VOLUME 3 ISSUE 2
The International Journal of the
Image
__________________________________________________________________________
“Travail de panneau”
The Effects of Early Film on Henri de
Toulouse-Lautrec’s “Au cirque” Series
KIMBERLY MUSIAL
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“Travail de panneau”: The Effects of Early Film
on Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec’s “Au cirque”
Series
Kimberly Musial, Pennsylvania State University, USA
Abstract: I propose that Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec drew upon early film techniques to simulate movement in his work,
particularly his “Au cirque” drawings, 1899. Moving picture devices and popular interest in them had been prevalent
since the 1830s. As the century progressed, artists and scientists developed cameras capable of capturing sequences of
movement in photographs and, finally, film. The impact of these technological advances on the avant-garde during the
last quarter of the nineteenth century remains an open question. This question seems especially pressing when one
considers that artists patronized and depicted the same establishments that screened films: dancehalls, cafés, and
circuses. In this paper, I explore the connection between art and film through a discussion of how the depiction of
movement developed in Lautrec’s work throughout his career, culminating in the circus series. These drawings
demonstrate an awareness of and involvement with the visual tools of nascent cinema. His competition with film
corresponded to the previous generation’s competition with photography, and his engagement with film opens onto a
modernism focused on movement and technology.
Keywords: Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, Film, Cinema of Attractions, Fin de Siècle, Eadward Muybridge, Etienne-Jules
Marey, Georges Méliès
Introduction
E
very successful performance contains one moment that leaves viewers breathless. It may
mesmerize them with a singer’s incredible vocal range, hypnotize them with a dancer’s
flexibility and grace, or wow them with a death-defying stunt. Spectators sit on the edge
of their seats, wait with bated breath, and then sink back with satisfaction and wonder as they
marvel at what they just witnessed. They replay these moments over and over in their heads, each
time amazed. It is no wonder that early filmmakers like Georges Méliès depicted spectacular
illusions in their films. A magician by trade, Méliès had experience entertaining and amazing
crowds. His films, such as The Vanishing Lady, 1896, The Bewitched Inn, 1897, and The Man
with the Rubber Head, 1901, present the viewer with a host of tricks, ranging from disappearing
and reappearing objects to inflatable heads. These films tend to lack a strong narrative. Instead,
they rely on their ability to surprise and confound the audience. This emphasis on illusions led
film theorist Tom Gunning to classify these films and others like them as “cinema of
attractions.” 1
Yet the features of the cinema of attractions genre were not confined to films. The artist
Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec also lured viewers with incredible feats of skill in his drawings,
specifically his Au cirque series from 1899. These drawings, produced in the later years of his
career, demonstrate the culmination of a lifelong investigation of movement. From his youthful
paintings of animals in motion to his dancehall scenes and finally his circus series, his depiction
of movement changed, as did his presentation of figures. Lautrec incorporated early filmmaking
techniques of the cinema of attractions into his Au cirque drawings to convey movement more
1
The phrase “cinema of attractions” comes from Sergei Eisenstein’s essay “Montage of Attractions,” originally published
in the Soviet journal Lef in 1923. It was reprinted as “Montage of Attractions: For ‘Enough Stupidity in Every
Wiseman,’” trans. Daniel Gerould, The Drama Review 18, no. 1 (March 1974): 77-85. For Tom Gunning’s explanation of
the phrase, see Gunning, “Cinema of Attractions, Early Film, Its Spectators and the Avant-Garde,” Wide Angle 8, no. 3/4
(Fall 1986): 63-70. This essay was reprinted in Thomas Elsaesser, ed., Early Cinema: Space, Frame, Narrative (London:
British Film Institute, 1990), 56-62. All future citations refer to the latter source.
The International Journal of the Image
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THE INTERNATIONAL JOURNAL OF THE IMAGE
effectively than his earlier work. In doing so, he challenged and attempted to surpass cinema by
seizing on those elements unique to drawing: stillness, smallness, and tactility.
Before beginning an examination of Lautrec’s oeuvre, it will be most useful to demarcate the
stages in his career. The first, his youthful stage, includes the work he produced under the
tutelage of René Princeteau (c.1878 – 1882), Léon Bonnat (April – September 1882), and
Fernand Cormon (September 1882 – 1887). 2 It lasted until about the middle of 1887, at which
point he embarked on his professional artistic career. His early career includes much of his
lithography, as well as paintings of dancehalls and brothels. His final, or mature, phase includes
objects produced from 1895 until his death in 1901. By dividing Lautrec’s pictures in this
manner, we start to see similarities emerge in his work, as well as his responses to technological
advancements during these periods. 3
The question of movement has been long noted but little discussed in Lautrec studies.
Richard Thomson observed the artist’s early interest in movement in the painting The
Artilleryman Saddling his Horse, c. 1879 (Fig. 1). This interest extended from the action itself to
the rapid brushstrokes he used to paint the scene. 4 While Thomson highlighted Lautrec’s
repeated representation of motion, he soon abandoned the subject; he took for granted that
movement was an aspect of Lautrec’s pictures. Likewise, Emile Schaub-Koch noted the
movement in Lautrec’s work. Rather than examining the depiction of motion, he connected it to
the artist’s sexual life. 5 Conversely, Lincoln F. Johnson, Jr. took a more thorough and less
biographical approach. He examined the effect of elapsed time and motion on Lautrec’s paintings
in contrast to those of Edgar Degas. He found that Lautrec stripped an action to its essential
features, often cropping limbs of a figure to suggest the speed of the action. In contrast to Degas,
who painted figures in the midst of moving, Johnson argued, “Lautrec created a figure for the
motion itself.” 6 He concluded with the suggestion that Lautrec’s attempts to convey movement
flirted with pure abstraction.
