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Claude Monet
by himself
In 1900, Monet has become
famous. On the occasion of an exhibition in Paris a journalist,
Thiébault-Sisson, made him tell his life. On November 26, 1900
the newspaper "Le Temps" published this autobiography in which
Monet builds himself his legend.
My History
I am a Parisian of Paris. I was born there in 1840, under the
reign of the good king Louis-Philippe which was an epoch centred
on business interests and in which the Arts were regarded with
real derision. As it was, my childhood was spent at the Havre
where my father had settled in 1845 in order to better pursue
his own business interests and as it happened, this childhood of
mine, was essentially one of freedom. I was born
undisciplineable. No one was ever able to make me stick to the
rules, not even in my youngest days. It was at home that I
learned most of what I do know. I equated my college life with
that of a prison and I could never resolve to spend my time
there, even for four hours a day when the sun was shinning
bright, the sea was so beautiful and it was so good to run along
the cliff-tops in the fresh air or frolic in the sea.
Up until the age of fourteen or fifteen, much to my father's
great disappointment, I continued this very irregular but
healthy way of life. Somehow, in between, I did acquire the
rudiments of a basic education including some proficiency at
spelling. My studies went no further and did not cause me too
much trouble, as I was able to interweave them with a number of
distractions. I ornamented the margins of my text books, I
decorated the blue paper of my exercise books with ultra
fantastic designs and represented in the most irreverant manner
possible, the features of my masters - either drawingtheir faces
in front view or in profile.
I became very quickly adept at this game. At fifteen, I was
known by the whole of Le Havre as a caricaturist. My reputation
was so well established that I was commissioned by everyone for
these types of portraits. It was in effect, in consideration of
the sheer number of commissions that I received as well as the
insufficiency of the allowance that I received from my mother,
that prompted the audacious decision that I made to charge a fee
for my portraits. This of course, scandalised my family. I would
charge ten to twenty francs depending on whether I liked the
look of my clients or not and this method worked extremely well.
In a month, the number of clients had doubled and I was able to
charge a fixed rate of twenty francs without reducing in any way
the demand. Had I continued this way, I would today be a
millionaire!
Thus, by this means, I became someone of importance in the town.
There, along the shop front of the only framers in business at
Le Havre, were my caricatures, insolently sprawled-out in groups
of five or six, to be seen in full in little gold frames, under
glass like real works of art. Moreover, when I saw strollers
gathering to gap at them with admiration and cry "It is so and
so!", I was bursting with pride.
I should say, however, that there was a flaw to this otherwise
perfect situation. There was often, in this same shop window,
hanging just above my own works, a number of maritime scenes
that I found, along with most of the inhabitants of the Havre,
revolting. I was so vexed at having to endure this enforced
contact, that I did not tary to slander this idiot who, thinking
himself an artist had dared to sign his works "Boudin". For me,
who had been used to Gudin's seascapes - with their arbitrary
colourations, false touches and invented perspectives so much in
use by fashionable artists at the time - Boudin's sincere little
compositions with his correctly deliniated little figures, his
pleasant boats, his ever so perfect skies and water, drawn and
painted only from nature, held no artistic value for me. His
fidelity seemed suspect. Hence, his paintings inspired me with a
terrible aversion and without even having met the man, I
disliked him intensely. Often, the framer would say: "You should
meet Mister Boudin. Despite what is said about him, he is a
professional who knows his work. He studied in Paris at the
Academy Beaux-Arts. He could give you some useful advice."
But I resisted, dug my heals in . What could I possibly learn
from such a ridiculous fellow?
Despite myself, however, the day did arrive when fate thrust me
into Boudin's presence. He was at the back of the shop and I had
not noticed him as I entered. The framer immediately took the
opportunity to introduce me saying: "See here, Mister Boudin,
this is the young man with so much talent for caricature!"
Boudin immediately coming towards me, complimented me with his
gentle voice and said: "I always look at your sketches with
pleasure; they are amusing, animated, they seem to have been
done with ease. You have talent, one can see that straight away.
But you are not, I hope, going to keep doing the same thing. It
is very good for starting off, but you will get bored with just
doing caricatures. Study, learn to look, paint and draw. Do some
landscapes. It is so beautiful the sea and sky, animals, people
and trees just as nature made them, with their characters, their
true essence of being, in the light, within the atmosphere, just
as things are."
