How dark was Degas’ dark side?

There's a strange beauty, yes, but also a violence to Degas' technique. Where did that violence come from?

Edgar Degas, known best publicly today as the painter of those pretty ballerinas on Impressionists calendars and museum souvenirs worldwide, earned a powerful reputation for draftsmanship during his day. Degas nearly re-legitimized pastel as a serious medium after a long period it was considered the domain of women and children.

He tried and mastered every medium he touched, including the new, inky medium of monotype. Writing years after Degas' death, French poet-critic Stéphane Mallarmé remarked that despite being already a “master of drawing," Degas still pursued “delicate lines and movements exquisite or grotesque" in his late monotypes, arriving at “a strange new beauty." At the 2016 exhibition Edgar Degas: A Strange New Beauty, the Museum of Modern Art, New York, inadvertently raises the “exquisite or grotesque" question of just how strange that “strange new beauty" was. How dark was Degas dark side?

Image courtesy: Museum of Modern Art, New York

  • Image: Edgar Degas (French, 1834–1917). Dancer Onstage with a Bouquet, c.1876. Pastel over monotype on laid paper. Plate: 10 5/8 × 14 7/8 in. (27 × 37.8 cm). Private collection.

Of all the Impressionists, Degas seems the most puzzling in some ways. Immensely talented, everything seemed to come forth with ease, although his draftsmanship clearly came from years and years of intense study and experimentation. Technological innovations in monotype, a centuries-old process of printing from an etched plate, intrigued Degas late in his career with new possibilities. Throwing off the academic style of drawing, Degas took to monotype with radical zest, scraping, scratching, wiping, removing, and even fingerprinting parts of the images freshly pulled from the printing press. Perhaps Degas' similar infatuation with photography — still in its infancy of blurs and accidents — inspired Degas to do similar things with monotypes.

Exhibition curator Jodi Hauptman describes Degas' “mania for monotype" circa 1876 in the exhibition's catalogue's introduction and pictures him “black ink to his elbows, staining his suit, dripping onto his shoes." But how down and dirty was Degas willing to take such classic Degas' images as the Dancer Onstage with a Bouquet (shown above)?

Image courtesy: Museum of Modern Art, New York

  • Image: Edgar Degas (French, 1834–1917). Pauline and Virginie Conversing with Admirers (Pauline et Virginie Cardinal bavardant avec des admirateurs), c. 1876–77. Proposed illustration for The Cardinal Family (La Famille Cardinal). Monotype on paper. Plate: 8 7/16 x 6 5/16 in. (21.5 x 16.1 cm); sheet: 11 3/10 x 7 1/2 in. (28.7 x 19.1 cm). Harvard Art Museums/Fogg Museum, Cambridge, Massachusetts. Bequest of Meta and Paul J. Sachs.

There's always been a dark side to Degas' subject matter. Behind the scenes of the beautiful onstage pictures of graceful ballerinas are the backstage images of practice (where young female bodies endured debilitating pain in the name of perfection) and pursuit (where young female bodies endured the desiring gaze of men). In Pauline and Virginie Conversing with Admirers (shown above), we get another scene of wealthy and influential men gaining access to the exclusive backstage area to meet the performers. Such images hold a sexual charge when painted in color, but there's a different vibe coming across in the monotypes.

Aside from the fact that the dark-suited men physically obscure the dancers from the perspective of the viewer, there's an overall feeling of darkness falling upon the scene. The pretense of pleasant conversation and admiration of the dance drowns in the inky blackness of the monotype. We know exactly what these men are after in these prints, whereas the paintings and pastels of the same subject literally color it over with nicer possibilities.

Image courtesy: Museum of Modern Art, New York

  • Image: Edgar Degas (French, 1834–1917). Café Singer, c.1877‑78. Monotype on paper. Plate: 4 3/4 × 6 3/8 in. (12 × 16.2 cm). Private collection.

