Portrait of a Lady on Fire: Redefining the Making of a Portrait

Image Courtesy of slate.com

By GRACE LI ‘20

Rethinking the power dynamic between the artist and muse, the film Portrait of a Lady on Fire ventures into the world of 18th century France. Set in coastal Brittany, France, the film documents the relationship between bride-to-be, Héloïse, and her painter, Marianne. Marianne must paint Héloïse from memory because of Héloïse’s unwillingness to be painted; however, it is clear from the beginning of the film, told in retrospect, that the two women are destined to separate. Yet Céline Sciamma, the director and writer, asks, “Why do we believe that eternal possession of somebody means a happy ending?” While the film is about the memory of a love story, this sadness is also filled with hope. 

The film develops a relationship between the painter and the painted, burning through a heart-shattering love story. The two women’s stares at each other are illuminated by the yellow glow of the candle light or the white sun on the beach, building a slow blaze experience for the viewer. Moving slowly and deliberately through pauses and silence, the film uses music sparingly, so that when a song emerges, the viewer indulges. The film’s remarkable quietness comes from the decision not to include a musical score; instead, the sounds of the ocean, fire, and a sigh create the world of Marianne and Héloïse. Without a score, the music cannot suggest how the viewers should feel about what is unfolding before them. Yet, the couple of times music is used, the crescendoing notes relay what the women’s words cannot. By isolating the viewer from music just like the characters, both the characters and the viewers recognize the importance in the couple of times there is music. Instead of using music directly, Sciamma found musicality in the rhythm of the scenes and movements of the actors, controlling the tempo and pace of the steps of the actors. 

For Jean-Paul Sartre, the gaze is always objectifying. He said “we can not perceive the world and at the same time apprehend a look fastened upon us; it must be either one or the other. This is because to perceive is to look at and to apprehend a look is not to apprehend a look-as-object in the world; it is the consciousness of being looked at,” defining the gaze as an oppressive force with the power to subjugate. It’s not the act of seeing, but objectifying. In Portrait, the first interactions between Marianne and Héloïse reflect Sartre’s definition of the gaze. Héloïse defies sitting for her portrait because she refuses to be rendered as an object, with softened features rendering her plain and lifeless. But when she sees Marianne’s representation of her, Héloïse agrees to sit for a portrait. This time, the dynamic between Héloïse and Marianne shifts. Instead of with stolen glances, Marianne and Héloïse peruse each other with open and unabashed gazes. Now as reciprocal collaborators, their love and art entangle; indeed, the director says the film explores “how love makes you love art.” 

In Portrait of a Lady on Fire, Sciamma allows sisterhood to bloom organically from an austere setting. The gaze shared between Héloïse and Marianne isn’t limited to just looking but is extrapolated into the endurance of memory, an idea which is present throughout the film. Whether Marianne is recalling the features of an absent subject or reminiscing on her relationship with Héloïse, the film demonstrates the possibility for one to gaze back into memory. Sciamma says her film looks at how art is a timeless labor of love: something that can be gazed upon for all eternity.