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Elle, par bonheur, et toujours nue
"Entre la beauté que vous, Pierre Bonnard, m'avez jetée dans les bras, sans le savoir, et celle que vous avez aimée au long de quarante-neuf années, il y a un monde, ou ce n'est pas de la peinture.Il y a un monde et c'est l'aventure du regard, avec ses ombres, ses lumières, ses accidents et ses bonheurs. Un monde en apparence ouvert et pourtant fermé comme une vie d'homme. Les clés pour y pénétrer ne sont pas dans les livres, pas dans la nature, mais très loin derrière nos yeux, dans ce jardin où l'enfance s'est un jour assise, le coeur battant, pour attendre la mer.C'est là qu'il faut aller.C'est là que Marthe m'a rejoint dans le musée à colonnade et m'a sauvé de la solitude et de l'ennui où je mourais."
160 pages, Pocket Book
First published January 1, 1998
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Displaying 1 - 19 of 19 reviews
July 4, 2021
(4.5 ou 5)
Ce roman est une douceur qui fond dans la bouche du lecteur en 155 pages parfaitement tassées. L'écriture est ciselée, poétique, aussi somptueuse quand elle décrit le quotidien que lorsqu'elle sublime les sentiments. On y évoque la vivacité de la vie, la peinture, la Beauté, l'Amour enfin ! Comment parler de la magnificence de la vie sans parler de l'Amour, et de son corollaire le désir ?!
J'aime cette écriture contemporaine, si simple, et pourtant qui n'est pas exempt de lyrisme, qui ne se regarde pas écrire, mais qui coule inlassablement de la plume de l'auteur au cœur du lecteur.
Je me dis que je connais si peu la littérature française, parce que je me suis si profondément perdue dans la littérature étrangère avec un appétit certain, constant, insatiable, que j'en ai perdu de vue la beauté de ma propre langue, de ce qu'elle peut faire naître en moi de nostalgie et de douces sensations. Après Gadenne, Goffette vient de nouveau titiller en moi cette envie d'explorer la littérature française du XXe, de ces auteurs qui m'apparaissent aujourd'hui méconnus, afin de retrouver cette émotion brute, ce flot renversant qui m'a submergé lors de ces lectures.
Pierre sait déja et ne sait pas encore que cette jeune femme qui se réchauffe dans ses yeux va l'entraîner jusqu'au bout de lui-même. Il sait déjà et ne sait pas encore que l'eau, quand elle monte d'un regard de femme, peut tout renverser, et qu'il n'y a pas de mur qui tienne, surtout si le mur est un homme qui vit et vibre dans l'azur comme un violoncelle. Il sait déja et ne sait pas encore que l'eau est première et femme et nue, qu'en elle toutes les couleurs se lavent de la nuit et fleurissent dans la lumière. Pour l'heure, il regarde cette femme comme il n'a jamais regardé personne. Ou alors, il était quelqu'un d'autre et il ne s'en souvient plus. II lui semble qu'avec elle le monde recommence et qu'il vient de naître. Un arbre jeune dans le soleil, qui attend d'avoir toutes ses feuilles pour parler. Toutes.
N'empêche, avec un avenir de poche, dites, qu'est-ce qu'on peut faire si le seul homme qu'on a au travers du coeur, tous se le disputent, et ce qui reste, c'est de la poudre de perlimpinpin ? Qu'est-ce qu'on peut faire, si ce n'est l'arracher encore et encore avec les armes qu'il faut, et les baisers, les promesses et les sanglots? Qu'est-ce qu'on peut faire quand on n'est rien qu'une brûlure sous la peau qui crie, contre cette maîtresse plus forte que toutes : la peinture ? sinon devenir sa couche même, ses draps de lin, sa sueur, la beauté insoumise de son oeil et son désir dévorant.
