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To Myself is the autobiography of the late nineteenth century French artist Odilon Redon. Composed of his personal notes and journals, which he kept for over sixty years, it is a poignant testament of a self-effacing artist whose life was totally devoted to his self-imposed task. His writings consist of his reflections on being an artist, the creative act, and the struggle to achieve the lofty goals to which the truly committed artist aspires.
229 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1985
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About the author
Odilon Redon
85 books16 followersBertrand-Jean Redon, better known as Odilon Redon (April 20, 1840 – July 6, 1916) was a French symbolist painter, printmaker, draughtsman and pastellist.
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Displaying 1 - 7 of 7 reviews
June 17, 2021
This is a reread for me. I'm a lifelong fan of Redon's work and this is a book pretty much only for fans. Redon was an opaque and circular writer, and this translation does nothing to help that fact. In addition, many of his entries are direct responses to exhibitions he saw and artists whose work he admired (or detested! he was a hater), which may or may not be interesting to readers, depending on their familiarity with the 19th century art world. I always find wonderful nuggets of wisdom in this journal that ring true to me as a writer, even today, but my views are not always the popular ones. In general, this is not a book I'd recommend to someone with a general interest in art--unless you're already fascinated by Redon, it's unlikely that you'll find anything to interest you here.
April 2, 2011
Not near as interesting as I hoped it would be.
April 17, 2019
"There is a power of happiness which can be attained only here.
At twenty those summits persistently plunged me into rapture; ten years later, I remained more tenderly cradled at the edge of the clear waters that bathe their roots. In the shadow of these green hills, which in former times I have seen withered by winter storms, I felt the desire to meditate; I saw on a smaller scale and more deeply. Is it weakness? Who knows? Wings do not belong to those whose gaze is no longer raised toward space. There is courage and goodness in resting one's eyes on friendly and lively nature who assures us that in our future we will have less mind and more love in all that comes directly from the best of us." Journal written at Uhart (Basses-Pyrenees) in 1878
At twenty those summits persistently plunged me into rapture; ten years later, I remained more tenderly cradled at the edge of the clear waters that bathe their roots. In the shadow of these green hills, which in former times I have seen withered by winter storms, I felt the desire to meditate; I saw on a smaller scale and more deeply. Is it weakness? Who knows? Wings do not belong to those whose gaze is no longer raised toward space. There is courage and goodness in resting one's eyes on friendly and lively nature who assures us that in our future we will have less mind and more love in all that comes directly from the best of us." Journal written at Uhart (Basses-Pyrenees) in 1878
September 30, 2017
“Ciò che distingue l'artista dal dilettante è soltanto il dolore che il primo avverte dentro di sé. Il dilettante ricerca nell'arte solo il proprio piacere.” (p. 45)
“Colui che soffre è colui che si eleva. Colpite. Colpite sempre. La ferita è feconda.” (p. 63)
“L'autore che potesse ottenere l'opera perfetta ne farebbe solo una: avrebbe raggiunto l'assoluto e smetterebbe di dipingere. È precisamente dal pentimento per l'opera imperfetta che potrà nascere la successiva.” (pp. 93, 94)
“Colui che soffre è colui che si eleva. Colpite. Colpite sempre. La ferita è feconda.” (p. 63)
“L'autore che potesse ottenere l'opera perfetta ne farebbe solo una: avrebbe raggiunto l'assoluto e smetterebbe di dipingere. È precisamente dal pentimento per l'opera imperfetta che potrà nascere la successiva.” (pp. 93, 94)
October 7, 2009
Next to Gustave Moreau and Marc Chagall, Odilon Redon is one of my favorite artists. So when I found this book at a HPB in Chicago I squealed and then immediately put it aside with big plans to read it "later". That time has come and I plowed through this treasure.
The subtitle here sums it up entirely. This book is a collection of Redon's notes on life, art, and artists. Tis no joke! The previous owner of the book was kind enough to write in how old Redon was at each entry so I was in awe (and a little disgusted) to see what he had accomplished at a relatively young age and just a couple years older than myself. Hah, slacker. He talks about Rembrandt and how no one painted drama the same way. He talks about Berthe Morisot, one of the best of the Impressionists in my opinion, and possibly one of the most understated.
The only thing that could improve this book would be a collection of his own work interspersed throughout the text. I'm a visual person as well as one driven by words, so a dynamic duo of art and language would have been spectacular and I would have absolutely peed my pants. As it was I didn't want to put it down and am now forcing it upon my boyfriend, who somehow believes this was a book he found and promises to steal it from me should we break up. That's love, folks.
(Don't be a tool... check this guy out: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Odilon_R...)
The subtitle here sums it up entirely. This book is a collection of Redon's notes on life, art, and artists. Tis no joke! The previous owner of the book was kind enough to write in how old Redon was at each entry so I was in awe (and a little disgusted) to see what he had accomplished at a relatively young age and just a couple years older than myself. Hah, slacker. He talks about Rembrandt and how no one painted drama the same way. He talks about Berthe Morisot, one of the best of the Impressionists in my opinion, and possibly one of the most understated.
The only thing that could improve this book would be a collection of his own work interspersed throughout the text. I'm a visual person as well as one driven by words, so a dynamic duo of art and language would have been spectacular and I would have absolutely peed my pants. As it was I didn't want to put it down and am now forcing it upon my boyfriend, who somehow believes this was a book he found and promises to steal it from me should we break up. That's love, folks.
(Don't be a tool... check this guy out: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Odilon_R...)
November 20, 2015
In the artist Redon's own engaging words:
"One who teaches, after all, wishes nothing better than to continue the work of the masters, but alas, even only to transmit it, he does not quite have their permission. Indeed he indulges in them as he is able, as best he can, as does the grammarian by analysis of the beautiful works of the past which time has consecrated, but there he acquires only abstract experience, all in formulas, where the engaging authority of love is missing. One must love in order to believe, one must believe in order to act: the best teaching, then, will be received from one who already has touched the apprentice through a sort of creative revelation that issues from the beauty of his own works."
"One who teaches, after all, wishes nothing better than to continue the work of the masters, but alas, even only to transmit it, he does not quite have their permission. Indeed he indulges in them as he is able, as best he can, as does the grammarian by analysis of the beautiful works of the past which time has consecrated, but there he acquires only abstract experience, all in formulas, where the engaging authority of love is missing. One must love in order to believe, one must believe in order to act: the best teaching, then, will be received from one who already has touched the apprentice through a sort of creative revelation that issues from the beauty of his own works."
October 17, 2009
beautiful passages of the life of Odilon Redon and his inspirations and upbrining. He talks of a time when he went by carriage before trains, and the journey, watching the landscape crawl past was its own experience, contemplative spacial relation to time and landscape now lost. Very beautiful and thoughtfully wiritten memoir. Reminds me of Proust. His very privileged and sickly childhood. Very heartfelt, lovely and inspiring writing. I am still reading through it.
Displaying 1 - 7 of 7 reviews