2
Lautrec first mentioned Princeteau in a letter to his paternal grandmother, Gabrielle d’Imbert du Bosc, dated December
1875. He recounted that he and his mother went to see Princeteau’s painting The 19th of October 1781, Washington, 187576, before it was shipped to America for the International Exhibition in Philadelphia from May 10 to November 10, 1876.
A family friend, Princeteau shared Lautrec’s interest in animals and specialized in painting horses. Lautrec began
studying with Princeteau after breaking his legs in 1878 and 1879. He included a sketch of he and Princeteau working at
their easels in a letter to his uncle, Charles de Toulouse-Lautrec, from May 1881. For these letters, see Herbert D.
Schimmel, The Letters of Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, trans. divers hands (New York: Oxford University Press, 1991),
14-15, 49, and ill. 14.
3
Other scholars have followed a division of Lautrec’s work outlined by Schimmel: Child and Schoolboy, 1864-81; Art
Student, 1882-86; Artist: The Early Years, 1887-91; Artist: The Middle Years, 1892-97; Artist: The Last Years,
Breakdown, and the End, 1898-1901. From a biographical point of view, these divisions are logical and useful. However,
I am interested in how Lautrec’s art changed throughout his career and how those changes related to social, cultural, and
technological changes at the end of the nineteenth century in France. Therefore, I have chosen to use groupings that
reflect artistic and societal transformations. For Schimmel’s definitions of categories, see Schimmel, xxiii-xli.
4
Richard Thomson, Toulouse-Lautrec (London: Oresko Books, Ltd., 1977), 6.
5
Emile Schaub-Koch, Psychoanalyse d’un peintre moderne: Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec (Paris: L’Edition littéraire
internationale, 1935), 102.
6
Lincoln F. Johnson, Jr., “Time and Motion in Toulouse-Lautrec,” College Art Journal 16, no. 1 (Fall 1956): 15.
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MUSIAL: “TRAVAIL DE PANNEAU”
Figure 1: Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, Artilleryman Saddling his Horse, 1879, oil on canvas, 50.5
x 37.5 cm, Musée Toulouse-Lautrec, Albi, France.
Source: Danièle Devynck, “Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec at the Albi Museum” (Albi: Editions
grand sud, 2009), 6.
While these studies point out Lautrec’s engagement with portraying movement in his œuvre,
they do not indicate how his depiction of movement changed throughout his career. Nor do they
answer how changing attitudes and technologies related to movement in Lautrec’s work during
the last quarter of the nineteenth century. By addressing these questions here, we will begin to
see the extent to which Lautrec’s pictures participated in the concerns of the time. Their incessant
motion mirrored the race to record movement by Eadward Muybridge, Etienne-Jules Marey, and
early filmmakers.
Early Work
1878 to Mid-1887
We see an interest in movement manifested in Lautrec’s early work. As an adolescent, he
enjoyed drawing animals. His father was an avid outdoorsman and an expert in the aristocratic
hobbies of hunting and riding. His enthusiasm for sport fueled Lautrec’s examination of the
subject. The artist loved horses, and even when he could not participate in hunting and physically
demanding activities due to injuries, he drew and painted these scenes. 7 In A Dog Cart, 1880
7
Lautrec suffered two devastating broken bones in his legs. In the spring of 1878, he fell in his family home in Albi,
France, fracturing his left femur. His leg remained in a splint until April 24, 1879. Then, a mere four months later, he
broke his right leg when he fell into a ditch. His legs never recovered fully from these adolescent accidents.
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(Fig. 2), he depicted a horse pulling a small carriage containing the driver and a top-hatted man.
The passenger is in the process of rising from his seat, gripping the frame of the cart. His
shoulders hunch over in the moment before he descends from the vehicle. The horse raises his
back right hoof and bends his head while the driver looks out into the background, ignoring his
passenger. The slapdash diagonal, horizontal, and vertical brushstrokes in the background
produce a frenzied atmospheric effect in the painting. They contrast the anti-climatic action
depicted in the scene.
Figure 2: Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, A Dog Cart, 1880, oil on wood, 27 x 35 cm, Musée
Toulouse-Lautrec, Albi, France.
Source: Devynck, 27.
If we plot a timeline of events for this action, we find that this scene is located toward the
beginning: first the man must rise, then stand at the precipice of the doorway, begin his descent,
and finally land on the ground. The action in this painting falls too early in the timeline to spark
any real curiosity in the viewer. There is no danger or guesswork as to what will occur next; we
can be fairly certain that he will stand up without incident. However, if he were in the doorway
leaning out, we might question whether he would make the long step down agilely or stumble
and fall. Furthermore, none of the figures makes eye contact with the viewer. The closest we get
to this is the highlight on the horse’s right blinder. In this early work, Lautrec presented an action
without producing a sense of anticipation or desire in the viewer and without directly appealing
to him. 8
We find the same shortcomings in Artilleryman Saddling his Horse from one year earlier. In
this painting, a man stands with his back to us as he places the saddle on the horse. The scene is
stuck in the realm of possibility rather than action. His bent limbs and position next to the horse
suggest the deftness of his body and the likelihood that he will mount the animal, yet the
potential energy has not translated into kinetic action. The previously mentioned movement that
8
For ease of reading and clarity of the text, I have chosen to use masculine pronouns when referring to the viewer. This is
not meant to suggest that the viewer is necessarily male or has to be male to enjoy or partake in the viewing experience.
