The most noticeable thing about the paintings of Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec is not their often lurid colors or the ukiyo-e-influenced compositions. Nor is it their renowned subject matter: the lively, sordid, effervescent world of fin-de-siecle Paris.

Naturally, these elements are all "high in the mix" at "Toulouse-Lautrec and His Circle," a major exhibition at the Bunkamura looking at the life, work, and connections of the diminutive French genius. But these aspects are too well-known, practically to the point of cliche, so that the experienced exhibition visitor hardly sees them. Instead, what really stands out and, in the process, gives renewed interest to Lautrec's works, is his sensibility, the mind of the artist that the paintings reveal.

As one would expect, the show has several of his paintings — usually in thinly smeared and striped oils — a few sketches, plenty of posters and lithographs and a mish-mash of artworks by other artists who swam in the same late-19th-century Parisian milieu, including Edouard Manet, Pierre Bonnard and Edgar Degas, the latter of whom Lautrec apparently idolized.

For the casual or inexperienced visitor, this exhibition undoubtedly presents — as it is no doubt intended to — a vivid evocation of Belle Epoque Paris, a city of gas-lit chandeliers, champagne, prostitutes, cabaret performers and, as shown by Degas' "La Femme au tub" (1891), Rubenesque women bending over to wash themselves in what look more like waterless birdbaths than bathtubs.

For the experienced visitor, however, the main challenge is to advance beyond the cliches and find something fresh. In my case I concentrated on the mental atmosphere of "intimate alienation" that many of Lautrec's works seem to emit.

A s the highly-educated scion of a noble French family steeped in the history, traditions, and culture of France, and as an instantly recognizable personality and "fixture" on the Parisian entertainment and nightlife scene, Lautrec had an intimate and sophisticated knowledge of his subject matter. But, at the same time, his physical deformities — his legs stopped growing after childhood accidents — meant that he always felt an emotional distance with the world he depicted, observing, rather than participating in, the flirtations, courtships and relationships that blossomed in the highly sexualized environment of Bohemian Paris.

But did this impact on his art and can we see evidence of it at the exhibition? I would suggest that the answer is yes. Almost everything, from his use of light, choice of subject matter and linear style, seems to reveal the mind of someone who can best be described as an "excluded insider."

Why, for example, was he so drawn to dancers? This exhibition includes his famous lithographs "Moulin Rouge, La Goulue" (1891) and "Jane Avril" (1893) both iconic images of can-can dancers. In John Huston's 1952 biopic, Lautrec is shown hobbling around Paris, his shortness emphasized by actor Jose Ferrer who literally played the part on his knees. Watching dancers must have been a very mixed pleasure, serving to remind Lautrec of his disability and nonrunner status in the romantic stakes.

L autrec's outstanding facility as a painter is his ability to simplify and abstract: Looking at a room of moving people, he was able to capture the energy and the characters in a few well-judged, often acidulous lines. Such ability suggests a keen sense, understanding, and discernment married to a high degree of critical distance. An artist more truly assimilated and accepted in that particular milieu would have found it difficult to paint with the freedom that Lautrec did.

The classic example of this is the "Moulin Rouge, la Goulue" poster. The audience in the background and the male dancer in the foreground — the famous Valentin the Boneless — are flippantly reduced to mere silhouettes without much loss of atmosphere, allowing attention to focus on the figure of La Goulue (the Glutton), the stage name of Louise Weber, a can-can dancer from Alsace. Here, the artist's internal distance allows him to take liberties, presenting her in a very unflattering posture. Clearly, in this case the artist was beyond hoping for favors from the dancer, allowing him to paint with a freedom that may have bruised egos but that created a striking and lively work.

Other aspects of his art also have this flavor of intimate alienation, such as the way he uses light — often harsh and garish — and even the long, lingering, almost cynical brush strokes of paint that he spreads across his canvases, as in the portrait "Marcelle" (1894), showing Marcelle Lender, yet another dancer.

But, while most of Lautrec's images have an element of irony, parody, and may occasionally veer toward grotesque exaggeration, Lautrec was no mere caricaturist. Despite his inability to feel completely at home in the fickle and vivacious dark side of the City of Light, he nevertheless felt a deep affection for it, and this quality, too, is never far away in his paintings.

"Toulouse: Lautrec and his Circle" at the Bunkamura Museum of Art runs till Dec. 23; open 10 a.m.-7 p.m. (till 9 p.m. Fri. and Sat.); admission ¥1,400. For more information, visit www.bunkamura.co.jp/english/museum