Elsewhere in the catalogue, Richard Kendall quotes Camille Pissarro writing to his son Lucien in 1891 that the politically conservative Degas was “such an anarchist! In art, of course, and without knowing it!" Degas held all the conservative views of his contemporaries on women, race, and politics despite working on the cutting edge of art. Popular art forms, such as ballet and café shows, provided material for "anarchist" Degas to comment on subtly. Or not so subtly, as in his monotype Café Singer (shown above). Whereas Degas' contemporary Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec could capture the participatory vibrancy and fun of the café, there's always an outsider-looking-in feel to Degas' pictures, made more so by the ominous looking singer here, who is faceless and almost monstrous beneath a fog of distorting scratching and wiping away that nearly obliterates her.

There's a strange beauty, yes, but also a violence to Degas' technique. Where did that violence come from?

Image courtesy: Museum of Modern Art, New York

  • Image: Edgar Degas (French, 1834–1917). Three Women in a Brothel, Seen from Behind (Trois filles assises de dos), c. 1877–79. Pastel over monotype on paper. 6 5/16 x 8 7/16 in. (16.1 x 21.4 cm). Musée Picasso, Paris.

Plenty of ink's been spilled over Degas' misogyny. (A fuller, balanced run-down can be read here.) Degas never married because he hated women — a misogynist born into the misogynist society of late 19th-century France — goes one side. Degas reflected his times, but he also respected and encouraged the talents of some female artists, including Mary Cassatt, goes the other side. Judging solely by the pictures, however, it's hard not to see a dark side to Degas' view of women, as in Three Women in a Brothel, Seen from Behind (shown above).

Nameless and faceless, identified solely by their sexual profession, these women lack all humanity. The acid-colored pastel highlights dashed across the scratched surface make them seem almost monstrous. Where prostitution is subtly hinted to some degree in the backstage ballet pictures, here you see the profession unmasked. In the medium of monotype, Degas visually links ballerinas, singers, and prostitutes more clearly (albeit through murky ink and distortions) than anywhere else in his oeuvre.

Image courtesy: Museum of Modern Art, New York

  • Image: Edgar Degas (French, 1834–1917). The Fireside (Le Foyer [La Cheminée]), c. 1880–85. Monotype on paper. Plate: 16 3/4 x 23 1/16 in. (42.5 x 58.6 cm), sheet: 19 3/4 x 25 1/2 in. (50.2 x 64.8 cm). The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Harris Brisbane Dick Fund, The Elisha Whittelsey Collection, The Elisha Whittelsey Fund, and C. Douglas Dillon Gift, 1968 (68.670).

Hauptman links Degas' infatuation with monotype to the combination of Degas having to give in to the accidents of the monotype medium while trying to control them with his own rule-breaking innovations, calling it a “combination of submission and transgression that constitutes his 'untidy intimacy,' this relationship between creator and what he uses to create that fuels his production." Such “untidy intimacy" appears in works such as The Fireside (shown above). A naked woman clearly appears in the room, seen from behind on the right. Is the nude figure seated at left another woman? Is it a man observing the nude woman, but from the front? It's hard to tell. Also, it's a room, a place of intimacy, but the darkness broken by the light streaming from the fireplace renders the scene literally hellish.

“Degas made his most daring application of the monotype medium in depicting these female subjects," Hauptman suggests. “The private acts of bathing and grooming became an opportunity to portray bodies in unusual and awkward positions — bones and muscles stretched, heads and limbs obscured — and to dramatically illuminate their environs." Yet, whereas Renoir, for example, shows an affiliation for the female form in his distortions—a continuous exploration of possibilities of the flesh in paint—Degas' experimentation seems a rejection of the flesh, a condemnation to hell.

Image: Edgar Degas (French, 1834–1917). Autumn Landscape (L'Estérel), 1890. Monotype in oil on paper. Plate: 11 7/8 x 15 3/4 in. (30.2 x 40 cm), sheet: 12 1/2 x 16 1/4 in. (31.8 x 41.3 cm). Private collection.