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MUSIAL: “TRAVAIL DE PANNEAU”
Thomson noted in his discussion of this painting does exist, but it exists in a stale state.
Brushstrokes swirl around the curves of the bodies of the man and horse and radiate out from the
pair into the scenery. They suggest a rapid, frantic application of paint. However, they do not
provide any more information about the action depicted in the work, nor do they give the viewer
a sense of momentum.
As examples from Lautrec’s youth, A Dog Cart and Artilleryman Saddling his Horse reveal
the artist’s attention to movement in his work, but he has not fully developed the most effective
way to do this. Both paintings lack suspense. They illustrate the beginning of activities before
anything of note has happened. Each one is still in the process of building up to its climatic
moment, the crucial instant when the promise of success is fulfilled or denied.
Technological Developments
During the years of Lautrec’s youth, amateur photographers and scientists experimented with
new technologies to record fleeting moments in photographs. Eadward Muybridge was the most
famous of the amateurs. In 1872, California Governor Leland Stanford sought his help to
determine whether a horse’s legs ever completely leave the ground while running. He believed
that there was a point when this did occur, but the speed at which it happened was too fast for the
human eye to see. Muybridge set up a system of twelve to twenty cameras that could rapidly
record an image on a track to find the answer. 9 He placed the cameras at equidistant intervals
along a track. Each one was attached to a cord that the horse would hit as it ran past, thereby
activating the camera. Muybridge’s photographs proved that Stanford was correct. He published
the evidence in La Nature and Scientific American in 1878. His findings piqued the interest of
scientists, artists, and the general public.
To promote and share his work, Muybridge spent part of 1882 discussing his photographs in
Europe, including packed lecture halls at the Royal Institution of Great Britain and Jean-LouisErnest Meissonier’s studio in Paris. The Standard London documented on the enthusiasm shown
at Meissonier’s space: “Mr. Meissonier’s critical guests were evidently skeptical as to the
accuracy of many of the positions; but when the photographs were turned rapidly, and made to
pass before the [magic] lantern, their truthfulness was demonstrated most successfully.” 10
Bonnat, Lautrec’s instructor in 1882, attended the event, as did Alexandre Dumas and JeanLéon Gérôme. He was also listed as a subscriber to Animal Locomotion in Muybridge’s book,
Descriptive Zoopraxography, or The Science of Animal Locomotion, published in 1893. 11
While Muybridge lectured in Paris, his path crossed with that of Etienne-Jules Marey, a
scientist who also examined movements too rapid for the human eye to register. His
chronophotography captured human and animal locomotion. In addition, he recorded the
circulatory system of humans and animals. Parisian newspapers like Le Figaro and La Croix
chronicled his accomplishments. 12 Marey’s experiments had a rigidly scientific bent, unlike
Muybridge’s photographs. Initially, Marey had been excited when he heard about Muybridge’s
work. The possibilities for the technology, especially for recording of the flight of birds,
9
Muybridge used the wet-plate collodion process for these photographs.
Standard London, 1882, reprinted in Eadward Muybridge, Descriptive Zoopraxography, or The Science of Animal
Locomotion (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania, 1893), Appendix A, 13.
11
Muybridge, Appendix B, 12.
12
It is not surprising that Marey’s achievements received ample coverage in French newspapers. He served as president
of the Société de Navigation Aérienne (elected 1884), the Société Française de Photographie (elected 1893), the
Académie des Sciences (elected 1895), and the Académie de Médécine (elected 1900). He also received the Legion of
Honor in 1896. Le Figaro reported on his documentation of human locomotion and muscle contractions on August 16,
1893, the publication of his book Le Mouvement on November 27, 1893, and the influence he had on the Lumière
brothers’ development of film on April 7, 1896. La Croix informed its readers of Marey’s new graphic device to track
human locomotion on June 8, 1887, his recording the flight of birds on October 9, 1889, his study of the flight of insects
on June 24, 1889, the progress of his human locomotion studies on July 1, 1889, and his successful answer of the
question “Why does a cat always land on its feet?” on October 26, 1894.
10
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intrigued him. As he learned more about Muybridge’s practices, he realized that they were not
rigorous enough for scientific experimentation. For example, in order for Muybridge to record
equine locomotion, the horse had to trip a wire to signal the camera to take a photograph. This
could disrupt the horse’s gait, or the horse could miss the wire. Furthermore, a smaller animal,
like a bird, did not possess enough body weight or strength to trigger the wire without a great
deal of effort. This interference with the natural, uninhibited movement of the animal could not
generate objective results. 13
Objectivity and accuracy were of paramount importance to Marey. He fastidiously included
measurements and ensured that the photographic process did not hamper the subject’s action. His
goal was to understand biological movement, including locomotion and internal systems of the
body. The camera served as a prosthetic device for human perception. It aided, supplemented,
and, at times, replaced his senses so that he could see where he was once blind. Marey noted in
1894:
In representing movement, the artist is rightly preoccupied with showing what the eye
can see of man in action. In general, the preparatory and final phases of motion are best
perceived. In the same way that certain parts of a working machine are only seen at
dead points, that is, at the short instants when their movement is finished in one
direction, and about to commence in the opposite one, there are, in certain acts of man,
attitudes that last longer than others. Chronophotography on a fixed plate would
determine these attitudes. 14
Marey pointed out that without the aid of technology we are at the mercy of our neurological
processes; we can only discern the beginning and ending of an instantaneous action because our
brains cannot process visual information fast enough to understand the precise movements that
produced it.
