You have to wonder if the artist Gabriel-François Doyen (1726–1806), who had just made his name at the 1767 Salon, had any idea he was turning down one of the defining paintings of the Rococo period. You might also wonder: had he taken the commission, could he have ever matched what Fragonard created? Because while both artists undoubtedly received the same instructions from the painting’s mysterious patron — ‘I should like to have you paint Madame [pointing to his mistress] on a swing that a bishop would push. You will place me in such a way that I would be able to see the legs of this lovely girl, and better still, if you want to enliven your picture a little more…’ — it’s what happens after that ellipsis that makes all the difference.
As noted in the private journal of the dramatist Charles Collé, Doyen’s response was a bit flustered and he recalled that ‘this proposition, which I should never have had to expect, given the nature of the painting that he wanted me to do, confused and petrified me at first. However, I recovered myself sufficiently to say almost immediately: ‘Ah! Monsieur, it’s necessary to strengthen the idea of your painting, by having the slippers of madame fly off, and be caught by Cupids.’ But as I was very far from wishing to treat such a subject, so opposed to the genre in which I work, I addressed this gentleman [seigneur] to M. Fagonat [Jean-Honoré Fragonard], who set about it, and who is currently making this singular work.(1)
So, it seems that this mysterious patron whom Collé did not mention by name enjoyed this impromptu addition to the composition, a flying shoe. He perhaps added it to his pitch when he approached Fragonard who, thankfully for us today, agreed to the idea and took on the commission to paint The Happy Accidents of the Swing. Well, most of it anyway. While Jane Austen might not hesitate to make a member of the clergy look somewhat ridiculous (a comparison out of left field, I know, but you have to love her too), that was a bridge too far for Fragonard. But before getting sidetracked into these smaller details, let’s take a step back and look at the painting as a whole
The uncontested star of the painting is the golden-haired mistress, wearing an impossibly sumptuous pink gown being pushed on the titular swing by an older suitor, quite possibly her husband. The older man contentedly admires his heart’s desire, completely oblivious that her attentions lie in a far different, and youthful, direction. Lying below, somewhat ensnared in a prickly rosebush, is her lover and, by the by, the monsieur noted above in Collé’s journal. His identity was concealed by the good playwright, but is often attributed to François-David Bollioud de Saint-Julien, the immensely wealthy tax farmer for the French clergy.(1) He was placed, just as hoped, in such a way that he would be able to see the legs of his eager young mistress — and perhaps better still — while the mistress and her young lover capture our attention with such flirtatious passion that we nearly forget about the poor old chap standing in the shadows. Fragonard, in all his genius, was not about to let that happen and here is where the painting swings from scandalous deception to pure Rococo bliss.
It starts, naturally enough, with the flying shoe that Doyen suggested should ‘be caught by Cupids.’ Putting aside the fact that he surely meant putti, as there is one and only one Cupid — the mastermind of mischievousness — Fragonard spun this detail in a slightly different direction. Instead of catching the slipper, the Cupid statue stands finger-to-lips, shushing the whole scandalous scene. The slipper floats just out of his reach, its trajectory devilishly uncertain. Will it fly off into the bushes, creating a distraction for the older man so desperate to please her? Or will it bonk her young lover square in the head? It’s a better joke for being open-ended — and honestly, a better painting.
To be clear, this Cupid was no mere concoction of the artist’s imagination — but something better still. It was based on the aptly titled Menacing Love by the brilliant Étienne-Maurice Falconet (1716–1791), made for charming Madame de Pompadour, beloved mistress of King Louis XV. Falconet first presented the work in plaster at the 1755 Salon, to the delight of Parisian crowds and, of course, the fair mistress herself. She commissioned the marble version, completed in 1757, and the following year Falconet was appointed director of sculpture at the Sèvres manufactory. From there, Sèvres began producing the work en masse, and over the next thirty years turned out replicas in a variety of materials that went on to inspire the work of several artists — including Fragonard’s The Swing.