Degas' “monotypes represent the area of his work in which he was most free, most alive, and most reckless," critic Arsene Alexandre wrote shortly after Degas' death, “not hampered by any rule." Such freedom via monotype led to fascinating experiments such as Autumn Landscape (shown above), which seem decades before their time in their abstraction, as if Degas could time travel to the 1950s of the Abstract Expressionists and hang out with Jackson Pollock. Yet, as Edgar Degas: A Strange New Beauty shows, for all the strange beauty Degas could wring from the landscape with monotypes, when it came to people—especially women—the works can tell a different, more disturbing story. Looking at these monotypes anew (and this is the first U.S. show in 50 years of Degas' monotypes) may have you looking at that Impressionists calendar in a whole different light.

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What was it like to live in a Japanese concentration camp?

During World War II, the U.S. incarcerated over 100,000 Japanese Americans in concentration camps throughout the West.

Universal History Archive/Universal Images Group via Getty Images
Politics & Current Affairs
  • Now that the issue of concentration camps in the U.S. has once again reared its head, it can be beneficial to recall the last time such camps were employed in the U.S.
  • After Pearl Harbor, the U.S. incarcerated over 100,000 Japanese Americans in camps, ostensibly for national security purposes.
  • In truth, the incarceration was primarily motivated by racism. What was life like in the U.S.'s concentration camps?

On February 19, 1942, President Roosevelt issued Executive Order 9066, which authorized and directed military commanders "to prescribe military areas … from which any or all persons may be excluded, and with respect to which, the right of any person to enter, remain in, or leave shall be subject to whatever restrictions the Secretary of War or the appropriate Military Commander may impose in his discretion." Under the authority of this executive order, roughly 112,000 men, women, and children of Japanese descent — nearly two-thirds of which were American citizens — were detained in concentration camps.

How did the camps get their start?

With the benefit of a nearly 80-year perspective, it's clear that the internment of Japanese Americans was racially motivated. In response to Japan's growing military power in the buildup to World War II, President Roosevelt commissioned two reports to determine whether it would be necessary to intern Japanese Americans should conflict break out between Japan and the U.S. Neither's conclusions supported the plan, with one even going so far as to "certify a remarkable, even extraordinary degree of loyalty among this generally suspect ethnic group." But of course, the Pearl Harbor attacks proved to be far more persuasive than these reports.

Pearl Harbor turned simmering resentment against the Japanese to a full boil, putting pressure on the Roosevelt administration to intern Japanese Americans. Lieutenant General John DeWitt, who would become the administrator of the internment program, testified to Congress

"I don't want any of them here. They are a dangerous element. There is no way to determine their loyalty... It makes no difference whether he is an American citizen, he is still a Japanese. American citizenship does not necessarily determine loyalty... But we must worry about the Japanese all the time until he is wiped off the map."

DeWitt's position was backed up by a number of pre-existing anti-immigrant groups based out of the West Coast, such as the Joint Immigration Committee and the Native Sons and Daughters of the Golden West. For many, the war simply served as an excuse to get rid of Japanese Americans. In an interview with the Saturday Evening Post, Austin Anson, the managing secretary of the Salinas Vegetable Grower-Shipper Administration, said:

"We're charged with wanting to get rid of the Japs for selfish reasons. We do. It's a question of whether the White man lives on the Pacific Coast or the brown men. ... If all the Japs were removed tomorrow, we'd never miss them in two weeks because the White farmers can take over and produce everything the Jap grows. And we do not want them back when the war ends, either."

Ironically for Anson, the mass deportation of Japanese Americans under Executive Order 9066 meant there was a significant shortage of agricultural labor. Many Caucasians left to fight the war, so the U.S. signed an agreement with Mexico to permit the immigration of several million Mexicans agricultural workers under the so-called bracero program.