But Boudin's exhortations left no impression on me even if,
after all, the man himself was agreable to me. He was convinced,
sincere. I could feel it, but I could not appreciate his
paintings and when he offered to take me with him to paint
outdoors in the open countryside, I always found a pretext and
refused politely. But when summer came, I was more or less free
to dispose of my time as I wished and I had no feasible excuse
left to give him and gave in. Thus it was, that Boudin - with
his inexhaustable kindness - took it upon himself to educate me.
With time, my eyes began to open and I really started to
understand nature. I also leaned to love it. I would analyse its
forms with my pencil. I would study its colourations. Six months
later - not withstandings my mother's objections who was
seriously becoming worried about my frequentations of a man like
Boudin, I squarely announced to my father, that I intended to
become a painter and was moving to Paris to learn.
"You will not get a penny!"
"I shall do without."
In effect, I was able to do without. I had already, long ago,
managed to 'line my purse'. The sales from my caricatures had
taken care of that. I had often been able to execute in one day
, seven or eight commissioned portraits. At a "Louis" for each,
my income had flourished and I had taken the habit from the
start, to deposit the revenue with one one of my aunts, keeping
for my pocket money only insignificant amounts. At sixteen, with
two thousand francs, one believes onself to be rich! Armed with
references acquired through admirers of Boudin who had
connections with Monginot, Troyon and Amand Gautier, I promptly
left for Paris without a care in the world.
To begin with, it took a while for me to find my feet. I went to
visit the artists to whom I had been introduced. I received some
excellent advice but also some appalling suggestions. Was it not
the case that Troyon had tried to make me attend Couture's
workshop? Needless to say, how vehemently I had refused that
idea. It even had the effect of cooling my estimation of Troyon,
at least for a short while. I stopped seeing him and associated
instead only with artists who were looking for something. At
that time, I met Pissarro who had not yet thought of being a
rebel and was simply working in Corot's style. I felt this to be
a good model to emulate and I followed suit. Having said this,
for the whole duration of my four years in Paris - which was
interdispersed with frequent visits to Le Havre anyhow - it was
mainly Boudin's advice that I adhered to, even given my
inclination to enlarge upon nature.
I reached my twentieth year and the time when I should be
conscripted into the army was drawing near. This did not provoke
fear in me nor did it worry my family. My escape had not been
forgiven and if they had let me live my life as I wished for
those four years, it was only because they hoped to bring me
back to the fold once faced with military service. They assumed,
that having had the opportunity to try and make my own way in
the world, I would soon tire of it and return home, sensibly,
getting-down to my family's business interests. If I refused,
they would cut-off my allowance or should I turn-out badly, they
would simply let me go.
They were wrong. The seven years which to many others seemed so
difficult, appeared to me to be full of charm. A friend - who
was a "chass d'Af" and who loved military life, had communicated
to me his enthusiasm and suffused me with his sense of
adventure. Nothing seemed more attractive than the endless
trekking under the sun, the raids, the crackle of the
gun-powder, the sabre-rattling, the nights spent under canvass
in the desert and I imperiously waved aside all my father's
objections. I was 'bad news' and I obtained, on demand, that I
should be sent to a regiment in Africa and left.
I spent two really charming years in Algeria. There was always
something new to see and in my spare time, I tried to capture
what I saw. You cannot imagine the extent of what I learned and
how much my ability to see improved. I was not immediately aware
of this. The impressions of light and colour that I gained there
were, to some extent, put aside later, but the kernal of my
future researches came from them.
At the end of the two years, I became seriously ill. I was sent
back home. My six months of convalescence were spent drawing and
painting with renewed fervour. Seeing me thus, so determined
despite the fact that I was very weak with fever, my father
became convinced that nothing would sway me from my resolve and
that no obstacle could stand in the way of my chosen vocation,
so that as a result of both lassitude as well as fear of losing
me should I go back to Africa (as the doctor had warned), he
relented and decided towards the end of my leave, to buy me out.
"But, it must be well understood that you are to work seriously
this time. I want to see you in a workshop, under the discipline
of a well-known master. If you return to your previous
independence, I will cut off your allowance without any
concessions. Is that understood?" His plan only half satisfied
me, but I was well aware that since my father was for once,
prepared to consider things from my point of view, it was
necessary not to refuse.
I accepted and it was settled that I should, in Paris, be under
the artistic tutelage of the painter Toulmouche, who had just
married one of my cousins. He would guide me and would provide
regular reports on my work.