Peuplé de voix et de couleurs, le jardin d'enfance persiste en nous, royal malgré la chute et l'exil du roi; il rafraîchit les déserts traversés de l'âge, rattrape l'aveugle dans la musique, le sourd dans la contemplation. Toujours ce qui manque à nos vies, cet innommable vide tout à coup derrière la nuque, qui nous remplit de regrets, de remords, de nostalgie, toujours a la forme d'un jardin. Il y a des arbres, de l'herbe, des parterres de fleurs et peut-être un coin d'ombre où nous ne sommes jamais allés, qui nous faisait peur parce qu'il nous attirait avec trop de violence. C'est là sans doute que le secret de notre destin fut scellé et nul ne peut le connaître sans mourir aussitôt.
Bref, Bonnard n'a eu qu'un tort, c'est de persister à devenir lui-même, à n'être que soi, mais totalement; de dire à voix haute ce que la plupart n'osent plus penser : que le bonheur existe, et l'amour et la beauté, que ce n'est ni d'avant ni d'arrière-garde, et qu'il est sacrément bon de ne chercher que cela. Au fond de soi. Tout au fond. On ne se fait pas d'ennemi à meilleur compte.
Car il est dans l'ordre des rêves que l'homme sauve la femme, on ne sait trop de quel danger. Peut-être de la bête qui dort en lui. Peut-être du vide qui la menace et du temps qui lui pèse comme les générations. Peut-être plus simplement, d'elle-même, du mensonge de la beauté, de son carcan. Afin que, disposant de son corps dans l'étreinte, elle puisse sauver l'homme de la mélancolie de la mort et lui rendre avec la mer le sel inépuisable de l'amour.
Ce roman est une douceur qui fond dans la bouche du lecteur en 155 pages parfaitement tassées. L'écriture est ciselée, poétique, aussi somptueuse quand elle décrit le quotidien que lorsqu'elle sublime les sentiments. On y évoque la vivacité de la vie, la peinture, la Beauté, l'Amour enfin ! Comment parler de la magnificence de la vie sans parler de l'Amour, et de son corollaire le désir ?!
J'aime cette écriture contemporaine, si simple, et pourtant qui n'est pas exempt de lyrisme, qui ne se regarde pas écrire, mais qui coule inlassablement de la plume de l'auteur au cœur du lecteur.
Je me dis que je connais si peu la littérature française, parce que je me suis si profondément perdue dans la littérature étrangère avec un appétit certain, constant, insatiable, que j'en ai perdu de vue la beauté de ma propre langue, de ce qu'elle peut faire naître en moi de nostalgie et de douces sensations. Après Gadenne, Goffette vient de nouveau titiller en moi cette envie d'explorer la littérature française du XXe, de ces auteurs qui m'apparaissent aujourd'hui méconnus, afin de retrouver cette émotion brute, ce flot renversant qui m'a submergé lors de ces lectures.
Pierre sait déja et ne sait pas encore que cette jeune femme qui se réchauffe dans ses yeux va l'entraîner jusqu'au bout de lui-même. Il sait déjà et ne sait pas encore que l'eau, quand elle monte d'un regard de femme, peut tout renverser, et qu'il n'y a pas de mur qui tienne, surtout si le mur est un homme qui vit et vibre dans l'azur comme un violoncelle. Il sait déja et ne sait pas encore que l'eau est première et femme et nue, qu'en elle toutes les couleurs se lavent de la nuit et fleurissent dans la lumière. Pour l'heure, il regarde cette femme comme il n'a jamais regardé personne. Ou alors, il était quelqu'un d'autre et il ne s'en souvient plus. II lui semble qu'avec elle le monde recommence et qu'il vient de naître. Un arbre jeune dans le soleil, qui attend d'avoir toutes ses feuilles pour parler. Toutes.
N'empêche, avec un avenir de poche, dites, qu'est-ce qu'on peut faire si le seul homme qu'on a au travers du coeur, tous se le disputent, et ce qui reste, c'est de la poudre de perlimpinpin ? Qu'est-ce qu'on peut faire, si ce n'est l'arracher encore et encore avec les armes qu'il faut, et les baisers, les promesses et les sanglots? Qu'est-ce qu'on peut faire quand on n'est rien qu'une brûlure sous la peau qui crie, contre cette maîtresse plus forte que toutes : la peinture ? sinon devenir sa couche même, ses draps de lin, sa sueur, la beauté insoumise de son oeil et son désir dévorant.
