Could Have Been a Nice Painting—
Without That God Awful Stain
Morée—1916
“It could’ve been beautiful—if not for that stain.”
That’s what most people say.
But was the stain a flaw or something else entirely?
Not damage. A decision.
Not an accident—but sabotage.
This site investigates:
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Why the stain doesn’t behave like typical water damage
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How it was made—or so we believe: a veiled ink wash,
alcohol for removal, and gravity. -
And what it reveals about the pearls, the signature, and the
whole twisted logic of Morée.
Even setting aside the stain, Morée holds historical weight—
for its conceptual treatment of glamour, its visual echoes, and
its strange, early use of authorial concealment.
The Connection That Started It All
Compelling Evidence For A Picabia Connection
What if the first truly radical gestures of Dada didn’t emerge from Zurich or Paris—but from a single, anonymous painting made in New York in 1916?
Morée is unlike anything else from the period. Its veiled drips, scraped signature, and corrosive treatment of glamour aren’t decorative—they’re destructive. In this single work, six conceptual moves appear for the first time: gestures that would later define the language of Visual Dada.
Just months later, Picabia paints Jeanne Marie Bourgeois. It mirrors Morée so precisely—down to the drips—cancelled with finger painted-swipes and stylized decay—that it’s hard to imagine it wasn’t based on direct exposure. This is not influence at a distance. It’s citation.
Together, the two works mark the beginning of a deeper, coded lineage—one that bypassed manifestos and movements in favor of quiet visual sabotage, passed hand to hand through those who knew.
A Painting With Hidden Authority
Morée doesn’t announce itself.
It’s signed anonymously. It doesn’t explain itself.
It doesn’t need to.
Its methods are so deliberate—its attack too
precise—to be guessed.
Whoever made Morée didn’t need to shout.
Have You Ever Seen a Painting Cry?
Morée is a unique creation.
Its surface weeps downward—gravity dragging beauty into collapse.
The drips aren’t painted; they’re trails—
trails not of expression, but erosion.
Not gesture, but undoing.
In 1916, no one was painting like this.
But someone made a painting cry—
for the first, and possibly the only time.