One sunny morning, I arrived at Toulmouche's with a pile of my
sketches which he greatly appreciated. "You have promise but you
will have to channel your impetus. You will be sent to Mister
Gleyre. He is the kind of sedate and wise master you need." So I
set up my easel, grumbling, in the studio that this famous
artist ran for students. The first week, I worked there
conscientiously and produced with as much application as dash, a
life-drawing that Mister Gleyre corrected on the Monday.
The following week, when he passed in front of me, he sat down
and squarely positioned on my chair, looked at my piece. I could
then see him turn around, inclining his serious face with a
satisfied air and I heard him say to me while smiling: "Not bad,
not at all bad this, but it is too much like the real model. You
have a stocky man and you depict him as stocky. He has enormous
feet and you reproduce them. It is very ugly. Remember, young
man, that when one executes a face, one should always think back
to the Classical. Nature, my friend, serves well as a means to
study but offers no real interest. Style is the only thing that
matters."
I was flabbergasted. The truth, life, nature - all that provoked
emotions in me - all that constituted for me the real essence
and the unique "raison d'être" of art, did not exist for this
man! I would not stay with him. I did not believe myself to have
been born to follow his pursuit of lost illusions and other
nonsenses. What was the use of persisting?
I did however, wait a few weeks so as not to exasperate my
family. I did continue to attend but just stayed long enough to
execute a rough sketch copied from the model and to be there for
the correction. I then cleared out. I had in any case, found
some companions that I liked at the studio. They had nothing
superficial about their natures. These were Renoir and Sisley
whom I would not from then on, loose sight of. There was also
Bazille, who immediately became an intimate friend and would
have made a name for himself, had he lived. Neither of them
manifested any more than I did, any enthusiasm for an education,
which both contravened their sense of logic as well as their
temperaments.
I immediately preached revolt to them. Our exodus resolved upon,
we left and took a studio which we shared, Bazille and I.
I forgot to tell you that I had recently made the aquaintance of
Jongkind. It was during my convalescence-leave, one beautiful
afternoon when I was working near Le Havre at a farm. A cow was
grazing in a field and the idea came to me to draw the animal.
But this animal was capricious and kept moving with every second
that went by. With my easel held in one hand and my stool in the
other, I would follow her in order to regain as best as was
possible, my point of view. My antics must have been very funny
to be sure, as I heard behind me, a great roar of laughter. I
turned around and saw a giant bursting out with laughter. But
this giant was a good sort. "Wait for me to help you", he said.
The giant then, with enormous strides came up to the cow and got
hold of its horns in order to contraint it to 'pose'. The cow,
naturally, not being used to this sort of thing, resisted. This
time, it was my turn to explode with meriment and the giant,
crestfallen, let go of the beast and came over to me for a
little chat.
He was an English man, just passing through, greatly in love
with painting and very informed about what was going on in our
country.
"So, you paint landscapes", he said.
"Well, yes."
"Do you know Jongkind?"
"No, but I have seen some of his paintings"
"What do you think about it?"
"It is very good"
"Too right, do you know that he is here?"
"Are you sure?"
"He lives at Honfleur. Would you like to meet him?"
"Certainly, I would. Are you one of his friends ?"
"I have never seen him, but as soon as I learned he was here, I
sent him my calling card. It is a good opportunity and I am
going to invite him and yourself, for lunch."
To my great surprise, the English man kept to his word and the
following Sunday, the three of us had lunch together. Never was
a meal so gay. It took place outdoors in a little country garden
under some trees and the food was wholesome country fare. But,
with a full glass of wine in his hand, sitting between two
obviously sincere admirers, Jongkind did not quite feel at ease.
The unexpected aspect of this meeting amused him but he was not
accustomed to this sort of thing. His painting was too new and
far too artistic to be appreciated in 1862 at his prices.
Moreover, no one was as bad at making himself valued, as he was.
He was a straight-forward and simple kind of man, who could
hardly speak bad French and was very shy. But he was very
outgoing that day. He asked to see my sketches, invited me to
come and work with him, explained the whys and wherefores
underlining his work and thereby, completed the training that I
had already received from Boudin. He became from this moment, my
true master and it to him, that I owe the definitive training of
my eyes.