Peuplé de voix et de couleurs, le jardin d'enfance persiste en nous, royal malgré la chute et l'exil du roi; il rafraîchit les déserts traversés de l'âge, rattrape l'aveugle dans la musique, le sourd dans la contemplation. Toujours ce qui manque à nos vies, cet innommable vide tout à coup derrière la nuque, qui nous remplit de regrets, de remords, de nostalgie, toujours a la forme d'un jardin. Il y a des arbres, de l'herbe, des parterres de fleurs et peut-être un coin d'ombre où nous ne sommes jamais allés, qui nous faisait peur parce qu'il nous attirait avec trop de violence. C'est là sans doute que le secret de notre destin fut scellé et nul ne peut le connaître sans mourir aussitôt.
Bref, Bonnard n'a eu qu'un tort, c'est de persister à devenir lui-même, à n'être que soi, mais totalement; de dire à voix haute ce que la plupart n'osent plus penser : que le bonheur existe, et l'amour et la beauté, que ce n'est ni d'avant ni d'arrière-garde, et qu'il est sacrément bon de ne chercher que cela. Au fond de soi. Tout au fond. On ne se fait pas d'ennemi à meilleur compte.
Car il est dans l'ordre des rêves que l'homme sauve la femme, on ne sait trop de quel danger. Peut-être de la bête qui dort en lui. Peut-être du vide qui la menace et du temps qui lui pèse comme les générations. Peut-être plus simplement, d'elle-même, du mensonge de la beauté, de son carcan. Afin que, disposant de son corps dans l'étreinte, elle puisse sauver l'homme de la mélancolie de la mort et lui rendre avec la mer le sel inépuisable de l'amour.
June 6, 2022
Forever Nude
Yes nice, a deft novella size economic summary of Bonnard and Marthe's life.
'The death of Pierre Bonnard at the age of eighty on 23 January 1947 caused little stir in the world of art. It was hardly surprising: he cared little for society, had few friends in the art world, lived like a hermit and was thought a throwback to Impressionism.' . . . 'Constantly wayfaring, he kept a low profile and when, in 1939, he retreated to the Midi, he cut his ties with Paris.' . . . 'The woman he loved, the colours of the daylight, cats lounging among books, a few friends and the splendour of the world about him, what more could he ask for, what else?
Of course, such art is too innocent, such happiness too naïve, it is an Arcadian dream intolerable to those in Paris breaking their backs to be original, keeping their several irons in the fire of the salons, the reviews d'arts, the galleries, painting with any brush that comes to hand in pursuit of absurd glory.
Bonnard's glory, his raison d'être, is to paint what he pleases, as he pleases, when he pleases. If that irritates the arbiters of fashion, too bad. In his mouth, pleasure will always have the taste of forbidden fruit: Draw your pleasure. Paint your pleasure. Express your pleasure strongly.
In short, Bonnard's only mistake was to become who he was born to be, to be only, and utterly, himself; to say aloud what most no longer dared to think: that happiness, that love, that beauty exist, which is neither avant-garde nor arrière-. To say that it is a joy to spend one's life seeking out such things. Within oneself. Deep within.
There is no better way to make enemies.'
'After thirty-two years of living with Marthe, Pierre marries Maria - Marie. Pierre discovers her secret: Marthe de Méligny does not exist. This aristocratic name, worthy of a courtesan, is not hers; Marthe's true name is Maria Boursin. She was not born in Italy, but in France, in le Berry. Her father was not a count nor an impoverished baron, but a humble farm labourer. On 26 January 1942, in the dead of winter, Marthe passes away. She is seventy-two.'
Yes nice, a deft novella size economic summary of Bonnard and Marthe's life.
'The death of Pierre Bonnard at the age of eighty on 23 January 1947 caused little stir in the world of art. It was hardly surprising: he cared little for society, had few friends in the art world, lived like a hermit and was thought a throwback to Impressionism.' . . . 'Constantly wayfaring, he kept a low profile and when, in 1939, he retreated to the Midi, he cut his ties with Paris.' . . . 'The woman he loved, the colours of the daylight, cats lounging among books, a few friends and the splendour of the world about him, what more could he ask for, what else?
