Reviews

Excerpt:
“…Seven possessive women reveal the life and times of Henri Matisse, dubbed the 20th century’s most sensual artist, giving rise to large, pertinent questions of who ‘owns’ art. . . This is a powerful, incisive and thought-provoking play, which may never let you view the artist in quite the same light again…”

Last year director Andy Jordan was busy with Brian McAvera’s Picasso’s Women and here he runs over similar ground with Howard Ginsberg’s My Matisse, possibly a more satisfying work in that the protagonists are gathered on a single stage and interact to paint a more immediate portrait of their subject.

Like his rival Picasso, Henri Matisse was a painter who declined to die young and capitalised instead on his own reputation. Like Picasso, he was an artist whose painting was governed by his loins. Forever evolving in style, he “loved to paint women, only women”" – ie, only those he found attractive. And so, gathered in a colourful tableau to compare perspectives, the defining females who describe how they shaped his life are split into those he lusted after and those he didn’t – wife, mistress, model, secretary versus mother, daughter and Gertrude Stein.

A frequently overlinear script and Jordan’s sedentary direction cannot hold back mostly strong performances across the board, reinforced by excellent casting. Unfair therefore to single out Karen Archer for the poignant strength she brings to Amelie, Matisse’s long-suffering spouse.

This superb show is a beautifully presented insight into the life of Matisse from the point of view of his women. It begins, as it should, with the mother, then his wife and mistress. Each of the seven, models for the artist, lovers, worshippers, is formed distinctively by each actress, every one unique.. From the overbearing mother to the flamboyant Gertrude Stein as patron and friend, and of course the beauties. This was a man whose life was dictated by his art, but through his women.

It isn’t often that one can say this, but the acting in My Matisse is faultless. It’s not easy either, with a lot of monologues, and dialogue with ‘le maitre’, who is never present. There is little actual interaction between characters, yet to their credit, the inherent connection - the connection with Matisse - is evident throughout. While not speaking, each character forms a picture somewhere on stage: Olga as The Red Nude; Lydia as The Pink Nude. This rounds off the look of the stage, which is simple, with carefully chosen, elegant furniture and fabric, ideal for the production.

We are left with questions about the place of the artist. Is the creation of art worth more than anything else? According to My Matisse when Monsieur was painting his famous Jazz pictures, his wife and daughter were being tortured by Nazi officers occupied France. He was shacked up with his secretary, and painting naked ladies. Henri Matisse - Wild beast or gentle genius?

In a sequel to Picasso’s Women, My Matisse is the story of the women in Matisse’s life. There is the terrifying Oedipal mother, the naïve first lover, the jealous and insecure wife, a series of beautiful models and the long-term mistress.

One by one they come forward to relate their memories. They are not antagonistic towards one another; they accept each other’s presence, albeit without warmth.

The structure is deliberately artificial, repetitive and stiff - the actresses are reminiscent of costume dolls being thrust on and off stage at the whim of an invisible director. It is only towards the end when the characters become more emotionally involved with one another that they cease to be perfect cardboard cut-outs and invite the audience to become partisan.

It’s a polished and slick production; technically very good, with a set that’s elaborate by Fringe standards, and a commanding cast. But it feels like a play written by an art-historian: factually accurate and detailed - and in that sense very absorbing - but lacking something. With so many stories to tell, it seems disjointed. It would hang together better if it were restricted to three or four women and if their stories were interwoven rather than related as different segments in Matisse’s life. Another gripe: the ever-present music is insipid, adding nothing to a production that’s otherwise faithful to the period.

Rating * * * *