These days, if you want to get your artistic creations out into the world, there are plenty of avenues in which to do so—not to mention all sorts of niche audiences on the receiving end. Granted, putting it out there doesn’t guarantee anything; but in terms of at least getting eyeballs on one’s creative darlings, that’s not particularly difficult to do.
In the 19th century of Henri Rousseau, the French painter born in 1844, that was not the case. The Salon de Paris, part of the Académie des Beaux-Arts, reigned supreme. It was the Salon that set the standards and traditions of worthy art. And it was the Salon that ultimately decided what paintings would be exhibited at its prestigious annual event.
It was this academic culture that Rousseau, a self-taught painter who didn’t start pursuing his craft until he turned forty, wanted so much to be a part of. The irony is that he had nothing in common with the culture—including his style of painting. Another irony is this: by the end of his life, he’d become an inspiration to a young and influential group of artists who were part of the powerful counterculture to the formal Salon.
This interesting story of Henri Rousseau is explored in a documentary from Perspective, How Self-Taught Rousseau Rose To Fame Painting Paris Zoo.
One of Henri Rousseau’s most famous paintings is “The Sleeping Gypsy.” Like many of his paintings, it’s imbued with many magical and dream-like qualities.
It turns out that the way Rosseau painted shared commonalities with the way he presented his biography. “He liked to romanticize his life as he romanticized his art,” says one scholar in the film.
Perhaps the biggest lie of all was Rousseau’s claim that he’d fought in Mexico, when Emperor Napoleon III invaded the territory in the early 1860s. He didn’t. Rousseau also didn’t see any jungles while he was in Mexico. (The aura of the exotic jungle was a constant source of inspiration for many of his later paintings.)
It seems as if the main reason Rousseau never actually fought in Mexico or witnessed some of its beautiful scenery was because—well—he never went there at all. He lived his entire life within the borders of his native land of France, which is hardly known for its tropical jungles.
Why did Rousseau tell such fictions? There’s perhaps one clue mentioned in the documentary: “His family had no interest in the arts, and later in his life he viewed their lack of culture with some bitterness.” Rousseau’s fabrications about his life didn’t directly involve his early years; but did his tendency to subvert the truth perhaps come from a childhood that was forever unable to be changed?
It’s impossible to say, of course. But what’s clear is that when Rosseau had chances to refute erroneous stories or clarify details about his past (which he himself had put into the air), he deliberately chose not to.
After wrapping up school at sixteen, Rousseau joined the French army a short while later. When his military stint was over, he began working in the French customs office. It was from working in his environment that Rousseau’s nickname emerged—Le Douanie (“the customs agent”). In reality, his job was tedious and uninspiring. Nonetheless, he would hold the position until he retired, many decades later.
In his early 40s, Rousseau’s interest in painting sprang to life from wherever it had lay dormant. But he could hardly drop everything else going on in his life to focus on his art. He’d married in 1868, had multiple children (sadly many of whom died in infancy), and there were bills to pay and a family to feed.
But in 1886 Rosseau did decide to rent a studio apartment in order to carry out his painting. The following year he produced “Carnival Evening,” and a short while later it was exhibited at the Salon des Indépendants (the newly founded exhibition that was a reaction to the strict and stuffy standards of the Paris Salon).
The beginning of the next decade found Rosseau hard at work on his “jungle paintings”— the works for which he is best known today. With rich colors and fantastical scenes, Rousseau’s brush became unleashed. As one scholar says, “[Rosseau] could let his imagination run riot.”
The creative ingredients for his wonderful, exotic paintings could have come from many places within his mind. We know, though, they had no external connection to his (fictitious) time in Mexico. Was there a real-life source that he drew inspiration from?
Indeed there was—the Paris Zoo, along with the botanical gardens of the Jardin des Plantes. In these places, which Rosseau loved to frequent, he found the animals, plants, textures, and colors that he became known for.
Ultimately, it doesn’t matter a great deal where Rosseau found his inspiration. He painted what he wanted, how he wanted—and he continued painting even when his work was mocked and laughed at. (A not uncommon occurrence.) The criticisms and jeers simply weren’t powerful enough to stifle his passion.
Fittingly enough, in 1908, two years before his death, a tremendous event took place in Rousseau’s life: he was given a celebratory banquet. It was hosted by none other than a 27-year-old Pablo Picasso (already quite famous). At the event was an assortment of young artists—including Georges Braque and Guillaume Apollinaire—who had been inspired by Rousseau. These were artists intent on bucking traditions, and they turned to the man who had once longed to fit into the established orthodoxy.
Spectatio 
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