Revisiting an Old Conversation

A couple of years ago someone asked me who my favourite artist was. In the spirit of the moment, and perhaps under a little pressure, I responded with Berthe Morisot.

I could have added that my answer was not totally surprising given that I’m a feminist with a passion for art history and French modern art. I could go on and on about how Morisot was the first (and only) female artist to join the original Impressionist group. I could have added that she has since become somewhat of an icon for art historians, writers, and feminists. Countering this point, I would have reasoned that despite her professional accomplishments, Morisot was not, and is not, the perfect feminist icon. But, for the sake of time and simplicity, I held myself back from giving a more detailed explanation outlining the power—and perhaps problem—of her work.

Morisot was a woman who broke barriers while she simultaneously reified them in her paintings. A fence. A wall. A railing. These physical barriers are visible in almost all of her most famous works. This is because Morisot painted from an explicitly female point of view. Her work deliberately positions the viewer behind the physical, visible barriers which walled women in, ‘protecting’ them from the outside world and all the dangers that came with it. I can’t help but draw parallels between Morisot’s time and the present when thinking about these barriers, and why they continue to exist. In hindsight, I should have followed up my answer with this explanation. But I didn't. "I'll save my explanation for another day," I though to myself.

I could have followed up this reasoning with a story. When I was living in East London, I found myself quite literally walled-in to my flat each night, once the sun went down. The bright streets turned dark and the hum of shops and restaurants were replaced with loud voices and unfamiliar faces. Between dusk and dawn, I feared the streets and spots that I’d comfortably enjoy during the daylight hours.

Perhaps this fear was not totally without reason. One Sunday evening in London, I was walking down high street to my local Waitrose. It was around 5 pm and the streets were well-occupied with couples walking hand in hand, owners walking their dogs, and other middle-aged folk popping out to pick up supplies in preparation for the week ahead. As I walked down the sidewalk, a man moved quickly in my direction. For a second I thought that he'd walk right into me. But, in the end, he didn’t walk into me. He punched me. In less than a second, this vile human showed me just how fragile I really was. Honestly, there’s no better way to put it. I couldn’t protect myself. I was no longer protected by the physical confines of the interior space. I was moving about the realm which Morisot's paintings deliberately warned women about.

But I didn’t share that.

I could have continued that over the last year and a half, I’ve thought a great deal this traumatic event. What I could have done differently. How I could have avoided this. What proactive measures were in place to prevent this kind of harm. Yet the only kind of solution I’ve come across requires precaution on the part of women like myself. Stay at home. Stay vigilant of your surroundings. Look behind you and avoid dark alleys or parks at night. Or, better yet, stay at home—behind the physical barriers of walls and doors to secure you from the dangers which reside within the outside world. Perhaps Morisot’s work applies more to our present day moment more than I’d previously thought. Perhaps only physical barriers—walls, fences, doors, railings, windows, and blockades—can protect us women from the dangerous outside world. Or at least that seems to be today's logic at law and in society.

But I didn’t share that either.

Instead, I kept my answer short and sweet. “Berthe Morisot,” I replied. The questioner nodded. “I’ll save my story for another day,” I thought to myself.