Rather than menacing love, however, this little Cupid with finger pressed to lips is often described as encouraging it by shushing the audience — as if protecting the secrets of the scene. But for that to be true, I’ve always believed, the little god of love’s attention would surely be outward, breaking the fourth wall and, with a bit of theatrical pomp, shushing the observer of this pastoral comedy. Sitting atop a pedestal decorated with dancing bacchants, Cupid’s gaze is direct, to be sure, but his attention is decidedly within the composition. So if we take a moment to look more closely, a different reading emerges: Cupid’s gesture is not for us — we’re already part of the conspiracy — instead his efforts are directed at a small yapping dog at the feet of the cuckolded man.
Whether it’s her dog or his, the little pooch is clearly excited by the scene hidden from her faithful devotee. Fragonard plays with light and shadow to amplify the message: the man in shadow is clearly in the dark both literally and figuratively, while the yapping dog is bathed in the same golden light that bathes our scandalous flirt. It is the dog, ever a symbol of true love and loyalty, who threatens to expose the truth, and the dog whom Cupid implores to silence. To be sure, Cupid isn’t decorating the scene, he’s complicit in it. Heck, he probably shot the arrows that caused this whole mess!
The compositional lover’s triangle formed by the main characters is echoed by the supporting cast. Between the two men stands a fountain decorated with two small putti and an odd-looking sea creature that — in case you didn’t know — was meant to represent a dolphin. The pair of angelic putti, symbols of innocence and love, are often described as troubled and it’s easy to imagine why that might be the case. However, Fragonard also made the interesting decision to stage them in a manner quite similar to the leads: the putto on the left, as the patron, looks up to the mistress, the putto echoing her, looks down. The only one remaining, the odd man out, is that big old fish! That must have given them a laugh in the private chambers where this painting was meant to hang.
Clearly I’ve spent way too much time looking at this painting, but I won’t apologize for it! This painting is one of those classic must-sees, as famous today as it was once scandalous. In the vast majority of the classes I teach, students take delight in discovering it and it seems there is always something new to behold and appreciate in this rather modestly scaled painting. This garden is an enclosed space, a lover’s paradise guarded by a protective wall, towering trees and dense foliage providing cover and insulation. The patron and his mistress both appear quite comfortable in their respective roles in this charade — the ease with which they inhabit this scene suggests this is hardly their first afternoon here.
The remaining prop, so to speak, is perhaps the most important. It is the swing itself. A most luxurious model: a gilded seat topped with a red velvet cushion, held aloft by thick braided rope tied to the twisting branches of those marvelous trees. Her composure is coy and confident, hands barely addressing the need for balance as the swing reaches its apex. Her devoted companion, meanwhile, grips the ropes with both hands, leaning back against the weight of her flight. His delusion is clear to us — for while he might control the ropes of the swing, he doesn’t control her heart.
So perhaps, judging from Doyen’s flustered reaction to the supposed patron’s request, had he summoned the courage to take on such a scene we would never have the triumph of Fragonard’s moment of afternoon delight. The careers of both men might have been irreconcilably different had Doyen broken his own rules and Fragonard never been given this chance. Doyen, as it turns out, had reached the high point of his career in France with Le Miracle des ardents at the Salon of 1767. Too serious for the Rococo and, alas, too Rubenesque for the rising tide of David’s austere Neoclassicism, he was forced to seek his fortune elsewhere, landing a position at the court of Catherine the Great. Fragonard, however, reached his height in an altogether different fashion — with silk, secrets, and a flying shoe. By 1782, Nicolas de Launay had made an engraving of the painting, sending it out into the wider world well beyond the private chambers for which it was made. The cruel irony is that the Revolution made his world vanish just as completely as it did Doyen’s. One man was too emotional for the new order; the other too frivolous. In the end, while Doyen remains a footnote, the Goncourts rescued Fragonard, and the Impressionists claimed him — but the legacy of The Swing was never really in doubt. The Swing — it swings on.
Source:
(1) Wallace Collection website, The Swing — Origins and Painting, which cites the journal of Charles Collé and identifies the patron as François-David Bollioud de Saint-Julien. Note: several other sources, including DailyArt Magazine, attribute the commission to Baron Louis-Guillaume Baillet de Saint-Julien. The discrepancy in the historical record remains unresolved.