Henri Matisse — Bathers by a River
Henri Matisse — Bathers by a River 1917 · Oil. Art Institute of Chicago

Matisse worked on this painting for eight years and it shows him changing his mind in real time, right there on the canvas.

Start with the black band running down the middle. That's the first thing your eye hits, the densest, darkest shape on nearly nine feet of canvas, and everything else gets organized around it. But look at how differently the paint behaves as you move away from that anchor. Along the seams between the color panels, the edges are hard and sure, like they were drawn with a straightedge and committed to. Then a leg meets the background and the line just gives up, dissolves into gray, lets you guess where the limb actually ends. That's not carelessness. Matisse started this canvas in 1909, put it down, picked it back up in 1913, and finished it in 1917 with a war going on. The soft edges are where he came back and reworked something, painted over an earlier decision without fully erasing the evidence of it. You're looking at three different moments of a man's hand, layered.

hard edges at seams
line dissolves into gray

The story behind it makes the picture's coldness make sense. A Russian collector named Sergei Shchukin commissioned this, saw an early study, and backed out. What was left was Matisse alone with a huge canvas and no buyer waiting on the other end. Watch what happens to the color as your eye moves across the four panels: on one side there's still some of the pink and salmon warmth of his earlier decorative work, but by the passages he finished last, it's gone gray, black, white. He started as a painter of pleasure and finished as something starker. Nobody was going to reject this version. There was nobody left to please.

warmer earlier panels

The faces are the strangest part, and once you notice it you won't stop noticing it. They're blank ovals. No eyes, no mouth, nothing. And yet your brain reads them as faces anyway, instantly, before you've thought about it. Matisse is finding out exactly how little a body needs before your mind fills in the rest. That's the real experiment in this painting: not how much he can show you, but how little.

Stand back until the four panels read as one wide band of color, then step in close on the black middle section. From far off it's a shape. Up close it's dry, chalky paint that barely covers the canvas in places, thin enough to see through to what's underneath.

Trace one figure's outline slowly with your eye, from head to foot. Notice where the line stays firm and where it just stops being a line and becomes a smear of matching gray. That's where a decision got left open.

line becomes smear

Squint at the whole canvas. The pink flesh tones will seem to lift off the surface even though nothing here is modeled or shadowed. That's color doing the work light usually does.

Cover everything except one of the blank oval heads. Watch your own mind insert eyes and a mouth that were never painted.

Once you've seen how little information a face needs to read as a face, you start noticing it everywhere: in a cartoon, in a photograph slightly out of focus, in your own sketchbook when you've left a figure unfinished and it still somehow looks back at you. This painting also makes the case that finish is a choice you get to make panel by panel, not an all-or-nothing rule. Some parts of a picture can stay hard and resolved while others stay open, and the picture doesn't fall apart for it. Next time you're working on something and can't decide whether to nail down an edge or let it go soft, remember that Matisse left himself that same choice, in the same painting, for eight years.

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There's a version of this same argument in almost everything else in this collection. See what else is here →