The Artisan

It still rankled. That sobriquet. It followed him round like an old dog, though he had not heard it for many years. His contemporaries who, in their youth, had coined the name to tease were all passed away, yet the name still taunted him.

It was not simply that it was unjust and inaccurate. He had never been a jobbing craftsman, he had never had a trade. You might say he had never done a day’s work in his life having subsisted on a meagre allowance from his father. His friend Auguste, now that was different. He had painted plates, he had made a substantial living from it, he truly was an artisan. Since they developed the technology which rendered his considerable skills redundant, he had turned to canvas then continued to churn out masterpieces with mechanical consistency and prodigality. 

The critics had seized upon the name and regularly accused him of painting with a trowel or a shovel or a broom handle. He did have the appearance of an agricultural worker with his big red butcher’s hands, his weather beaten complexion and rustic costume. He would happily have born the charge of ploughman or joiner; blacksmith or grave digger; glassblower or hatter. But “artisan” seemed to flay the skin off his work and junk everything beneath that gave it the life and purpose he was trying to achieve and communicate. 

“One, two, three ...” The nursing assistants lifted him into the chair and wheeled him through the double doors and out onto the terrazzo. From here he would see, if he could, the warm orange roofs of the town, the tall cypress sunshades and beyond them the lavender-blue mountains. He had long since been unable to take in the detail but the colours he could still feel. He drank them in and savoured the aroma. They invigorated him.

It was the exhibition in ’97, the first in the capital dedicated to his work. There was a sweetness about it after all those years of rejection by the salon, to have his own exhibition under their noses, in their back yard. This had indeed been a watershed but, as he came to see many years later, not for any of the reasons he had hoped it might be at the time. 

He had dragged himself to the opening reception. He could be sociable, polite, but it did not come easily. He was stiff and awkward. He saw the necessity of being there even without the three line whip from his agent. He needed the recognition – not the recognition of the prevailing establishment with whom he had a relationship of mutual detestation but who would still be there to carp and criticise. He wanted the recognition of a new establishment, one of his own making. He needed money too – he was still reliant on his father and limited by finance in the choice of raw materials for his work. But more than these, he needed to be seen, to be in circulation and to be seen to be in circulation. How much he cared. He wanted to arrive as if he had always been there, to be accepted as an outsider, to become the established anti-establishment.

The first pang of discomfort came as he overheard a student, a young girl he had seen at the Swiss studios. She was comparing a portrait to one by D_____ . He immediately thought of the hours he had spent before D_____’s paintings; filled with awe; deconstructing and reconstructing them in his mind; then imitating and perfecting the technique, the movement of the hand. But what did she know. She was young. She could not see in his work the antithesis of the old order. She had time to learn.

The cut went deeper when he heard Lavoisier, a writer he had once trusted and who was yet his strongest advocate in print, saying “ of course if you systematically turn everything upside down and back to front you end up with an exact replica of the original (laughter) .... seriously though the influence of D­­­­­_____ is undeniable, a perfect homage ...” The tones of sincere admiration and appreciation were lost to him in his annoyance. He did not remain long enough to hear Lavoisier go on, “... some people can’t see it, but I think his greatest achievement is to bring the sensibility and integrity of D____ into the modern era.”

As one of his contemporaries put it “there is no doubt he had influences like all of us. He was first of all under the influence of D_____. That doesn’t detract from his qualities.” 

But it was his belief that the qualities he brought to bear, the vision and the empathy, took him beyond and even detached him from those influences, made him his own man. But it only made him more vulnerable, an easier target for his critics.

The exhibition he saw as marking his arrival. His work was not the culmination of a process; the epitome of a movement; the progeny of the old masters; just another halt on the road to art. He had made all things new. It was no longer a matter of technique and representation; he had made attitude and sensation the new media. 

The twisting of the knife came at the end of the evening. Old Declau, the curator of the Academy who had steadfastly refused to acquire any of his work was challenged by someone as to why that was the case. Spitefully raising his voice to be sure he was heard, he replied “Why would anyone pay for one of those when you can see the real thing at the Musée?” He thought again of the hours he had spent studying D_____’s paintings. He may have succeeded in learning and then jettisoning the technique but he could not disguise the feeling or the way of seeing. He surely was a disciple but he would not see it.

As he hurried through the outer galleries Nadar’s portrait of D____ caught his eye. It was as if D_____ had just turned and was looking straight at him. The full weight of the debt he owed came to rest on his shoulders. Outside it was night, the cold air stung his face and the taste in his mouth was bitter.

Had their words changed the nature and quality of his work? If it was all about attitude and feeling, how could they? He had found no comfort in reason at the time and perhaps what had hurt the most was the creeping realisation that he was just like all the others, craving recognition, understanding and appreciation – even from those for whom he had no time. From close to, he definitely stood a little apart from the pack, more to one side of the field than out in front. But from a longer view he was clearly an integral part of that new wave.

It was several years before he came to terms with the shock of that night and the painful revelation. Gradually he began to let go of his illusions, his pretensions and to embrace and appreciate the strength of his position. With a new confidence he became less dismissive of the students who called wishing to spend time with him, to talk and to observe. Over the years he came to enjoy the company, the banter, the discussion and the treks out into the countryside to work. In the latter years he had talked freely and shared unashamedly and even cared for them.

The nurses came back to shake him up. On the terrazzo he could feel the warm air rising up from the town and the colour returning to his cheeks.