LITMIR.BIZ

      What they got, several years and much hard work later, caused such a scandal that Klimt eventually repaid the advances he had received and took the paintings back.

      Despite the fact that on its first showing in Paris at the World Fair in 1900 Philosophy won him the gold medal, the Viennese were not of the same opinion as the French as to the painting’s merits.

      The first appearance of the unfinished Medicine in the following year caused even greater controversy. It is difficult to fathom precisely what Klimt meant to say about medicine in this painting.

      The vision is chaotic, almost hellish. Its skulls, wrinkled elderly figures and mass of human bodies speak of human suffering, not of its cure. The viewer’s eyes are drawn inevitably to the two striking female figures at the bottom and top left of the painting. Clearly the figure at the bottom represents Medicine itself as the traditional symbol of the serpent suggests, but rather this art nouveau woman, adorned in gold, looks more like a priestess likely to sacrifice a sick person than to heal them. The naked woman at the top of the picture is remarkable for the dynamic abandonment of her pose. Our eyes are inevitably drawn to the woman’s groin as she flings out her arms in a parody of crucifixion.

      The sketch for the figure shows very clearly how bold and excellent a craftsman Klimt was: the heavy line and subtle shading lead our eyes firmly to the woman’s pubic hair. Interestingly though, in the sketch the woman looks as if she may have posed lying down or leaning against something, whereas in the painting she is standing precariously unsupported, as if about to fall.

      Both of these, and the other female figures around them, represent a complete departure from the rotund, comfortable women of the traditional nineteenth-century academic style. Klimt’s women are long-haired, slender, lithe, and possess a sexual awareness that is both alluring and almost threatening in its directness.

      Klimt’s contemporary, Berta Zuckerkandl, makes the following comment in her memoirs: “Klimt had created from Viennese women an ideal female type: modern, with a boyish figure.”

      They had a mysterious fascination; although the word ‘vamp’ was still unknown he drew women with the allure of a Greta Garbo or a Marlene Dietrich long before they actually existed.” (Ich erlebte fünfzig Jahre Weltgeschichte [I Witnessed Fifty Years of World History], Stockholm 1939.) Looking at his 1909 portrait Woman with a Hat and Feather Boa it is easy to see the truth of this statement. The woman’s face, half-hidden by feathers and a hat, looks not unlike a dark-haired version of Marilyn Monroe. The seductively half-closed eyes certainly echo many Monroe poses.

      The Secession’s fourteenth exhibition in 1902 led to yet another scandal. The exhibition centred on Max Klinger’s statue of Beethoven. Klimt had decided to contribute a frieze. The detail shown on the inside of the next page depicts Lasciviousness, Wantonness and Intemperance, three allegorical figures designed to occupy part of the central wall of the room where Klinger’s statue was to be exhibited. Again, Klimt’s reason for choosing precisely these subjects for a tribute to Beethoven remains obscure, but they contain the seeds of many later works, most notably the trademark use of exotically patterned textiles to form not so much a backdrop to the human figures, but to create a composition of which pattern and human figure are equal parts.

      In the figure of Lasciviousness, shown top left, Klimt uses the woman’s hair both to hide her sex and to draw attention to it. The superb figure of Intemperance resembles not so much a woman as an oriental pasha, a man whose corpulence has reached such an extent that his chest has expanded to form female breasts.

      The Beethoven Frieze (central panel, detail), 1902.

      Casein on plaster, height: 220 cm.

      Secession, Vienna.

      Final drawing for Nuda Veritas, 1898.

      Black chalk, pencil, Indian ink, 41 × 10 cm.

      Historiches Museum, Vienna.

      Conservative Viennese society was once again profoundly shocked by these images, much in the same way that modern-day exhibition-goers are shocked by a Damien Hirst. Klimt’s contemporary Felix Salten relates: “Suddenly an exclamation came from the centre of the room: ‘Hideous!’ An aristocrat, a patron and collector, whom the Secession had let in today together with other close friends, had lost his temper at the sight of the Klimt frescoes. He shouted the word in a high, shrill, sharp voice… he threw it up the walls like a stone.:’Hideous!’”

      Klimt’s only response to this, as he worked away on the scaffolding above, was an amused glance

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