In this series, the curatorial team presents one work from the Meural art library we find essential. (See all installments.)

I had to stare at this work for a while before I understood why, exactly, I was staring. It’s Self-Portrait by Leonora Carrington, an artist we frequently have on our walls here at Meural HQ. (In fact, we love Carrington so much that we named a style of our Canvas after her.) After years of working at Meural, I’ve seen Self-Portrait hundreds of times, thousands maybe—but now there was something new, another work it reminded me of. When I figured out what it was, and looked it up, I was stunned.

The work is Birthday, and it’s by Dorothea Tanning, a name I can only assume Carrington would eventually know. They were both Surrealist painters in the thick of the 20th century; they both wrote books; they both lived long, prolific lives (Carrington died in 2011 at the age of 94, Tanning in 2012 at 101). And they were both lovers of the same man.

Carrington and Max Ernst were an infamous couple. She met his work before she met him, and when they did come face-to-face, at a party in London in 1937, they returned to Paris together; Ernst would soon separate from his wife. (The dates are a bit vague, but their tryst seems to align with the creation of Self-Portrait, which was made between 1937 and 1938.) The couple remained together until 1939, when, due to the complicated politics of World War II, Ernst was detained for being an “undesirable foreigner.” Carrington, having no idea when or if he would return, soon sold their house to pay off debts, and moved to Spain. As it happens, Ernst was released a few weeks later, only to be arrested by the Gestapo. Luckily for him, his connections ran far and wide. With the help of Peggy Guggenheim (of Guggenheim fame), Ernst fled to America. Guggenheim was known to have gone great lengths to further the careers of artists she supported, but with Ernst she seemed to have other designs. At the end of 1941, the two married.

But where did this all leave Carrington? Nowhere good, initially. In Spain she had a breakdown, at the British Embassy in Madrid. She was hospitalized, given convulsive therapy, and treated with powerful barbiturates. On release, she was taken to Lisbon, Portugal, but then ran away to Mexico City with the help of Mexican poet and journalist Renato Leduc. (They were married—with love perhaps, but their union served the purpose of granting Carrington diplomatic immunity.) After they divorced, in 1943, Carrington split her time between Mexico and New York City. She would later marry the Hungarian photographer and darkroom manager Emerico “Chiki” Weisz, with whom she had two sons. There are no records of a reunion between her and Ernst.

Ernst and Guggenheim’s union would not last long. In 1942, Ernst stopped by the studio of a 32-year-old painter to consider her work for a gallery (one which was, of course, owned by Guggenheim). One particular painting enchanted him the most: you guessed it, Birthday. Tanning and Ernst would soon fall in love, living together in New York and then in Sedona, Arizona, where they frequently played host to the era’s cultural elites—Henri Cartier-Bresson, Lee Miller, George Balanchine, and Dylan Thomas to name a few. In 1946 they were married in a double wedding with Man Ray and Juliet Browner, and would remain together until Ernst’s death, in 1976.

It is hard to imagine Ernst seeing Tanning’s Birthday and not thinking of Carrington’s Self-Portrait (Birthday is also a self-portrait). It’s even harder to imagine that Tanning hadn’t seen Self-Portrait herself. As unfair as that thought may be, the similarities are striking, and almost too many to count. Both subjects are placed in the middle of a room by themselves, their feet nearly at the same angle, their faces sharing a similar indifference. One is wearing a shirt and the other isn’t, but Carrington’s blazer opens in much the same way Tanning’s blouse does. In the background of both is an escape route, a limitless, foreshortened path—of trees in Self-Portrait, of open doors in Birthday. (Tanning seems to prefer her woods not in the background but as a garment.) Both women hold firmly with the hand further from the viewer, as if bracing themselves, or holding onto reality.

And of course, to not miss the elephant in the room (or rather, the graceful hyena and the rabid winged monkey), both feature a mysterious animal, one that’s seemingly under the control of the subject. (It is this feature of each that places it firmly in the category of Surrealism.) If Carrington’s hair is more outrageous than Tanning’s, they each match the respective realism of their worlds. Actually, if I’m compelled to note any difference, it’s where the light originates. In Self-Portrait, it comes from the distance, with the shadows approaching the viewer; in Birthday, it’s the opposite. Ironically enough—and I don’t want to give this too much creedence—this aligns with the relation of Ernst to each artist. Carrington likely painted Self-Portrait with her meeting with Ernst in back of her, while Tanning painted Birthday with her first contact with Ernst in the future.

All of this isn’t to say that the lives and careers of the two artists should be looked at through the lens of Ernst. Carrington and Tanning were both incredibly complex, notoriously obscure artists, with sprawling artistic outputs that reached far beyond the canvas. But when you juxtapose these two works, it’s hard not to keep in mind the tangible through line between them. Without it the connection is nothing but surreal.

— Andrew Lipstein, Head of Editorial