Art and the Absinthe Drinker

There is something about the supposedly mystical qualities of the mind-altering substances of yore, particularly absinthe, that’s intriguing. Intriguing, that is, in the slightly forbidden way that allows you to imagine it, wonder about it, romanticize it, observe it from afar—and then slam a book closed with a shudder, just as you sense that if you turn one more page you’ll have gone too far.


I’ve often found myself mesmerized by the great volumes written and the art produced by writers and artists under the influence of absinthe. So much has been written about absinthe and its effects, its iron grip on those who were seduced by its charms, or sought refuge in is delicate green poison—hence, the feminine personification of it as “The Green Fairy” or “The Green Muse,” suggesting an imaginary femme fatale, a powerful, other-worldy force and inspiration. Some of the greatest painters in history—Picasso, Van Gogh, Toulouse Lautrec, Modigliani, Manet, Degas, and others—have represented—and/or been inspired by or created under the influence of, for better or for worse, The Green Fairy. Oddly, many of their paintings have portrayed absinthe’s “victim” as female.

Some of the world’s most celebrated literary figures—Oscar Wilde, Rimbaud and his lover, the fin de siècle poet Verlaine, Hemingway—have famously drunk absinthe, some to their detriment; some have been brought to their knees, others completely ruined by its ill effects. Whether muse or demon—or both—absinthe holds an important and mythical place in art and culture.

Why the mystique? Does absinthe deserve all the hype? The sad fact is that, however fashionable absinthe--banned in this country for decades until recently--has become, it has, in the past, driven people to ruin. But with the passage of decades and even centuries, these "ruined" writers and artists and philosophers and visionaries now belong to the ages; their pain no longer affects us personally. Their legacies have endured in spite of their personal torment and it is possible to separate the art from the artist. And suffering and art, as we know, seem to go hand in hand.


Let's be honest about the appeal of absinthe to 21st-century art lovers. There's no shame in liking the sinuous melody with which “L’absinthe” rolls off the tongue or being enchanted by the elixir's beautiful luminescent green color, reminiscent of jade. There is a certain fantastical charm to the notion of a Victorian absintheur, an eloquence—and elegance—to the “absinthe ritual,” to the Pontarlier-style absinthe glass and bistro spoon and fountain and sugar cube. And it’s easy to look at it that way—after all, there is a cushion--the cushion of time--between Edwardian and Victorian absinthe drinkers and us.

Time is a healer, and so is art. When we see the absinthe drinkers in the paintings here, we don't see the illness and suffering, the vomiting, the jitters, the tears, the lost fortunes, the broken marriages of those in the throes of addiction--we see the beauty of a Picasso or a Manet or a Degas. But if you linger just a bit and look a little deeper, you will see the pain of addiction--look at the lost expressions on the faces, the lonliness, the despair. Absinthe drinker or crack addict? It's just a question of semantics.

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