Edgar Degas — Waiting
Edgar Degas — Waiting 1880–1882 · Pastel. Norton Simon Museum

Nobody even agrees on who the woman in black is. The museum that owns this picture will tell you flat out: there's no clear story here. Just two women, a dancer bent in half, and a title that explains nothing.

Start with the dancer on the left, because your eye does. She's folded almost in two, reaching down toward her own ankle, and her head has vanished completely, dropped out of sight behind her own shoulder. You never get a face. What you get instead is a body doing something that looks like work, maybe pain, maybe just the ordinary business of fixing a shoe before a rehearsal. Degas isn't interested in telling you which.

bent dancer, no face

Now the woman next to her, the one in black. She takes up more room on this paper than anyone, a single dark mass of coat and skirt and hat, and she's the one thing in this picture that holds still. She's got an umbrella, closed, planted on the floor like a cane, its point drawn in one hard confident line. Nobody knows if she's a chaperone, a mother, another dancer between costumes. The title calls the picture "Waiting," and that's the only story you're getting.

woman in black with umbrella

Here's a fact that changes how you look at the paper itself: it used to be pink. Degas started with pink paper, and over a hundred and forty years it's faded to the tan you see now on the wall behind both figures. He wasn't fighting that fade, he was using the paper as a color in its own right, leaving it bare on the tutu and the floorboards so the sheet itself did the work of a middle gray. That's a decision you can still see: the wall isn't painted flat ochre, it's pastel laid so thin the grain of the paper shows straight through it.

bare pink-faded wall

The Havemeyers owned this for a century before it went to two museums at once, Pasadena and Los Angeles, splitting ownership after paying a record price for an Impressionist work at auction in 1983. Mary Cassatt is the reason the Havemeyers were buying Degas in the first place; she steered American collectors toward him when almost nobody here wanted this kind of picture. A faceless, graceless dancer next to a bored-looking stranger in black wasn't what people expected ballet paintings to look like. It still isn't.

Put the seated woman's face next to the dancer's missing one, and you get the whole argument of the picture in one comparison. Her face is the only resolved, lit patch of skin anywhere on the sheet, pink and warm, sitting inside all that black. The dancer gets no face at all. So the one person actually performing is erased, and the one person just sitting there, waiting, gets to be seen. That's backwards from what a ballet picture is supposed to do, and it's backwards on purpose.

the one lit face
the missing face

Get close to that tutu and the color stops making sense. It's turquoise and white laid down in separate strokes, side by side, never blended. Stand back and your eye does the mixing for you, turns it into cloth catching light. Degas wet some of his pastel sticks for the choker and the waist bow, dragged a loaded brush of color on where dry stick wouldn't do it, and drew the ruffles with a sharpened wet tip. Up close you'd swear there was purple on her calf and yellow on the chaperone's chin, colors that have no business on skin. From where you're meant to stand, none of that reads as wrong. It reads as shadow.

tutu strokes

Cover the dancer's half of the picture with your hand. Watch how much weight the black mass on the right suddenly carries alone, heavy enough to balance a whole figure it's hiding from you.

black mass alone

Get close enough to the tutu that the turquoise and white separate into individual strokes, then back up until they fuse again into cloth. That's the distance Degas was drawing for, not the one you're standing at now.

tutu up close

Follow the one hard black line in the whole picture, the umbrella's point hitting the floor, and notice how everything else around it, the floorboards, the skirt hem, the wall, stays soft and unfinished by comparison.

umbrella point

Try to meet someone's eyes in this picture. You can't. The dancer's face is gone and the chaperone never looks your way. See how long your eye keeps searching anyway before it gives up.

Once you've seen a face withheld on purpose, you start noticing every picture that hands you a face too easily, and every one that doesn't. You start checking where the one resolved, lit patch sits in a dark painting, because that's usually where the artist decided the real subject lives, whether or not it matches the title. And you start trusting your own eye to mix color from a distance instead of judging a brushstroke by what it looks like six inches away, which is a useful thing to know next time you're standing too close to your own work, worrying about a mark that was never meant to be read up close.

Go deeper

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