Last Thursday I went to the Musee d'Orsay for the evening opening hours--6-9 pm. This is a good way to avoid the hordes that crowd it during the day. It was a pleasant day, so I elected to walk there (and back) and thoroughly enjoyed that. The tourists are coming back, sigh, but still a walk down the quai is not a madhouse. Nor was the museum, thankfully. I bought a ticket online, but there was absolutely no line when I arrived at 6:15. Popped right in!
My goal was to see to see the Seurats and Sisleys, but on arriving I realized that I had another agenda: the connection between my boy Ed and his gal Berthe Morisot.
I started with The Balcony. This is one of my all-time faves. The best part was that I had it pretty much all to myself. I spent a good 15 minutes just soaking it in, waiting for the occasional tourist to step in front of me and take a picture. Then, I noticed on the adjacent wall a small painting by Manet of Berthe with Violets, very similar to the one I saw at the Marmottan. Smoldering. My word, what a babe. Seriously, they had a thing going on...
These were downstairs. I am forever confused about how they organize the works in these museums. These two paintings (and a few others by Ed) were in a gallery that included Matisse and some Gaugin. Pre-impressionist?
In another gallery on the first floor I saw Olympia. Well, well, guess who? I dunno what the 'experts' say, but I am here to tell ya, that was Berthe. Ooo-la-la. I mean, I don't know about the body, but for sure, those were her eyes. Right next to Olympia was a painting of Zola, with sketches of Olympia in the background, and an art history book in hand. Ed knew what he was doing, yep.
Then I headed upstairs to the Impressionist/Neo-Impressionist/Post-Impressionist gallery. There I found the other painting that I had looked forward to seeing: Dejenuer sur L'Herbe. Oh man, what a painting. I spent another half hour here, again occasionally interrupted by the photo takers, but enjoying all the details that I have seen but haven't, if you know what I mean. The flying bird, the still life (bread, grapes and cheese), the classic nude, the boat, tied up in the middle ground. Comments on art and aesthetics that drove the critics mad excited me yet again, on a whole new level.
Then, I wandered through the rest of the gallery. I have to say, they have some of the best of the best here, including Monet. Here I saw for the first time that it was his early works that I admire so much--the stuff from the 1860's through the '70's. This man had what I would call 'the hand'. Just compared with Sisleys, Pissaro's and (the sole) Morisot, he just had the touch. It makes the others look like they were stabbing at the canvas with their brushes.
Now after about 1880 or so, Monet seems to have lost the touch imho. After this, he had a much 'looser' (read less skilled) touch, leading into the Haystacks, the Amiens series and what I consider to be the worst, the Water Lilies. I know, I know, everyone fawns over these, but I seriously think they show a famous painter in decline.
By the way, a recent article I happened across revealed that he likely felt this way as well. Shortly before a major exhibition in 1908, he took a knife and a sharp pen to several dozen of his works, declaring them unfit. He might have been right--they works are lost to history, though. I suspect he would be horrified to discover what Michel did with all the works he didn't get around to destroying. Perhaps he just forgot about them, down in the basement?
In any case, the guy was a master, no doubt, but as I am sure he himself realized, how long can one sustain the mastery? How do you know when you are done? Actually, give him credit--he loved to paint, and sometimes it's the process, not the result that matters. My personal sense is that he grew to love his actual gardens at Giverny more than painting them. It's kind of sad that those works have come to define his oeuvre. After all the early stuff was the good shit.
After this, I was getting beat down and hurried through the rest of the gallery. I did enjoy the works by Seurat and Cross and one in particular by Caillebotte (whose lesser works were featured at the Marmottan) with the guys refinishing a floor, The Planers.
Out of energy, I whipped by all the crappy Degas and Renoir that everyone loves so much, leading me to wonder if look like all those folks I get so annoyed at, racing through the galleries without actually looking at the works. In my case, I'd like to think it's because I've been there, done that, but to them, I must look like the rest of the heathens, sigh.