These “dead points” to which Marey referred are precisely what Lautrec depicted in the
paintings from his youth: A Dog Cart and Artilleryman Saddling his Horse. The moments in the
paintings transpired slowly, and they occurred early in the sequence of events. Lautrec could
have easily seen these with his naked eye and been certain as to what he had witnessed. In
contrast, he seized upon moments that occurred later in the sequence of actions in his early career
and mature work. The changes in the way he painted movement coincided with the expanding
knowledge of human and animal locomotion at the time and have greater visual interest for the
viewer.
Early Career and Mature Work
Mid-1887-1894, 1895-1901
In Moulin Rouge (La Goulue) (Fig. 3), painted in 1891, Lautrec focused on the high kick of the
dancer Louise Weber, nicknamed La Goulue (The Glutton), during a performance at the Moulin
Rouge. A silhouette of the crowd forms a semi-circle around La Goulue and her partner, Jacques
13
This is only one of the faults that Marey found with Muybridge’s work, and he was not alone. As Muybridge toured
Europe, it became clear to the scientific community that he was not a scientist. Although he continued to enjoy the esteem
of artists and the general public, his work did not measure up to scientific standards, nor did he have the experience or
background in science and math to conduct meticulous experiments. Marta Braun compared the divergent methods and
interests of Marey and Muybridge in Picturing Time: The Work of Etienne-Jules Marey (1830-1904). Her study focused
on Marey’s manifold research interests and highlighted the different purposes and methods of Marey’s and Muybridge’s
experiments. For her analysis of Marey’s and Muybridge’s research and methodologies, see Braun, “Reinventing the
Camera: The Photographic Method” and “Marey, Muybridge, and Motion Picture” in Picturing Time: The Work of
Etienne-Jules Marey (1830-1904) (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992), 42-149 and 228-262.
14
Emphasis in the original. Quoted in Josh Ellenbogen, Reasoned and Unreasoned Images: The Photography of
Bertillon, Galton, and Marey (University Park, PA: The Pennsylvania State University Press, 2012), 92.
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MUSIAL: “TRAVAIL DE PANNEAU”
Renaudin, known as Valentin Le Désossé (The Boneless), who stands in profile. Lautrec chose to
depict him in grisaille, pushing the emphasis onto La Goulue, whom he positioned slightly off
center and in full color. Le Désossé’s right thumb leads the viewer to the space in between La
Goulue’s splayed legs. Lautrec froze this fleeting action in the fast-paced dance, la chahut. La
Goulue balances on her left leg as she kicks her right leg out to the side. He displayed the rear
view of the dancer, a vantage point that affords the audience maximum viewing pleasure.
Furthermore, he stoked the spectator’s enjoyment by allowing him to gaze anonymously: La
Goulue glances off to the right side of the lithograph away from the viewer.
Figure 3: Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, Moulin Rouge (La Goulue), 1891, lithograph, 170 x 130
cm.
Source: Devynck, 47.
In this work, Lautrec presented the viewer with a titillating scene, encouraged him to
visually consume La Goulue without reproach, and captured the most climatic moment in the
dance. The drama that we see in Moulin Rouge is the key feature of Lautrec’s early career (mid1887 to 1894). This aspect was missing from his youthful paintings. While pictures from this
period succeed in building curiosity and desire in the viewer, they do not involve him in the
scene. Like Lautrec’s adolescent work, Moulin Rouge does not directly engage the viewer in the
action. That is not to say that there are no advantages to this strategy. The lack of address allows
the viewer to have the pleasure of gazing without experiencing the guilt of being caught. He can
covertly absorb the scene safely from a distance. Distance is essential to the peeping Tom, but it
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is not always desirable in a picture. It separates the viewer from the scene and exiles him from
the image, relegating him to the edge of the frame and confining him to the status of an outsider.
We begin to see the inclusion of the viewer in the action in Lautrec’s mature work (18951901). In Voltige (Fig. 4) from the Au cirque series of 1899, he used the clown in the lower left
quadrant to make eye contact with the viewer. The clown turns his head to look over his right
shoulder at him. This acknowledgement of the viewer’s presence invites him into the scene even
though the other figures have their backs to him. The clown’s sideways glance implicates the
viewer in the picture, thereby transforming him from mere spectator into one of the performers.
The glance brings him into the rehearsal ring and into the unfolding action.
Figure 4: Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, Voltige, 1899, black and colored chalk, gouache, 25.3 x
35.5 cm, Sterling and Francine Clark Art Institute, Williamstown, Massachusetts.
Source: Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, “The Circus: Thirty-Nine Crayon Drawings in Color” (New
York: Paris Book Center, Inc., 1953), 19.
