A lecture at the Art Institute of Chicago revealed how Henri Matisse’s Jazz was shaped by illness, experimentation, World War II, and the people around him.
The Tute was packed when my friend Karen and I slipped in for a lecture tied to Matisse’s Jazz: Rhythms and Color, and I’ll admit something mildly embarrassing for a person who likes museums as much as I do: Bedore that evening, Henri Matisse was one of those artists I “knew” mostly by cultural osmosis. I knew the name. I knew he was important. But if you had put a lineup of major works in front of me and demanded I identify the Matisse, there’s every chance I would have chosen wrong.
“The paper cutouts allow me to draw in color.”
That’s part of what made the lecture so good. Emily Braun, the Art Institute of Chicago’s director of curatorial administration and research curator in prints and drawings, didn’t just explain Jazz as a famous artist book from 1947. She made a case for why it truly matters — not only within Matisse’s career, but as the work of an artist trying to solve a problem that had followed him for decades. As she put it, Jazz marked the moment when Matisse finally brought together the two things he had been pursuing all along: color and line.
“The paper cutouts allow me to draw in color,” Matisse said. “For me, it is a simplification. Instead of drawing an outline and filling in the color — one modifying the other — I draw directly in color.”
What made Braun especially fun to listen to was that she clearly had her own crush on the material. During the Q&A, when someone asked what had surprised her most in the research, she answered, “How much I fell in love with Matisse.”
I’m not sure I was quite as smitten, but I did leave with a far more complicated, far more interesting version of Matisse than the flattened museum shop idea I had walked in with.
Braun said the project “undercut all of my misconceptions, that Matisse is only about sensuality, beauty and peacefulness,” and that was exactly the revelation for me too. What I had assumed would be an evening about bright colors and playful shapes turned into something richer: a story about illness, reinvention, wartime fear, and the strange, stubborn persistence of beauty.
What Jazz Actually Is — And Why It Matters
Turns out “jazz” is more than a musical genre. Matisse’s Jazz is an illustrated artist book, published in 1947, combining both images and text. It’s a carefully constructed sequence, where image and language play off each other in a kind of visual rhythm. In fact, the structure is surprisingly deliberate: full-page images are followed by multiple pages of handwritten text, creating what Matisse described as a pacing mechanism.
“The writing served to balance out the chromatic vibrancy of the images, a way to cleanse the palate, if you will, before moving on to the next image,” Braun said.
“The text serves only to accompany my colors,” Matisse wrote. “All that I really have to recount are observations and notes made during the course of my life as a painter.”
And those notes are hardly polished essays. They’re messy, human, immediate — words crossed out, phrases squeezed into margins, thoughts unfolding in real time. You get the sense of an artist thinking on the page rather than perfecting his prose.
Girl in Plumed Hat (Mlle Antoinette) by Matisse, 1919
Matisse’s Jazz: Line + Color
The exhibition at the Art Institute situates Jazz within the broader arc of Matisse’s career — and that’s where things get interesting. Because Jazz isn’t just a beautiful late work. It’s a turning point.
“Jazz proved that his paper cutouts could be a standalone medium, not merely a tool to a broader end,” Braun explained.
And more than that, it solved a problem he had been wrestling with for decades.
For years, Matisse had been exploring two core elements of his work — line and color — but often separately. His drawings pulsed with energy and movement, while his paintings carried the weight of color. But the two never fully merged in a way that satisfied him. With Jazz, they finally do. Or, as he put it in one of the most striking lines: “I draw directly in color.”
That might sound simple, but it’s the kind of simple that comes after a lifetime of trying to figure something out — and nearly losing the ability to work at all.
Girl in Yellow and Blue WIth Guitar by Matisse, 1939
Matisse’s Breakthrough Came After His Body Failed Him
In 1941, Matisse underwent major surgery for duodenal cancer. He nearly died. His recovery was long, painful and permanently altered what his body could do. Standing at an easel for extended periods — the basic physical act of painting — was no longer possible. He described himself in stark terms, writing to his son, “I am not a wounded man. I am a mutilated one.”
Braun framed this moment as a turning point not just in Matisse’s life, but in his work. Faced with physical limitation, he adapted — first turning more fully to drawing, and then, crucially, to cut paper. What might have begun as a workaround became something else entirely: a new way of making art.
