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112 pages, Hardcover
First published September 21, 2017



“ You can’t imagine,” Monet replied to me, “how true everything you just said really is. It’s what obsesses me, torments me, and fills my days with joy. To such an extent that one day, having found myself at the bedside of a dead woman who had been and still was very dear to me, I caught myself, as I stared down at her tragic face, casually wondering about the pattern, about the gradual loss of color that death had brought to her lifeless features. Hues of blue, yellow, grey? That’s how low I had stooped. It’s a natural reflex to want to reproduce the last image of the one who has just left us forever. But before the idea came to paint the features I was so deeply attached to, my natural instinct was to react to color first, and my reflexes were leading me, in spite of myself, to subconscious rote behavior that swallows up my day-to-day life. Like a beast grinding at the mill. Feel sorry for me, my friend.” (Clemenceau, G. (2010) : Claude Monet “ intime ”, Parkstone Press International, New York, p. 24).