Of course, such art is too innocent, such happiness too naïve, it is an Arcadian dream intolerable to those in Paris breaking their backs to be original, keeping their several irons in the fire of the salons, the reviews d'arts, the galleries, painting with any brush that comes to hand in pursuit of absurd glory.
Bonnard's glory, his raison d'être, is to paint what he pleases, as he pleases, when he pleases. If that irritates the arbiters of fashion, too bad. In his mouth, pleasure will always have the taste of forbidden fruit: Draw your pleasure. Paint your pleasure. Express your pleasure strongly.
In short, Bonnard's only mistake was to become who he was born to be, to be only, and utterly, himself; to say aloud what most no longer dared to think: that happiness, that love, that beauty exist, which is neither avant-garde nor arrière-. To say that it is a joy to spend one's life seeking out such things. Within oneself. Deep within.
There is no better way to make enemies.'
'After thirty-two years of living with Marthe, Pierre marries Maria - Marie. Pierre discovers her secret: Marthe de Méligny does not exist. This aristocratic name, worthy of a courtesan, is not hers; Marthe's true name is Maria Boursin. She was not born in Italy, but in France, in le Berry. Her father was not a count nor an impoverished baron, but a humble farm labourer. On 26 January 1942, in the dead of winter, Marthe passes away. She is seventy-two.'
January 13, 2021
Изобщо не ме изненадва, че белгийският автор Ги Гофет има Гонкур за поезия. Всъщност разбрах това чак след като прочетох "Завинаги гола", като през цялото време си мислех, че това е една поетична проза, по-скоро създадена заради красотата на езика, отколкото поради сюжетни подбуди.
Става дума за художника Пиер Бонар, който живее между 1867 и 1947 година. Той е един от основателите на набизма, като характерно за набистите е рисуването на символиката, невидимото. В книгата вниманието към цветовете е много интересно описано, както и връзката на Пиер с музата му Марта. Не съм се заемала да сравнявам биографични факти, но един бърз поглед в уикипедия ми дава усещането, че важното е налице.
"Добре е да яхнеш детското дървено конче на любимото си занятие, стига да не повярваш, че си яхнал Пегас."
Краткият роман е по-скоро фрагментарен, писмен еквивалент на набизма, стои далеч от реалността, щрихира, хвърля в лицето на читателя нюанси и образи, не му обещава линеен наратив. По страниците срещаме имена като Пикасо, Матиас, както и някои от най-известните френски поети, чуваме как тече Сена, мислим върху целта на живописта. Интересно ми е какъв е в другия му издаден на български роман "С лято около шията", който също е точно 120 страници, само че е с логото на Колибри, а не на Аквариум.
Авторът има много награди и много книги, не ми се изброяват, а и не смятам, че е нужно. В коментар ще оставя откъс от книгата, както и линк със стихотворения на български. Ако ви се чете нещо кратко, красиво, леко неясно или просто ви се иска да се почувствате сякаш сте част временно от френската бохема, значи "Завинаги гола" е за вас.
Става дума за художника Пиер Бонар, който живее между 1867 и 1947 година. Той е един от основателите на набизма, като характерно за набистите е рисуването на символиката, невидимото. В книгата вниманието към цветовете е много интересно описано, както и връзката на Пиер с музата му Марта. Не съм се заемала да сравнявам биографични факти, но един бърз поглед в уикипедия ми дава усещането, че важното е налице.
"Добре е да яхнеш детското дървено конче на любимото си занятие, стига да не повярваш, че си яхнал Пегас."
Краткият роман е по-скоро фрагментарен, писмен еквивалент на набизма, стои далеч от реалността, щрихира, хвърля в лицето на читателя нюанси и образи, не му обещава линеен наратив. По страниците срещаме имена като Пикасо, Матиас, както и някои от най-известните френски поети, чуваме как тече Сена, мислим върху целта на живописта. Интересно ми е какъв е в другия му издаден на български роман "С лято около шията", който също е точно 120 страници, само че е с логото на Колибри, а не на Аквариум.
