Huysmans, in English

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Beaux-Arts: Des paysagistes contemporains’ by G. Huysmans. This is the first piece of

Huysmans’ writing to appear in print, in the Revue Mensuelle of 25th November 1867.
Written when he was just nineteen, the article was published under the name ’G.
Huysmans’ because it was only with the publication of Le Drageoir à épices in 1874 that
Huysmans adopted the Dutch form of his Christian names.

Monthly Review, November 25, 1867.

Fine Arts: Contemporary Landscape Painters

Landscape painters, I was recently told, have degenerated greatly since the Dutch School
brought this type of painting to perfection. Without absolutely hoping that we will ever
see the rebirth of geniuses as luminous as Ruysdaël, Berchem, Swanevelt Van Artois,
Hobbéma and our immortal Claude Gelée, who understood the landscape as Rembrandt
understood dark interiors, which he illuminated with dazzling rays, as Brauwer
understood tobacco shops, Van Goyen the sea at rest, Van de Velde the angry waves, I
cannot believe that one of the noblest branches of painting will not see the dawn of a
new era of glory and prosperity.

Dutch artists proved at the Universal Exhibition that they were indeed the sons of those
great masters whose brilliant masterpieces the dust of centuries could not tarnish. And
France herself, although weak in this genre, presented some paintings that did not
detract from the rich collection she exhibited.

We are also happy to note that if France, in this courtly contest, was not, as far as
landscapes are concerned, placed in the first ranks, she nevertheless defeated, in other
genres, not only the Netherlands, but also all her other rivals.

She has in particular, in Meissonier, a non-degenerate successor to the most successful

painters of bambochades; Meissonier, said Arsène Houssaye, is a Dutchman with style:
one could not, in my opinion, make in shorter terms, a more complete and better
deserved eulogy.

I will not speak of the study of the nude.

Few countries have presented paintings of this kind; few, moreover, could have
produced rivals worthy of measuring themselves with Gérôme and Cabanel.

Landscape painting is not dead in France, Courbet, Corot, Rousseau, Diaz and a few
others have testified that in the absence of outstanding talents, our country was
nurturing offspring of whom it had the right to be proud.
I cannot think of M. Diaz without recalling a discussion that I heard taking place between
two connoisseurs on the works of this artist: he is the god of color, said one. — The god
of color! cried his indignant interlocutor. — None, replied the other, has stolen
Watteau's attractive coloring so happily; none excels as well as this painter in making
the sun stream through the forests, and in gilding the trees that he draws so well.

It is not up to us, in this brief overview, to appreciate the work of Mr. Diaz: we will limit
ourselves to reproaching him, like everyone else, for not deigning to paint his characters.
The figures barely appear, it is a thick layer pulling between the yellow of Naples and
pink. — But, I will be told, landscape painters are not required to reproduce human
figures with talent: "Ruysdaël had the characters who populate his paintings painted by
Berchem, Wouwermans and Lingelbach". I agree: it would be better then for Mr. Diaz to
borrow the help of an artist distinguished in this genre, it would be better above all for
him to take the trouble (he could, I am convinced) to descend to the man.

G. Huysmans

La Gazette des Amateurs April 15, 1876.

THE EXHIBITION OF THE IMPRESSIONISTS

There have been many jokes and ribbings about the school of the Impressionists. It
would have been better, I believe, not to condemn all the artists who compose it en bloc,
and to keep one's disdain and laughter for some of them who, under the pretext of
communicating their impressions to you, exhibit, it must be said, absolutely insane
works.

Starting from the principle that often the sketch has a power of line and a flower of tone
that are lost under the retouching and the developments, the Impressionist school is
reduced, if it is logical, to only painting sketches, without which its flag has no reason to
exist, because it is that of realism that you all know; it is, in a way, the application of the
proverb: "The first movement is the good one." "This system, which may be true in
certain cases, and Manet provides proof of it, by spoiling everything he works on and
wants to finish, inevitably leads to the negation of any work that is finished and
therefore can hope to attain the ideal of every artist: perfection. This process is, in short,
day-to-day journalism, and, to define their aesthetic in a few words, it is the half-closed
egg of realism.