The action in this drawing outperforms Lautrec’s previously discussed paintings and print
because it has more at stake than the other three works. Here, the equestrienne has not yet
completed her trick. She remains in limbo during the most nerve-wracking moment of the
performance. Her hands grasp the horse while she arches her back and points her toes against its
side. The ringmaster stands guard with his whip, ready to strike if either of them performs the
exercise unsatisfactorily. Moreover, the equestrienne would have no recourse if he decided to
lash her or the horse. The trick not only requires concentration but also balance, strength, and,
most of all, both of her hands on the horse. If she tried to shield her body from the whip, she
would surely fall. Furthermore, if the ringmaster decided to whip the horse, the equestrienne’s
body adheres to so much of the animal’s body that he would hit her, too. 15 The woman’s and
15
The equestrienne’s body covers so much of the horse’s flank that it seems out of scale. The size is necessary to convey
the idea of the combined single body of the woman and horse. I examine the importance of the hybrid human-animal
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MUSIAL: “TRAVAIL DE PANNEAU”
horse’s bodies merge into one, and it remains to be seen whether she will hoist herself back onto
the horse to complete the stunt. This drawing contains the engagement with the audience and
excitement that the earlier pictures lack.
Even when none of the figures looks out at the viewer in his later works, Lautrec still
included him in the picture. We see this in Travail de panneau à travers un cerceau, also from
1899 (Fig. 5). In this example, Lautrec zoomed in on the clown holding the paper ring for the
woman to jump through. This close depiction of his back allows him to function as a repoussoir
figure with whom the viewer can identify. Caspar David Friedrich used this technique to great
effect in his landscapes. In Wanderer above the Sea of Mist, c. 1818 (Fig. 6), he presented the
back of a man standing on a precipice looking out into the fog-covered landscape. As we identify
with the wanderer, we feel the overpowering sense of awe that he experiences while looking out
into the distance. The terrifying and all-consuming power of the sublime engulfs the wander and
the viewer. 16 The repoussoir figure, thus, endows the painting with its power. This also applies to
the repoussoir figure in Travail de panneau. Through the figure of the clown, we again change
from spectators to participants. Moreover, it brings us closer the main attraction: the rosy rear
end of the equestrienne.
body in Lautrec’s work in my forthcoming dissertation, “Spectacular Maneuvers: Explorations of Sexual Deviancy and
Early Film in Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec’s Circus Drawings” (PhD diss., The Pennsylvania State University).
16
I am basing my use of the word sublime on Edmund Burke’s definition, which he first published in 1757. See Burke,
Enquiry into the Origin of our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990), 36-37.
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Figure 5: Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, Travail de panneau à travers un cerceau, 1899, black and
colored chalk on paper, 25.3 x 35.5 cm, location unknown.
Source: Toulouse-Lautrec, 30.
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MUSIAL: “TRAVAIL DE PANNEAU”
Figure 6: Caspar David Friedrich, Wanderer above the Sea of Mist, c. 1818, oil on canvas, 94.8 x
74.8 cm, Kunsthalle, Hamburg, Germany.
Source: Artstor, accessed March 20, 2013, http://library.artstor.org/
At this point in the performance, a level of uncertainty remains: Will the woman successfully
break through the paper ring? Will she land softly on the back of her horse? Will she miss and
crash into the ground? This is the moment in the performance when the audience is most on
edge. Viewers hold their breath and hope for the best. Lautrec selected the most exciting, tensest
part of the performance to depict in this drawing. This shift to illustrating the climax of an action
demonstrates his growth as an artist in his later work. We can also see the techniques of early
film in this work, specifically the cinema of attractions.
Cinema of Attractions
Tom Gunning put forth the phrase “cinema of attractions” in a 1986 article of the same title.17
This genre of film ruled the cinema from its inception in 1895 until about 1906 when narrative
17
Gunning and André Gaudreault coined the phrase “cinema of attractions” at the Colloquium on Film and History at
Cerisy in 1985. Gunning first explained the phrase in print in “Cinema of Attractions, Early Film, Its Spectators and the
Avant-Garde,” published in 1986. Since then, he has refined the definition. Meanwhile, other authors, such as Gaudreault
and Charles Musser, have contributed to the meaning of the phrase and the significance of this genre of film. For
Gunning’s original summary of the cinema of attractions, see Gunning, “Cinema of Attractions,” 56. For his
reconsiderations of it, see Gunning, “The Whole Town’s Gawking: Early Cinema and the Visual Experience of
Modernity,” Yale Journal of Criticism 7, no. 2 (1994): 189-201, especially 190-192, and Gunning, “Now You See It,
Now You Don’t: The Temporality of the Cinema of Attractions,” The Velvet Light Trap 32 (Fall 1993): 3-12. For
Gaudreault’s analysis of the cinema of attractions, see Gaudreault and Philippe Marion, “The Medium Is always Born
Twice,” trans. Timothy Barnard, Wendy Schubring, and Franck Le Gac, Early Popular Visual Culture 3, no. 1 (May
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films grew in popularity. 18 It catches the audience’s attention with an incredible illusion, and the
actors often make eye contact with the audience. Additionally, films in this category tend to have
flimsy storylines. 19 This is not to say that narrative does not exist in these films. Charles Musser
rightly pointed out that an action unfolds in each of them and follows a logical structure. 20
Nevertheless, this structure is basic and the emphasis remains on the trick rather than the plot of
the film.