Авторът има много награди и много книги, не ми се изброяват, а и не смятам, че е нужно. В коментар ще оставя откъс от книгата, както и линк със стихотворения на български. Ако ви се чете нещо кратко, красиво, леко неясно или просто ви се иска да се почувствате сякаш сте част временно от френската бохема, значи "Завинаги гола" е за вас.
June 13, 2023
(4.75) What a beautiful story/poem/biography. I picked this up on a whim because it was given to me as a gift (by dear friend lady adri) and it was lovely. At first I was disoriented due to my lack of background knowledge about the artist but as it went on I fell in love with the romantic and surrealist portrait of the art and characters. The writing was just beautiful and felt like a step inside the art itself. This book is a lovely quick and romantic read that examines meaning and love and life in a dazzling way that is both sweet and sensual. Now I want to be someone's muse.
"If only you knew how beautiful you are, how naked in the yellow blouse that reveals your delicate throat, touches your tender lips with a velvet kiss, shows the brazen purple of an erect nipple, if you could only feel the love, beaten and tossed by the winds, that this is the man who stands before you feels even now, as he dips his brush into the light of the lamp and of the high windows."
"If only you knew how beautiful you are, how naked in the yellow blouse that reveals your delicate throat, touches your tender lips with a velvet kiss, shows the brazen purple of an erect nipple, if you could only feel the love, beaten and tossed by the winds, that this is the man who stands before you feels even now, as he dips his brush into the light of the lamp and of the high windows."
August 5, 2019
I read this in French, but presumably my comments still apply, although it is hard to imagine how the distinctive French "stream of consciousness" style could have been translated without something being lost.
With a quirky title perhaps including a pun on “bonheur” and “Bonnard”, these linked short stories form a poetical, fragmented fictionalised biography of the post-Impressionist painter who made a lifelong companion of Marthe, the young woman who captivated him in a chance encounter on a Pairs street, and provided the model for hundreds of paintings and sketches of her, often in the bath, dressing or relaxing on the bed, but “toujours nue” (“Forever Nude” in the English translation).
We learn that Marthe was really Marie, a poor farmer’s daughter who adopted a false name including an aristocratic “de” when she escaped to Paris to make her fortune. Bonnard did not discover this until he came to marry her more than thirty years later. He had his own share of secrets, in particular his liaison with a vivacious young blonde, Renée Monchaty, a marked contrast to the apparently more passive Marthe, increasingly shrewish and sickly as she aged. Renée’s suicide, perhaps sparked by his marriage, shocked Bonnard to the core. All this could have been worked into a dramatic novel, together with Bonnard’s legal problems after Marthe’s death, which led eventually to a change in the law guaranteeing an artist’s rights of full ownership to his or her entire body of work. However, Goffette is much more interested in writing about Bonnard’s art as a form of visual poetry, using colour in place of words, and in portraying the artist as a man who shunned “la gloire imbécile”, wishing only to paint what he pleased, when and how he wanted.
At first, I found the style overblown as in the opening chapter, where Goffette describes entering a gallery hot and flustered, only to be refreshed by encountering a painting of the toujours nue Marthe spraying herself with eau de Cologne. Written from a male viewpoint, the lengthy sensual, even erotic description of Marthe made me uneasy. It seemed voyeuristic and sexist, akin to a man assuming the right to impose himself on a pretty stranger who has caught his eye in the street.
However, gradually, the writer won me over, mainly in helping me to view Bonnard’s paintings with new eyes. This was only possible since I had access to a computer and was able to find images of most of the paintings he describes. It would actually be a better book with photographs of these works included.
Goffette showed me how the use of a black blind, cutting off my view “comme une guillotine”, made it fall “brutalement” to a sleeping Marthe and cat: in fact, it drew my attention to the view outside the window, another theme Bonnard loved to explore. I was also struck by the vivid colours in his last painting, an almond tree in blossom. On his death bed, with his nephew’s help, he still felt the urge to change a patch of ground from green to bright yellow.
Although the flowery style is not to my taste, there are a number of telling insights, and I have also discovered a large number of paintings by Bonnard which I like, and am now able to appreciate why he was and is so highly regarded as a painter, if not by Picasso.
