MARIE HORTENSE FIQUET
| During this particular stay in Paris, my attitude ranged from pessimism to optimism, without much in between. For the moment, it was optimism. I looked forward to the challenge of my work, I was reasonably adjusted and there was no questioning of the decision to seek a career as a professional painter. I found this strange after so many years of rejection at the Salon d'Automne, of frustrations in mastering the elements of my work, and in the multitude of social and family problems which had made me miserable. |
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A number of still-life paintings had provided the first authentic feeling of progress, of stumbling on to something of importance, of achieving a solid step toward the distant goals which had tantalized me from the time that I realized that the future was up to me and not something that was going to be determined by others. In these works I felt an approach to painting that I had dreamed about over the years, long sought objectives, which were finally giving way to the varied experimentation I had done in Aix-en-Provence as well as Paris. The steps were slow and fraught with complex options, many problems accumulated, but they did move forward, and that was the critical factor. The exhilaration from this, produced an extraordinary effect on my mentality: I became interested in dialogue, most unusual for me, and I became, more extravert, willing to meet and associate with people. I saw more of Monet, for example, who was back in Paris after spending six months at Bazille's country house in Normandy. He and Bazille were working on enormous canvasses for the Salon d'Automne, inspired by Manet's "Le Dejeuner sur I'Herbe." Both expected the paintings to create a sensation at the exhibition, and Monet saw it as a big chance to break the barriers which made it so difficult for the radical painters. Renoir, not as sanguine as Monet and Bazille about his prospects, was working on a series of Moroccan dancers as subject-matter for his painting, hoping the exotic qualities might help him at the Salon d'Automne. He introduced me to Marie Hortense Fiquet, a model, from Saligny in the Jura, who lived with a relative at 59 Rue Andre Antoine, in the Montmartre. "I see her regularly," I said in a letter to Pissarro, "surprised at finding myself being in such a position, and, remarkably, talking my head off. It's a great relief because keeping the nose on a canvas has a bad effect eventually, leaving you drained. I know you are acquainted with this condition, that you suffer from it, and find relief with that extraordinary family of yours. As for myself, not possessing your equanimity of character, it is slightly more difficult. During my down periods, I find it terribly hard to account for my conduct, which tends to get out of hand. I regret to tell you that with such pleasant company on hand, I spend more time promenading along the Place Clichy instead of holding the brush. Well, its beneficial to get rid of the unpleasantness, the loneliness, and enjoy things for a change. My affairs here, as you can see from this letter, are much improved from last year, when I couldn't believe that going on made much sense. We sometimes forget, I believe, that life is full of surprises for us, that there are many unexpected adventures, those in particular, which are furthest from our minds. It's the latter that intrigues me, having experienced it a few times, for both good and bad results. You have reminded me, Camille, about the importance of seeing the bright side of life, that it is ill-advised to always expect the worst of every situation, but with my usual pigheadedness, I have ignored the idea. My terrible burden is to live in the deep shadows, and, as I have said so often, it is the way events work out. Your suggestion, when I met you at Durand-Ruel's last year, makes a lot of sense if I can avoid the disastrous possibilities ahead of me." "My painting, even with the socializing I do these days, moves forward, but with that slow painful step by step procedure which is takes everything out of you. It is so damned difficult, when you are trying to develop ideas, to know where you stand, because what looks good one moment, is unacceptable when you look at it again. I go over different angles many times, repeat the process over and over, until the excessive deliberation makes it impossible see clearly. The wall you press against gives a little bit here and there, encouraging you to go ahead, hopeful of arriving at something worthwhile. Nevertheless, Camille, even if this sounds pessimistic, I want to assure you that this is not the case, that, generally, I intend to rough it out to the end. Mostly, these days, with the additional reponsibilities I have taken on, I worry excessively over the complications of the insecurity that plagues me. I understand that the situation is far from perfect for a person in my precarious circumstances--making a connection that is already bad-much worse. If, by chance, information about my activities reach hostile ears, there will be serious consequences, probably bringing the curtain down for good. The main thing from my strategic position, is that I tread softly--very softly--avoiding situations which might compromise me, and hope for the best. The threat of this never leaves my mind because the contretemps with the family is an ongoing thing