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Updated: June 15, 2025
Certainly up to the time of Géricault painting in general held itself rather pedantically aloof from poetry. Claude, Chardin, what may be called the illustrated vers de société of the Louis Quinze painters of Watteau and Fragonard even Prudhon, did little to change the prevailing color and tone. Claude's art is, in manner, thoroughly classic. His personal influence was perhaps first felt by Corot.
A great painter writes us a letter, tells us of the things he has seen or heard or felt, gives us news of the world wherein he lives. He expresses his personality to us, and personality in art is a thing incalculable. Corot's Arcadia landscape delights us because it is the distilled essence of the vision, heart, and character of the personality called Corot.
These things were a great cross to Corot pere, and the dulness of the boy made the good father grow old before his time so the father alleged. Were the woes of parents written in books, the world would not be big enough to contain the books. Camille Corot was a failure he was big, fat, lazy, and tantalizingly good-natured.
Sweet winds blew from the sunny lake beside her, and small waves sputtered on the meadowy shore. She leaped a tiny creek bowered in pussy-willow buds. She was nearing a frivolous grove of birch and poplar and wild plum trees. The poplar foliage had the downiness of a Corot arbor; the green and silver trunks were as candid as the birches, as slender and lustrous as the limbs of a Pierrot.
Already, in the character of Roudine, he had failed, in the strangest way, to catch the likeness of Bakounine, that fiery organiser of insurrection, whom all Europe knew, and whom he had selected as his model. Conceive Corot or Millet trying to paint some figure out of the Last Judgment after Michael Angelo!
Why else should the man, who knows pictures as I know you, pay twenty thousand guineas for a footling copy of a Corot that wouldn't deceive a a Royal Academician! Yes: he bid it in for you the sorry fool! bought with his own money the evidence of your infatuation for his predecessor in your affections and expects you here to-night to receive it from him and pay him his price!
Turner was born in London, the son of a barber, and Fate held him so in leash that he never got beyond the sound of Bow Bells until he was a man grown. Corot was born in Paris, and his first outdoor sketch, made at twenty-two, was done amidst the din and jostle of the quays of the Seine.
"A Corot. He was a famous French artist. That was father's favorite picture." "Sho! Well, I like it fust-rate myself. Did 'Bije did your father know this Mr. Corot well?" "Know him? Certainly not. Why should you think such a thing as that?" "Well, he bought the picture of him, and so I s'pose likely he knew him.
The golden sunshine of Claude and the pearly mist of Corot belonged to their way of looking at nature as much as the color of their eyes and hair belonged to their personalities. So with the poets; for Wordsworth the air is always serene and clear, for Byron the sky is uncertain between storm and sunshine.
The captain looked at her, opened his mouth to speak, shut it again, and, rising, walked across the room. Adjusting his glasses, he inspected the Corot in silence for a few minutes. Then he drew a long breath. "Well!" he sighed. "Well." Then, after an interval, "Was this the only one he ever painted?" "The only one? The only picture Corot painted? Of course not! There are many more."
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