Then there is Le Juif Errant (The Wandering Jew) (1941), a disquieting painting created some time after October 1940, when anti-Semitic laws were enacted in Vichy before a governmental body had been established to oversee them. The titular subject is cloaked in red, eyebrows raised, and cast in a dark shadow. Behind him is a ghostly, naked woman who appears to be a figment of his imagination or desire. The work takes its name from an anti-Catholic novel but it invokes, of course, the anti-Semitic myth of the Jew forced to roam the earth after taunting Jesus on the crucifix. One wonders why Picabia took the rare step of writing the title of the work on the front of the painting, assigning a faith to a figure whose religion might otherwise be unknown. And the evocation of a wandering Jew when, we now know, thousands were being rounded up across Europe is nauseating.
But, cautions Umland, “the work is hardly a straightforward or transparent document that can be used, like a piece of evidence in a courtroom, to establish Picabia’s complicity.” This word—complicity—is tricky in and of itself. Once again, a supposedly unbreachable ambiguity is central to the argument, and Umland adds that the woman in the work’s background comes from a porn magazine, suggesting “perhaps that the protagonist is as much a suave ladies’ man as a persecuted refugee. Is Le Juif errant sincere or insincere? Romanticizing or callous? Demonizing or idealizing, especially relative to the often heinous depictions of the same subject that were coming out of Germany at the time?” It is fair that a museum poses questions and leaves us to draw our own conclusions. But I find the work to be much less ambiguous than that.
Still, MoMA should be credited for including this thorny chapter of Picabia’s life and recognizing the pieces are troubling. The works, after all, have been controversial over the years. They fell out of favor after their first exhibition in France in the 1940s, though it isn’t clear if the resemblance to Nazi iconography or their figurative style (at a time when abstraction was the norm) was to blame. A 1970 retrospective of Picabia at the Guggenheim
completely omitted his photo-paintings. And when they were exhibited in the 1980s, they were generally treated as an art-historical rebellion against modernism, rather than objects with politically loaded connotations. They were viciously criticized in 1984 by Yve-Alain Bois, who wrote an article titled “Francis Picabia: From Dada to Pétain,” claiming the works exhibited a “reactionary indifference.”
There is, in these instances, an element of the trial Ulman warned against. And some may brush off this kind of sweeping political critique of an individual in relation to their work as being childish, reductive, or naive. Bad people can create good art, it is said. But art is also inseparable from political and personal ideology. It is inseparable from the historical moment in which it was created. Once the full measure of an artist’s political persuasions is known, some viewers may decide to place this knowledge in parentheses in order to mine their artistic output for other value. (In college, a friend called this “saying yes to the text.”) But one should be transparent about taking that position, especially since hanging a work at a major institution necessarily bestows upon it and the artist a certain power and stature.
The Vichy room is, admittedly, the most interesting of the entire Picabia exhibition. It poses difficult questions with real stakes that echo far beyond Picabia or even MoMA. Ambiguity is central to art. But at what point does ambiguity become a mechanism for deflecting a rigorous interrogation of the artist and their work? And do we inevitably embrace this ambiguity more in the case of artists who are, say, white men of canonical significance? For me, the answers are clear.