But without discussing any longer the advantages or disadvantages of this school, let us
first note that, on this road bordered by quagmires, most of them have overturned, and
at their head, Mr. Pissarro.

I had searched in vain for what could have been the impression felt by this painter in
front of the landscapes that he wants to copy. It is a mess of false colors plastered on
with great strokes of a trowel. One of them, decorated with sheep, is so improbable and
baroque that it is impossible for me to describe it; the most accurate idea I can give of it
would be that of a puddle of milk thickened with a mixture of charred strawberries,
orange zest, green chives and streaks of frightful blue. It is a crazy work and deserves all
the mockery and ridicule with which it is riddled. I quickly pass in front of the canvases
of Mr. Lepic, who, I do not know why, figures in the group of the intransigent, because
his seascapes are of a perfect mediocrity and could be signed by the worst painters of
any school; I will not dwell any longer in front of the quicklime biscuits of Mr. J. François
and the paintings of Messrs. Bureau and Rouart, but I will mention in passing two
canvases by Mr. Sisley, which are not without value: the Floods.

The Japanese Woman by Mr. Claude Onet bursts the wall. In 1866, this painter exhibited
the portrait of a woman named Camille, called the Woman in the Green Dress, which, if I
remember correctly, aroused lively discussions among the clan of painters. W. Bürger
admired her greatly, and rightly so; but I doubt that the late critic would have devoted
an article of praise to this blonde Japanese woman who blazes on the right-hand panel of
the second room. As for me, I do not admire her, oh! but not at all! The head is cottony
and lifeless. The only curious point of this painting would consist in the furious brilliance
of this red dress, embroidered with gold petals and frilly with pale green foliage; but, it
must be admitted, what is strange, to say the least, is this bearded and bluish monster
which is part of the decoration of the dress. And then what can this rain of screens which
tumbles around her mean? His seascapes, decorated with daffodil vessels reflected in
points of fire in the raw blue water such as Manet invented in his Argenteuil, do not
appeal to me any more, I confess this again here.

Mr. Renoir's method is different. Mr. Monet obtains fires of red with palette knife
crushes and hammerings of cinnabar that make his canvas look like masonry, Mr. Renoir
seems to have only one goal, to put color on a canvas and rub it with a cloth until the tint
is foggy and almost erased. He thus obtains pink and blue tones from bad pastels. He has
a Crouching Woman that contains good pieces of nude; but here again he uses his
hideous colors, and his woman stands out against a jumble of stripes of atrocious tones,
such as wine lees, bottle green, dirty whites and heavy browns.

We have finally arrived before the four painters who have real talent: Mr. Degas,
the first of all without a doubt, Mr. Caillebotte, Mr. Desboutin and Mademoiselle
Morisot.

It is worth noting that the latter is the only one who has remained faithful to her flag,
because she has only given us sketches. The best seems to me to be that of this woman in
a negligee who is washing her feet on a pink carpet. The drawing is not flawless, but
what a pretty color and then what finesse of tones in these pinks and in these grays!
The other three are much more realistic than impressionistic, that is to say, they do not
limit themselves to throwing their first impression on the canvas, but they complete it
and manage to make perfectly finished paintings. These ones realized that the path
followed by the group of which they are a part led to a dead end, and, on several
occasions, they broke ranks and joined the main road blazed by Custave Courbet.

M. Degas exhibits two canvases representing Dancers of the Opera. — Three women in
yellow tulle petticoats stand intertwined; in the background, the decor rises and lets
glimpse the pink jerseys of the corps of the ballet. These three women are arched on
their hips and camped on their points with a prestigious truth.
No creamy and artificial flesh, but real flesh a little faded by the layer of pastes and
powders. It is of an absolute truth and it is beautiful. I also recommend, in the painting
above this one, the torso of the woman leaning forward and two drawings on pink
paper, where a ballerina seen from behind and another tying her shoe are removed with
uncommon vigor and mastery.