with the issue of my continued allowance hanging by a thin thread. I keep these vile thoughts from my head by working furiously on the two canvasses I prepare for the Salon d'Automne, trying to implement the ideas which occured to me when I was painting landscapes in the vicinity of the Barrage with Zola last summer in Aix-en-Provence. I expect the technique of the painting to be rough to the sensibilities of the "Hanging Committee," crudely offensive in terms of subject-matter, and totally devoid of the polished imbecility which they consider to be the highest form of artistic expression--what idiots they are!" The critic, Ballu, writing for La Cravache, centered his attention on the paintings I submitted at the Barracks for the judgement of the "Hanging Committee," toadying to the academic theoretical viewpoint by seizing on my work as a prime example of what to expect if the radical artists were allowed to worm their way into the establishment that manufactured, promoted, and sold paintings based only on their own concept of artistic truth. Ballu, was typical of the conservative press which echoed the familiar trumpetings that were made from the olympian heights of the Academie Ecole des Beaux-Arts, leaving no room for compromise, no doubts in the minds of his readers, about the dangers inherent in the dissident movement. "Anarchist revolutionaries," he wrote, "misguided daubers, men who seek to to destroy the present system, madmen who perist in thrusting bad painting before time "Hanging Committee," must eventually understand that those of us who have faith in the traditions of French art, do not intend to retreat from facing their aggressive attitudes. Monsieur Cezanne," he had continued, singling me out, "who desires respectability as an artist, must be told, in no uncertain terms, that his stubborn attempts to be hung in the Salon d'Automne, are doomed to failure. The vulgarities he puts forward for judging are nothing more than the demented expresions of a supreme egotist, a malcontent without a shred of talent, who is blind to his inadequacies!" Ballu praised the academicians for resisting radicals who had accomplished nothing: "Incompetents," he concluded, "who argue without reason, accuse without evidence, revolutionaries without a cause!" Reading this made no impression at all; I had heard it all before; I understood what was back of it was propaganda. My mood continued to be good; I was aware now that the academics operated out of fear for their established monopoly of art; the destruction of all that they had created with government assistance, and by their own unrelenting advocacy of dogmatic theoretical concepts. Pissarro shared my opinion on the frantic maneuvering by the conservative faction, and he suggested that we gave too much attention to what they did, and not enough to what the radicals should do: "Forward steps," he told me, "have been made in the past year. The criticism we hear from reviewers, who merely echo a publisher's viewpoint, or that of the establishment, must not be given excessive credence in the truth or untruths of their writing. It makes more sense to listen to liberal critics like Theodore Duret, Octave Mirbeau, or Gustave Geffroy, who consistently support the dissident demand for equity at the Salon d'Automne. We must consider the bigoted nature of articles in the conservative press as a clear indication that the academic theoretical,base is not infallible, that the influx of fresh ideas was making inroads at every level of bureaucracy, even up to high officials in government. "We," Pissarro affirmed, "should feel honored by the fact that the Academie, shaky in its convictions, feel we must be attacked, and eventually, to protect their position, eliminated." Referring to his own painting, he said: "I am exploring the subjects north of Paris; they are absolutely splendid; they proliferate everywhere; each, astonishingly, more attractive than the other! I walk a great deal," he continued, "many kilometers, setting up in Pontoise, Auvers-sur-Oise, Montgeroult, Marines, Valmondois, Argenteuil, Osny, La Roche Guyon, Vetheuil, Meulan, and Giverny, where Monet paints, evidently satisfied with what he is able to find. I believe I am making progress, stimulated by the brilliant light of the coastal area along the channel, finding smashing opportunities to pull off some really good painting. When I was in the area, I did several river scenes near Montgerault which showed factories belching smoke, small industrial barges, and other lamentable commercial objects, knowing all the time that the bourgeois collectors would not be interested in such scenes. Nevertheless, Cezanne, I still follow my nose at times, forgetting such things in the sheer joy of creation, ignoring the guidelines of reaching the public ......" Hearing Pissarro talk about outdoor painting, reminded me of Aix-en-Provence, of clean air, and the reaching distances .... I was homesick for the Midi, for the familiar configurations, for the sight of Mont Saint-Victoire, and I was eager to escape the frenetic Paris atmosphere. Taking Hortense with me was not a concern, I believed, because I could secret her in L'Estaque, far from the inquisitive eye of the family, and I could see no problem in dividing my time between L'Estaque, the house on the Rue Boulegon, or at the Jas de Bouffan.... |
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