The assassination that symbolised la Révolution
All great revolutions need a signature image, a totemic piece of visual propaganda so vivid it stirs fervour in the hearts of the proletariat, and makes heroes and martyrs of their leaders.
Jacques-louis David, France’s leading artist at the time of the French Revolution of 1789, was certain that he was the man for the job. And his extraordinary painting The Death of Marat did indeed become the most electrifying symbol of his country’s most tumultuous era.
It is fair to point out that David’s political compass was flexible or, more kindly, pragmatic; his affinities, and his paintbrush, shifted ably with the political horizons. His diplomacy in serving many masters, without losing his status as France’s leading artist – or indeed his head – was something of an achievement during the Revolution.
Born to a wealthy family in Paris in 1748, aged seven he was transferred to his uncle’s care, following the death of his father in a duel. David was highly educated but he would always prefer to be sketching rather than applying himself to architecture as his family wished. He suffered from a severe facial tumour that interfered with his speech, which perhaps made the solitary nature of art more appealing.
David became known for launching the Neoclassical style. His painting the Oath of the Horatii transfixed Paris when it was presented in 1784. This epically scaled tour de force was a radical departure from the frills and finery of the Rococo style that had dominated French art for so long.
David depicted classical tales from Greek and Roman lore, with the clean lines, proportion and musculature of ancient statues of the greats. The aesthetic choice was not incidental – both stylistically and thematically his paintings were in line with the rising tide of Republicanism in France.
As the Reign of Terror held the nation in its grip, David, who was a member of the Jacobin party and a friend of its powerful conductor, the fearsome Maximilien Robespierre, found himself at the fulcrum of the Revolution. David’s rebellious zeal at this time was not unconnected to his artistic ambitions; the strictures of the establishment Academy, and their traditional stranglehold on the “appropriate” style, content and technique of painting, were a source of his ongoing frustration and fury.
He had applied for the Academy’s Prix de Rome scholarship four times as a youth and failed three times, once leading him to attempt starving himself to death in protest. He was finally accepted in 1774. Now, though, David’s star was in the ascendancy. He served as head of the Committee for General Security, signing more than 140 arrest and death warrants, and, in 1793, was one of many who voted for the execution of Louis XVI, an event that sent shock waves throughout Europe. It also led to David’s divorce from his Royalist wife. As it transpired, the last image of a frail-looking Marie Antoinette, before she went to the guillotine, was a sketch by David.
David was also effectively a Minister for Propaganda, organising many civic events that glorified moments of the Revolution’s highpoints. The Death of Marat remains one of its most iconic symbols. David was commissioned to paint the picture by the National Convention, the second government of the Revolution, directly after the assassination of Jean-paul Marat, a prominent revolutionary journalist, scientist and doctor, and also a friend of the artist.
The composition draws from Renaissance images of the dead Christ. David was a particular admirer of Caravaggio, whose use of deep shading and contrast in his painting were so riveting.
David’s picture distils and dramatises the scene, especially in its treatment of Marat as a marble-skinned corpse. Marat is in the bath because he suffered from an intensely itchy skin disorder that caused rashes and lesions, which led many to compare his diminutive, somewhat unattractive figure with that of a toad.
The only way for poor Marat to relieve his symptoms was immersion in various ointments, with a turban soaked in vinegar around his head. As a result, when his assassin, Charlotte Corday, came to call, he granted her an audience, against his wife’s protestations, in his bathroom.
Corday had promised him a list of secret enemies of the Revolution she was prepared to betray. She sat next to him and started reading the names, then suddenly rose from her seat and buried a knife into Marat’s chest. In the painting, the knife has been removed and lies on the floor. All that is left of his assassin is the paper list the dead Marat holds in his hand.
Ironically, by this time Marat had fallen largely out of favour with Robespierre, and was seldom invited to matters of state, so Corday had targeted a political outcast. Despite this, Marat was lionised by the Revolution after his death. His ashes were interned at the Pantheon, and the Marquis de Sade gave him a eulogy. However, his coffin, and the busts of him that peppered French cities, were later removed when the political mood altered.
David’s painting was immediately celebrated, to the point where he had to hide it when the Revolution collapsed and Napoleon came to power. For several decades afterwards it wasn’t displayed publicly, in order to avoid enraging the public.
His eventual fall from grace followed quickly after Robespierre was sent to the guillotine in 1794, and led to David’s imprisonment in the Palais du Luxembourg. He was allowed to paint, however, and while in jail conceived his magnificent The Intervention of the Sabine Women. The picture is often read as an appeal for forgiveness after the bloodshed – and a testament to his ex-wife who visited him in prison and campaigned for his eventual release. They soon remarried.
Fortunately, the painting also earned the attention and admiration of Napoleon. David went on to create some of the most memorable depictions of the French Emperor, including his 1804 coronation and passage through the Alps – all despite having been a signatory to Empress Joséphine’s first husband’s execution.
As can be seen, David’s approach to painting traversed neatly alongside his shifting political affinities, making him possibly the most dexterous propagandist in art history.