In the year of 1874, a group of French painters who had had their offerings systematically rejected by the jury of the official Salon, arranged their own exhibit on the vacated premises of photographer Nadar, situated on one of Paris' busiest thoroughfares. Some thirty artists showed their wares, among them being Degas, Renoir, Monet, Pisarro, Cézanne, Sisley, Berthe Morisot. The public and critics came to the humble quarters, paid a modest entrance fee, and experienced varied sensations. Some were honestly bewildered, others infuriated - the majority is simply amused. Cézanne bore the brunt of the strongest insults, but it was one of Monet's pictures, entitled Impression--Sunrise, which gave the movement and the group its name, for a wit among the critics seized upon this title and labeled all the pictures shown as "impressionistic." Thus the word "impressionism," used as the first term of derision, was adopted by the very victims of this mockery as a label for their group and a proud banner for their rebellion. Their revolt was against the official art of the Salon, the neo-classicism of the Academy, the elaborate set of ironclad rules which enslaved most of the artists of the day.
"I have tried to express the terrible passions of humanity by means of red and green." - Vincent van Gogh
I love this little book. Randomly stumbled onto it at a thrift store--best 75c I've spent. I read this on a grass hill near my apartment; the weather has been perfect recently; I've been much happier. I feel like I'm only tolerable/bearable six months out of the year. Winter assaults me.
It is rare to find such well written passages paired with beautiful art. Reading it inspires me, and reminds me of swimming in rural Italy (something I've never done), like in Call Me By Your Name.