The cinema of attraction’s straightforward narrative and concentration on illusion are evident
in Méliès’s The Vanishing Lady, 1896. The film begins with Méliès, in the role of a magician,
coming on stage and addressing the audience. He then brings a woman onto the stage (the
vanishing lady from the title). Next, he spreads a sheet of newspaper on the floor and places a
wooden chair on top of it, a common conceit during live magic performances to prove to the
audience that there was not a trap door on the stage. 21 After he is finished with this display, the
woman sits on the chair. The magician places a large piece of fabric over her head, concealing
her body, and proceeds to make her disappear. He gestures wildly, looks out at the camera, and
conjures a skeleton to the chair. Finally, he places the fabric over the skeleton and brings the
woman back. They bow and exit the stage and then return for another bow. They directly address
the viewer in much the same manner that they would have addressed a live audience during a
theater performance.
Indeed, Méliès strongly based the film on his stage show at the Théâtre Robert Houdin in
Paris. 22 Although he borrowed the subject matter from a live performance, he used cutting and
editing to surprise the audience rather than allowing the performance to play out as it would on
stage. We can see a cut when he first makes the woman vanish. The edge of her dress sticks out
from under the fabric cover, and then it is gone. To achieve the sleight of hand, Méliès stopped
filming, had the woman leave the chair, and then resumed filming, a technique known as
resumption. 23 With the successful completion of every trick, Méliès looks at the camera. By
breaking the fourth wall, he gives a nod to his feats as a magician and director.
We see a similar strategy in The Man with the Rubber Head, 1901. Here, a scientist (Méliès)
is working in his lab. The film opens with him mixing chemicals, which he quickly puts aside.
From a closet at the back of the room, he brings out a table. On top of this, he places a short stand
with a tube and nozzle. Next, he reaches into a box and pulls out a miniature version of his own
head. He places the head on the stand on top of the table. The disembodied head looks around the
room and makes a variety of facial expressions. The scientist gets the idea to fill the head with
air. He looks into the camera and repeatedly opens and closes his arms in a pumping gesture
before going to retrieve a bellows from the back of the lab. He attaches the bellows to the tube
and inflates the head, then deflates it, and repeats this action for another scientist to witness. He
2005): 3-15. Finally, for Musser’s contribution, see Musser, “Rethinking Early Cinema: Cinema of Attractions and
Narrativity,” Yale Journal of Criticism 7, no. 2 (1994): 203-232.
18
Calling any date the beginning of cinema is, of course, misleading. Film borrowed from a variety of artistic and
scientific sources, such as the camera obscura and Marey’s animal locomotion studies. In using 1895 as the year of its
inception, I am referring to the first time an audience gathered to watch a projected film as we would recognize it today.
For an analysis of the technologies leading up to the production of cinema, see Jonathan Crary, Techniques of the
Observer: On Vision and Modernity in the Nineteenth Century (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1990); Leo Charney and
Vanessa R. Schwartz, ed., Cinema and the Invention of Modern Life (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995); and
André Gaudreault, Cinéma et attraction: Pour une nouvelle histoire du cinématographe (Paris: CNRS Editions, 2008).
19
Gunning, “Cinema of Attractions,” 58-59.
20
Musser, 222.
21
Gaudreault examined the showmanship of magic performances, such as laying out newspaper on the floor, and
Méliès’s film editing in “Méliès the Magician: The Magical Magic of the Magic Image,” trans. Timothy Barnard, Early
Popular Visual Culture 5, no. 2 (July 2007): 167-174.
22
Méliès bought the Théâtre Robert Houdin in 1888. He remained with the theater until 1913, one year after he made his
last film, La conquête du pôle, 1912.
23
Gaudreault found that not only Méliès, who is often associated with resumption and editing, but also the Lumière
brothers edited their early films. In other words, the directors did not simply let the camera roll for one long take, as
scholars had previously believed. See Gaudreault, “Méliès the Magician,” 169-170.
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MUSIAL: “TRAVAIL DE PANNEAU”
delights in the stunt, slapping his knee, grinning, and holding his arms over his head in
amusement. When the other scientist accidentally overfills the head with air, causing it to pop, he
literally kicks him out of the lab and cries into his apron.
The illusion in the film is designed to amaze the audience. Both the head and scientist look
directly into the camera, thereby involving the audience in their experiences. The head’s
expression alternates between amusement and worry as its size continually changes. The scientist
regards the audience as a co-conspirator. It becomes someone with whom he can share his plans
(mimicking the pumping of the bellows before he brings it out), his joy (grinning and
gesticulating wildly after inflating and deflating the head), and his grief (briefly surveying the
damage in the lab and burying his face in his apron). Méliès brings the viewer into scene as more
than a witness. The scientist’s direct communication to him transforms the viewer into an active
participant in the action.
The scientist’s engagement of the audience, therefore, alters the viewing experience of the
film. Similarly, the clown’s eye contact with the viewer in Lautrec’s Voltige brings him into the
action. The spectator cannot remain passive while looking at the drawing. The clown initiates
him into the scene, and he becomes an accomplice to the unfolding events. This implication in
the action enhances the viewer’s pleasure, particularly in light of the sadomasochistic charge
between the ringmaster and the equestrienne. 24 Once inside the picture via the clown’s glance, he
cannot remain indifferent to the outcome of events.
