From Sardines to Anchovies

I. 

 

I've nothing against the humble sardine; that small, oily fish in the herring family, which some people refer to as pilchards and which Aristotle is thought to have loved eating; though presumably not on toast, which is how the British traditionally serve them. 

 

And there's no denying that they do make a tasty and nutritious meal, even when enjoyed straight from the tin, rather than fresh from the sea; full of protein and fatty acids, sardines are also low in contaminants, such as mercury, unlike some other larger fish commonly consumed by humans.

 

However, push comes to shove, and my preference is for the anchovy ... [1]

 

 

II. 

 

The anchovy is another small, oily fish, belonging to the same order as the sardine (Clupeiformes), but to a different family and they have been happily swimming around the world's temperate oceans for tens of millions years; i.e., long before there were any people to catch them in nets and stuff them into jars.     

 

Anchovies are pretty little things; slim-bodied, and silvery greenish-blue in colour, with a stripe running along their backs. But they also come with tiny sharp teeth, so anyone handling a live fish should beware.

 

I'm particularly fond of the European anchovy, which is found in the Med and which has been fished by the peoples fortunate enough to live on the coasts of Greece, Italy, Spain, and Portugal, etc., for untold generations.

 

The place that I mostly associate with them, however, is the picturesque small town of Collioure, on the Côte Vermeille, just over the border from Spain, in the region of French Catalonia where they are known as anchois or anxova depending to whom you speak. 

 

Katxu and I went there once, initially because we wanted to follow in the footsteps of Matisse and Derain and experience the astonishing quality of the light that inspired Fauvism a century earlier, but we soon ended up at the anchovy museum like everyone else who visits [2].

 

After the visit, I was so enchanted by the story of these little blue fish and the folk who depend on them, that I even wrote a short poem on the back of a postcard:

 

  

 

 

Notes

 

[1] I know that many Brits do not like anchovies, due to their characteristic saltiness and strong flavour; i.e., pretty much the same objection that is often raised against olives. But then the British are a people who privilege fish fingers and pickled onions over most foreign delicacies.

 

[2] Technically, there are two family-run anchovy businesses in Collioure, rather than a museum as such: Anchois Roque and Anchois Desclaux. Both were established in the 19th century and each is open to the public, so that one can watch as the fish are processed, preserved, and packaged in the traditional way (by hand, not machine). 

      As well as regular tastings, there are all kinds of old objects and photos to look at that allow one to appreciate the historical and cultural importance of anchovies for the inhabitants of the town. Click here, for further details. 

 

 

For a sister post to this one on oranges and lemons and the politics of citrus fruit, click here.      

 

 

Immaculate Perception: On Aesthetic Detachment and Emasculated Leering

Henri Matisse: The Artist and His Model (1919) 
henrimatisse.org

I.

Zarathustra famously takes a pop at those moon-like individuals who claim to be able to view everything - including the nakedness of a beautiful young woman - objectively and with aesthetic detachment.

Such hypocrites, who claim to gaze upon life without desire whilst secretly possessed by the will to ravish, lack innocence and their emasculated leering (which they term contemplation) is a sign not of spiritual superiority, but bad conscience and cowardice. Or, in a word, Kantianism.       

For Zarathustra, creators should be full of Sonnenliebe; i.e., they should not merely reflect but directly illuminate and enrich the world with value via an outpouring of energy. Even, it is better they destroy in innocence, than simply stand back and look on coldly.     


II.

I thought of these words by Nietzsche when I recently came across an astonishing remark made by Henri Matisse, whose writings contain numerous references to his relationship with models: 'The naked body of a woman must awaken in you an emotion which you seek in turn to express [...] The presence of the model helps to keep me in a sort of flirtatious state which ends in rape.'

Now, before members of the #MeToo movement call for an immediate ban of his work, it should be noted that Matisse is not, of course, speaking literally and, indeed, he is not referring to the rape of the model. On the contrary, he seems to regard the creative process as involving a form of self-rape and speaks of how he is enslaved and ravished by the model upon whom he is absolutely dependent.

Interestingly, Delacroix also confessed that his beautiful young models robbed him of his vital energies (so much so, that he eventually resorted to working from nude photographs).  

Of course, feminist critics concerned with the imperialism of the male gaze and the power imbalance as it is conventionally understood to exist between (male) artist and (female) model, will probably find this disingenuous and be quick to dismiss it as such; isn't it merely another example of powerful men pretending that they - and not the women stripped bare - are really the victims as they hide behind their easels (or cameras), cock in hand à la Terry Richardson.    

See: Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra, II. 37. 

It's important to note that Nietzsche is not simply advocating an active, practical existence over a life of contemplation. On the contrary, he insists that the true creator differs both from the actor and spectator in his possessesion of uniquely creative energy. See The Gay Science, IV. 301.        

Lawrence Contra Matisse

 Henri Matisse: La Musique, (1939)

Whilst I share Lawrence's high regard for Cézanne, I do not share his loathing of Matisse whom he accuses of being nothing but a clever trickster in paint; one who admitted Cézanne as his master only so that he might betray and then bury him all the more successfully beneath a new form of abstraction that disguised drab cliché with gay colour.

For Lawrence, Matisse's very virtuosity is grounds for contempt. If he succeeds in producing "grand and flamboyant modern-baroque pictures" thanks to his supreme technical ability, nevertheless his skill means he needn't be humble or even honest as a painter. Instead, Matisse could falsely pride himself on being "a clever mental creature who is capable at will of making the intuitions and instincts subserve some mental concept ... in a sort of masturbation process". 

Whether this criticism is fair or even meaningful is open to debate. But the fact remains that I'd sooner have one of the Frenchman's lovely-looking - and, yes, intelligently conceived, skillfully executed - pictures hanging on my wall, than one of Lawrence's canvases which, whilst not hideous, are - to be fair to the prosecution - often gross as well as inept.           

Note: See D. H. Lawrence, 'Introduction to These Paintings', in Late Essays and Articles, ed. James T. Boulton, (Cambridge University Press, 2004).