Portuguese artist João Lemos sent me this gorgeous and entirely unexpected painting "La Stigmatisée" by French painter, Georges Moreau de Tours (1848-1901). And what a narrative it visually suggests — rich and full of possibilities: a sensual image of a young woman, where both the dressings over the stigmata of her hands and her clothing are unraveling. She appears languorous, almost trance-like in her calm, while the onlookers are tense, a hand gripping the sleeve of another as though threatened by the spectacle of the reclining woman. There is so much going on here, all of it ambiguous: earthy and ethereal, masculine and feminine, still and agitated, acceptance and skepticism all at once.
5 thoughts on “Inspiration in “La Stigmatisée” by Georges Moreau de Tours”
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Your observations about the painting mirror the artist’s intent, especially by your choice of the word « languorous » (dreamy listlessness). However, I would hope that someone who truely had received the stigmata would not be looking « sensual » or be in a state of « calm » after receiving the pain of the five wounds of Christ on the the cross! — My modern eyes gravitate to the quizzical old man’s stance, showing he is incredulous … and possibly saying so aloud judging by the reaction of the woman on the far right. His better judgement recognizes this « stigmata » and the ecstatic state of the « sensual young woman » are a ruse and the stoic monks are either in on the game or simply gullible and naive. — The painting is a cautionary tale: don’t believe everything you see.
Hey Earl, a very interesting observation about that painting! and another example of how “story-rich” this painting is. I am not sure at all what the artist’s intention was — and in fact I’m headed to the library today to find out more about Georges Moreau and his work. But I love the painting because it ignited a half formed idea I had and suddenly gave it form and life.
As for depictions of receiving the stigmata — hmmm, there is really quite a range (and that too is fascinating). St Catherine and St. Francis are probably the most painted and depending on the century and the school they range from anguishing (and full of pain) to sensual — look at Caravaggio’s painting of Francis receiving the stigmata. I am also interested in the paintings once they have the stigmata — depictions of Francis in repose with his hands displayed — including on the paintings of him gentling the Wolf of Gubbio — all of it interesting. How does a painter depict the intersection of the divine and the human?
Your reply has so much I could comment about… where do I begin (smile!) — The de Tours painting was made during the Third Republic, when Waldeck-Rousseau was at his peak, anticlericalism was rampant (leading to the Separation of Church and State), and riots filled the streets of Nantes that drove our Ménager ancestors from France. — De Tours seems to me to have been a talented academic royalist and a religious apologist judging from his other works I’ve seen on line. Certainly, he is accomplished, and there is a place for everything.
Somewhere, I once read that more than 300 women (nearly always women) have reported receiving the stigmata through history; most all of whom were debunked. Poor misguided lambs. I am certain they convinced themselves that what they felt was true – but like seeing Marian apparitions in French toast – can you take them seriously?
As for the Caravaggio, Midori… and I do love Carvaggio… the homoeroticism is so strong in most of his youthful works, to which the St. Francis you chose belongs, it is hard for me to see past it. It definitely qualifies as tender and charming,… and sensual.
How does a painter depict the intersection of the divine and human, you ask? I immediately think of Anselm Kiefer work’s – in some of his bleak, thought-provoking paintings, the names of the ranks of angels are scrawled over images of train tracks that led to the gas chambers; images of childhood – shards of toys and teddy bears appear in scenes of bleak settings – profoundly moving stuff; — and, in ethereal paintings of nature, such as the poetic American landscapes of George Inness or Henry Twachtman; — and in the deep, religiously-felt piety of Mark Rothko’s meditative pure abstractions and Clifford Still’s evocations of the closed-in, abstract forests; — and in the perfect juxtapostion of gentle animal spirits and 20th century chromaticism in the paintings of Franz Marc; — there are so ways a painter can make the divine and human meet without it being cloying, sugar-coated, or trite.
Hey Earl: Once again thank you for the thoughful and very informative reply! I have been discovering as much about GM on JSTOR — and I am laughing at your riposte to my Caravaggio suggestion because in my original reply I had typed “that naughty boy” in parenthesis and then edited the phrase out! Ah yes, I do know about his paintings! The many other examples you cite are excellent and an unlooked for gift on this Feast of the Immaculate Conception.
Still…I like this painting because I am wondering how to make that young woman walk and talk in my novel. And I do love the tension of the other characters having to wonder if she is “real” or just another trickster making a living by her wits. That is something fun to play with and maybe never fully answer. Could be fun.
Coming in late to this from the sidelines…
What strikes me about this is how everyone’s attention is focused on the woman, but she is giving the viewer of the canvas a side long glance. As if to say “what do YOU think about it?” “do YOU believe me?” “can you accept this?” She is sure enough of herself to be put on display and to challenge the viewer’s conceptions of divinity and power in a female form. Very interesting piece indeed.