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Updated: May 23, 2025
If you stand a little way from a very hot stove you may be able to see a kind of movement in the air, a quivering of particles or molecular motion, and this is what the pointillistes try to show in their paintings Monet most of all.
The height of the paradox was achieved when a silly nomenclature was devised to meet every vacillation of the human temperament. If you feared to cross the street you suffered from agoraphobia; if you didn't fear to cross the street, that too was a very bad sign. If you painted like Monet, paralysis of the optical centre had set in but why continue?
"Well but Jack I don't see " "Of course you don't see! You think I robbed a bank or waylaid your Moneybags. I did took twelve hundred dollars out of his clothes in a check on the spot wrote it right there at that desk for the Monet, and sent it home to his Palazzo da Avenue.
And through it all Felix Monet stood on one side and Sylvia Molineaux on the other. He awoke to the vigorous prod of a contemptuous boot. A policeman stood over him. "What are you doing here?" the officer bellowed down at him. He rose quickly. The sun was bathing the rejuvenated city in a flood of wonderful gold. "My name is Fred Starratt," he said, quietly.
What, then, is the painter to do, who is anxious to approach, as near as our poor human means will allow, that divine fairyland of nature? Here we touch upon the very foundations of Impressionism. The painter will have to paint with only the seven colours of the spectrum, and discard all the others: that is what Claude Monet has done boldly, adding to them only white and black.
With an hour at lunch and a few shattered hours in the evening, how was it possible to catch up with leisured women, who had been reading steadily from childhood? His brain might be full of names, he might have even heard of Monet and Debussy; the trouble was that he could not string them together into a sentence, he could not make them "tell," he could not quite forget about his stolen umbrella.
At Fairview the presence of Monet had held him almost a willing captive. There was something about the flame burning in that almost frail body that had lighted even the ugliness of Fairview with a strange beauty. He could not think of him as dead. That last moment had been too tinged with the haunting poetry of life.
Like Turner, Monet forced the colour of his shadows, as MacColl points out, and like Monet, Sorolla forces the colour of his shadows but what a compeller of beautiful shadows forces the key to the very verge of the luminous abyss.
There were times when the room seemed crowded with strange people who came and went and gesticulated, people gathering close to the dim lamp which Storch lighted at nightfall. The visions of Monet were a curious mixture of shadow and reality. Sometimes he seemed very elusive, but, again, his face would grow clear to the point of dazzling brightness.
Manet, Degas, Monet and Renoir will present themselves as a glorious quartet of masters, in the history of painting. We must now speak of some personalities who have grown up by their side and who, without being great, offer nevertheless a rich and beautiful series of works. Of these personalities the most considerable is certainly that of M. Camille Pissarro.
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