And the process itself feels deceptively simple. Assistants painted sheets of paper in vivid gouache, coating them edge to edge in saturated color.
Matisse would then take absurdly large textile shears — “I don’t know how he couldn’t take his fingers off,” Braun said. “It’s a miracle” — and cut directly into the color. No sketch, no outline waiting to be filled. The act of cutting was the drawing.
He would arrange the shapes, pinning them into place, shifting them, adjusting the composition over time. For smaller pieces, he could work from bed or a chair, the board resting in his lap. Once complete, the shapes were glued down, fixing what had been a fluid, evolving arrangement into a final image.
After decades of treating line and color as separate problems, he had found a way to collapse them into a single technique.
There’s something quietly radical about that. The limitation — the body that no longer cooperates — becomes the condition that produces the breakthrough. Not despite the constraint, but because of it.
Self-Portrait by Matisse, 1901
The Invisible Hand Behind the Work: Lydia Delectorskaya
At a certain point in the lecture, one figure kept resurfacing — not in the spotlight, but just behind it: Lydia Delectorskaya.
Braun made it clear that without Delectorskaya, Jazz likely wouldn’t exist in the form we know it. She wasn’t just an assistant in the casual sense, but deeply embedded in both the practical and creative rhythms of Matisse’s studio.
When we talk about those sheets of paper painted in luminous gouache — the raw material for the cutouts — we are also talking about Delectorskaya. As one of Matisse’s key studio assistants, she helped prepare the painted papers and played an essential role in carrying out the physical process that made the work possible.
Delectorskaya was a Russian national living in France during World War II, which made her particularly vulnerable under Nazi occupation and the Vichy regime.
But her presence created tension within Matisse’s family, ultimately contributing to a rupture between Matisse and his wife.
Were they romantically involved, though? The answer, by most accounts, is no. Delectorskaya always maintained a formal, strictly professional relationship with Matisse. That didn’t stop his wife, Amélie, from feeling displaced. She eventually issued an ultimatum: her or Delectorskaya.
Matisse chose his wife. The marriage ended anyway.
At his request, Delectorskaya later returned to work with him.
Interior at Nice by Matisse, 1919 or 1920
Made in the Middle of WWII
Up to this point, you could still choose to see Jazz as a story about artistic reinvention — illness leading to innovation, constraint leading to clarity. That alone would be enough.
But then Braun shifts the frame.
Because these works — the ones that would become Jazz — were created between 1943 and 1944, at the height of World War II, under Nazi occupation in France. And once you really sit with that, it becomes harder to look at them the same way.
Braun was careful here. She didn’t insist on a single interpretation or claim that Matisse was making overt political statements in code. In fact, she emphasized the opposite — that part of the brilliance of Jazz is its openness, its ability to hold multiple meanings at once. But she also grounded it in Matisse’s own words: “It is impossible that an artist should not feel the active effects of the war that makes him think things more profoundly.”
Modern art was under attack. The Nazis had staged their infamous “degenerate art” exhibitions. Works by artists like Matisse were confiscated, removed from museums and sold off — including one of Matisse’s.
The artist’s decisions during this period — where he lived, how he moved, what risks he took — were shaped by a larger sense of responsibility. He had the chance to leave France, but chose to stay, relocating to the South of France. “If everyone who has any value leaves France, what remains of France?” he wrote.
As Braun explained, artists like Matisse and Picasso were seen as cultural anchors during the occupation. Louis Aragon, poet and Resistance figure, put it: “He was France.” Simply continuing to work, to create, to remain, carried its own kind of meaning.
Matisse’s Family and Their Connection to the Resistance
Braun walked us through what was happening not just around Matisse, but inside his immediate circle — and it reframes everything. Because this isn’t an artist vaguely aware of conflict in the distance. This is a father, a husband, a man waiting for news that may or may not come.
His daughter, Marguerite — by all accounts the child he was closest to — joined the French Resistance. She worked as a courier, moving intelligence between cities, operating under aliases, fully aware of the risk. In 1943, she wrote to him, pushing back on what she saw as his detachment: “We cannot and must not be so disinterested in the times we live in. In those who suffer and die.”
Not long after, she was arrested by the Gestapo.
