Men in a box

"Homage to Delacroix" by Fantin-Latour.

I did not live in mid-19th-century Paris, obviously, but it cannot possibly have been as joyless and claustrophobic as depicted in Henri Fantin-Latour's series of paintings at the Musee D'Orsay. In them, all are men, all are somber, nearly all are in black coats and exuding an air of importance ― possibly boredom ― and it is tempting to write these works off as skilled examples of group portraiture and little else.

Their turgidity is best seen in "Homage to Delacroix" (1864), with six standing figures and four seated ones, with a painting of a lithograph of Delacroix shown slightly above head level. The "homage" part of the title is problematic ― this is a painting by Fantin-LaTour, after all, in muted hues. If it is an homage, it is a constipated one, and as far from a flamboyant Delacroix painting as one can imagine. Fantin is the only subject pictured who is not looking outward. Manet has his hand in his pocket.

"A Corner of the Table" by Fantin-Latour (1872).

In "A Corner of the Table" (1872), a tense-looking Paul Verlaine, at lower left, sits next to boyish fellow poet Arthur Rimbaud.

Awkward: Verlaine and Rimbaud in a detail from "A Corner of the Table."

The least static of the series, "A Studio in the Batignolles Quarter" (1870), is triangular in composition, with a series of heads at right cascading down to Manet at his easel, lower left.

Some homage: "A Studio in the Batignolles Quarter" (1870).

These are enormous paintings, meant to make a statement. What that might be is a riddle. Where does the light come from? These are windowless rooms, as far as the eye can tell. Why is no one looking at one another? What kind of oblique tribute is being paid? Princeton professor Bridget Alsdorf argues that the awkwardness of these artists and poets, all of whom seem eager to dash for the exit, is intentional ― that this is the unease you might find in a roomful of similarly accomplished competitors. They have walled themselves off emotionally so as to quietly negotiate their place within the group. This actually makes sense: Such is the anxiety and self-doubt of artists everywhere, and particularly in a city where the competition for eyeballs is as keen as Paris.