Everyone agrees that these sketches do great honor to Mr. Degas; but I hear many
people reproach the vulgar choice of his subjects and the too faithful truth of his
execution. Oh my God! yes, they are washerwomen, and what is more, all that is most
vulgar among washerwomen! And why, I pray you, could one not represent
washerwomen as well as women in silk dresses? And why would the painter represent
them sprightly and mischievous, when they are for the most part lanky and massive? For
a long time now, alas, "the insolent tubs" have not been perfumed with benzoin and
amber like Lancret's washerwomen, or, if they still exist, they only practice their trade
intermittently, and their real profession is doubtless more lucrative but less avowable
than the one they claim to have! Whatever it may be, Mr. Degas neither embellishes
them nor makes them ugly; they are as they are, pot-bellied and scoundrels, with their
bare-chested straitjackets and their big arms that work the iron. They are seen and
rendered simply, and when I have cited another canvas, which is this time finished and,
what is more, is very well painted and very amusing: The Cotton Merchants, we will
move on, if you please, to Mr. Caillebotte. He shows us The Floor Scrapers. Ah! the brave,
how desperately they plane the board! It seems very simple to you, doesn't it, to pose
two men on their knees, lit from behind, gasping and sweating, the plane in hand, in
front of a litre and a glass placed on a board? Well, I am certain that any painter who
looks at them will remain surprised and amazed by this bravery of execution and this
sincere reproduction of nature taken from life.

I like less, for example, the Two Children and the Dog, by M. Desboutin. They look like
illuminated puppets, and I prefer one of his paintings: an Old Woman and a Child. The
woman's face is frightening; I see written there all the disappointments of the starving
woman, all the terrible joys of the drunkard, all the drunken shame of the beggar; the
child is indeed a poor child, ragged and dirty. Here again, I have heard visitors reproach
the painter for the common type of this kid. Did you want him to paint him in cherry
juice and silver white, with a swollen belly and a boneless loin, like the 18th century
Cupids? These reproaches seem unfair to me; but where I see a very significant
unanimity of praise is in front of his etchings. Oh! then the point of this artist becomes
frighteningly true! What can be said of his portraits of women and especially of this girl
stretched out on a sofa, throat in the wind and feet in the air? Never has the weariness of
the labors undergone been more implacably rendered!

I will end the article by citing three superb etchings by Mr. Legros: a Portrait of a Man
and two Landscapes. But this one is not a newcomer and the talent of this etcher is today
highly appreciated by all.

In short, apart from the few painters I have just mentioned, all the others have piously
failed, and, I say this with sadness, it would be enough to have macabre landscapes and
follies of colour like those of Mr. Pissarro and his ilk to compromise the bold attempts of
a school under whose banner they would like to take shelter: the realist school!
NANA Manet

L’Artiste 13 may 1877

The painting by Manet that the jury of the Salon of 1877 unanimously refused to admit
has just been exhibited in the windows of the Giroux house.

Needless to say, morning and evening, people crowd around this canvas and it raises the
indignant cries and laughter of a crowd stupefied by the contemplation of the blinds that
Cabanel, Bouguereau, Toulmouche and others believe it necessary to smear and display
on the picture rail, in the spring of each year.

The subject of the painting is this: Nana, the Nana of L’Assommoir, powders her face
with a rice flower. A gentleman is watching her.

I declare first of all that I recognize, in this new work of Mr. Manet, singular failings, I
also find there that awkwardness of execution so insulted by these amiable painters who
blow princesses in balloons and hang them from the satin ceiling of boudoirs with these
imbecile labels: Premier trouble, Jours heureux, Puis-je entrer?, Rêverie, but I also see
there what no non-impressionist painter has yet been able to do: the girl!

To render the irritating attitude of the writhing hips, to render the naughtiness of the
drowned glances, to make one smell the odor of the flesh that moves under the batiste,
to render the luxury of the glimpsed underwear, to express the prostrations, the
irritations, the joyful bestiality or the tired resignation of the girls, all this could not have
been succeeded by these thousands of painters that the Ecole des Beaux-Arts let loose, in
days of misfortune on the pavement of the capital.