March 28, 2020
Forever Nude paints an impressionistic portrait of artist Pierre Bonnard’s life, and his love for wife and muse Marthe de Meligny. Each chapter is about 2-3 pages long, fleeting, poetic... I believe Goffette’s aim was to write as if he himself were painting, to embody the beauty and light of Bonnard’s paintings in his own writing. To paint the life of Bonnard in words.
I feel that the potential truth and beauty of this novella was lost in translation. I couldn’t see the full picture in English... as if somebody brushed over a masterpiece with a murky lick of paint. In short: I would love to have read this in its original French.
I feel that the potential truth and beauty of this novella was lost in translation. I couldn’t see the full picture in English... as if somebody brushed over a masterpiece with a murky lick of paint. In short: I would love to have read this in its original French.
August 28, 2009
This is one of the books I bought in Paris earlier this summer. The book is very light reading and is a tribute or as the back of the book says "a love letter" to Pierre Bonnard, painter.
His muse was a country girl who passed herself off as the daughter of an aristocratic Italian baron. He discovered the lie many years later when he wanted to marry her. Throughout the 49 years they were together he was faithful to Marthe/Marie and painted her nude in many of his paintings and sketches.
It is a charming yet in some way it is a sad story and one that stays with you after the book is done. I picked up this book more on a whim, but I got to know a painter who was reclusive and almost unknown in his native France, yet who was revered elsewhere in the world.
His muse was a country girl who passed herself off as the daughter of an aristocratic Italian baron. He discovered the lie many years later when he wanted to marry her. Throughout the 49 years they were together he was faithful to Marthe/Marie and painted her nude in many of his paintings and sketches.
It is a charming yet in some way it is a sad story and one that stays with you after the book is done. I picked up this book more on a whim, but I got to know a painter who was reclusive and almost unknown in his native France, yet who was revered elsewhere in the world.
August 5, 2019
With a quirky title perhaps including a pun on “bonheur” and “Bonnard”, these linked short stories form a poetical, fragmented fictionalised biography of the post-Impressionist painter who made a lifelong companion of Marthe, the young woman who captivated him in a chance encounter on a Pairs street, and provided the model for hundreds of paintings and sketches of her, often in the bath, dressing or relaxing on the bed, but “toujours nue” (“Forever Nude” in the English translation).
We learn that Marthe was really Marie, a poor farmer’s daughter who adopted a false name including an aristocratic “de” when she escaped to Paris to make her fortune. Bonnard did not discover this until he came to marry her more than thirty years later. He had his own share of secrets, in particular his liaison with a vivacious young blonde, Renée Monchaty, a marked contrast to the apparently more passive Marthe, increasingly shrewish and sickly as she aged. Renée’s suicide, perhaps sparked by his marriage, shocked Bonnard to the core. All this could have been worked into a dramatic novel, together with Bonnard’s legal problems after Marthe’s death, which led eventually to a change in the law guaranteeing an artist’s rights of full ownership to his or her entire body of work. However, Goffette is much more interested in writing about Bonnard’s art as a form of visual poetry, using colour in place of words, and in portraying the artist as a man who shunned “la gloire imbécile”, wishing only to paint what he pleased, when and how he wanted.
At first, I found the style overblown as in the opening chapter, where Goffette describes entering a gallery hot and flustered, only to be refreshed by encountering a painting of the toujours nue Marthe spraying herself with eau de Cologne. Written from a male viewpoint, the lengthy sensual, even erotic description of Marthe made me uneasy. It seemed voyeuristic and sexist, akin to a man assuming the right to impose himself on a pretty stranger who has caught his eye in the street.
However, gradually, the writer won me over, mainly in helping me to view Bonnard’s paintings with new eyes. This was only possible since I had access to a computer and was able to find images of most of the paintings he describes. It would actually be a better book with photographs of these works included.
Goffette showed me how the use of a black blind, cutting off my view “comme une guillotine”, made it fall “brutalement” to a sleeping Marthe and cat: in fact, it drew my attention to the view outside the window, another theme Bonnard loved to explore. I was also struck by the vivid colours in his last painting, an almond tree in blossom. On his death bed, with his nephew’s help, he still felt the urge to change a patch of ground from green to bright yellow.
