King's exploration of the birth of Impressionism, which he considers the greatest revolution in art since the Italian Renaissance, interweaves the stories of two French artists: Ernest Meissanier, the most famous artist of his time who is now derided, dismissed, and virtually forgotten by art historians, and Edouard Manet, considered the father of Impressionism and one of the most influential artists in history who was scorned and insulted for most of his professional career. This dichotomy represents the central conceit of the book. History will tell the tale, King implies, the fickle tasts of a generation have no bearing on what will ultimately prove to be immortal. Posterity chooses its heroes, the Academies do not get to perscribe them. That's fine. For me, however, there is just one glaring problem: when considered alongside one another there is not a question in my mind about who is the superior artist: Meissonier. I believe King's premise ought also to be attached to our current tastes in art. Posterity, in the truest sense, has not yet had its full say. What the twentieth century deamed to be great art (Manet) will most likely be rebelled against in the 21st century, and Meissonier may, in the end, have the final say. One art historian quoted by King said something to the effect that he is disgusted by the thought that Meissonier, a pompous self-indulgeant technician supposedly without a true artistic notion, who made a career and a lot of money by creating empty decorations for the homes of rich bourgoisie's, while obviously supperior artists, such as Manet, toiled in absolute obscurity, barely able to scratch together enough francs to buy paints and brushes. This is the prevailing sentiment among art historians, and one would imagine, among contemporary artists. These idiots don't seem to understand that Manet's work today decorates the homes of the rich bourgoisie, that ultimately political sentiment has ABSOLUTELY NOTHING to do with art, and that, yes, history will tell the tale. When viewed next to Meissonier's paintings, Manet's best work seems cartoonish, immature, untalented, and entirely forgettable, with the only exceptions being Le dejaneur sur l'herbe and The Assassination of Maximillian. By contrast, Meissonier's best work is breathtaking, even in reproductions, and his less great paintings are at least interesting.
But back to the book. Ross King is a great writer, a compelling storyteller, and, for the most part, a fair historian. The only exception to this is his never clearly justified loathing for Victor Hugo. The Judgment of Paris is a very good read and likely to spark many interesting conversations about the nature of art, artistic immortality, taste, transformation, revolution, and evolution.