Poster Boy The Dixon hosts historic exhibition of Alphonse Mucha. by Chris Davis The woman leans forward ever so slightly resting her head against her hand. Her wild chestnut hair is bound by a scarf that drips heavenly stars, and the folds of her soft, unnaturally white body, which are defined by simple curved lines, imply a voluptuousness at once lusty and maternal. The visible breast, so full it seems on the verge of bursting, waits for either the brush of a lover’s hand or the hungry mouth of an infant. Like the majority of Alphonse Mucha’s famous posters on display at the Dixon Gallery, XXme Exposition du Salon des Cent, 1896 presents an image of idealized femininity. Unlike the majority of his work, the idealized woman presented in this particular poster seems approachable. In fact she almost demands to be touched, and it is the question of how she should be touched that creates suspense and gives the piece its real power. Long before the Barbie doll created a stir about unobtainable body types, there was Mucha. Unlike the world’s most celebrated doll, however, Mucha’s women are generally ample and free from the frippery and the torturous corsets of their day. It is not the body type that seems unobtainable, but the ease with which these icy-white queens display their assets. Few people have benefited from being in the right place at the right time as much as Alphonse Mucha, and certainly few artists have known the kind of fame that the Morovian artist experienced in his own lifetime. He was the toast of the town, first in Paris, then in New York. And though he may not have invented Art Nouveau exactly, he is certainly the man whose name is most synonymous with the movement. His talent cannot be questioned. But Paris was brimming with talented young artists, and Mucha spent as much time illustrating books and magazines to make ends meet as he did developing his own artwork. In 1895, however, Alphonse Mucha’s life would change forever. At the end of the 19th century, there was no performer more famous than “The Divine One” — Sarah Bernhardt. Her name meant “theater,” and her face and figure were well known to the people of France, upper and lower classes alike. Bernhardt desperately needed a poster for her soon-to-open play Gismonda, and the only artist available to get the job done on such short notice was the gifted but virtually unknown book illustrator Alphonse Mucha. The piece he created was unprecedented. Six feet tall and less than a yard wide, it depicted an orange-haired Bernhardt crowned in pink flowers, draped in richly embroidered robes, holding a palm frond triumphantly in her right hand. Portions of the poster were ornamented with over-the-top Byzantine designs, and the rest was stark white, generating wonderful spatial tension. The trollish figure playing peek-a-boo from beneath the train of Bernhardt’s robes was nothing but pure whimsy. The day after the posters appeared on the streets of Paris, Mucha’s name was a household word. The success of Mucha’s poster for Gismonda lead to a six-year contract with Bernhardt, a situation that opened many doors for the newly crowned king of the decorative arts. He designed menus, cookie tins, awnings, and advertising. His lush serpentine vines and floral patterns found their way onto everything from furniture and flatware to stained-glass windows and iron gates. Once he was too busy finding paying jobs to concentrate on his lifelong dream of being a serious painter, now Mucha was too famous. “Alphonse Mucha: The Spirit of Art Nouveau,” which, oddly enough, is the first major exhibition of the incredibly influential artist’s work to tour America since 1921, stresses again and again that the man was much more than a decorative artist. There are rooms filled with his portraiture and studies for his colossal 20-piece masterwork, The Slav Epic, but as one might suspect, it is the lush posters and advertising graphics that steal the show. The sexually charged silhouettes of flowers wind about his borders and through the ubiquitous glittering coronas that encircle the unruly locks of Mucha’s wonder women. The ornamental work he painted into their gowns and scarves still represents the unobtainable perfection of a glorious future where beauty is mandated by law. The symbols that creep into even his most commercial work are effective because of their simplicity, and the finest example of this can be found in his breathtaking poster design for Sarah Bernhardt in La Dame aux Camelias. Valentine-shaped hearts float in the upper corners. One is bound by thorns, and one is bound by jewelry. If it reflects the dilemma of Dumas’ tragic heroine, it also perfectly illustrates Mucha’s plight. He seemed to be perpetually caught between the commercial demands of gilded age socialites and a desire to pursue his personal vision as a serious artist. Fortunately for the world, if not for Mucha himself, his revolutionary commercial work displays an artistic vision and a commitment to detail that rivals the greatest of our great masters. One cannot view studies like the ominous Girl in Forest without considering Francis Bacon, and without Mucha’s eye-popping floral prints as a precursor, Andy Warhol phenomenon seems like an improbable occurrence. You can e-mail Chris Davis at davis@memphisflyer.com.