But let us return to Manet's painting. Nana is standing, standing out against a
background where a crane passes, brushing the crimson tufts of giant peonies; she is in a
corset, her shoulders and arms are bare, her rump swells under the white petticoat, her
legs squeezed into stockings of gray silk, embroidered on the instep, with a bright
flower, are lost, without folds, in high-heeled mules of an intense purple. Nana raises her
arm and brings her face closer to her, on which her straw-colored hair abounds, the tuft
that will bare it and cover with its dust perfumed by the ihlang the tiny dots of gold that
speckle her skin.

As in certain Japanese paintings, the gentleman comes out of the frame, he is buried in a
sofa, his legs crossed, his cane between his fingers, in that attitude of the man who
nonchalantly details the woman as she slowly harnesses herself. — He kept his hat on,
he is at home — for the moment at least. — Nana has no reason to be embarrassed; her
lover must no longer be ignorant of the joys that her battle attire promised him, the first
evening he met her. If I did not fear to offend the prudishness of readers, I would say
that M. Manet's painting smells of an unmade bed, that it smells, in a word, of what he
wanted to represent, the ham and the hussy.

Profound observation: the stockings that people who are doubtless unaccustomed to the
emphatic undressing of girls find improbable and harshly rendered are absolutely true;
they are those stockings with a tight weave, those stockings that shine dully and are
made, I believe, in London.

The aristocracy of vice is recognized today by its linen; the poorest buffoon sports flashy
outfits, but true opulence shines more in the lace of the chemises and in the stockings
and boots cutely worked, than in the dresses decorated with frills and the hats topped
with plumes and birds. I will add further that the lust, the dream, the ideal of the girls of
the people who, after having trampled on the dung of the streets for a long time, were
able to jump, one fine day, onto the feathers of the beds, is to cut themselves clothes and
sleep in this material. — Silk is the trademark of courtesans who rent themselves dearly.

Nana has thus arrived, in the painter's painting, at the summit envied by her peers and
sure, intelligent and corrupt as she is, she has understood that the elegance of stockings
and mules was, suddenly, one of the most precious adjuvants that the girls of joy have
invented to overthrow men.

It would be childish to deny it. The azure stockings with lemon garters, the cherry
stockings, the black stockings embroidered with white foliage, the crimson and sulfur
checkered stockings, the mauve or peach blossom stockings, diaphanous and discreetly
allowing the pink of the skin to show through or thick and only outlining the troubling
outline of the calf, are as good as the set stones, as the very clear looks, as the Chinese
rouge, the pearl white, the forget-me-not blue, as well as the musky pastes and the
oriental kohl, the long peppers, the red peppers, the incendiary sauces, skillful in
awakening the torpor of tired stomachs.

Manet was therefore absolutely right to represent to us in his Nana, one of the most
perfect samples of this type of girl that his friend and that our dear master, Emile Zola,
will depict for us in one of his most recent novels. Manet has made her see as she will
necessarily be with her complicated and learned vice, her extravagance and her luxury
of bawdiness.

These few observations on the made-up charms of women were necessary for me to
explain the details of the painting and the voluptuous artist that emerges from it. I now
move on to the style of the work itself.

As I said above, Manet is far from being an irreproachable painter, but his Nana is
incontestably one of the best paintings he ever signed. The arm encircled in gold, the
hand holding the swan's tuft, a small hand associated by the creams and armed with
almond-shaped nails, carefully filed, are, in every way, charming, the legs are firm, one
feels under the shiny envelope that covers them, the flesh and not the tow. The only
criticism I have of Mr. Manet, as well as of most of the Impressionists, is the abuse of
chalky whites, dirty reds, and brutally applied blacks; Nana's head is not happy, the neck
is mediocre, but the whole body, from the shoulder to the soles, is absolutely fine. The
seated gentleman, the seer, is also perfect; as for the accessories, they are brushed with a
breadth that Desgoffe and other lickers should envy! The divan, the blue dress, thrown,
at random in the folds, on a chair, the azalea that blooms, red, in its cache-pot, all the
little pieces of furniture in the boudoir, finally, are removed with a vigor and bravery
that are truly remarkable!

