandinsky

The impact of each, and of Monet’s long innovations reconceptualising pictorial space, ripple across and unify a rich, diverse exhibition. With a touchstone of some 40 Monets, augmented by operates spanning the Impressionist and Modernist canon — from Renoir and Sargent to Dufy and Klimt — the show dovetails art, social and horticultural history in a stunning mise-en-scène far more pleasurable than any I have ever encountered at Burlington Property.

Playing on illusions of inner and outer space, greenhouses and garden chairs stand alongside huge decorative panels: Bonnard’s drowsy frieze “Resting in the Garden”, painted on the eve of the 1st world war and fraught with a sense of unreality Vuillard’s monumental/delicate glue-primarily based distemper “Woman Reading on a Bench” and “Woman Seated in an Armchair” (both 1898), the sinuous figures rhyming with curling foliage and ironwork, unseen considering that the 1950s.

Close up, botanical journals, catalogues, letters, add intriguing insights into painterly motifs: the craze for chrysanthemums, for example, imported in the 18th century from China and now crossbred in fin-de-siècle hues of “old gold, old pink, Havana cigar, carob, otter-skin, copper cauldron”, is traced in paintings by James Tissot, Dennis Miller Bunker and, a uncommon private loan from Los Angeles, a dizzying close-up of the heads of the flowers by Monet.

Throughout, individual worlds of gardener-painters are deliciously evoked in focused tiny displays: impoverished Pissarro’s open, gentle harmonies of light in “Spring, Plum Trees in Blossom” and “The Artist’s Garden at Eragny” wealthy Gustave Caillebotte, who experimented with raking light, tilting grounds and queasy perspectives as in “The Wall of the Vegetable Garden, Yerres” and “Dahlias: The Garden at Petit-Gennevilliers” Henri Le Sidaner’s hazy, shut-in depictions of his Gerberoy retreat “The Table in the White Garden”, “The Steps” and the late, foreboding “The Rose Pavilion” (1936-38), where blossoms swamp the house.

‘Nymphéas’ (1914-15) by Monet©Portland Art Museum

‘Nymphéas’ (1914-15) by Monet

Though there are celebrity gardens painted with panache — Joaquín Sorolla’s “Louis Comfort Tiffany”, from 1911, posed against yellow and white flowers in his garden providing on to the deep blue of Lengthy Island Sound, is a star loan — progressively figures disappear, and the show’s passage from Impressionist to Symbolist to Modernist garden is towards withdrawal and introspection.

Monet, who staked his early profession on painting figures in nature, eliminated them completely by 1895: the Bührle Collection’s “Monet’s Garden at Giverny” is a connoisseur’s image where his stepdaughter Suzanne, currently ill, posed a final time she is decreased to a schematic shape amongst irises, peonies, roses. Right here the composition points straight to the 1900s “Murnau Garden” series by Kandinsky, who acknowledged Monet as the catalyst for his understanding of colour.

By 1900, Monet, almost entirely absorbed in his water garden, was increasing at four to observe barely perceptible chromatic nuances glimpsed at initial light, the heat rising from the misty pond, changing reflections of clouds. He was now wealthy adequate to commit a fortune on exotic plants — to the suspicion of Giverny’s villagers, who believed new breeds were poisoning local streams — and on seven gardeners, a single operating by boat to dust the water lilies daily. “These landscapes of water and reflected light have turn into an obsession. It is beyond my old man’s strength, nonetheless, I want to express what I feel,” Monet said.

‘Claude Monet, Giverny’ (1905)©Hulton Archive

‘Claude Monet, Giverny’ (1905)

Of all the Impressionists, he alone followed the implications of painting quick, transitory sensation to its inevitable conclusion: modern art’s subjectivity, relativity, fragmentation and ultimately abstraction. All that is held inside the “Nymphéas” and “Weeping Willows” canvases — a dozen outstanding examples are right here — painted now from memory not nature, in tenebrous harmonies, or thickly encrusted with burning colours, or dissolving in blurry, uncertain outlines. He worked on these from 1914 to 1926, right after the death of his wife and son, below threat of blindness, and in mourning for France’s wartime losses.

Electrifyingly, these are shown in the business of vibrant “avant-gardeners” responding in their own way to war: Matisse’s harsh, distorted “The Rose Marble Table” (1917) from MoMA, Klee’s “Picture of a Garden in Dark Colours” (1923), Emil Nolde’s blood-red “Flower Gardens” (1922). The association demonstrates Monet’s resolute modernity in an art about interiority and the ravages of time as revolutionary as Proust’s: À la recherche du temps perdu was published in this period, 1913-27.

Yet Monet remained in thrall to nature as well, and melancholy coexists right here with the gardener’s belief in eternal renewal. His best friend the statesman Georges Clemenceau, visiting the artist in his final weeks, arrived to uncover him ecstatic about a box of lily bulbs from Japan that “would generate beautifully coloured blossoms. ‘You will see all this in the spring’, he told me. ‘I will no longer be here’. But 1 could tell that he did not really believe it, and he was really hoping to be there in Could to rejoice at the spectacle.”

To April 20,

Sponsored by BNY Mellon

Photographs: The Hispanic Society of America, New York Merzbacher kunststiftung Portland Art Museum Hulton Archive

Slideshow photographs: Wadsworth Atheneum Museum of Art, Hartford The Hispanic Society of America, New York Portland Art Museum, Portland Merzbacher Kunststiftung, Küsnacht The National Museum of Art, Architecture and Design and style, Oslo/ADAGP, Paris &amp DACS, London MOMA, New York/Scala, Florence/Succession H. Matisse/DACS 2015 Sterling and Francine Clark Art Institute, Williamstown, Massachusetts The State Hermitage Museum, St. Petersburg Private collection, LA Getty

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Section: Arts