I saw him again often in Paris. No need to say how much my
painting improved. The progress that I made was rapid and three
years later, I was exhibiting. The two seascapes that I had sent
were received and given pride of place, hung high-up in good
view. It was a great success. The same unanimous praise was
given in 1866 for a large portrait that you saw at Durand-Ruel
and which was there for a long time "The Woman in Green". The
newspapers carried my name right to Le Havre and my family, at
last, granted me some estimation. With this estimation came a
renewed allowance. I was swimming in opulence, at least, for a
while as we were to fall out again later. I was ready to
recklessly hurl myself into the open.
It was a rather dangerous novelty. No one had attempted it, not
even Manet, who innovated only later, after me. His painting was
still very conventional and I still remember the contemptuous
way in which he spoke of my beginnings. It was in 1867, my style
had began to stand out, but for all that, it was far from
revolutionary. I was still a long way off from my adoption of
the principle of the division of colours - which turned so many
people against me, but I was partially trying it out and would
practice different effects of light and colour which contravened
received ideas. The selection committee, which was all in my
favour in the beginning, turned against me and when I presented
my new painting to the 'Salon', I was shamefully rejected.
I did however, find a means of exhibiting, but elswhere. Touched
by my entreaties, a dealer who had his shop at the 'rue Auber',
did consent to show a seascape of mine which had been refused by
the 'Palais de L'Industrie'. There were cries of indignation.
One evening as I stopped in the road, joining a group of
strollers to hear what was being said of me, I saw Manet
arriving with two or three of his friends. The party stopped,
looked and Manet shrugging his shoulders, cried-out
contempteously: "Look at this young man who wants to paint from
nature; as though the ancients had never thought about it!"
Manet held an old grudge against me. At the 'Salon' of 1866, the
day of the opening, he had been met from the start, with
acclamations. "Excellent, my friend, your picture!" Hand-shakes,
'bravos' and felicitations ensued. Manet - as you can imagine -
was exultant. You can also imagine his surprise when he
discovered that the canvas which was getting so much praise, was
one of mine. It was "The Woman in Green". As fate would have it,
just as he was trying to slip away, he stumbled on a group of
people made up of Bazille and myself. "Ah, my friend, it is
disgusting, I am furious! One is only complimenting me on a
painting that is not even by me. One would think it is a hoax."
When, the next day, Astruc informed him that he had voiced his
disatisfaction in front of the author of the painting and
proposed to introduce him to me, Manet with a shrug, flatly
refused. He retained the grudge for the bad turn I had played on
him, entirely unwittingly. For once he had been praised for a
masterly touch and this touch was not his. This was a bitter
blow for someone which such sensitivity.
It was not until 1869 that I met him again, but this time, we
became friends immediately. From the first meeting, he invited
me to join him every evening in a café of the 'Batignolles'
where he and his friends would gather to talk at the end of a
day spent at their studios. I would meet there, Fantin-Latour
and Cézanne, Degas - who arrived shortly afterwards from Italy,
the art critic Duranty, Emile Zola who was just starting-off in
the literary world and a number of others. I would take Sisley,
Bazille and Renoir. There was nothing more interesting than
these discussions with their perpetual differences of opinion.
Our mind and souls were stimulated. We would encourage each
other to make unbiased and sincere researches. We would nourish
each other with enthusiasm which had the power to sustain us for
weeks on end, until we were able to give definite form to the
idea. One would always leave, all the better immersed, the will
stronger, our thinking more defined and clear.
The war came. I had just got married. I went to England and
found, in London, Bonvin and Pissarro. I also experienced
poverty there. England did not want our paintings and things
were hard. But as fate would have it, I met Daubigny who, in the
past had shown some interest in me. At the time, he was doing
views of the Thames which were very well liked by the English.
My situation stirred his compassion. "I can see what you need. I
will find a dealer for you", he said. The next day, I made the
acquaintance of Durand-Ruel.
Durand-Ruel, became for us, our saviour. For more than fifteen
years, my painting as well as that of Renoir, Sisley and
Pissarro had no other market than through him. One day came when
he was forced to restrain himself and buy from us less
regularly. We thought ruin was facing us but it was success that
was just about to come. Offered to Petit and the Boussod, our
works found through them some buyers. They were judged not to be
quite as bad as previously thought. At Durand-Ruel, they were
not wanted, but once placed with others, confidence increased
and people bought. The 'pendulum was in motion'. Today, everyone
wants to know us.
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