Such as it is, with its qualities and with its defects, this canvas lives and it is superior to
many of the lamentable bawdiness that was abandoned on the Salon of 1877; I wonder if
it will really be necessary, for a long time to come, that to be admitted into this temple of
bric-a-brac, an artist passes through the judgment of the ageing gentlemen who imagine
that a painter 'is distinguished' when he refrains from simply rendering the human
being or nature, as his temperament has made him see them?

J.-K. HUYSMANS

The Artist, June 2, 1878

COURRIER DE PARIS.

Universal Exhibition. — The English School.

This painting, which when it appeared in Paris — I believe it was first sent in 1855 —
raised such a long clamour, has singularly astonished me — 23 years have passed.
Ruskin’s aesthetic, so right in some parts, so wrong in others, sometimes admirable as
theories, almost always hateful because of the clumsy application that is made of them,
is now moribund. The Pre-Raphaelite works that caused a stir at the 1867 exhibition no
longer seem to be relevant in the year of grace 1878. I have searched in vain today, in
the canvases spread out, from friezes to ramps, for the realization of these formulas.
Painting from across the Channel has scattered in a thousand directions, has melted
away. It still has the scent of its land, but it no longer obeys the watchwords of modern,
medieval, antique, everything rubs shoulders there as in a masked ball - each artist has
followed his personal taste, the impulse of his temperament. We will review the rooms,
especially those where the works of Mr. Millais strut on the picture rail.

This artist exhibits a landscape entitled: The October Cold - in the foreground, an army
of reeds undulates, further away, willows soak in a river that the breeze lashes and
makes rustle - in the background, mountains cut out their block of a dull blue, against a
gloomy sky, against a sky swollen with rain, ready to burst, as soon as the gust that
blows takes breath. The birds flee in terror, nature awaits, desperate, the assault. — This
is truly a great effect — this whipped water, this gust of wind that mows down the
clouds and twists the trees, this infinite distress of the dying autumns, this great shiver
of nature at the approach of hurricanes and rains, all this is rendered with a sincerity
and a force that are truly admirable. I have not seen, since the very melancholy works of
the great Ruysdaël, any landscape that gives off such a poignant impression of pain as
this one. I like less, for example, his mountains of Scotland, ribboned with a rainbow and
his guard of the Tower of London, all purple in his habit veined with yellow and azure at
the temples. We have the right to ask more of a great artist like Mr. Millais.
If I judge by the crowd gathered before his work, Mr. Herkomer is a success at the
present Salon. His Invalides at the Chelsea Military Hospital in London are much
admired and the engraving journals are beginning to reproduce them. For my part, I am
only moderately enthusiastic about this canvas. I take into account the painter's
difficulties in rendering this garrison of decrepit people uniformly dressed in red
swaddling clothes and black breeches; there are beautiful figures, well-treated wrinkles,
varieties in this shrivelling of the reinettes which are curious - despite everything, I
remain cold, It lacks air and life. My enthusiasm perhaps diminishes even more in front
of the canvas entitled: After work - it is a village, decorated with a flock of geese and a
band of old peasants, soft-headed stodgy people who salivate and sleep with their noses
in their shoulders, their backs leaning against the cottages. These paintings make me
want to open the windows, I am suffocating and yet on examining each piece, in detail,
there is the touch of a true artist! I quickly pass by a Caliban listening to music, by Mr.
Paton — it is highly polished and polished. I am willing to buy a stained panel by Messrs.
Toulmouche or Firmin Gérard, if this monster resembles the one invented by
Shakespeare! then, the music, represented by apparitions of women is quite simply
absurd — it brings to mind, in color and polish, those porcelains painted by young girls
— those odious porcelains that clutter Paris with their butterflies, their flowers, their
copies of the portraits of Mme Vigée le Brun and the swing of Mr. de Cot! To the hood
these industrial turpitudes, to the convent those who commit them and to the dunghill
the Caliban of Mr. Paton!