On my way out, I noticed a small painting that resonated enough to stop me. On inspection, it was another Manet. Subject? Yep, Berthe! Just a study really, but even as I was on the move, it caught my eye. Seriously those two...
My goal was to see to see the Seurats and Sisleys, but on arriving I realized that I had another agenda: the connection between my boy Ed and his gal Berthe Morisot.
I started with The Balcony. This is one of my all-time faves. The best part was that I had it pretty much all to myself. I spent a good 15 minutes just soaking it in, waiting for the occasional tourist to step in front of me and take a picture. Then, I noticed on the adjacent wall a small painting by Manet of Berthe with Violets, very similar to the one I saw at the Marmottan. Smoldering. My word, what a babe. Seriously, they had a thing going on...
These were downstairs. I am forever confused about how they organize the works in these museums. These two paintings (and a few others by Ed) were in a gallery that included Matisse and some Gaugin. Pre-impressionist?
In another gallery on the first floor I saw Olympia. Well, well, guess who? I dunno what the 'experts' say, but I am here to tell ya, that was Berthe. Ooo-la-la. I mean, I don't know about the body, but for sure, those were her eyes. Right next to Olympia was a painting of Zola, with sketches of Olympia in the background, and an art history book in hand. Ed knew what he was doing, yep.
Then I headed upstairs to the Impressionist/Neo-Impressionist/Post-Impressionist gallery. There I found the other painting that I had looked forward to seeing: Dejenuer sur L'Herbe. Oh man, what a painting. I spent another half hour here, again occasionally interrupted by the photo takers, but enjoying all the details that I have seen but haven't, if you know what I mean. The flying bird, the still life (bread, grapes and cheese), the classic nude, the boat, tied up in the middle ground. Comments on art and aesthetics that drove the critics mad excited me yet again, on a whole new level.
Then, I wandered through the rest of the gallery. I have to say, they have some of the best of the best here, including Monet. Here I saw for the first time that it was his early works that I admire so much--the stuff from the 1860's through the '70's. This man had what I would call 'the hand'. Just compared with Sisleys, Pissaro's and (the sole) Morisot, he just had the touch. It makes the others look like they were stabbing at the canvas with their brushes.
Now after about 1880 or so, Monet seems to have lost the touch imho. After this, he had a much 'looser' (read less skilled) touch, leading into the Haystacks, the Amiens series and what I consider to be the worst, the Water Lilies. I know, I know, everyone fawns over these, but I seriously think they show a famous painter in decline.
By the way, a recent article I happened across revealed that he likely felt this way as well. Shortly before a major exhibition in 1908, he took a knife and a sharp pen to several dozen of his works, declaring them unfit. He might have been right--they works are lost to history, though. I suspect he would be horrified to discover what Michel did with all the works he didn't get around to destroying. Perhaps he just forgot about them, down in the basement?
In any case, the guy was a master, no doubt, but as I am sure he himself realized, how long can one sustain the mastery? How do you know when you are done? Actually, give him credit--he loved to paint, and sometimes it's the process, not the result that matters. My personal sense is that he grew to love his actual gardens at Giverny more than painting them. It's kind of sad that those works have come to define his oeuvre. After all the early stuff was the good shit.
After this, I was getting beat down and hurried through the rest of the gallery. I did enjoy the works by Seurat and Cross and one in particular by Caillebotte (whose lesser works were featured at the Marmottan) with the guys refinishing a floor, The Planers.
Out of energy, I whipped by all the crappy Degas and Renoir that everyone loves so much, leading me to wonder if look like all those folks I get so annoyed at, racing through the galleries without actually looking at the works. In my case, I'd like to think it's because I've been there, done that, but to them, I must look like the rest of the heathens, sigh.
On my way out, I noticed a small painting that resonated enough to stop me. On inspection, it was another Manet. Subject? Yep, Berthe! Just a study really, but even as I was on the move, it caught my eye. Seriously those two...
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