She was imprisoned, tortured and held for months. At one point, Braun noted, the experience was so unbearable that Marguerite attempted to take her own life. Matisse knew none of this at the time. For three months, he had no idea where she was or what had happened to her. A friend recorded the strain he was under — that he barely slept, that the anguish over his wife and daughter never let up.
Eventually, Marguerite escaped during a transfer and made her way to safety, but even then, she couldn’t speak openly about what she had endured. In a letter to her father, she described her arrest as a “serious accident” and her imprisonment as a “hospitalization.” It’s coded, careful almost surreal in its understatement.
The Large Woodcut by Matisse, 1906
Matisse’s estranged wife, Amélie, was also involved in the Resistance — running communications for the underground network. She, too, was arrested in 1944. She was in her 70s.
And the rest of the family was pulled in as well. His son Pierre, based in New York, worked to support artists in exile and help others escape Europe. Another son, Jean, was involved in Resistance efforts tied to British intelligence, possibly even sabotage operations. This wasn’t peripheral involvement. This was active, dangerous, constant.
And so Jazz is being made in this environment — in a moment of fear, uncertainty and constant pressure. Nazi soldiers were present in the city. Raids were happening. People were disappearing.
Which doesn’t mean every image in Jazz is secretly “about” the war.
But it does mean the war is in the room.
War Symbolism in Jazz
Braun didn’t stand there and declare, this image means this, and that one means that. Instead, she offered possibilities. Suggestions. Ways of looking. And once she opened that door, it was very hard to close it again.
Because suddenly, the images in Jazz stop feeling purely playful.
Take Icarus. On the surface, it’s the familiar myth — the boy who flew too close to the sun. But in Matisse’s version, the body floats against a dark field, pierced by bursts of yellow that could be stars… or something more explosive. Aragon, a poet and friend of Matisse, described the figure as resembling a corpse. And Matisse himself suggested those yellow shapes could be either suns or stars — or, in the context of 1943, exploding shells. The red shape at the center reads differently, too. Less decorative. More like a wound.
Or the circus scenes, which at first glance feel light, almost nostalgic. But even those begin to shift. The elephant balancing on a ball — The Nightmare of the White Elephant — starts to feel less like spectacle and more like strain. The body is tense, pierced by jagged red forms. Matisse even said, “The white elephant, it is me.”
The Sword Swallower — is that a performer, or a victim? Is that a tear, or just a line? The ambiguity is the point.
Even something like The Swimmer in the Tank, which could read as theatrical, begins to feel eerie. A pale body suspended in water, observed from the outside. Braun suggested it could evoke something darker — a body floating, passive, exposed, with an audience that cannot (or will not) intervene.
Jazz: What’s in a Name?
And then there’s the title itself: Jazz.
It wasn’t always called that. The project was originally titled Cirque (Circus), which makes immediate sense given the imagery: acrobats, clowns, performers, spectacle. But somewhere along the way, the name shifted.
Braun noted that while Jazz might refer to rhythm, improvisation and visual movement — all of which are clearly present — it also carries a cultural charge in the 1940s. Jazz was associated with American culture, with Black musicians, with hybridity and improvisation — everything Fascist ideology sought to suppress or control. In Nazi Germany, jazz had already been labeled “degenerate music.” At the same time, Allied radio broadcasts used it as a form of counter-propaganda.
So even the title may carry a subtle resistance.
Once you start to see these images through that lens, they gain a kind of tension. A hum beneath the surface.
They become less about escape, and more about endurance.
Still Life With Geranium by Matisse, 1906
The Part That Stayed With Me
By the end of the lecture, I kept coming back to something Braun said during the Q&A — that working on this exhibition “undercut all of my misconceptions: that Matisse is only about sensuality, beauty and peacefulness.”
And then you hear about the surgery. The pain. The fact that he could no longer work the way he once had. You hear about his daughter being tortured by the Gestapo, about months of not knowing if she was alive. You hear that he chose to stay in France when he had the chance to leave. And you start to understand that these cutouts weren’t made in some carefree vacuum.
And maybe that’s why the final Matisse quote felt like the right place to land. It’s simple, almost disarmingly so, but after everything that came before, it carries more weight: “Hate is an all-devouring parasite. Love, on the other hand, sustains the artist.”
It would be easy to read that as sentimental. But in this context — in a book made during war, by a man in pain, surrounded by people at risk — it doesn’t feel soft at all. It’s how he survived. –Wally