Life in the camps

Japanese American concentration camp

Hulton Archive/Getty Images

Circa 1943: Aerial view of a Japanese American relocation center in Amache, Colorado, during World War II. Each family was provided with a space 20 by 25 ft. The barracks were set in blocks and each block was provided with a community bath house and mess hall.

For the most part, Japanese Americans remained stoic in the face of their incarceration. The phrase shikata ga nai was frequently invoked — the phrase roughly translates to "it cannot be helped," which, for many, represents the perceived attitude of the Japanese people to withstand suffering that's out of their control.

Initially, most Japanese Americans were sent to temporary assembly centers, typically located at fairgrounds or racetracks. These were hastily constructed barracks, where prisoners were often packed into tight quarters and made to use toilets that were little more than pits in the ground. From here, they were relocated to more permanent camps — replete with barbed wire and armed guards — in remote, isolated places across the seven states of California, Arizona, Colorado, Wyoming, Idaho, Utah, and Arkansas.

Many of these camps, also known as War Relocation Centers, were little better than the temporary assembly centers. One report described the buildings as "tar paper-covered barracks of simple frame construction without plumbing or cooking facilities of any kind." Again, overcrowding was common.

As a result, disease became a major concern, including dysentery, malaria, and tuberculosis. This was problematic due to the chronic shortage of medical professionals and supplies, an issue that was not helped by the War Relocation Authority's decision to cap Japanese American medical professional's pay at $20 a month (about $315 in 2019 dollars), while Caucasian workers had no such restriction. As a comparison, Caucasian nurses earned $150 ($2,361) a month in one camp.

The U.S. government also administered loyalty questionnaires to incarcerated Japanese Americans with the ultimate goal of seeing whether they could be used as soldiers and to segregate "loyal" citizens from "disloyal" ones. The questionnaires often asked whether they would be willing to join the military and if they would completely renounce their loyalty to Japan. Due to fears of being drafted, general confusion, and justified anger at the U.S. government, thousands of Japanese Americans "failed" the loyalty questionnaire and were sent to the concentration camp at Tule Lake. When Roosevelt later signed a bill that would permit Japanese Americans to renounce their citizenship, 98 percent of the 5,589 who did were located at Tule Lake. Some apologists cite this an example of genuine disloyalty towards the U.S., but this argument clearly ignores the gross violation of Japanese Americans' rights. Later, it became clear that many of these renunciations had been made under duress, and nearly all of those who had renounced their citizenship sought to gain it back.

Since many children lived in the camps, they came equipped with schools. Of course, these schools weren't ideal — student-teacher ratios reached as high as 48:1, and supplies were limited. The irony of learning about American history and ideals was not lost on the students, one of whom wrote in an essay --

"They, the first generation [of Japanese immigrants], without the least knowledge of the English language nor the new surroundings, came to this land with the American pioneering spirit of resettling. ...Though undergoing many hardships, they did reach their goal only to be resettled by the order of evacuation under the emergency for our protection and public security."

Potentially the best part of life in the camps — and the best way for determined prisoners to demonstrate their fundamental American-ness — was playing baseball. One camp even featured nearly 100 baseball teams. Former prisoner Herb Kurima recalled the importance of baseball in their lives in an interview with Christian Science Monitor. "I wanted our fathers, who worked so hard, to have a chance to see a ball game," he said. "Over half the camp used to come out to watch. It was the only enjoyment in the camps."

The aftermath

When the camps finally closed in 1945, the lives of the incarcerated Japanese Americans had been totally upended. Some were repatriated to Japan, while others settled in whichever part of the country they had been arbitrarily placed in. Those who wished to return to the West Coast were given $25 and a train ticket, but few had anything to return to. Many had sold their property to predatory buyers prior to being incarcerated, while theft had wiped out whatever else they had left behind. Many, many years later, the 1988 Civil Liberties Act mandated that each surviving victim be paid $20,000, though that seems like a small fine to pay for irrevocably changing the courses of more than 100,000 lives.