The audience’s emotional engagement in the piece, whether a two-dimensional drawing or a
film, forms the crux of a memorable artistic experience. In Voltige, Lautrec combined the
clown’s eye contact with a violent and sexually-charged stunt. Early filmmakers, likewise, had
many ways to pique the interest of the audience; the frontal address that we saw in The Vanishing
Lady represents only one of those ways. In The Bewitched Inn, 1897, Méliès filmed the
protagonist (himself) pacing, jumping, and scrambling around his room at an inn. Instead of
facing us, he careens around the space, and we get a sense of the physicality of his performance
and his exasperation.
The film revolves around the contents of the room rearranging themselves independently of
any human intervention. From the camera positioned in the place of the fourth wall of the room,
we watch the action unfold. The scene opens with Méliès holding a suitcase as he walks into a
modestly decorated room furnished with a bed, nightstand, chair, cupboard, and three paintings.
The ghostly rearranging of objects begins when he sets his coat and luggage on the bed. They
promptly disappear. Next, he places his hat on the cupboard. Rather than staying put, it jumps to
the floor and glides across it. Méliès watches his hat with curiosity and fear as it sails past him.
When he attempts to trap it with his hands, it too disappears. Trickery meets his every attempt to
alter or control his environment. He leaps, turns, crouches, and even lies on the bed in his
befuddlement. After the bed vanishes out from under him, panic overcomes him. The film ends
with all of the contents of the room and Méliès’s belongings piled on top of the bed. He runs
anxiously from the room and closes the door.
The physical comedy and exaggerated reactions of the protagonist enhance the audience’s
enjoyment of the film. The enchanted items in the room produce feelings of amazement in the
viewer. Méliès used resumption and editing, techniques not available to a theater director, to
generate this effect. Editing techniques combined with the many views of the protagonist from
the side and back permit the audience to put itself in his place. One can easily share the
frustration and confusion of the man because of the variety of views shown. We can imagine
ourselves enduring the calamities that befall him in the room. We can thus experience both the
humor and vexation of the situation. Though not as widely used as frontal views, these
24
For an examination of the sadomasochistic aspects of Lautrec’s Au cirque series, see the chapter, “Crack that Whip:
Sadomasochism in the Fin de Siècle as Depicted in Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec’s Au cirque Drawings” in my forthcoming
dissertation.
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THE INTERNATIONAL JOURNAL OF THE IMAGE
repoussoir shots allow the viewer to insert himself into the film in much the same way Lautrec’s
clown serves as a repoussoir figure in Travail de panneau. 25
Lautrec’s combination of connecting the audience to the picture and freezing the most
compelling part of the performance did not appear in his work until the advent of film in 1895.
Prior to this date, he rarely depicted figures making eye contact with the viewer, only doing so in
portraits in which a frontal pose of the sitter is common. From 1895 onward, he frequently
included the audience in the picture through direct eye contact with one of the figures or a
repoussoir figure. Coincidentally, these works also recorded an action: cycling (La Chaîne
Simpson, 1896, Fig. 7), can-can dancers (La Troupe de Mademoiselle Eglantine, 1896, Fig. 8),
and circus performances (Voltige and Travail de panneau both from 1899).
Figure 7: Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, La Chaîne Simpson, 1896, lithograph, 88 x 124 cm.
Source: Danièle Devynck, “The Musée Toulouse-Lautrec, Albi,” trans. Michael Novy (Albi:
Musée Toulouse-Lautrec, 2006), 94.
25
Little is written about the use of repoussoir figures or shots of the backs or sides of characters in early film. This is
likely due to the overwhelming prevalence of frontal shots. However, these views did exist. Not only did The Bewitched
Inn include rear and side shots of the protagonist, but also Méliès’s On the Roof, 1897, and Panorama on Top of a
Moving Train, 1898; the Lumière brothers Trick Riding, 1895; and Edwin S. Porter’s The Great Train Robbery, 1903.
66
MUSIAL: “TRAVAIL DE PANNEAU”
Figure 8: Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, La Troupe de Mademoiselle Eglantine, 1896, lithograph,
61.5 x 80 cm.
Source: Devynck, “Musée Toulouse-Lautrec,” 94.
While we cannot say with certainty that Lautrec intentionally borrowed presentation devices
from the cinema (he made no mention of seeing films nor did he write about his impressions of
the new medium as far as I can tell), he employed the techniques of the cinema of attractions in
his work. 26 Moreover, we do not see these elements in his work prior to 1895, the year the
Lumière brothers showed their first film, The Arrival of the Train, in Paris. 27 Not only did
Lautrec adopt these features, he managed to outdo their filmic counterparts. In a film, the caper
lasts a matter of seconds, and the audience must experience it from a distance and within a crowd
of other moviegoers. The viewer only has one vantage point (usually frontal). Even when he sees
the characters from the side or back, the camera remains positioned in the same place, as we saw
in The Bewitched Inn. In contrast, Lautrec preserved the most exciting moment of the act for the
viewer while erasing the distance between an audience and a film. A lithograph, such as La
Chaîne Simpson, enlarges the scene, allowing for both immediate understanding and lingering
contemplation; and a drawing, like Travail de panneau, is small, approximately twenty-five by
thirty-five centimeters or eleven by seventeen inches, so that one can hold it in his hands and
26
Lautrec wrote letters to friends and family about how hard he worked and his attempts to avoid drinking and staying
out late. He did not concentrate on his artistic influences or the reasons for his stylistic choices. Schimmel compiled
Lautrec’s correspondence and some relevant letters written by his family and friends in The Letters of Henri de ToulouseLautrec.