Although the flowery style is not to my taste, there are a number of telling insights, and I have also discovered a large number of paintings by Bonnard which I like, and am now able to appreciate why he was and is so highly regarded as a painter, if not by Picasso.
We learn that Marthe was really Marie, a poor farmer’s daughter who adopted a false name including an aristocratic “de” when she escaped to Paris to make her fortune. Bonnard did not discover this until he came to marry her more than thirty years later. He had his own share of secrets, in particular his liaison with a vivacious young blonde, Renée Monchaty, a marked contrast to the apparently more passive Marthe, increasingly shrewish and sickly as she aged. Renée’s suicide, perhaps sparked by his marriage, shocked Bonnard to the core. All this could have been worked into a dramatic novel, together with Bonnard’s legal problems after Marthe’s death, which led eventually to a change in the law guaranteeing an artist’s rights of full ownership to his or her entire body of work. However, Goffette is much more interested in writing about Bonnard’s art as a form of visual poetry, using colour in place of words, and in portraying the artist as a man who shunned “la gloire imbécile”, wishing only to paint what he pleased, when and how he wanted.
At first, I found the style overblown as in the opening chapter, where Goffette describes entering a gallery hot and flustered, only to be refreshed by encountering a painting of the toujours nue Marthe spraying herself with eau de Cologne. Written from a male viewpoint, the lengthy sensual, even erotic description of Marthe made me uneasy. It seemed voyeuristic and sexist, akin to a man assuming the right to impose himself on a pretty stranger who has caught his eye in the street.
However, gradually, the writer won me over, mainly in helping me to view Bonnard’s paintings with new eyes. This was only possible since I had access to a computer and was able to find images of most of the paintings he describes. It would actually be a better book with photographs of these works included.
Goffette showed me how the use of a black blind, cutting off my view “comme une guillotine”, made it fall “brutalement” to a sleeping Marthe and cat: in fact, it drew my attention to the view outside the window, another theme Bonnard loved to explore. I was also struck by the vivid colours in his last painting, an almond tree in blossom. On his death bed, with his nephew’s help, he still felt the urge to change a patch of ground from green to bright yellow.
Although the flowery style is not to my taste, there are a number of telling insights, and I have also discovered a large number of paintings by Bonnard which I like, and am now able to appreciate why he was and is so highly regarded as a painter, if not by Picasso.
May 7, 2023
Ce n'était pas ma lecture habituelle, mais définitivement un coup de cœur. Le livre décrit la vie de l'artiste français Pierre Bonnard et sa relation amoureuse avec Marthe de Méligny/Maria Boursin. Guy Goffette le présente d'une manière qui permet de comprendre la conception de l'art de Bonnard et qui illustre les circonstances extérieures qui ont marqué l'œuvre de Bonnard. L'histoire fait ressentir de l'enthousiasme pour la période des avant-gardes. Même si l'impressionnisme et le post-impressionnisme sont mes genres artistiques préférés, je ne connaissais pas le nom de Pierre Bonnard avant de lire ce livre. Je suis heureux d'avoir fait cette découverte par hasard.
March 22, 2021
"Нищо видимо не се е променило: цветята са си във вазата, денят - в прозореца, сърцето е на мястото си."
"Сълзите могат да пресъхнат, но не и любовта, която е вечна като всичко, което е обитавало съседната стая, заключена два пъти."
Благодарение на превода на Аксиния Михайлова се докоснах до красотата на думите на Ги Гофет, в които оживяват образите на художника Пиер Бонар и на любимата му Марта.
"Сълзите могат да пресъхнат, но не и любовта, която е вечна като всичко, което е обитавало съседната стая, заключена два пъти."
Благодарение на превода на Аксиния Михайлова се докоснах до красотата на думите на Ги Гофет, в които оживяват образите на художника Пиер Бонар и на любимата му Марта.
