Alberto Giacometti facing “the enigma of the naked woman”
From dreamy sketches to abstract sculptures, the artist has always maintained an ambiguous relationship with the nude, which he called rather “figures”. A Parisian exhibition revisits his vision, ultimately closer to Cezanne than Rodin.
She is naked; she is waiting. It is not yet time, and it is so rarely with him. How long for a sigh of contentment? His half smoker’s cough, a full oath, announce that the session will go on for hours, even whole days. This head to head around the nude, sweet Annette, is used to it. She knows his own way of fixing his gesture in the brothel of the workshop, of the “sniffing” of the look, then to quickly put fingertips a few balls of white and wet plaster around a metal frame. Sculpting at Giacometti is as much of balance as incantation.