27
Michelle Aubert noted the similarity in subject matter between Lautrec’s work and the Lumière brothers’ films at the
end of her summary of early film in France in the fin de siècle. Her essay suggests the similarity is merely coincidental.
See Aubert, “Le Cinéma en France au début du XXe siècle,” in Danièle Devynck, et al., Actes du colloque: 1901 (Albi,
France: Musée Toulouse-Lautrec, 2001), 54.
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examine the details (and the rear end of the woman) closely. 28 These elements, consequently, let
Lautrec outmaneuver film directors.
Conclusion
In the years following Lautrec’s death in 1901, artists continued to study movement and
attempted to capture it in their work. The Futurists glorified new technology. They emphasized
the novelty, speed, and brutality of modern inventions. 29 The works of Giacomo Balla and
Umberto Boccioni recorded the dynamism of the body as it moved through space. Unlike like
Lautrec, who focused on the climatic point of an action, they painted it in its entirety. Cubists,
likewise, expanded upon what paintings could show a viewer. By including multiple points of
view of an object in their paintings, Pablo Picasso and Georges Braque replicated the movement
of the eye and the body as they navigate around objects.
As the twentieth century proceeded, movement remained a significant point of analysis.
Harold Rosenberg’s interpretation of Abstract Expressionist painting centered on the act of
painting itself, describing these works as “action paintings.” 30 The canvas became a document of
the artist’s motion while producing the work. Rather than trying to portray the movement of
another body in the work, artists left an indexical mark of their gestures. Thus, within fifty years
of Lautrec’s Au cirque series, his project to capture movement had come full circle. Rather than
looking outward toward other media as a template for suggesting movement, artists turned
inward to themselves.
In mentioning other artists’ exploration of movement, I do not want to imply that one can
draw a line connecting these diverse artists in a singular drive to capture motion in their works. A
teleological approach such as this would hinder our understanding of these complex works.
However, I would like to suggest that Lautrec’s examination of movement was part of a larger
focus in the art world. Furthermore, by turning to film to help him solve the question of how to
illustrate it best, he found solutions that later artists, like the Futurists, would build upon in their
own engagement with art and technology.
Scholars and popular culture often pigeonhole Lautrec into the role of the malformed
reveler. Although he was an aristocrat who frequented dancehalls and brothels in the seedy side
of Paris, he was also an innovator and a man deeply connected to his time. He understood how to
integrate himself into bohemia, as well as the most effective way to depict it. His modernism
extended beyond his subject matter and into his compositional strategies. He borrowed framing
techniques and aspects of performance from early film. By emphasizing angles and moments
either not included or not lingered upon in film, Lautrec succeeded in outdoing early films.
Viewers can hold the pictures in their hands. This produces a sense of closeness to and ownership
of the works rather than the distance-generating effect of watching a projected film in a crowd of
strangers. His pictures allow the audience to savor the trick with all of its danger and sex appeal.
Therefore, they endure in the hands and minds of viewers in a tangible way with which film
cannot compete.
28
Susan Stewart examined the effect the size of an object had on the beholder. For her analysis of the miniature, see
Stewart, “The Miniature,” in On Longing: Narratives of the Miniature, the Gigantic, the Souvenir, the Collection
(Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2007), 37-69.
29
F. T. Marinetti outlined the tenets of Futurism in his “Futurist Manifesto.” It was first published in French in Le Figaro
on February 20, 1909. For the full text, see Marinetti, “The Founding and Manifesto of Futurism,” accessed March 18,
2013, http://www.italianfuturism.org/manifestos/foundingmanifesto/ .
30
Rosenberg coined the phrase “action painting” in his essay, “The American Action Painters,” in The Tradition of the
New (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1959), 23-39. Originally published in Art News 51, no. 8 (December 1952).
His interpretation of Abstract Expressionism stood in contrast to Clement Greenberg’s analysis. For Greenberg’s
position, see Greenberg, “American-Type Painting,” in Art and Culture: Critical Essays (Boston: Beacon Press, 1961),
208-229. Originally published in Partisan Review 22, no. 2 (Spring 1955).
68
MUSIAL: “TRAVAIL DE PANNEAU”
Acknowledgements
Research for this paper was generously funded by the Department of Art History at The
Pennsylvania State University, including the Department of Art History Dissertation Fellowship,
the Department of Art History Research Grant, the Louise D. Purcell Memorial Endowment, and
the Francis E. Hyslop Memorial Fellowship. The Department of Art History and the College of
Arts and Architecture at Penn State also provided travel grants that allowed me to present a
version of this paper at the Third International Conference on the Image in Poznan, Poland in
September 2012. I would like to thank my fellow panelists and the audience of the session, “The
Image, Movement and Society,” for their questions and comments. I would also like to thank
Nancy Locke for reading early drafts and offering insightful suggestions. In addition, Katherine
E. Staab and Shawn Datchuk lent their keen eyes and inquisitive minds to earlier versions of this
paper.
69
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kimberly Musial: Kimberly is a doctoral candidate at The Pennsylvania State University. Her
research interests include nineteenth-century European art, post-1945 American and European
art, and the Northern Renaissance. Her forthcoming dissertation explores the connections
between art, gender, sexuality, and technology in Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec’s œuvre.
71
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