September 30, 2022
Een heel mooi verhaal en grotendeels ook heel betoverend verteld. Na 2/3 veranderde er heel veel in schrijfstijl, vertelstem, perspectief, chronologie waardoor ik even helemaal uit de magie van het verhaal raakte. Sowieso leverden perspectiefkeuzes en steeds wisselende chronologie verwarring op. Er zijn nog steeds stukken die ik niet begrijp en waarvan ik niet zeker weet wie er nu überhaupt aan het woord is (Goffette? Bonnard? Iemand anders?). Maar 2/3 was echt magisch.
April 23, 2025
Une ôde à l’Amour.
Un chef-d’œuvre aux confins du poétique, la plume de Guy Goffette bouleverse, à l’instar de la peinture de Pierre Bonnard.
Marthe est une muse, une amoureuse, une présence lumineuse. Elle est de celles qui inspirent, de celles qui aiment, de celles qui illuminent l’œuvre de l’autre.
Je l’ai lu d’une traite, tant l’histoire d’amour que le destin d’un artiste en marge touchent au cœur.
November 29, 2024
« C'est un matin comme un autre et ce n'est pas le même. Pourtant rien n'a changé : les fleurs sont dans le vase, le jour dans la fenêtre, le cœur est à sa place. »
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February 12, 2026review text for 125
August 24, 2020
Ce livre m'a fait l'effet des pluies orageuses les soirs d'été. Prose magnifique.
December 13, 2015
Surprisingly good little book.
Guy Goffette, a poet, gives us a short fictionalized biography of Pierre Bonnard, the French painter, and his muse Marthe. Marthe, whose real name was Marie, entered his life when he was a young man and inspired him to paint nudes. For many years he painted Marthe caught in the act of being a woman - in her bath, toweling off, lying on the bed, outside the house, on the street. A good friend of Matisse, Bonnard was not liked by Picasso (yet Bonnard liked Picasso's work).
As you might hope from a poet, the work is spare. There is no flowery language but rather just the right words and not too many or too few. With simple swipes of words he creates a picture of the painter and Marthe and traces their story lightly to the end and beyond.
Guy Goffette, a poet, gives us a short fictionalized biography of Pierre Bonnard, the French painter, and his muse Marthe. Marthe, whose real name was Marie, entered his life when he was a young man and inspired him to paint nudes. For many years he painted Marthe caught in the act of being a woman - in her bath, toweling off, lying on the bed, outside the house, on the street. A good friend of Matisse, Bonnard was not liked by Picasso (yet Bonnard liked Picasso's work).
As you might hope from a poet, the work is spare. There is no flowery language but rather just the right words and not too many or too few. With simple swipes of words he creates a picture of the painter and Marthe and traces their story lightly to the end and beyond.
December 10, 2022
Étant étudiante en histoire de l’art et fan du peintre Bonnard, cette lecture me paru parfaite. Et ce le fut !
Du début à la fin l’auteur nous transmet des émotions empruntent de poésie.
Nous suivons simplement le vie du peintre avec ses hauts et ses bas mais Gofette arrive à rendre cela passionnant. Qui plus est, il cite beaucoup de d’œuvres du peintre ce qui nous poussent à aller les admirer, ce que j’apprécie particulièrement !
Une lecture rapide et terriblement agréable !
Je conseille !
Du début à la fin l’auteur nous transmet des émotions empruntent de poésie.
Nous suivons simplement le vie du peintre avec ses hauts et ses bas mais Gofette arrive à rendre cela passionnant. Qui plus est, il cite beaucoup de d’œuvres du peintre ce qui nous poussent à aller les admirer, ce que j’apprécie particulièrement !
Une lecture rapide et terriblement agréable !
Je conseille !
October 27, 2012
The story of Pierre Bonnard (an artist) and his fifty year relationship with his muse.
The story unfolds in a series of short disjointed chapters which give the reader a sense of a detached / artist life.
Worth reading (it is only a 100 pages so can be read in under 2 hours) simply for the odd structure and insight into “an artist life”.
The story unfolds in a series of short disjointed chapters which give the reader a sense of a detached / artist life.
Worth reading (it is only a 100 pages so can be read in under 2 hours) simply for the odd structure and insight into “an artist life”.
Want to read
June 10, 2010Pierre Bonnard! My love!
Displaying 1 - 19 of 19 reviews