I pass even more quickly by a series of little sentimental infamies, imitations or tracings
of those engravings beloved by the public in which we see a child who leaves, as a cabin
boy, in a third-class carriage, and returns as a naval officer, in a coupé-salon. I cite, in this
connection, Mr. Holl's Departure, where a woman, a soldier, and I forget who else, wink
and wipe their noses; Mrs. Ward's laughable painting: the King's Daughter sweeping a
dive, Mr. Leslie's articulated dolls, a whole packet of chromos for Keapseake, of
illuminations for almanacs and firecracker envelopes; and indignant at the Railway
Station, by Mr. Frith which resembles the blinds of our pork butchers, by the Market, by
Mr. Bernard which reminds me of the wallpaper screens for the chimneys of furnished
hotels, I finally stop in front of a very curious attempt: the Dawn of Mr. Gregory.

Imagine a living room with closed shutters. A young woman in a ball gown, leaning
against a piano that the sleeping mechanic no longer torments, his muzzle in his notes,
talks with a gentleman in a black suit. They are blond, ambered by the light falling from
the chandelier. Daylight appears, slips in through the bottom of the shutters, through the
spread slats of the blinds, spreads over the parquet floor, begins to project its blue hues
on the bottom of the dress and legs, strange thing, strange stew! These two figures so
astonishingly illuminated by these oppositions of light, stand out against the pink
dishevelment of a bouquet of flowers. This is a disconcerting effect at first, then little by
little the man and the woman seem unsteady on their feet, balance themselves, get into
position, live, have a very personal accent - This canvas, broadly brushed, presents a
certain analogy with those of our impressionists. I congratulate the artist who, having
tackled such difficulties, has partly conquered them.

I also have only to applaud two magnificent portraits, one in particular, a priceless jewel,
perhaps the pearl of the English school, a young girl's head. The author is Mr. Calderon.
This figure springs from the canvas, exquisite under her chestnut hair crossed by the
stroke of blue of a ribbon. Here at last is living flesh, real flesh! and how adorable is this
miss, with her half-open lips, her teeth that will appear and light up with their white
flames, the wet purple of the mouth! his blue eyes, drowned, laugh softly, the fine spark
of the gaze crackles, this head lives, comes out of the frame, goes to speak! I stood for a
long time in front of this small portrait abandoned by passers-by who ran to the heaviest
machines. Here is the proud work - of a great artist - this one descends, in a direct line
from the English masters, Gainsborough and Reynolds. - I will not stop in front of
another cold miniature by the same author - it is pinned and mean - I cite instead the
portrait of Captain Burton, seen in profile, by Mr. Leighton, a large painting, done in
large strokes, a little thick in places, but, all in all, of great allure.

I am now becoming very hesitant. I am stopped in front of the animal paintings and will
be obliged to speak of Mr. Landseer. Well yes! the submissions of this artist are
deplorable and what is more, filled with intentions so absurd that I dare not qualify
them. — What can we say, for example, about his painting entitled: Man proposes and
God disposes. Two polar bears have eaten a traveler exploring a sea of ice. All that
remains of the unfortunate man's ruins is a spyglass. The bears, sated, look at each other
with a tender air—and there you have it!—it is puerile and pretentious. Less shabby is
his Monkey eating oranges, and almost as saddening is his Indian tent, where horses are
sleeping. How is it that this painter who has thrown such magnificent elks and reindeer
on their feet has been able to produce such shivering machines? His fellow beasts are
hardly more fortunate than he, moreover. Mr. Cooper presents us with oxen that smell of
bad Paul Potter. The muzzle is made of agate, the dewlaps are made of some kind of
shiny, hard metal, the eyes come out of a cheap glassworks. Mr. Davis is less punctate,
less dry, but he is not the one who raised a real beast on its legs that roars and moves.